Surviving Beyond the Zombie Apocalypse

by Jeffrey Littorno

  My original idea upon leaving the car had been to clear a path for the van. Now as I continued around the cluster of cars, any notion of clearing a way got lost in the images of mangled lives. The sound of the thing that used to be a toddler thrust pictures into my mind.

  A twenty-something father behind the wheel turning to his wife and saying, “What do you say we take Brenda to the park this afternoon?”

  The young woman in the passenger seat twists around to look at the little girl in the backseat. “I don’t know. She seems kind of sluggish like she might be coming down with a cold or something.”

  “Well, she’s not the only one,” the man replied. “How are you feeling?”

  The woman answered with a sneeze.

  The banging on the window from inside a white SUV on the other side of the mass of cars brought me back to the moment. I looked over to see a black man with his face pushed against the back window of the car. In the next moment, the face had been pulled back from the glass. It seemed to be focused on something behind me. My heart jumped as the shell slammed its head back into the window. Once again, the face pressed into the glass, but this time a smear of blood showed itself. The shell slid its face around the back window of the car until nearly all of the glass became coated with blood. I stood transfixed by the sight. The thing pulled its face back only to slam it back into the glass a moment later. It suddenly dawned on me that my presence might be agitating the shell, but this possibility did not motivate me to move away. On the contrary, I took a couple of steps closer, feeling nothing aside from a sadistic pleasure at the question of whether the shell would continue to slam its head against the glass until its skull cracked.

  I did not have to wonder for long. The black shell pressed its nose into the glass to the point that I thought I heard it crack. Regardless of whether or not the sound was real, the place where the shell’s nose had been had disintegrated into a flattened mass of flesh. This lack of a nose did not cause the shell to hesitate for a second. It drew its face back. The coating of blood meant the glass was no longer transparent. A moment later the shell’s head smacked the glass with a thud. After that, there was nothing more. I did not move for what seemed like fifteen minutes, although it might have been much less time. I waited for another attempt by the shell, but nothing happened. I wondered if the shell had died or merely knocked itself out.

  Before I pondered the question for long, a groan came from behind me. I spun around to find three shells shuffling toward me from ten or fifteen yards away. The condition of the black shell in the car was no longer a concern. Instead, I found myself sprinting back to the campervan. Fortunately, the trio of shells did not include any fast movers. I got back to the van and inside before they had changed directions.

  Clearly, my forward progress had been blocked and getting back to the store called for an alternate route. I spun the van around and headed away from the nose less black shell and the small thing in the car seat. I would have liked to have had a better idea of the way back to the store, but for now I was satisfied with simply moving.

  I realized how strange it seemed that I had spent so much time in this area around the newspaper building, but it now appeared completely unfamiliar to me. Truthfully, I had never truly looked at it, never taken notice of the details. Such disregard for specifics certainly did not suit a journalist. I suppose that familiarity not only bred contempt but disinterest as well. The consequence of that disinterest had now come back to me. I turned left, which I believed to be the direction of the store.

  The street before me was narrow and lined with shabby store fronts. I saw a couple of shells squatting over the remains of what had probably been a dog. They seemed to be uninterested in me. I felt slightly irritated that between a dog’s carcass and me, the shells preferred the dog. No accounting for taste.

  Such a bizarre thinking process made me realize that ever since I had been away from Christina, Taylor, and Kat, my thoughts had become twisted. The reason for this became immediately clear. When I was with the others, they gave me a reason for going on, a sense of purpose. I needed to protect them. Everything I did had to be directed toward keeping them safe. Even in a world as crazy as this, having a sense of purpose proved crucial. This was the only thing that made continuing to breathe worth the effort. I had never been a high achiever. In fact, I’d chuckled at those people so driven that they spent every free moment seeking ways by which to succeed. Their constant focus on the future meant that they never allowed themselves time to enjoy the present.

  Ironically, in this world, where the present might be all that we had, I had the task of protecting the future in the form of young people. With such a clear purpose, I had no time to get distracted by meditations on the absurdities of the situation. That was what I needed to keep in mind, focus on the purpose of my action without getting distracted by the surrounding events. Of course, when the surrounding events included dead people moving around, being a little distracted seemed excusable. However, if I hoped to get back to the others, I could not afford to be getting distracted.

  With this in mind, I focused on driving.

  As soon as the engine turned over, the shells turned their attention in my direction. They did not immediately move. It seemed as though it took their brains a few seconds before the idea of something moving registered and a reaction could be made. The shells had simply stood and then begun moving toward me as I shifted the car into reverse. Not being used to backing up using only side mirrors, I started slowly and carefully.

  Things changed when I glanced through the windshield to see the shells now moving quickly toward the van. I pressed down on the gas pedal and was almost immediately shaken by a bang of hitting something. The repeated slapping on the side of the van followed. Out of the passenger window, I saw numerous shells moving towards me from surrounding buildings. A glance out my window revealed the same thing.

  Surprisingly, a calm filled me as a single idea screamed through my brain: If I do not get out of here right now, I never will.

