Life Among The Dead

by Daniel Cotton

  Dan pulls to the side of the road. He laughs at the fact he actually uses his turn signal. Who is that for? He jokes with himself. Back at T-Rex’s junkyard Dan had noticed a gas can in his bed. He will gas up here since there doesn’t seem to be any zombies on the loose. Just in case, he tucks the .38 into his waistband.

  The soldier’s stomach is growling fiercely. He once heard a trick to stop that, but it always seemed too weird. He resolves to live with it. He is almost halfway to New Castle anyway. Dan tightens his belt to alleviate the hunger.

  He is happy when he lifts the plastic jug of gasoline and finds it to be full. As he fills the tank he sees a vehicle in his periphery. An air horn bellows loudly as it approaches. He carefully stops his task, not wanting to spill a single drop of the precious fluid.

  “That’s the way to do it.” Dan appraises the enormous Winnebago that halts ten feet from his truck bed. He places his hand on the butt of his pistol. A balding middle-aged man disembarks from the tan camper and approaches with his hands in the air. Dan relaxes his gun hand.

  “Nice day.” The older gentleman states. Dan looks up at the cloudless sky. It’s a lot warmer now than it had been that morning.

  “Nope. Not bad at all.” He replies.

  “The wife and I saw you, thought you might need a hand.”

  “Just gassing up.” Dan shakes his head. He notices the man has a pistol in his pants as well. “Where are you heading?”

  “Poland Creek. Actually, a little passed it. We have a cottage out there. We figure we can hold up and wait for this to blow over.”

  “I’m on my way to New Castle. Same reason. I have family out there.”

  “It’s funny.” The man says. “We haven’t seen anyone alive for a day or so, and in just a short span we see you and that heard of cars.”

  “I was just thinking the same thing. Just you and the convoy.” Dan resumes adding fuel to his truck.

  “We live all the way out in Conway.” The man makes small talk.

  “Nice place. I’m from Waterloo.”

  “I bet that was a mess.” The man whistles.

  “Yeah, it was pretty bad.” Dan nods. The man is backing away towards his Winnie.

  “We should get moving again.” He offers Dan a parting wave good bye before climbing the short series of rungs that lead up into the cabin. His knee pops as he puts his weight on it.

  “Wait a sec!” Dan calls to him, holding a hand up. He quickly tilts the gas can back to stop the flow while being as careful as before. The man is waiting with his door open, sitting sidesaddle in the driver’s seat. He watches the soldier retrieve something from his own ride.

  “Is that a 9mm?” Dan asks, jogging to the camper, holding up his spare 9mm clip and the box of ammunition.

  “Sure is.” The guy replies.

  “I lost my nine a ways back. The mag might not fit your gun, but the bullets will. I was wondering if we could make a trade.”

  The man debates the notion for a few seconds as the eager soldier holds them aloft. He thinks about how he could use more ammo, who couldn’t these days? He raises an eyebrow. “What is it you need?”

  “Food and gas if you can spare it.” Dan says simply.

  “Shit, we’re almost home and will have plenty when we get to the cottage.” The man moves into the back of the impressive RV. Dan can see the man’s wife is seated in the passenger seat. On her lap is a bag of knitting.

  “How are you today, ma’am?” Dan asks the middle aged woman.”

  “Fine.” She replies to the tattered soldier. “How are you?”

  Her question sounds like it contains genuine concern. He does look frightful. His uniform is a mess, and he has dried blood all over his face.

  “I’ve been better.” Dan tries to make it sound ironic and funny to put her at ease.

  The generous camper returns with a brown paper bag and an aluminum can of gasoline. Dan figures a couple of gallons are better than nothing.

  “Our fridge is out, but it’s food nonetheless.” He apologizes.

  “Awesome. Thank you so much.” Dan tells them. He considers it very fortunate to have met these nice people. He really appreciates it.

  “Thank you for the ammo.” The man looks to his wife. She nods as some nonverbal communication transpires. “Hey, young man, do you want to ride with us as far as Poland Creek?”

