by T. W. Brown
“Huh,” he huffed. Then, taking the bat, he swung, burying three of the spikes into the top of its head. He walked back to the two women and his bike. “They’re walking across.”
“What?” Mackenzie exploded. “That bridge is gone. I saw it. You saw it. We all saw it.”
“They aren’t using the bridge.” Juan climbed back on his bike.
“Then how—” Margaret began, then stopped, her mouth still hanging open as it dawned on her.
“They’re simply walking on the bottom of the river,” Juan said.
“Then there is no place safe,” Margaret whispered.
“Those things don’t normally go into the water.” Juan looked back at Margaret and Mackenzie, who were both staring at the ground, heads hung in resignation. “I’ve seen them come to the edge, but they don’t usually go in unless they’re pushed by others behind them.”
“But that still means we aren’t safe.” Mackenzie looked up with those big, brown eyes that made Juan feel just a little bit awkward.
“You can’t ever just think we’re safe,” Juan climbed back off the bike and went to her, “and these deaders are the least of our problems. We need to be on the lookout for people like I told you about.”
“Like Travis?” Margaret spat.
“Yeah,” Juan nodded, “but at the same time, we need to think about others like ourselves. We have to try and bring folks here and build our numbers. Three ain’t gonna hold out long if a serious gang rolls up on us.”
“So what do we do about those things getting across?” Mackenzie asked.
“Make a couple patrols every day.” Juan patted her shoulder and went back to his bicycle. “If we see any groups building, we thin them out. Also, it wouldn’t hurt to build a fence.”
“Around the entire island?” Margaret asked skeptically as they began to pedal once more.
“You got someplace to be?” Juan asked over his shoulder.
“Smartass.”
“So how do we go about finding people?” Mackenzie asked. “And once we do, how do we know if they are good guys or bad guys?”
Juan pedaled in silence for a moment, considering the question. Then, an idea came; it seemed logical and simple. Those were really the only type of ideas he came up with.
“Children,” he said simply.
“We look for children?” Mackenzie scoffed.
“No,” Juan shook his head, “we look for people with children.”
They pedaled on the rest of the way in silence, each of them considering the possibilities. When they reached the open area just before the bridge, it was easy to see why they’d had company. A couple hundred of those things were packed onto the far end of the ruined bridge.
“The explosion brought them,” Juan said.
“So,” Mackenzie unslung her .22 rifle, “let’s get busy.”
Backing up, but moving away from the doorway that would lead to the gymnasium, Chad fished out more shells and began feeding them into the shotgun. Holding the weapon away from his body with his right hand, he jerked his arm once, pumping a round into the chamber.
“C’mon, you bastards!” he taunted the five undead that moved towards him with slow, unsteady steps. They moaned and groaned, making noises that sounded inhuman. The closest had most of its chest cavity torn open and Chad was fairly certain he could see shriveled, pinkish-grey flaps of meat that looked like lungs hanging uselessly from strands of gristle. They didn’t inflate, or so much as twitch. He found himself puzzling over how zombies produced sound.
Shaking his head to clear it of such useless garbage, he brought the stock of the weapon to his shoulder and fired. One head vanished in a chunky mist, another seemed to break open like a melon dropped from a roof.
“And he scores a double!” Brett crowed from off to the left.
Chad smiled, pumped the shotgun again and considered his next shot. One was closing a bit faster than the others and at the last minute, he lowered the shotgun and drew a heavy-duty Philips-head screwdriver from his belt. The handle itself was about five inches long, the thick metal shaft was over a foot and had been filed to a point. The boy had been about the age of his daughter, somehow that made it a little easier to drive the point into the temple. He let go as the body fell, making a mental note to return for his weapon later. The other two remaining looked like a pair of Mexican gang bangers. He’d had a couple run-ins with those types during his time in prison. Deciding against wasting any more shells, he brought the butt of the shotgun around and slammed it into the face of the first one, its blood-caked goatee dripping with fresh wetness. That meant somebody he knew was either dead, or infected. Its head snapped back and it fell awkwardly. Stepping in, he brought the butt of the shotgun down on the side of its head. The third stroke was the one that broke open the skull. The second was just reaching out for him. It was short and pudgy with a tattoo of a rosary around its neck, the cross sitting between hairless, sagging pectorals. A nasty bite on the back of its arm was the only mark, however, it was covered in old, dried up blood as well as some fresh splatters. Both hands were crimson and slick. It opened its mouth wide in anticipation of the bite it thought it would be taking out of him.
Chad stepped back, pulled a small hatchet from his utility belt and buried it in the thing’s forehead, “Fuck you, Chico!” he spat and turned searching for the next target.
There were plenty to choose from, and he worked methodically to put them down. Sometimes one of his fellow FEMA camp members fought at his side. On other occasions, he looked into those hideous eyes and whispered an apology as he put down one of those fellow FEMA camp members. He lost track of time, all that mattered was pushing those things back.
At some point, he reached the section of the fence that had fallen. A dozen of them fought off zombies while protecting the handful trying desperately to repair the breach. At last, it was done, now all they had were those still inside to deal with.
