Between the decaying bodies that had been taken out with a bullet to the brain or a knife thrust through the cerebral cortex and the bloated, rotting flesh of the corpses that still lumbered around in search of their next meal, the air was oppressive and stank of things worse than death.
I tightened the cloth that covered my nose and mouth, repositioned my dad’s M4 rifle on my back, and gripped my recon blade tightly in my right hand, slipping from shadow to shadow, avoiding detection by the zombies.
My feet were light and sure as I made my way onto the base. Months and months alone in the woods had made me more careful, more alert to my surroundings and any sounds that I might make. It also made me more attuned to the undead when I did have to deal with them on my rare treks out of the woods. And although this was a dangerous trip, it didn’t feel the same as the first trip I made into Light Oak the day after my dad had died.
The day I nearly got chomped on by a zombified Starbucks employee.
I began moving stealthily, making pretty good time as I creeped along the perimeter of the property and kept the building I was headed for in my peripheral vision.
I ducked and dodged my way past at least a dozen staggering zombies and was feeling pretty great about myself when I dipped behind a Jeep to avoid a cluster of zombies standing in front of the building I wanted to get into.
I lunged quickly to keep from being seen and brought my booted foot directly down into the chest cavity of a legless corpse. Unfortunately, the corpse was of the squishy, animated variety and the forward momentum of my boot, combined with all my body weight, caused the chest of the zombie to give beneath me like an engorged, overripe melon.
Blood, putrid fluids, and skin burst from the zombie and exploded all over my leg. I barely reigned in a girly scream and kept my stomach contents down. Even with my foot crushing its rib cage and squishing its guts all over the place, the zombie lurched forward, its mouth snapping open with a gurgle. The promise of fresh meat had landed in its lap. Literally.
I whipped my arm out, still clutching the recon blade, and drove the sharpened point directly through its eye socket. The zombie’s jaw wrenched open one last time and fetid-smelling fluids seeped out of its mouth and eye.
I crouched and placed my goo covered boot on the head of the zombie to extract my blade.
“Shit,” I whispered under my breath.
The zombie soldiers in front of the building were just standing there, some of them standing pretty still, some of them wavering back and forth as if they would topple over at any moment. I could have used my rifle to clear my way, but I didn’t want to draw more zombies to the area, making my escape when I was ready to go even harder than it needed to be.
I counted about five zombies and figured there had to be two or three more I couldn’t see from my vantage point. The toxic fumes of the corpse I was almost kneeling in—that lovely scent of raw meat left in the blistering sun for days on end—was beginning to burn my nostrils and make my eyes water. I was beyond ready to move.
My dad’s words echoed in the back of my mind and I took a moment to try and remember his voice.
Acting rashly is what gets people killed.
I duck-walked to the back of the Jeep to see if I could find what I was looking for. I lucked out and found several large rocks within arm’s reach. I gathered them up and went back to where I could see my targets best.
When I was sure I could pull off my plan, I reared back my arm and launched a rock at a zombie a little way off from the rest of the group that was standing between me and the building. The rock missed by several feet, but the zombie jerked at the sound of the rock landing near him. I had his attention. I picked up another large rock and launched it at the zombies nearest to the first one I’d aimed at. They both gnashed their teeth and moved toward the sound of the rock hitting the pavement.
The three zombies, one older soldier with jowls that jiggled as he lumbered, and two younger soldiers, one who was of Hispanic descent, looked so utterly confused that I almost laughed.
For my idea to work, I’d have to launch another rock further than all the rest and hit a cracked window I’d spotted on another building across the way. I swung my arm with all my might and heaved a large rock through the air. The rock bounded off the building a foot away from the window. The zombies barely noticed.
I grabbed another stone, this one a bit smaller, and took careful aim before I chucked it with all my strength. The rock glided through the air and hit the window dead-center.
The shattering glass echoed all across the base, raising the hairs on my arms and drawing the attention of every zombie in the area, including my little trio of friends.
Several of the zombies started in the direction of the noise and a few others followed behind those that were on the move, sensing their interest. I took my window of opportunity and sprinted from my hiding place when the zombies were turned in the other direction.
About halfway to the door of the building, two of the undead stopped mid-stride and turned back when they sensed my movement. I only had about a hundred feet to reach my goal. I clenched my teeth, raised my knife, and met the first one head as I ran.
The zombie was so bloated that its skin looked almost translucent. It was kind of rubberized, with deep blue veins bulging in contrast to its pasty white skin. The face of the zombie was contorted and wrong. Its facial bones had given way long ago, like after being hit by a vehicle. Either that or a wrecking ball.
My knife caught the uniform-wearing zombie just above the collarbone and slid into its neck without much effort but got stuck at the spine. My speed when I hit the zombie, drove us both to the ground with me on top. I pushed down with both hands on the hilt of my knife until I heard the crack of the spine and the head lobbed off to the side, only skin keeping it attached to the body.
My hands were still shaking when I jumped off of the corpse and ran for the building again. The second zombie was further away and was moving in a slow, lurching motion towards me.
