Dying Days 2

by Armand Rosamilia

  Darlene was wasting time. She walked out through the garage, remembering how scared she was the first time she'd entered the gas station, not knowing who was in there.

  When she got outside, she glanced over at the two graves she'd dug but turned away when she felt the tears coming. Two men were buried there, thanks to her, but they would have killed her if given the chance. Who knew if they would have taken the time to put her in the ground?

  She looked up the road at the house and concentrated on the task before her.

  She suddenly wanted to scream. Why didn't you leave a note, dumb-ass? At least let them know where you were going. If she didn't complete this move soon, it would be dark and she'd have to sleep in the gas station. Murph, at some point today, would wake from his nap and wonder where she was. In a couple days, John would return from St. Augustine, and, if she wasn't back, he'd freak.

  "But I will be back tomorrow," she whispered. With an Explorer filled with supplies. That will hopefully shut the boys up.

  She could see the chain-link fence stretched to the house and on both sides of her, protection and safety.

  The road leading to the house was quiet and peaceful. The ride here had been uneventful, as most of the zombie population had been caught up in the wave days ago and headed north.

  Darlene put a foot on the wooden porch steps and stopped. She remembered the last time she'd been here and walked this path until a board squeaked, stirring up the undead inside, and thoroughly scaring herself.

  "Grow a pair," she whispered.

  She decided to find an alternate route, swearing it was not a stalling tactic. She walked around to the left side of the house, watching the windows for movement, but they were all boarded up and covered.

  The chain-link fence was torn apart in the rear of the house, and halfway up the far side. Darlene inspected it, but it wasn't from an attack. The posts were buried in loose sand. Between the recent storms and no solid ground to hold, they'd simply ripped from their mooring and collapsed.

  The house itself was weathered, sand drifting and hiding the few spots of weed-grass, piles of it sloping against the foundation.

  Behind the house were more sand dunes, but stunted low trees marked a field to the west. No car or pickup truck sat in the opened and empty garage, and a pile of warped wood was stacked against a ruined chicken coop.

  The back door wasn't boarded up from the outside. The screen door was off its hinges and was ten feet across the yard, half buried in sand.

  Darlene tried to look in through the small window pane of the door but it was too filthy. She pressed an ear to the wood and closed her eyes, expecting a monstrous hand to crack through splintering wood and grip her by the hair, or Jack Nicholson to start chopping away with a fireman's ax. Instead, it was quiet.

  Now she was definitely stalling. She went around to the opposite side and checked the windows there, surprised to find one with a small space between the boards.

  Inside, through the swirling dust, she could make out stacks of boxes, all in neat rows and covered by tarps. A twelve-pack of spring water was placed on the top of one five-foot pyramid against the far wall.

  Nothing moved.

  Darlene didn't know what she expected: an empty house, cleared of goods, a roomful of zombies trying to crash through the window to get at her… Maybe they'd rotted away without food, were just piles of dried blood and bones.

  She needed to figure out the best approach to this. She could try to sneak in by prying away the boards over the window and getting inside before she was heard; or she could distract them by banging on the front door and running around to the back; or she could simply go 'video game' on them by kicking in the back door and shooting everything in sight.

  Instead, she simply knocked lightly on the back door and got her machete ready. At first, she didn't hear any noise in the house so she went to knock again. That's when something slammed against the door on the other side, scaring her and forcing her back a step.

  "What are you scared of?" she whispered. The varied thoughts of being ripped apart and raped by the residents of the house were pushed aside and she decided to open the door, let them out, and dispatch them.

  As calmly as she could, and ignoring the pounding coming from inside, she went through the ring of keys until she found the proper one, unlocked the door and pushed it open.

  Just as the first zombie stepped out into the Florida sunshine, Darlene heard a step coming up behind her. She turned and almost pissed herself. While she'd been fumbling around the house, taking her sweet time, seven or eight zombies had appeared in the field behind her, and were now only steps away.

  "Shit," she cursed and began a two-front defense as the second zombie stepped from the house.

  * * * * *

  Apparently not every zombie had moved on to St. Augustine and northern places.

  "Shit," John mumbled. It was only a few miles up A1A to the city, and they'd taken this route dozens of times. Occasionally there would be a few zombies stumbling on the road, coming out from abandoned houses or from the beach.

  Right now, though, John was looking at over a hundred of them, all in the middle of the road. Blocking their path.

  "They have someone," Peter said.

  "A caravan of cars, headed this way," Kayla added. "Why wouldn't they be heading in the other direction, towards St. Augustine?"

  John surveyed their position, and it wasn't promising. They were at a spot where short, stunted trees rose at odd angles on sand dunes, effectively making a wall to their right, and to the left was more of the same.

  "Are there people alive in the white car?" Peter asked.

  John looked through the binoculars and sighed. A woman and her daughter were inside, windows closed, but the zombies were slamming the car with hands and heads. It was only a matter of time before they'd get through.

  "We need to do something," Stanley said. He was an older man, a former attorney, and this was his first foray to trade for supplies.