There were yells, calls of warning, and screams of agony. A hand clutched his shoulder at one point and he spun, staring into the dead eyes of Vanessa Henson. Pushing her back, he’d used one of his precious shells. He was reloading when he heard a scream that froze him. It was Ronni!
Fighting past a small cluster, not wasting the time to put any of them down, he ran for the gymnasium. Somehow the door had been opened. It was one of those kinds that, if you opened it far enough, would lock in place. The trail of blood leading in told the story. Somebody had been injured and ran inside to safety. They’d probably thrown the door open carelessly.
He stepped inside, his eyes struggling to see in the much darker space. Another scream came from his right, this one had the distinct tone of pain. He saw a half-dozen of those things wandering amongst the cubicles, people running in every direction. Over in his cubicle he saw his daughter backing away, arms out in front of her as if to ward something off. Then, the makeshift wall toppled. Donna was on her back, one of those things was on top of her, pawing at her. His eyes were drawn to Donna’s left arm. A jagged rip down the forearm bled freely.
Bringing up the shotgun, Chad wanted to fire. He lowered it, knowing he’d hit them both. Rushing in, he arrived just as two of Donna’s fingers disappeared into the zombie’s mouth.
Another scream of pain echoed in the tumult of the chaos-filled gym. It was followed by a wail of anguish.
Thad, Keith, and JoJo each stared through his own pair of binoculars. They scanned the shore looking for signs of life. Living, breathing people. It didn’t look encouraging. However, there was an abundance of the other type.
“Why are we doing this again?” Thad asked, still scanning.
“Because,” Keith said, “my uncle has a place. It’s an island. I used to go out and pick berries when I was a kid during the summer.”
“And you think he’s still alive?” asked Thad.
“Actually, I could care less,” Keith replied. “I’m thinking more about a defensive set up.
It’s an island.”
“There’s plenty of islands that don’t require us to go a couple hundred miles up a river,” JoJo grumbled.
“You want to risk riding out another storm like that one last week?” Keith asked, bringing his binoculars down. He was tired of looking at clusters of walking dead people wander around the town of Astoria.
All of them reflected on their own personal nightmares from that storm. It had almost caused their vessel to capsize. The rain had been brutal and the wind seemed to roar endlessly. None of them thought they would live to see the next day. Each pondered the irony of what they’d survived and how it looked in regards to how they would now die.
The storm blew itself out at some point in the middle of the night. After they’d walked through to check for any serious damage—which they’d miraculously avoided—Keith had mentioned the idea of taking a trip inland to his uncle’s farm. After what they’d just survived, it seemed as good of a choice as any other. Besides, they couldn’t stay at sea forever.
The three went into action. They could make the turn to starboard and begin the journey up the river. The only concern was how far they could go. Fuel would be a real issue in the next day or two. They’d spotted a Coast Guard base, but it was thick with undead. It looked like a lot of the city of Astoria had tried to hold up there. Hopefully upriver they would have better luck. By midday, they were passing under a fairly large bridge. The Columbia River stretched out to the east. If things went well, they’d be at Keith’s uncle’s place before they ran out of fuel. They were using a weighted piece of knotted rope for depth soundings.
8
A Geek’s Bad Luck
Cary sat against the wall enjoying the sounds of the three people sleeping just a few feet away. The moonlight shone through the window of the bedroom shading the room in soft, blue relief. Looking through the open door, he could see out a window facing towards Heath. A dull orange glow came in from that one. Heath continued to burn in places. Also, the fire had jumped one road and found new fuel in an enormous field.
He rubbed his belly, relishing the full feeling that almost threatened to split him open a few hours ago. He hadn’t eaten that much since last Thanksgiving at his aunt’s house. He’d eaten so much food that day that he actually got sick. Then the pecan pie had been brought out with homemade vanilla ice cream.
Everybody had been ready for bed before it was even dark, but he’d insisted on first watch. He had been alone for so long, he wanted to truly enjoy the feeling of being with others. He looked at Heather, Kevin, and Mike and smiled.
Heather had it bad for Kevin. And, as usual, Kevin was completely clueless about the people around him. He couldn’t see Mike’s jealousy. And there was something else in Mike’s eyes that lurked below the surface that Cary couldn’t figure out. Kevin was having a hard time accepting that he, Cary, didn’t hold any ill will towards him for what happened back at that fill-up. He was carrying some serious guilt, and not just about the fact that he’d left him at that truck stop. There’d been a lot going on since they’d split up. Now they were getting ready to go to war with a gang of thugs. Cary smiled. No matter how many times they told themselves that this wasn’t the movies, things continued to line up exactly like one.
Climbing to his feet, he tiptoed out of the room. He went from one window to the next, gazing outside. There was a warm breeze blowing in, but it was coming from the south, from the direction of Heath. He could smell all the burning. It wasn’t pleasant, like a campfire. This was rubber and fuel and bodies. Lots and lots of bodies.