I was only fifty feet away from the doors when it caught up with me. When the zombie reached me, I realized why it moved so much slower than some of the others. Its leg had been almost completely eaten away, and all that remained was shredded fabric from its pants leg and splintered bones poking through a thin, flapping layer of decomposing skin.
The zombie had no chance. My knife slid through its forehead and poked through the back of its skull without any resistance.
I reached for the door and had a moment’s pause when I realized I had no idea what lay on the other side. As far as I knew, it could have been completely filled with zombies.
From the corner of my eye I saw several shambling corpses hobble around the corner of the building and just like that, my mind was made up for me.
I pushed into the building holding my breath, hoping against hope that I hadn’t made a fatal error.
Just Me and Bobby McGee
I knelt inside with my back to the door and surveyed the room I’d entered, dust motes flying all around me. I let out a relieved breath when I wasn’t immediately attacked by an entrapped zombie horde. I reached back and untied the cloth I’d secured around my face and took an unsteady breath in.
The air was stale and thick with dust but was surprisingly devoid of rot and decay. I stuffed the cloth into a pocket and moved slowly away from the door.
The room looked like people had left in a hurry. Papers were scattered about, office chairs were knocked over, and tables, cabinets, and other various items lay broken and strewn about.
I made my way around the large space, checking under cubicles for zombie loners and peering into several smaller offices off of the main area. The whole room appeared to be completely zombie free and abandoned.
Something sparked in the back of my mind and I couldn’t help wonder how, with all the chaos surrounding the base, the office was completely free of any dead bodies.
Maybe at first they’d secured this building and everyone who turned or died had alre
ady left the building when it had happened. It didn’t fit right, though. Something felt off.
I spied a larger office in the back and headed for it—this must belong to the officer in charge, given its size and position. If there was any information to be found on this base, it would be there.
The office was clear of dead bodies and I was somewhat disappointed. I shook my head. The “norm” these days was death and corpses, and anything other than that made me squirm with uneasiness and suspicion.
I made my way around the huge desk, sat down in the dust caked, black leather chair, and set my knife on top of the desk. The chair, which had sat unused for so long, squeaked beneath my weight and I froze, the sound overly harsh to my ears in the small space.
I sat rigidly at first, my body no longer used to sitting anywhere other than the forest floor, but I soon relaxed back into the seat. Such small things meant so much now.
After indulging myself for a moment or two, I sat up straighter in my seat and decided to see if I could find anything useful in the office, but before I could stand up, my eyes caught on a flash of color on the corner of the desk. A photograph.
It’d been so long since I’d seen any faces that weren’t leering corpses or my own family photos that I sat staring for a moment, unable to move. I hadn’t realized how much I’d been missing other people.
I reached out and picked up a small frame that sat on the corner of the desk and wiped the glass with the edge of my palm. A man with laughing eyes smiled at me from the photo. He was decked out in his dress blues and a young woman with long blonde hair and bright green eyes, wearing a mint colored sundress hugged his arm, resting her head on his shoulder. They were a beautiful couple.
Suddenly, I remembered my dad dressed in his fancy uniform when we headed out to one of his officer’s balls when I was sixteen. I’d laughed and tried to get him to change his mind about taking me as his date, but his eyes twinkled when he handed me a corsage.
Are you kidding me? I’ll be the luckiest guy at the ball, he had said with a wink. I knew he was just trying to make me forget that I’d been stood up for my junior year prom. I loved my dad all the more after that night.
I gently set the picture back down where I’d found it, blinked back tears, and got to work. I searched through all the papers scattered on the desk, pulled file folders out of drawers and discarded the majority of them because they had nothing to do with what had happened six months ago.
I found a whole lot of nothing.
I grabbed the wastebasket and emptied it out on the desk, un-crumpling several sheets of paper. Random messages, random papers. I found a sheet of paper with the words “infected”, “shoot to kill”, and “no known cure” scribbled on it like someone had hastily written down the notes with a slightly trembling hand. I slammed the paper down on the desk and walked around it with my hands on my hips.
What exactly had I thought I was going to find in the office of the officer in charge of some random Army base in North Carolina? A detailed explanation of what had happened the days leading up to the dead taking over the world? I snorted in disbelief at my stupidity.
I walked over to the blinds covering the window and peeked through a slat, barely bending it, and noted how the sun was beginning to sink behind the tree line. I needed to head back to my little spot in the woods, maybe rethink what I could do—what I should do.
If the only administrative building on the base had been a bust, how useful would the mess hall, training facilities, and other unimportant buildings be? I walked over to the far wall of the office.
The entire wall was one huge, built-in bookshelf. I ran my finger along the spines of the books, my brain still not quite knowing where I was going with my thoughts, when I shrugged and wiped a bead of sweat from my forehead. When I spied a copy of Watership Down on the top shelf, I stretched up on my tiptoes to grab it to take back with me to camp.
“Keep your hands up. Don’t move,” a voice said gruffly from behind me. It had been so long since I’d heard a voice, so long since anyone had spoken to me, I couldn’t help it, I gasped and swung around in utter shock.
