As the wolf nuzzled against him, he allowed himself a lengthy contemplation of what had occurred in recent months, including the unimaginable sequence of events that placed him here.
His thoughts, as always these past months, were of his beloved Sara.
***
Alex and his wife Sara were two regular folks, trying to make their way in the world. Sara was pregnant, only recently discovered, and the two of them were euphoric when they heard the news. They hadn’t even discovered the sex of the child yet.
That was when reports of the plague hit the airwaves.
Their world crumbled.
After the news of the infection hit, Alex and Sara spent the next few hours in a panic, watching neighbors gather up their belongings and make their way to friends and families. They discussed doing the same thing, going to visit relatives and loved ones, but ultimately, they watched the news and never moved from the TV. It was riveting and hardly believable.
Reports of government-based shelters and their locations were announced with regularity as chaotic reports of the infection, or plague, as the broadcasters were calling it, were at their height.
The news claimed that people should remain in their homes at first, then reports filtered in hours later that they should go to the main cities where vaccines were being worked to stem the infection. Nothing much came through after that, but there were conflicting reports.
It was not long after that Sara turned ill. It was maybe within twenty-four hours of the reports, Alex recalled. She presented with a fever of unimaginable proportions, but he could do nothing about it except apply cold compresses and treat it with fever-reducers. He recalled running a hand through her sweat soaked auburn hair and staring back at him concernedly. He also recalled vividly that red lines surrounded the hazel color of her pupils, the white of the eye barely visible.
Each hour that passed, it seemed her fever intensified.
Alex cared for her, and his yet unborn child living inside of her, with the utmost care. The electric was still functioning, and he had a backup generator with plenty of fuel in the basement, in the event of a power outage.
He decided to gather items and place them into a ‘go-bag’, just in case. He considered for a moment all of the essentials he would need in case they had to leave the house in a hurry. He made his way down the steps and into the basement to gather said items. He found an empty backpack and swiftly began to gather things he would need, namely a flashlight, several types of batteries, a lighter, a hammer, an interchangeable screwdriver and bits, an adjustable wrench, a box of nails, and tossed them into the spacious backpack.
He made his way into the kitchen and filled another satchel with canned goods. He stared at a can of spam and stuck his tongue out. “Now where the hell did this come from?” he asked sarcastically against the gravity of the situation, trying to remain lucid. He found a can of chicken noodle soup, Sara’s favorite, and placed it on the counter.
He then proceeded upstairs to his bedroom and the gun safe, turned the dial in the proper sequence, opened the door and removed his Beretta pistol. He stared at it, checked the chamber and the safety and tucked it into his belt, recovering all of the extra ammunition and the extra clip, already loaded. He carefully tucked those items away inside the pack, too.
He made his way across the hall and into the bathroom where he stood before the medicine cabinet, leaning on the sink. He stared at his own reflection, stubble growing on his face around the borders of his beard, which he hadn’t trimmed for days, and the whites surrounding his blue eyes were red with weariness. He ran a hand through his wavy dark mane, noting that his hair was coming in thick, though was unkempt on this particular day, and understandably so, under the circumstances. He’d agreed to shave it very short this past summer at the behest of Sara, and he recalled discussing it with her, to grow it back as summer began to fade. ‘Winter was coming’, was his argument. She eventually consented of course, knowing full well that he would be working in extreme conditions come the winter months.
Alex was a general contractor for the last few years, never an expert at one aspect or the other, but very good at a great deal of things—good enough to make an honest living for him and Sara, at least for the time being. Those optimistic notions and desires faded fast away as Alex’s beleaguered countenance stared back at him mockingly in that moment.
He opened the mirrored cabinet hastily, trying in vain to ignore his own fatigue, and then scooped everything into the backpack, pain reliever, aspirin and antibiotics, among them.
He made his way into the kitchen after placing the bags near the back door, and recovered the can of chicken noodle soup from the counter, opened it and poured its contents into the pot. He spilled a little on the side of the stove and wiped it up with a towel.