  "There are six of us," Kayla said. “It's probably twenty-to-one odds against us right now."

  "And?" John said with a smile.

  Kayla pointed. "I'll take the twenty to the right. Anyone have a problem with that?"

  Peter shook his head but was smiling. "Hopefully someone has a Plan B."

  John looked back the way they'd come. The road was completely empty. "Maybe we can lead them back to the next break in the dunes, have them follow us onto the beach, and then double back and rescue the people."

  "How long will that take? We don't want to get caught out here in the dark," Stanley said.

  John looked up at the sun overhead. "We have several hours to kill. Sorry, poor choice of words. Even if we lead this slow group back, get them onto the beach or off the road, and then get through the dune barriers, we'll have plenty of time to get to St. Augustine." John pointed. "Around the bend is a nice break, a beach access, and if I remember correctly, there's another just past the cars. We can skirt the entire scene and end up north of the living, save them, and be on our merry way."

  "And then get our drink on at Kimberly's Bar tonight," Kayla said.

  John shook his head. "Everyone get a head start and I'll get their attention."

  "With your fancy crossbow?" Peter said. Everyone had chided John when they set out, since he'd selected an expensive crossbow for the journey instead of his compound bow or one of the others in his growing collection. "You go with them, I'll shoot a couple. I haven't shot in too long."

  "I got this," John said but Peter put his hand up.

  "I may be big, I may be fat, but I can still out-walk these dudes." Peter drew his pistol suddenly and shot. "Besides, it's too late. I already got their attention."

  John watched as Peter kept shooting. He wasn't a good aim, but it didn't matter. The zombies began shuffling toward them, bumping into one another in the limited space.

  It was quite unnerving, even though John and the group had such a lead, to see so many
bloody, dripping corpses moving so slowly and so methodically. It shook you.

  It took longer than they thought, and Peter shot one of the lead undead when they started getting closer. That also kept them in focus so they kept coming.

  They got to the beach and John was glad there wasn't another horde waiting for them there. The beach was empty, the gentle waves crashing, a lone seagull flittering overhead.

  "Watch the dunes and the water," he said. He was waiting for them to get circled and attacked at any moment.

  "Here they come," Peter said behind them. He shot again.

  "Don't waste your ammo. They got the message," Kayla said.

  The run up the beach was long and John's calves were hurting by the time they found the next break. It was empty of zombies, something he was thankful for.

  They stepped back onto A1A a hundred feet north of the caravan.

  "Shit again," John said. Not all the zombies had followed them. At least six still remained at the cars.

  "I guess I can shoot again," Peter said and reloaded.

  "Let's make this quick." John took two steps and shot a bolt through the head of a zombie, watching it fall.

  The others got closer, took careful aim, and dispatched the remaining five like they were nothing.

  "I sometimes imagine we're in a zombie video game and we're killing the easy ones until the big boss zombie rises from a crack in the ground and attacks us," Peter said.

  "Sometimes I worry about you, brother," Kayla said.

  They approached the cars, checking each one for survivors. There were none.

  The car they'd seen the two people in was last, and they all circled it.

  John didn't want to say 'shit' again, but it was the only fitting word to use.

  The windshield had been smashed in. Inside the woman and her daughter struggled to crawl out of the car with bloody lips and vacant eyes.

  Kayla said it for John. "Shit," before silencing both with shots to the head.

  Chapter Five

  "Go tell them," Steve said to Mike.

  "Go tell them what?"

  "That Tent World has to move to another part of the city."

  Mike rubbed his eyes. The short drive over from Fort Matanzas had been eventful, with Steve, Corona in hand, shouting out the passenger window for people to get out of the way, as if the giant tour bus with his face painted on the sides wasn't enough to get them to move.

  "This is wrong on so many levels," Mike said.

  "Do you know who I am?" Steve asked rhetorically.

  "That doesn't make this right."

  Steve put his hand out and waved his fingers. "Give me the keys."

  "No… why?"

  "If you won't do it, I don't need you. I'll park it myself."

  "There's no way you'll be able to hop that curb and position this monster without killing yourself or someone else, or ending up in the river."

  "Fine." Steve leaned his head out the window. "Who can drive this bitch and wants to hang with the world's last celebrity?"

  "Shit." Mike put the bus in drive. "Sit back. I'll park it on the grass and we'll figure out the best way to get everyone to move."

  "Toss them some pennies or a bar of soap." Steve laughed and sucked down the last of his Corona before tossing it out the window. "Better yet, since I'm sure they didn't know what soap was before the world shit on them, tell them the first fifty that move get a signed picture of me."

  "I didn't think you'd sign pictures for anyone."

  "I won't. I have a box in the bedroom of auto-signed headshots. You can do anything with a computer these days."

  "I'll be right back."

  "Hey, I think I even have a couple of number seventy-five racing cars as well."

  "For the kids?" Mike asked as he got out and closed the door.