  My foot slammed the accelerator to the floor. It took a second for the van to react before it sprang backward through the mob of shells. The slapping stopped only to be replaced by a series of thuds that rocked the campervan. Once beyond the shells, I spun the wheel to the left and nearly succeeded in tipping the van onto its side. Somehow all four wheels stayed on the ground, and I headed away from the crowd of shells.

  I watched in the side mirror as the shells got smaller. Just as I started to feel better, I looked forward to see more shells gathering. One at a time, the things posed no problem, but a group of them could stop me dead. I smiled at the bad pun.

  Obviously, the only way the van would be able to make it down the street and back to the store was by breaking this large group in smaller groups. I stopped the van in the middle of the street staring at the shells and considering how to break up the group. It did not take long for the answer.

  As I had noted long ago, some of the shells were relatively fast, while others simply shuffled along. The distinction seemed to depend on the amount of time since the shell had turned. Of course, the reason was not important. It only mattered because the difference in speed meant as the shells approached me, the group gradually became less compact.

  A twisted and completely inappropriate grin curled my lips. I watched and waited. My foot trembled a few inches above the gas pedal.

  The faster shells had reached the front of the campervan and begun slapping the hood. A short, muscular shell in a police uniform did its best to climb on to the bumper and up on the hood. The way it kept slipping off and then trying again was almost comical and certainly would have been funny under different circumstances. Now, not so much.

  I saw the slower shells moving forward at various distances from the van. My foot stopped trembling and stomped on the gas pedal. The shell in the police uniform had just managed to regain its position atop the bumper as the van lunged ahead. The shell spilled over the hood and groped blin
dly until it grasped the windshield wiper in front of me.

  I wondered if the shell had any sort of satisfaction at having achieved this goal. A moment later, the thing raised its head. I looked into a pair of blank, washed-out blue eyes and knew that it had neither satisfaction nor any other emotion.

  I swerved in an attempt to throw the thing off without success. The pale face of the shell revealed that it had been a younger man. Now it had become simply a thing on my windshield like a bug splattered there on a long drive through the country. In the same manner as I would to get rid of an insect, I turned on the windshield wipers and even sprayed the cleaner fluid as the speed of the van increased. The soapy liquid squirted against its wrist and sent it all around. The shell’s face became wet as did the wiper and hood. It appeared unsure of how to react to this change in conditions. A moment later, I made another sharp turn, and the shell’s fingers slipped off of the wiper. Its arms flailed in the air, but the shell’s expression did not change as it slid from the hood.

  I had driven into a block that did not look familiar. I looked around trying to get my bearings and was relieved to find no shells visible. Unfortunately, there was also nothing familiar visible. A couple of more blocks went by, and I finally found a street sign.

  W. Fruitridge Street. The name surprised me, because it meant that I had somehow travelled about three miles from the newspaper building. I spent a few seconds questioning how this could have happened before realizing that it did not matter. The only thing of importance was I now had an idea of my location and how to get back to Christina, Taylor, and Kat.

  I pulled over to the curb and pulled the GPS from my pocket. The suction cup did not stick well on the dashboard. However, I did not plan on a long trip today, so it would do. I pulled the cigarette lighter out of the socket and plugged in the GPS. I took a deep breath and held it as I pushed the little button on the top of the small screen. The screen lit up, displaying a map of the United States. A lively little tune played for several seconds.

  I pressed the screen and a keyboard appeared. My fingers trembled a bit as I typed in CheapMart and pressed Enter. In the fraction of seconds that followed, I considered the possibility of satellites being disabled and all those who maintained satellites being dead.

  The voice put an end to my useless considerations. “Turn left after four hundred feet,” the pleasant female voice commanded.

  The voice was certainly welcome since it meant the satellites were still operating, and therefore, civilization was too. Of course, it also meant that I had a guide back to the others waiting for me at the store. The only thing I had to worry about was the GPS leading me down a street that turned out to be blocked. The picture of getting stuck at a dead end and being surrounded by shells filled my head. I had no desire to see it become a situation in which I might really find myself.

  No shells could be seen as I rounded the corner. But knowing how fast they could come pouring out of surrounding buildings, I did not take much comfort from this. Nothing moved, aside from a curtain fluttering from an open window on the second floor of one apartment building.

  For a brief instant, I thought I glimpsed a person looking through the window. I stopped the van and stared at the window for a minute. No one could be seen. I considered exploring the building for anyone in need of help but quickly pushed the idea aside. Still, it made me wonder how many, if any, of these buildings held people cowering in fear. Did they stay inside waiting for help? Had they decided to simply wait for the world to end? I had nothing but sympathy for these possible survivors, but my primary concern at that moment was simply to get back to my family.

  A glance in the mirror outside my window showed a trio of shells trotting toward the van. I stepped on the gas pedal and sped off, leaving the shells far behind. I watched as the shells shrunk away but still they kept trotting ahead. Would they simply keep following me until they caught up, or would they stop once something distracted them? It hardly seemed a question worth answering.