The moon was full, hanging heavy in the sky. It wasn’t bright, though, more a dull yellow. Scanning the horizon of every single window, he could see them. Some walked alone. Others in pairs or small groups. His eyes came to rest on a lone figure moving down the center of the road. It had that slow, deliberate, jerky step. Sometimes it would stop, the entire body would turn one way or the other, usually seeking the source of a sound made by one of its brethren. It was uncanny how it just seemed to know.
He’d tried a few things when he had been out on his own. Nothing had worked. He’d tried the Shaun of the Dead trick, walking in his best zombie-shuffle. Then he’d tried a trick from his favorite graphic novel series, The Walking Dead. He’d smeared himself in zombie filth. That hadn’t done anything but made him gag and eventually puke. Somehow, they could just tell. He’d hoped that his bite and subsequent survival might “change” him in such a way that zombies would ignore him. That had almost gotten him killed.
The lone zombie continued along the road and was vanishing into the shadows. Not for the first time, Cary considered the strangeness of “hiding” in this very exposed, out-in-the-open house. They hadn’t even boarded up the windows. Kevin said that the noise wouldn’t be worth the trouble. Also, it would be a giveaway that there were living, breathing people inside. That this house was almost a half a football field away from the road out front, uphill at that, and had vast acreage out back seemed good enough. Zombies were like electricity in a lot of ways: it didn’t take much to kill you, and they took the path of least resistance. Okay, Cary thought, zombies are like electricity in at least two ways.
He turned and almost yelped. Heather was standing about three feet away.
“Sorry,” she said quickly, seeing the startled look on Cary’s face even in the gloomy darkness.
“Sheesh!” Cary put his hands to his chest only in partial overreaction. “Shouldn’t you be asleep?”
“I was,” Heather paused and bit her lower lip. “Ummm, I was wondering if I could ask you something.”
“About Kevin?”
“How—” she blurted, then controlled her voice and brought it back to a whisper. “How’d you know?”
“Other than the way you watch him all the time? Or how you make every excuse possible to get close. How about the way you wait till he falls asleep, then nestle in closer than a second skin?”
“Then why?” her question carried a lot of frustration.
“Look,” Cary put his hands on the girl’s shoulders, “I know you’re gonna hate this answer, but you are just a kid.” Heather started to protest, but Cary cut her off, “It doesn’t matter how you feel, or even that there’s nobody around to enforce morality or rules of any sort for that matter. Kevin is not gonna see you as anything more until you’re eighteen, and even then, he might be hung up on age.” If we are lucky enough to live that long, Cary thought.
“That’s like two years away!” Heather leaned against the wall and slid down onto her butt with a thud. “And how old is Kevin?” Heather asked.
“Twenty-four. All of us are.”
“Well I’ll be seventeen in July…whenever that is,” Heather sighed.
“I think it’s around June-ish.” Cary came over and sat next to the girl.
“Can I ask you a question?”
“Sure,” Heather said with a shrug.
“What is it about Kevin?”
“Well…he’s…tall,” Heather rummaged through her mind, “he’s smart. And…”
Cary let her sit for a moment and think. “And he saved you from something horrible in the middle of a nightmare that won’t ever end.”
Heather sat quietly.
“It’s normal, Heather,” Cary said after another long moment of silence. “It’s kinda like Stockholm Syndrome.”
“What’s that?”
“People get kidnapped and fall in love with their captors.”
“But Kevin didn’t kidnap me. He—”
“Rescued you,” Cary interrupted. “He’s your knight in shining armor.”
Heather considered Cary’s words. Maybe he had a point. Still, why didn’t she feel the same way about Mike? He’d rescued her, too. And he was always being super-nice. And, Heather thought, he was definitely interested. She knew when guys were checking her out…which brought her back to Kevin. When he spoke to her, he looked her in the eyes. Unlike Mike, who seemed to think her eyes were hidden somewhere on her
chest.
“Maybe in time?” Heather hated the way her voice sounded whiny in that moment.
“Maybe,” Cary said. But just not very likely, he kept that thought to himself. No sense in hurting the girl any more than she already was.
The two sat in silence for a while. Eventually, Heather got up and went back to bed. Cary returned to moving from window to window. When his shift was done, he went in to wake Mike. Sure enough, Heather was wrapped around Kevin who’d been forced onto his back, whether by her doing or his unconscious act in his sleep, he had one arm around the girl as she lay nestled up close, head on his chest.
He climbed into his sleeping bag as Mike was strapping on his holsters. He saw the look on Mike’s face when he glanced back in the room before heading to the hall. There was plenty of ambient light for his expression to be seen clearly: jealousy.
Great, Cary rolled onto his side, this ought to go well.
“Push that barrel up against the red pick-up,” Kevin hissed.
“Hurry up, what ever you’re gonna do,” Mike said over his shoulder. “We got too many of those things showing interest. We gotta go!”
“We can’t leave that big drum sitting in the middle of the road,” Mike insisted as he finished twisting the wires around the posts of the car battery. “If Shaw’s men come and see it, they’re gonna figure something is up.”