  “I would, but the route I have planned actually takes me clear around the Creek. It was so nice meeting you though.”

  “You take care of yourself.” The man says before shutting his door. The woman waves as the behemoth vehicle departs.

  Dan waves back, watching them leave. He finishes gassing up and wonders if he should have gone with them. He doesn’t like having people to worry about and be responsible for. But, it isn’t as if they would be traveling far together. They wouldn’t have slowed him down too much.

  “I’m just an asshole.” He opens the paper bag and removes a warm sandwich of bologna and cheese. There’s a can of not too warm cola and a small bag of cheese flavored tortilla chips. It takes only four bites for the soldier to devour half of the sandwich. He decides to ration the rest.

  “Nice people.” Dan states while sliding back into the driver’s seat. He can already feel the oppression of the road. The monotony hits him and he hasn’t even started the engine yet. Maybe I should try and catch up with them, he thinks as he lays his head on the steering wheel.

  8

  “Nice guy.” Remarks the driver of the large recreational vehicle to his wife.

  “Yes, he seems nice.” She agrees. George knows she always says ‘seems nice’ when she either doesn’t care for someone, or just doesn’t know what to make of them. In her time Ethel had met far too many people who had seemed nice and turned out to be real assholes.

  The man doesn’t prod her on this since she had only met the man briefly. George, on the other hand, prides himself on his ability to tell a good person from a bad person. His mirror catches his eye. A red truck is catching up to them.

  “It looks like our friend changed his mind.” George smiles at the image of the approaching vehicle. “We got ourselves a convoy.”

  “That’s nice, dear.” Ethel doesn’t look up from her knitting. She is working on a sweater for her husband to wear when he chops wood this winter out at the cottage.

  George slows the Winnie to take the turn towards Poland Creek; however, the truck coming up behind them doesn’t slow.

  “What the fuck?” He hisses.

  “What is it, dear?” Ethel asks, but before her husband can answer the RV is shaken violently as the red truck rear ends them. George had just begun his left hand turn when the pickup struck them. He is having trouble keeping the heavy vehicle under control.

  “He seemed so nice!” Ethel screams as she clings to her arm rests, her knitting falls to her feet.

  George is gritting his teeth, struggling to steady the helm. The wide eyed man applies the brake with both feet when he sees the road ahead is blocked by a large black truck. He throws the RV into reverse and tries to back away, wanting to get back onto the main road. The red truck appears in his mirror again, blocking his progress.

  Gunshots ring out. The frightened camper puts it back into drive and shoves his wife’s head down for protection. He floors the accelerator. His knuckles are white from squeezing the wheel so hard. He hopes to dart around the truck ahead of him in the left lane.

  The man behind the wheel of the roadblock opens up a salvo from an assault rifle. Holes riddle the windshield. George is hit in the shoulder. The pain causes him to momentarily bank to the right. He is unable to recover and the mighty camper overturns. It rolls several times before coming to a rest on its side.

  9

  Dan is back on the road rubbing his eyes. He had dozed off and doesn’t know how long he was out; the clock on the radio only flashes 12:00. He feels much better now though. His thoughts seem crisper having caught a few winks.

  The soldier slowl
y snacks on his tortillas and soda. He savors them, wanting them to last for a little while at least. His turn is coming up soon according to the atlas.

  Black lines are burned into the asphalt. Someone must have skidded or peeled out to leave that much rubber on the road, Dan surveys. He sees a horrible scene right before he makes his turn. The RV he had met with not too long ago is on its side.

  “Shit.” Dan utters a shocked curse, pulling up to the disabled vehicle. He rushes out of the truck and sees the RV’s windshield. Bullet holes? There’s no sign of his acquaintances. He climbs onto the fender and can see the door into the main living space is open. The mechanism that automatically pulls it closed had twisted off during the rollover. The door lays flat on the side panel.