  Steve stuck his head out the window. "Kids? Screw that. They'll open the boxes and play with them. I'll give them to collectors. They appreciate that kind of thing." Steve shook his head. "Kids? What's wrong with you?"

  Mike was starting to wonder the same thing as he approached a group of people busy stringing a line to hang their river-washed clothes.

  * * * * *

  Tosha pushed her hair behind her ear and stared at the lead boat through the rifle's cross-hair sight. One pull of the trigger and she could kill the leader. She figured she had enough ammo in her pockets to kill quite a few of those bastards.

  She'd been in the meeting room of the college when the word had come down about this group, about how they were killers and rapists. When David called them to action, and wondered aloud if they were the reason the Orlando safe haven had suddenly fallen, she had agreed.

  There were some selfish people in this world, but you could mostly ignore them. The ones who were dangerous had only their self-interest at the top of the list and wanted what you had, even if they didn't need it.

  She heard Bobby coming up behind her, making enough noise to wake the dead. If they were wondering where she was hiding and watching her—and she was sure they were on those boats—he'd just given away her position.

  For fun, and because she wanted to shoot Bobby, she slowly rose up on her knees and let her ass wiggle as she slid forward, still holding the rifle.

  She heard him stop behind her,knew he was getting a great view of her ass in the tight jeans.

  "Get down before you get shot," she said to him without turning. "Crawl to me."

  Bobby hit the ground with a loud thud and she wanted to scream. If he got a bullet between his eyes, she wouldn't have been upset in the slightest. She wondered how idiots like this survived as long as they did.

  Finally, aggravated, she turned. He was within a few feet of her, on all fours, boldly licking his lips as he stared at her ass.

  "See something you like, Bobby?"

  He nodded like a little kid. "Is that a thong?" he stammered.

  She smiled. "Technically, no. A thong has a small strip to it. I'm wearing a pink G string. See the difference?"

  "Um, yeah."

  "Come closer and check it out."

  He moved on all fours, reaching out with his hand to touch her ass.

  Tosha kicked back with her leather boot, catching him under the chin. The man dropped in a heap.

  Satisfied he was taking a nap and not dead, she went back to her rifle.

  The boats were farther out and starting to turn north. In fifteen minutes, they'd be passed the island and out of sight.

  Tosha decided she'd take the time to follow them and make sure they didn't try to land close to an unmanned fence or a stone wall they could hop.

  She had time to kill before heading to Kimberly's tonight. What else was she going to do? She hadn't killed anything in several days and was getting antsy.

  There weren't many men that could keep up with her insatiable appetites for sex, drinking and shooting things. Instead, she'd try to keep herself amused in all three departments.

  Movement to her left caught her eye. At first she assumed it was one of the patrols, but when two figures ducked behind a low wall, she knew it wasn't part of a patrol.

  "Finally, some action."

  A quick glance at the water told her the boats were still moving away from shore, but it wouldn't have been hard to get a few people onto the shore.

  Coming over a sand dune, she saw there were only two of them. One was an older man, with a stained blue bandanna on his head and no shirt, his doughy torso covered in tattoos. He moved to his right and away from his partner, who was just a kid with a dark mop of hair, carrying a skateboard, of all things, and looked pissed, even from this distance. They split up, and Tosha decided to make this easy. There was no way she could keep track of both, but with one of them out of the picture she'd simply track the other or hope he surrendered.

  Tosha hit the ground, set up her shot, and pulled the trigger within seconds.

  The Tattooed guy's head exploded, stray pieces of his bandanna fluttering in the breeze as he fell.


  She was sure the boats had heard that as well, and she was glad. Maybe that would dissuade them from attempting something so stupid again.

  The kid wasn't in view but she knew she could find him. She waited to see if he would make a run for it so she could blast his head off as well.

  Tosha was starting to enjoy this. The kid only had a skateboard in his hands but he could easily have a knife or a small firearm on his person. She wasn't going to do something stupid. There wasn't anywhere he could get to, anyway, without her seeing him. Just past the dunes, the road cut around and back to the north end of St. Augustine. There was a makeshift patrol tower there, overlooking the water and the road.

  She stood and went back to the waterside to see what was happening on the water. As she’d suspected, one of the smaller boats was heading toward the shore while the rest continued to head to the island.

  Through the scope, she saw four men on the speedboat.

  Tosha wished she had her headphones because some accompanying Lizzy Borden music would be great right now. Something crushing from the first four-song EP like the title cut. She began the song from memory in her head, imagining she was starring in a bad ass movie, and pulled the trigger.

  The first shot took the guy to the right of the one she was aiming for in the shoulder.

  "Shit," she mumbled and adjusted for the movement, the wind and her own aim on the second shot, hitting the pilot squarely in the neck.

  The speedboat swung wildly to the left and before one of the living men could get control of the craft she'd reloaded and shot another one in the back of the head.

  The boat crashed into the beach, shooting up sand.

  Tosha took her time and shot the last uninjured man as he foolishly lifted his head.

  Satisfied that all four were down, she turned and went back to looking for the kid.