by M. D. Massey
Blood and bodies littered the ground. Rich examined them as Barbara aimed her Glock at the last creature. Rich put his hand up to stop her, and she took her finger off the trigger. He spun around and thrust his tire iron into the creature's face, slicing through its gaping mouth. It fell backward, taking the tire iron with it and collapsed on the ground. Rick rested his foot on the creature's chest for leverage and yanked his weapon from its mouth. He looked back at Barbara and gave her the thumbs up with a big grin on his face. She put her gun back in its holster and joined him near the carnage.
"You and I make a great team," he said.
She had to admit that having someone else to fight alongside her made the whole gory experience much easier. The teamwork even made it a bit fun.
"I can't believe we took all six of them," she said, staring down at the broken bodies that littered the concrete.
"Now let's find some gas and get back on the road," Rich said.
18
Carlos wore the spare sweatshirt that said ‘University of Washington’ across the chest and washed down the candy bar with half a bottle of water. His feet were starting to tire as he pounded the pavement in the thin slip-on shoes provided to him by Peaceful Brook. The further he walked the soberer he became. The effects of his last dose of antipsychotic medication was becoming weaker in his blood. Soon he would be at the mercy of his mind.
Aside from the hunger and the pain in his feet, he felt better than he had in quite some time. He hadn't been able to find any weapons in the vehicle, except the crossbar tire iron that would prove to be a clumsy weapon at best. He'd have to find something else to defend himself against the creatures that roved the streets. He considered taking to the woods, but he had already seen what was in there.
The birds hadn't turned to zombies, but the deer had. He considered that for a moment. He'd seen the zombie dogs in town, so he supposed that whatever had caused this sickness had infected all mammals, including humans, but had not affected any other creatures. With his mind turning to more logical concerns, he tried to use his time trying to figure out what was going on, rather than condemning his mental health.
If birds were not affected, then probably other creatures like reptiles, amphibians, and fish were safe too. That meant if he found a fishing pole, he could probably catch some in the lakes and rivers. The next time he found a sporting goods store, he would grab himself a pole and tackle. And a weapon.
When he was a child, his father used to take him hunting in the forests of Washington, where they would stalk deer, turkey, and elk in the shadows of the giant Douglas firs. He was not unfamiliar with firearms, but his illness now prevented him from owning one. He doubted that would make much difference anymore.
After about ten miles, his feet were becoming so sore that he sat down and took off his slippers. The bloody blisters on his toes and heels had popped and were soaking the thin fabric of the shoes. He swore under his breath, but knew he had no other choice but to continue. He'd made a mistake driving to the forest with no gas, but he had been confused at the time. After an entire day of palpable apocalyptic experiences, he no longer believed he was dreaming.
He'd had a strange vision in the woods. A vision that had given him a glimpse into the undercurrent of the sickness that had swept across the world. He still didn't have a firm grip on his new reality, but Carlos was beginning to believe that the zombie apocalypse around him was really happening. That his strange vision in the forest had given him true insight into how it had started. He'd seen a laboratory. Scientists had created this virus. It swept through the air and the water, infecting everyone and everything that came in contact with it.
He had been ill long enough to know the difference between a hallucination and reality. At least that's what he told himself as he continued to walk on bloody feet down the deserted highway. If he could just make it back into town, he could snake through the shadows and find the supplies he'd need to survive. Maybe even a vehicle. He didn't know where to go or what to do, but he knew he needed to tell someone what he knew about the plague. It had been created and planted. His vision hadn't told him who or why, only that it had occurred. And if he continued to pay attention, he knew he would get more information.
Carlos continued down the hill, his feet screaming for relief. He came to a break in the trees and gazed down at the valley below. Sunlight glinted off glass and he squinted to see the outline of a small town in the valley. The last road sign had said twenty-five miles.
Some marathon runners could run that in a few hours, but he knew that walking in these shoes would take him all day and into the night. There would be more creatures down there, and he would arrive exhausted and injured. But what other choice did he have?
The need to prove himself drove him on as much as the need to survive. The road crossed a stream and he padded through the underbrush, carefully pushing through the ferns and nettles at the edge of the brook, and dipped his water bottle into the fast-moving current. He filled the plastic bottle and brought it to his lips, drinking furiously to fill his cells with hydration. He bent again and filled bottle once more, drowning it a second time.
He sat at the edge of the stream and placed his tired, wounded feet into the cool water. It stung like a motherfucker, but he kept them in the water until it washed away the blood and numbed the pain. He still had so far to walk, and the sunlight was beginning to fade. He would walk until darkness and then find a place to sleep in the forest. When he stood, he found a bush full of ripe salmonberries and smiled at his luck. Picking off the bitter pink berries, he threw them in his mouth one by one until his stomach felt some relief from the hunger pains.
He used some clay from the streambed to slather the blisters on his feet and slipped back into his shoes. The clay helped soothe the pain and lubricate the flesh enough to get him back on the road. With nothing but a water bottle, he continued down the highway as the sun tilted toward the western horizon.