  Dan drops into the cabin. He calls out as he investigates, arising no response. It’s odd seeing a room at this angle. The floor and ceiling are now walls and vice versa. He climbs over cabinets as he moves to the back. The place is a mess from the wreck, he can’t tell if it has been ransacked or not. He is certain about one thing: This was no accident.

  Dan turns, needing to check out the front. Light filters down from dime-sized holes in the vehicle’s body. All the cockpit reveals to the investigator is blood splatters on the driver’s seat, and a pile of knitting that dangles from the gearshift. Yarn is strewn about in a multicolored spider’s web.

  “Who would do this?” Dan ponders aloud as he lifts himself out of the crime scene. Aren’t there enough things to worry about? On the ground Dan looks in all directions. He wonders if the two older people might have took what they could and decided to head off on foot. If not, then where were the bodies? They have to be alive. Dan knows even if they are dead and turned into zombies, they would have been trapped in there.

  “I guess it probably wasn’t too smart to just drop in like that.” Dan scolds himself. He has too many questions and absolutely no answers. He walks to his truck. The whole time he is looking around, hopeful that he will catch sight of the middle-aged duo.

  Driving slowly like a trolling fisherman, Dan keeps his eyes moving along the sides of the road, nearing Poland Creek. He adjusts his route so he can look for the nice people. Dan enters the one stop light town.

  The dead shamble along the quaint streets, watching the new arrival pass by. They blankly stare and follow him. He knows they are hungry, though they show only an uninterested zeal.

  Dan examines each perfect poker face to see if the couple is among them, already one of the fold. It wouldn’t do much to put his mind at rest. He is already feeling quite guilty. It would, however, tie up a loose end. His conscience ruminates on how he should have gone with them.

  Before he knows it he is heading out of town, passing the last building, Gary’s Gas and Go. It pains him to do so, but he has to press on.

  10

  Desperate eyes watch the red truck slowly crawl past the storefront window. The owner of those eyes can’t run to it, or even signal it for help. She always knew she would die here at Gary’s. She just figured she would be much older. She would be wearing too much lipstick and have a blue beehive like Flo.

  Mary would look at her coworker Flo and think, that is me in 30 years. I will call everybody sugar and have tattooed on eyebrows. I will read all the headlines of the gossip magazines religiously, and then complain about their trashiness. I am Flo.

  Ordinarily, Mary would be manning a register and pretending to like the people who come in to the store, offering each of them false smiles and half-hearted greetings. She has been doing it for the past five years. The last two weeks she has been behind the deli counter. She was asked to cover ever since Robert left. The change in position actually saved her life.

  She is crouched behind that counter now in the dark mart. The clock on the wall tells her she has been there for well over 30 hours. Ever since Buster, the local simpleton, tore Flo’s throat out with his teeth. She had watched horrified as the usually calm mental defective mauled the woman’s neck until she stopped moving, and just kept on chewing. He ate the pieces he bit from her body. He stopped only when Mary involuntarily muttered.

  “Oh, my God.”

  He slowly rose from the floor where he ate the old woman and turned to look at Mary. His face was covered with Flo’s blood. He started walking towards the deli girl. The counter provided an adequate barrier, it was her salvation. The only way to get behind the counter is to enter the stock room, and then go through the cooler and out to the counter via a thick steel door.

  Buster just stood at the glass domed counter reaching for Mary until Marvin walked out of his office. You seldom saw Marvin during the day. What a day to make his presence known. Marvin was the manager. Mary would say that is in title only since, in her opinion, the man couldn’t manage much of anything.

  He ran onto the scene and told her to call the Sheriff. She would have, but the cheapskate had installed a payphone and she had no change to make the call. Who puts a payphone behind a counter where customers can’t even use it? She always questioned.

  Marvin tried to defend himself, but Buster had the manager by his arm and wasn’t letting go. He didn’t seem to feel Marvin hitting him repeatedly in the head with a price gun. Buster started to bite, dragging the man to the ground. Marvin screamed out in pain. He called out for Mary to help.