Alex heard sounds coming from the living room, and they were not coming from the TV. He was relieved, believing his wife to be up and about.
Maybe…just maybe, things are looking up for us, he reflected.
“Sara? You okay?” Alex called to her, stirring the soup and inhaling the steamy aroma. It would be invigorating and he could not wait to see that smile—the smile that gave him reason to carry on, and the life within her hazel eyes—embellishing her lovely features.
He spun to see Sara in the threshold of the kitchen staring crazily at him, her eyes dripping with blood and full of…hate?
The blood drained from his face.
She had turned into one of the things on the news.
She was infected.
She was a ‘zombie.’
Sara, or rather, the thing that was once his beloved wife, rushed toward him, coughing up blood as she did so.
“No, Sara! Wait!” he warned, reflexively smacking her in the head with the iron pot. He did it on reflex, not wanting to strike her at all. Nevertheless, that didn’t stop her from rising again. She got to her feet quite quickly, her head at an impossible angle, and charged him again.
“No, dammit!”
He hit her again, harder this time.
“This isn’t fucking fair!”
She fell back again and made to advance once more. He struck her one more time with all the frustration he had mounting within him, and the thing that was his wife fell to the hard floor, unmoving.
Now overwhelmed with the angst of the ensuing emotions flowing through him, he beat the thing that was Sara mercilessly about the head until he was kneeling in a pile of gore.
“You son of a bitch…you stole my baby from me…and my wife,” he sobbed, staring skyward. He remained sitting in the gore and filth, feeling as if everything else in the world did not matter and would never matter to him ever again.
He made it to his feet, stumbled into the living room where only moments ago Sara lay sick and helpless, and he lay down in her spot, sobbing like an inconsolable child. He smelled the scent of her perfume still clinging to the pillow and blankets and he buried his face in them.
His world came to a crashing halt in that surrealistic moment.
He eventually cried himself to sleep, waiting for the zombie virus to infect him too, begging for the infection to claim him so that he wouldn’t have to deal with the pain and void of his demoralizing losses.
***
Alex awoke much later in the darkness to a blaze inside his home. Something nearby was on fire. His mind raced and he believed it to be the work of crazed survivalists, perhaps ransacking homes and burning what was left, maybe even trying to kill the infection. It seemed to be coming from the kitchen.
Then, as he made it to his feet, a realization hit him like a ton of bricks. He remembered that he’d left a burner on the stove and also, had left a dishtowel near that burner. That was what had started the fire, he knew.
He heard a voice inside his head telling him to get up, his fight or flight instinct kicking in as he ran into the kitchen. He saw the blaze and how bad it had gotten and believed at first that he could get it under control as he grabbed a fire ex
tinguisher off the wall in between the living room and kitchen. Then he caught site of what was left of his wife and stood frozen in shock again, the fire extinguisher falling to the floor helplessly.
Several minutes passed as the blaze intensified and he realized that he could not contain it. He looked down to a drawer, opened it, grabbed a can opener and stared at it for a few seconds, realizing how dire things had gotten in the last few minutes.
He instinctually put the can opener in his pocket, took a deep breath, and raced to the two packs of items he prepared to take only an hour ago.
Next, he ran to his shed and gathered various hunting gear, including an insulated suit, a compound bow, a quiver and arrows, his hunting knife with the serrated edge, and a full canteen. He wrapped a huge handful of arrows in duct tape, shoved those in a duffle bag, and made off south into the woods, away from the main road in his development. He looked down as he sprinted toward the edge of the forest and was relieved to see that his Swiss army knife was dangling from the keys hanging on his belt loop. He might just need it in the coming days.