“I said not to fucking move,” the man growled, pointing his rifle in my face. The man in front of me was late twenties, severe jawline, beautiful golden-brown eyes currently staring daggers at me, and dressed in camo pants. Dog tags rested against the white of his tee shirt. He was every bit a soldier if ever I saw one.
That, however, didn’t automatically make him a good guy. I had found that out the hard way during one of my supply runs a few months back. That had been a close call.
My hand immediately twitched and made a move to grab for my gun. I barely stopped myself. It wouldn’t do any good, he would shoot me before I ever touched the gun strapped to my leg.
Fuck!
I’d been so careless allowing someone to catch me unaware.
“Turn back around and put your hands up on the bookshelf,” he barked. I swallowed slowly and turned, taking care not to make any sudden movements.
When I placed both my hands on the shelves in front of me, the man walked over and placed the tip of his gun on the back of my neck. My legs quivered in outrage and humiliation of him getting one up on me.
“Give me your weapons,” he ordered. I stiffened and a real thread of fear slid through me. He nudged me with the rifle and repeated his command.
“Fuck you,” I whispered hoarsely. It was barely audible.
“What was that?” He asked, incredulity coloring his voice.
I swallowed and cleared my throat. “I said, Fuck. You. I’m not giving up my weapons,” I growled.
The man stood still for only a moment before he leaned in towering a good three to four inches above me and whispered harshly into my ear. “Little girl, you have no choice, you realize that, right? You can die with your misguided sense of pride, or you can give me your weapons, and maybe live to see another day.”
Unexpectedly, tears threatened.
I’d only cried three times over the past six months—once the day after my dad died, once after I’d buried him, and once after a particularly harrowing trip into town to scavenge for supplies. I had to do horrible things that day and saw even worse things before I made it back to the cover of my camp. I wasn’t about to allow this douchebag to make me cry. I gritted my teeth and grunted my surrender.
I reached down with my right hand and very carefully unstrapped the holster that held my handgun.
“That’s it . . . nice and easy,” the man muttered.
I lifted my hand and held it out to the guy with the gun pointed at my neck.
“Now unhook the M4,” he said. I clenched my jaw and once again removed my weapon with slow and methodical precision. I had more weapons back at camp, but it pissed me off that if I were to get out of this alive, some asshole with a G.I. Joe complex was going to be walking around with my dad’s weapons.
“Any more weapons on you?” he asked, with almost a relieved grunt.
“The recon blade on the desk. That’s it,” I lied smoothly.
No need for him to know about the small blade strapped to my thigh beneath my loose cargo pants. If he patted me down, he’d find it, but I was going to take my chances. I heard him walk over to the desk and retrieve my knife from its surface.
I seethed. I loved that blade. It had been a gift from dad when I turned sixteen, I was partial to it more than any of my other weapons.
“I know you were probably hoping for a car or maybe some high heels or something,” Dad had said, “but, I hope you like the knife. It’s similar to the one your grandpa gave me on my sixteenth birthday.” He shrugged and scratched his chin looking slightly uncomfortable. I threw my arms around his neck.
“It’s the best gift you could have ever given me.” I’d answered.
I’d meant it.
Moaning and growls, too close for comfort, echoed in the room around us. I flinched and reached for my gun before I realized I didn’t have it on me.
It was the first time in six months it wasn’t strapped to my leg.
“Don’t worry, they just passed by the window,” the guy said in a semi-whisper close to my ear. “Put your hands behind your back,” he ordered. I was still pissed but mildly shocked to note a slight scent of soap coming from soldier boy.
Did he have a group? Running water? I decided to, for once, try my luck in communicating with another survivor. I had questions. Maybe he had answers.
“Are you part of a group?” I asked. He said nothing. I tried again.
“Do you know what happened that caused all this?” I prompted.
Crickets.
I began to get more and more pissed and more than a little afraid.
My entire body tensed when he nudged me, but with no other choice, I complied.
With ropes bound my wrists behind me and the next thing I knew black fabric was secured tightly around my eyes, blindfolding me. Pure, unadulterated fear crashed through me and a spike of adrenaline coursed through my veins.
I threw my head back and made a last-ditch effort to wrench myself free. Maybe I’d get lucky and the asswipe would be smart enough not to take a shot and call down all the zombies on top of us. In my head, the idea was so much smarter than in reality. Here I was with my hands tied behind my back, blindfolded, and virtually weaponless, making a run for it . . . to where? Out into the nest of zombies lurking right outside?
“Shit.”
I heard the muffled curse come from behind me just before I was knocked to the ground with my captor landing on top of me. I tried bucking, kneeing, biting, and head butting before I started to feel the strain on my muscles.
The guy was no lightweight and he was using his entire body to try and wrestle me to the floor. I grunted when he finally managed to flip me over and put his knee in the center of my back. All the air in my lungs left in me in a whoosh.
“What the hell is wrong with you?” the man huffed in between pants.
“You’re fucking crazy.”
“You ain’t seen crazy yet,” I snarled.
State of (Book 1): State of Decay Page 6