The memory of his vision flashed behind his eyes with nothing else to think about and nothing else to do. Who would conjure such a sickness, and let it loose on the world? What kind of psychopath would want to kill so many people? Was it intentional or had it been a mistake? These questions plagued him with no answer.
As the air cooled and the sun set in the west, he was still ten miles from the little town of Brookside in the valley. He needed to find shelter for the night and try to sleep. He passed a single wide mobile home with the front yard piled with derelict cars and car parts, wondering if he could seek shelter there for the night. If there were zombies inside, he would be defenseless. Not having any better options, he limped up the gravel driveway through the car parts graveyard.
A three-foot steel pipe lay on the ground to one side of the driveway. He hefted it and swung it around like a baseball bat several times before deciding that it would serve him well enough as a weapon. Striding toward the front porch of the mobile home, he took several deep breaths and let them out, psyching himself up for a fight.
He climbed the creaky steps to the shredded screen door and pulled it open with a loud creak. He lifted his fist to the door and gulped before knocking several times on the flimsy plastic. After several moments of silence, he pressed his ear to the door and heard shuffling faintly behind the door. He drew back and knocked again, not sure what else to do. He wouldn't break into the home of a living person. But his hopes of finding another human being were sinking by the moment.
After ten minutes of knocking and waiting, he knew it was futile. He gripped the door handle with one hand and his tire iron in the other and pushed the door open. The room was dark and musty. A wave of stale cigarette smoke hit him. The shuffling was louder inside, but no one spoke. He peered into the darkness, as his eyes adjusted, and looked from one side of the mobile home to the other, not seeing any movement.
The shuffling turned into banging from behind the bedroom door. He stepped inside, and the banging grew louder with each step he drew into the house. The
mobile home was as littered as the front yard, but he could already see there were plenty of supplies he could use. Not to mention a full-length couch. It had seen better days, but right now, it looked like the most comfortable bed in the entire world.
The creature behind the door kept banging and banging and banging against the thin particle board door. He would never be able to rest with a zombie in the house with him. His heart buzzed in his ears and pumped adrenaline through his veins. He could barely see or hear through the surge of his fight or flight response. He stepped toward the door, gripping his tire iron so tight his knuckles turned white. He didn't want to have to kill a person. He didn't want to have to open the door either. But he knew there was no other choice. He had to sleep and find something to eat, and he couldn't just leave the creature in the room. What if the door splintered in the middle of the night and the creature got through while he slept?
He squeezed his eyes closed for several long minutes, and opened them again. Letting out a ragged, panicked breath and biting his lip, he reached for the door and turned the knob. He jumped back, gripping the steel pipe in both hands as the creature fell through the door onto its knees. He scrambled back, and the creature pounced at him. Without a second hesitation, he swung the pipe, smacking the creature in the shoulder. It flew across the narrow mobile home and smacked it into a window, cracking the glass. It growled and corrected itself, charging at Carlos.
He grunted and swung, aiming for its head. That had put down the deer, so that's what he tried with this person. He missed the creature’s head, smacking his pipe into its neck. He scrambled out the door and down the steps of the porch as the creature followed him on uneven legs, walking like Frankenstein's monster. It followed him relentlessly into the yard, growling and groping and gnashing its teeth. The creature was dressed in blue jeans and a white tank top splattered with grease and stained with cigarette smoke.
It kept coming at him, relentlessly reaching and clawing and growling. Carlos charged at the creature and swung at its head as hard as he could. The pipe connected with its temple and its head snapped to the side, breaking its neck as it fell onto its knees and collapsed on the ground. It lay still, and he dropped his pipe, screaming frantically as tears poured from his eyes. He sank to his knees and covered his face, anguish taking over. The gravel cut through the thin sweat suit he wore. After a moment of despair, he pulled himself to his feet.
With the mortified groan, he walked into the mobile home and shut the door behind him. There was no light in the place, but he found a flashlight on the counter and swept the light across the room. He opened the kitchen cabinets and found cans of chili, beans, and tuna. A veritable feast. In one of the drawers, he found a can opener and sat down at the littered kitchen table to eat the cold food. He rested the flashlight between several empty liquor bottles, pointing the light at the ceiling.
He ate ravenously, trying not to think of what he'd just done. The food filled his belly and eased his mind. After two cans of chili and a can of tuna, he staggered into the bedroom and collapsed on the bed. A queen size mattress sat on the floor with a sheet that was pulled down at the corner, exposing the stains on the white mattress. It smelled of urine and body odor, but he didn't care. His eyes drifted closed, and he fell into a deep and dreamless sleep.
19
Sasha plowed out of Portland like a beast out of hell, with no direction or idea of where to go. All she knew was she was getting the hell out of town. The hotwired SUV proved to be a perfect companion as she wove around the stalled vehicles along the back roads on the outskirts of the city. She decided not to take Highway 5 across the river, instead choosing a less traveled route further east.
She maneuvered around huge pileups, full of ghouls, clawing at cracked windows, trapped under seatbelts. It was a gruesome sight, and she tried not to think about it. She had her survival backpack and a vehicle. The tank was three quarters full, and she wasn't even tired yet.