As he made his way into the brush, a home alarm sounded not far behind and it wasn’t long before zombies began to gather, clearly drawn to the noise. He stopped and spun around in time to watch in horror as a neighbor, one whose name he did not recall, was outside trying to deactivate the alarm on the side of his garage using the butt of a rifle, when he was swarmed over by a dozen zombies. He got a shot or two off under the initial wave as they took him down. It was brutal to watch as he witnessed body parts and gore erupt and go airborne under their vicious assault.
He also caught sight of his own house burning in the distance. It was like a bad dream, he thought, unable to believe that it was happening. He watched as the zombies tore the flesh from his neighbor.
He turned and ran fast away, not looking back again.
He spent the next few nights near his home, a mile or two south in the woods, eating cans of beans and pudding. After a few nights of sleeping under a tree, he decided to go back to see what remained of his neighborhood. Also, his canteen was empty and he needed to acquire clean water from somewhere.
He put a few of the zombies down along his journey back, one on one, using his hunting knife or, if he saw them quick enough, with his bow, preferring to do it quietly. He did not want to attract a crowd, as that would be his downfall. He saw what a mob of them could do to someone.
Man, are they strong, he admitted, recalling a close encounter. One had pinned him down with strength born not of this earth, and if he hadn’t gotten the shaft of the bow into its mouth, it might have torn a hunk of his flesh off. He wasn’t sure if that would turn a man into one of them like it did in all the zombie movies he’d ever seen before, but he didn’t want to find out either. He also was quick to note that these things weren’t the slow-moving zombies like he’d seen in many a horror film, but were some kind of mutation of man that made them crazed and hungry for human flesh. And they were quick to get after it.
Alex was no slouch in the strength department either, being recently turned twenty-six and a frequent visitor to the gym. He was stronger than most, and kept himself in good shape physically, especially with his job. Nevertheless, these zombies seemed to have the strength of a weightlifter on steroids. It was tough as hell fighting one at a time and he knew how difficult it would be to fight a couple, or three at once. He winced at that thought.
Unmanageable, really. Probably best to avoid that situation.
And so, he proceeded to move cautiously, taking them down from a distance. He was a respectable shot with the bow, and in the coming weeks, he would no doubt get better. The hardest part was trying to salvage arrows. They were broad heads mostly, which were durable, but some got stuck in bone and he could not recover them. He yanked each and every one he could from the bodies once he was sure they were dead, salvaging most of them that way. The weird thing about the zombies he found, was that for a creature of such strength and speed, their flesh was like a sponge.
He’d have to try finding a gun with a silencer if possible, knowing that they were attracted to sound and, quite probably, the smell of flesh. A suppressor on a gun would certainly help. And he had plenty of .45 caliber rounds for the gun in his belt. As he tugged an arrow free from one of the recently downed zombies, he noted ol’ man Robins—or what used to be ol’ man Robins!—staggering his way, slowly at first. And then, as it noticed him, it hurried its pace.
The man, when he was alive, was a recluse, anti-social, gun-totin’ conservative. And Alex knew that his house would be filled with just what he needed. He just had to get there without being overrun or killed.
He nocked an arrow and let fly. He missed the head badly as the arrow skipped off the street as the thing kept coming—fast. Alex took a breath and steadied himself, nocked another arrow, and aimed lower, taking a leg out. It hit with a solid thud and managed to slow Robin’s charge considerably. He tossed the bow over his shoulder and ran for the man’s fence. As he got to the top of it, he noted the old man’s dog, a mean-ass Rottweiler named Scrooge, snapping and barking at another zombie in the yard. He silently whispered a thanks and stood at the top of the fence, balancing himself. Another of the undead inside the yard noticed him and began its charge. He saw an open window not a few feet away, got his feet set on the precarious perch of the fence post, and leaped for it, grasping the edge and pulling himself up.
At least he tried to.
The zombie below him held on with the strength of ten men and Alex felt as if his left leg was going to come off.
Then he felt the distinct sensation of teeth penetrating the flesh of his calf.
He released his grip on the sill with his right hand, removed his Beretta from where it rested inside his belt, and fired a shot into its head. It immediately released its hold on his leg.