  Mary decided she couldn’t do anything for him, but she could run for help. She entered the cooler then ran out into the backroom. She dashed to the back of the building and out the rear door.

  An engine idled in the back alley. She saw Clay, the garbage man, tossing trash bags into the back of his truck.

  “Clay!” Mary yelled to the man over his noisy gray vehicle. She waved her arms over her head to catch his attention.

  The man waved a gloved hand back at her and just continued with his daily routine. A figure squeezed through the narrow space between the large machine and the back of the market. She was elated that it was the Sheriff.

  “Sheriff Brown!” She screamed to the man with seemingly perfect timing. The Sheriff didn’t return her courtesy. He grabbed the trash man just as he had begun crushing the refuse. The two figures tussled. Clay was a big guy, but the Sheriff seemed more nimble and limber than his fifty year old body should have been. Clay had the crazed cop in a half nelson, ultimately the law won. Sheriff Brown twisted around and bit Clay on his face. The two became off balanced and fell into the closing compacter.

  Mary was breathless. More figures were coming through the tight passage towards her. The alley was a dead end and she had no choice but to enter the mini mart again. She couldn’t stay in the storage area. She didn’t feel safe since the opening to the sales floor is a swinging door. The cooler proved to be too cold. She had to once again man the deli counter.

  She could look out now from her counter towards the street. She saw people whose stories she had feigned interest in. People she pretended to like. They were out there chasing each other, or being chased.

  The only person in town she ever even remotely liked was Robert, the one who used to run the counter. Everyone else always called him Bob-o. She was the only one who actually knew Robert. To all the locals Bob-o was a good old boy. He was the football star, expert hunter, and a real hayseed. That was how he wanted it.

  “My name is actually Robert.” He had said to her one day when business was slow. He told her about the online classes he was secretly taking, and how he was hoping to become a biochemist one day.

  “I let people think I’m like the rest of them. That way they don’t expect too much out of me, or bother me.” He explained.

  He always told her that she should get out of this town like he was planning to. He told her it would drain her life away. It would kill her soul. If only I had listened, she regrets.

  Mary had a full scholarship for the art school at Waterloo University. She made the grave error of telling Flo, who in turn told Marvin. He offered her a promotion. She would be an assistant manager. It seemed like a good move at the
time.

  The title turned out to be a sticker you slapped onto your nametag. Even Flo was an assistant manager. Three years later and she was doing the same exact thing.

  The door dings as it opens automatically. Parson’s dam keeps the power going. It also keeps the never-ending Muzak piping through the old speakers on the walls, always the same shitty renditions of the same shitty songs. The citizens of Poland Creek are entering Gary’s. Mary crouches below the disgusting counter and watches the figures through the glass over the piles of meat.

  If people only knew how long this stuff sits here, they would never eat it, she thinks. She has no choice but to eat it. It’s all she has on hand. A drain in the middle of the floor doubles as her bathroom; she has to use the white butcher paper as toilet tissue, it’s a very poor substitute.

  The slow moving citizens are reaching for her over the counter. Their bodies push each other aside as they try to get as close as possible. Buster is pressed against the number dispenser that nobody ever used. Typically, there would only be one person at a time that wanted something from behind the counter. Robert always had plenty of time to study.

  They all look at her blankly and moan. It’s very creepy. They have no emotion on their faces at all. There is no intelligence behind their eyes, but she always felt that way about them. She has no idea what the hell is wrong with everyone. She wishes this could have happened somewhere else. Why not a museum, or a bookstore? She covers her exhausted eyes with her sweaty palms. The moaning is getting to her.

  “Why am I stuck with you fucking rubes?” She yells at them. She shouts insults into the faces she used to greet with a kind voice. She hurls honey-baked hams at the heads of those she used to nod to on the street as they passed by. She wonders if anyone else is surrounded by people they hate like this. She wants to be free of this store, this town, and these people.