  My experience with the shells had taught me enough to know that they did not all behave in precisely the same way. My mind flashed on the time I spent watching the shells with Glen.

  We both looked to the ground as the mob swarmed into the narrow alleyway. They milled around and seemed to be without any idea as to what to do after finding the area empty. I watched the things below us and began to notice some similar characteristics. None of them showed facial expressions that could be recognized as anger or happiness. They all looked pale. At first, I heard no words spoken—only grunts and moans, but then another pair of them entered into the alley.

  “Where?” A tall thin man in dark green coveralls with ‘Tim’ embroidered in gold thread above his right breast asked.

  “Up there!” The muscular guy wearing a white t-shirt and blue jeans yelled as he pointed at Glen and me.

  As if sharing the same thought at being discovered, both of us jumped forward and yanked the ladder up from the ground. Glen flipped a hook over the ladder which prevented it from being accessed from the ground.

  Mesmerized by the scene below us, Glen and I studied every detail of the shells’ activity. The group seemed totally unorganized, shuffling here and there without any clear aim. But that changed when the two speaking members of the mob moved forward.

  “Go there!” Tim yelled and pointed.

  The simple, undeveloped speech reminded me of the old Westerns where Indians were shown as savages. It occurred to me then that these things might not be much different. The almost animal-like movements of the group fit the picture of primitive man. Before I managed to catch myself, a laugh burst from my chest, and Glen stared at me with concern and some suspicion.

  “You’re not losing it, are you?” he asked with a shaky voice and a shakier smile.

  I considered the question carefully before replying. “Perhaps I am. I don’t know. I was thinking that those things sort of look like cavemen.”

  An expression of confusion replaced Glen’s smile. “Look at them. They seem totally confused by everything, not able to put together a complex idea,” I explained.

  Glen was quiet and turned back to look at the things below us. Several of them stretched their arms upward pointlessly trying to reach the ladder which hung at least ten feet beyond their reach.

  A short woman with curly blonde hair in a worn white bathrobe had her arms stretched upward and was spinning around slowly. I am not sure why this woman more than any of the others struck a chord within me. For some reason, her appearance put everything into perspective. I imagined her at home nursing what she believed to be simply another cold. It may have been that her husband and two children had left the house that morning sure she would be fine when they got home. But now it seemed pretty clear that nothing was going to be fine for a terribly long time, if ever.

  The memory brought back thoughts of the young minister, but the sharpness of pain I had experienced previously had already begun to fade. The thing which really struck me about the recollection was that the simple intelligence and even the most basic communication skills of the shells appeared to have dropped or disappeared. The idea occurred to me again that without new shells appearing perhaps they would simply stop moving and turn to dust. I couldn’t help but smile at such a pleasant idea.

  “After one hundred feet, turn left on McKinley Street.”

  The pleasant, slightly computerized voice brought me back to the moment and the campervan creeping down the street.

  I followed the directions and turned left on McKinley Street. The sight surprised me. The area looked as if it had not been touched by any of the changes that had fallen upon the world. It was as if everything had simply gone straight by rather than following the directions; after one hundred feet, turn left on McKinley Street. The street before me looked normal with cars parked at the curb and nothing out of the ordinary. I wondered how this neighborhood had remained untouched. Did that mean those living here had been spared the horror of shells? I couldn’t
imagine this to be the case. If true, there might well be people waiting inside the apartments.

  The image of three small children and a terribly worried looking woman huddled in the corner of a dark bedroom flashed into my head.

  “Mommy, I’m scared,” a little girl cried.

  The woman hugged her close and answered, “I know you are, honey. We’ll be okay, but we have to stay quiet for a little while.”

  A crash came from another room. The children screamed. In an instant, light filled the bedroom and a big shadow fell across the woman and her children.

  “Tom, you need to—”

  The shell landed on top of her before the rest of the words got out.

  “Get off my mommy, Tom!” The little girl screamed as she hit the shell’s back.

  After a few seconds, the shell stopped abruptly and turned its head toward the little girl. She stared into the bloody face of the thing and began to wail in fear. The sound abruptly ended an instant after the shell launched itself onto the girl.

  The shock of the sight brought me back to the street in front of me.

  Everything remained still. The cars sat empty and dark. Once again, I was reminded of the eerie stillness of a production set. Something about it seemed too perfect, and the scene made me uneasy. That is why I was sort of relieved when the voice of the GPS directed me to turn at the next corner and I found myself in the middle of a group of shells.

  Directly in front of the van and slapping the hood stood a short, heavy woman with red hair wearing a red bra and nothing else. We made what passed for eye contact among the shells before I pressed down on the gas pedal. The van shot forward, and she disappeared from view.

  My surroundings now left no doubt as to the hellish state of the world. Most of the cars scattered along the street had doors hanging open. A few hundred feet away was a car with a couple of shells pressed into the passenger door. From the way they virtually trembled, it became clear the shells were eating.