When she crossed the Columbia River into Washington, she felt a spark of hope in her chest. She'd already found another survivor, even if she’d had to leave him to the ghouls due to his own stupidity. She ran over the scenario in her mind over and over, repeatedly thinking of other things she could have done. She should've just bashed the dog’s brains right then and there, but with the hippie telling her not to, she’d hesitated. She told herself that next time she was presented with a choice like that, she wouldn’t make the same mistake. No holding back.
The guilt haunted her, and made it hard for her to think of what to do next. As she drove through the high plains of Central Washington, under the cover of deep night, she knew that her next stop would have to be sleep and food. She found an empty rest stop off the highway. She filled her bottle with water from the bathroom sink and locked herself in the car to hunker down for the night. Turning on her flashlight, Sasha covered it with a T-shirt to dim the glow as she ate a can of baked beans.
With her stomach full, she pushed down the back seat of the SUV for more legroom. The upholstery and padding were more comfortable than the bed in her hideout. All in all, it felt like things were improving in her life. She could take anything she wanted without the interference of the police. She had to admit that she was somewhat satisfied with that turn of events. After reading one of the copies of Popular Mechanics stowed in the backseat of the SUV, she turned off her flashlight and drifted off to sleep.
Sasha was woken by the sound of smacking against glass. Vibrations ran through the vehicle. She jumped with a start, looking out the windows around her. The gray dim light of predawn lit the world, and she rubbed the sleep from her eyes. She looked behind her and was confronted by the face of a zombie plastered against the glass. His gray, decrepit skin smooshed over the glass, leaving a trail of oozing blood and yellow saliva. She scrambled back with a shriek and searched for more creatures. But it was alone. A middle-aged man in a checkered shirt and a baseball cap. He was overweight with a pronounced beer belly that hung over his wide belt buckle. She rolled her eyes and groaned. The yokel zombie had woken her up way too early.
Sasha unsheathed her hunting knife and climbed out the door. As the zombie stumbled around the vehicle toward her, she briefly wondered why it was slower than the ones last night. He lunged for her and she sidestepped, swinging around with the knife gripped in her hand. She jabbed her razor-sharp blade into the base of its skull. It slid several inches into his brain and he fell forward, yanking her knife with him. She held tight as he collapsed on the ground, not letting go of her weapon. Blood seeped from the wound, black and thick, coating the concrete below him. It flowed into her tire as a pool grew around him. She leaned down and wiped her knife on his jeans, and slid it back into her sheath.
"That's what you get for waking me up at 5 a.m.”
She walked into the lady’s room and looked around, not seeing any evidence of zombies inside. She went to the sink and tried the water. It flowed through the tap and she washed her hands. The electronic dryers were out, but she wiped her hands dry on the back of her jeans.
Outside, she climbed back into her truck and closed the door, searching through her pack for food. There was only one more can, so she opened and ate it with the camping fork she kept in her backpack. When she was done, she rolled down the window and threw the can on the pavement. No more fines for littering, she thought, shifting into drive.
Out on the road, she read a sign that said there was a small town about thirty miles up the highway. Sasha made a mental note to turn off there to search for food and supplies. She assumed small towns would be easier to loot than the big cities. Having a lower population, there would be fewer zombies to fight.
She took the exit to the town of Brookside, and drove slowly down the desolate streets. Zombies roved in packs. The living were nowhere to be seen. Corpses that were too devoured to turn littered the ground. When the monsters saw the movement of her vehicle, they gave chase. They were much slower than her car and couldn't catch up.
She noted again how much energy they’d lost since the day before, but their relentless pursuit of anything that moved could not be underestimated. She would definitely need better weapons with these ghouls following her everywhere she went. She noticed a gun supply store on one side of town, and a grocery store on the other.
First things first, she stopped at the gun supply store and pushed through the broken front door. It looked as if it had already been looted and dead ghouls littered the floor. There were still several guns available and plenty of ammunition. Whoever had looted the place had hastily grabbed some supplies and left. She perused the aisles, looking for something that took her fancy. As a bike thief and a city girl, Sasha wasn't particularly familiar with firearms, but she figured she'd learn fast enough. Just like she’d learned to live on the street as a teenager.
She picked up a rifle with a scope and tried it out. She liked how it felt in her arms, so she decided to grab that one. She read the instruction manual and grabbed any boxes she could find of the appropriate ammunition. Shoving a magazine in the chamber, she turned off the safety and aimed through the scope at the owl figure sitting on the far wall. She lined up the hash marks over the owl’s head and pulled the trigger. The bullet flew into the wall several feet away from the owl and she frowned.
After reading the manual quickly, learned about adjusting the scope and followed the instructions. Shooting at the owl several more times, she finally hit the taxidermized figure right between the eyes. It burst in an explosion of feathers and dust. Sasha smiled, swinging the rifle over her shoulder. She gathered several more guns, looping them in holsters at the waist and under her arm.