The zombie hit the ground like a sack of potatoes.
“Shit!” Alex barked, his heart racing inside his chest, his right shoulder aching under the strain of his one arm having to suspend his entire body.
He slowly managed to climb into the window and immediately surveyed his surroundings, which he found to be in a state of utter chaos, possessions and furniture flipped over haphazardly.
He removed the bow and quiver from his back, and then the satchel, dropping them to the ground. He sifted through the pack and instantly retrieved both a pain reliever and general antibiotic. He downed them both, pulled up his pant leg and inspecting the bite wound. It was not very deep, as the thing could not get a solid grasp on his leg, but it was still bleeding. He looked around the room, pulled free a bed sheet, and pressed against the injured area for several minutes. It slowed the bleeding a bit, but he would need to keep it there.
Then he remembered what happened to Sara. He removed the Beretta from his belt and stared at it.
Staggering into the hallway of the second story, he found the bathroom quickly as it was a very similar design as his own home. He threw open the medicine cabinet, staring and waiting to see if blood would seep from his eyes.
Long moments passed and he stared into his own reflection carefully, considering that he would shoot himself if anything happened to him.
Nothing did. He breathed a sigh of relief, which surprised him and reinforced the fact that he wanted to live.
He opened the cabinet, found a bottle of peroxide, and ran back into the bedroom with his belongings. He tore a piece of the sheet free, poured the peroxide over the bite and tied it tightly around the wound.
The pain reliever was kicking in, he guessed, as the throbbing in his leg began to dull.
He reset his focus and thought he could use some more supplies from the bathroom. He grabbed some more pain reliever, gauze pads, cough medicine and anti-biotic ointments and tossed them all into his pack. He immediately reset to his initial purpose in the house and made for Robin’s bedroom.
Once inside, he took note of a half-drunk bottle of whiskey on the nightstand and grabbed it, to
ssing it into his pack. Then he found the gun safe, and it was wide open. There wasn’t much left though, as someone had gotten here before him.
Alex quickly tossed two boxes of shotgun shells into his backpack and bent low to grab the lone 12 gauge that remained. He heard the distinct click of a shotgun pumping a round into the chamber and froze.
“What you doin’, boy?” called a voice from out in the hall. Evidently, that someone was still here.
“Hey, man, take it easy,” Alex said, his arms out wide.
“Fuck easy! Whatchoo doin’ here!?” said the man irritably, leveling the barrel of the gun directly at him. He glanced at the man as he stood up. Alex’s heart thundered in his chest, believing that he was about to be shot. He couldn’t even utter a word and instead closed his eyes.
“This is my grandfather’s house,” the young man said boldly, still not shooting. Alex opened his eyes. He was a rugged looking blonde-haired man with a beard and mustache, Alex noted, as he drank in the image of his likely killer. He couldn’t have been even Alex’s age, probably twenty, he guessed.
“All right, man, don’t shoot me. I knew your granddad had guns here and I was just trying to see if they were still here, is all. No biggie. I’ll leave right now and you can have them all….”
“Get on outta’ here, then,” he said. “Take that 12 gauge and get goin’,” the young man continued, shotgun still leveled at him. “No offense, I don’t trust nobody.”
Alex simply nodded, grabbed the shotgun and all of his belongings, and then limped for the window again. But, before he made it outside, he turned back to face the man once more. “Sorry about your grandfather. Truly. He was a good man.”
He didn’t look back as he climbed down the side of the house gingerly and slowly. Scrooge had one zombie laid to waste, its throat torn out, and another was pinned beneath him. It was a savage dog, if Alex recalled correctly, remembering other neighbors offering complaints in passing. Alex was suddenly very glad that the zombies occupied the dog’s attention as he hobbled to the fence and tried to climb back over, but realized very quickly the futility of that notion. He spotted a gate and limped quickly to it, threw open the gate, and limped off, avoiding any further confrontations.
Wake the Dead Page 2