Zombie Fallout 10

by Mark Tufo

  “Looks like you fellows are going to get wet!” BT had stuck his head out the door to address the tailgaters. “Maybe it’s time to see some of you off.” He pressed a red metal toolbox against the forward pedal before stepping out onto the small plankway atop the tracks. The beating of the tracks on the pavement made for an unsteady shooting platform, but the zombies were close enough he didn’t think this would be overly detrimental to his success rate. With a three-round burst, he blew through two of the zombies’ knees, each collapsing to the ground before they could pick themselves back up and drag their nearly useless legs behind them.

  “Screw the injured reserve—I want you guys to retire…permanently.” He raised his aim; his next burst decapitated a zombie. It fell straight to the ground, but still the pursuing zombies followed. BT moved his selector switch from burst to auto. “Time to dance.” He emptied the magazine in a few seconds. Half the zombies were either dead or incapacitated.

  “More where that came from. Don’t go anywhere—I’m going to load another magazine.” He was turning to go back into the tractor when the track rolled up the side of an abandoned car. BT lost his grip and pinwheeled his arms as he fought to grab onto something. He watched helplessly as his rifle fell away from him and onto the road. His hand shot out and gripped the last thing available to him before he would have hit the dirt, joining the rifle.

  “Please hold,” he said as he held on to the bending door handle. “Why they gotta make these things so fucking flimsy?” The zombies, which had looked on the verge of scattering under the leaden assault, were now regrouping when it appeared that a meal would be delivered after all. The locking mechanism sprung free just as BT gripped the edge of the door. “Holy shit,” he said as he regained his footing. The dozer jumped all around as the small car was ground down into its original parts. BT straightened the tractor out before it had a chance to dip down into the rapidly approaching culvert. “I’m going to need that gun,” he said as he removed the toolbox and began to back up. He could not catch any of the zombies unaware as the heavens opened up and released a torrential downpour of rain. They circled around and followed the tractor from the front.

  “Now what?” BT asked as he was looking down at the rifle. The zombies got very curious as to why he had stopped and were keeping all eyes on him. When he opened the door they ran toward him. “Shit shit shit.” He pulled the door shut and lurched the tractor forward. The zombies immediately ran to the back. “Well, let’s see just how fucked I am. I lost my rifle. It’s pouring out, and it’s going to get dark soon. Visibility will be close to nothing with these less than street-legal lights, and at some point, I would like to sleep, but since I can’t lock either door…. The second I stop, the zombies will come to investigate. I don’t know how long the gas will last, and to top off this horrible fucking cake with a cherry, I don’t have one iota of a clue as to where Talbot is.” BT’s mood was souring as rapidly as the rain fell. “I don’t even have the lousy pry bar,” he mumbled.

  He was rapidly approaching the bottom of his well when the dawning of an idea began to brighten his horizon. “Might work...but I’m going to have to do it soon, while I can still see.” BT scanned the sides of the roadway until he found what he was looking for. He drove a little past what he hoped was a perfect spot and backed in. There was the cannon fire sound of large branches snapping and the whooshing of leaves as they grudgingly yielded up against the cab then snapped back into place around it. He backed up until he could go no farther. He felt a “buried alive” claustrophobia as he peered out. On one end of the spectrum, he was completely encased in boughs, on the other, his visibility had been reduced to the pinecones directly in front of him. He could barely hear the clawing of the zombies over the thunderstorm as they tried to force their way through the thick, wet growth and tree branches.

  “I’m going to find you tomorrow, Talbot. Then I’m going to give you a world of shit because there is no way you are having a worse night than this.” His teeth chattered from the chill he felt. Securely embedded within the brush, he shut down the tractor and attempted to find the most comfortable position he could.

  “Going to need a good chiropractor after this.” And with that, he shut his eyes.

  “Linda, I’m home!” Lawrence said as he tossed his work badge onto the kitchen island. It slid halfway across before stopping against a dewdrop covered carton of milk. “Well, that’s strange,” he said as he looked up from his phone. Grocery bags covered the counter and half the island. It was unlike her to leave anything sitting out. Neat did not even begin to cover her compunction to keep their penthouse suite clean. In fact, “fastidious” even fell a little short. He knew she’d been working on easing-up in preparation for the baby they were getting ready to make, but he thought this was going a little overboard.

  “Linda?” He reached for the gun he no longer wore. He might not be a cop any more, but he still had the instincts of one, and something was not quite right here. He heard moaning from down the hallway. He raced down there, heedless of any perceived danger. He turned the corner just in time to see her sit up from the bed and vomit into a small black trashcan that usually resided in the bathroom. Lawrence’s relief that she was not the victim of some senseless crime was quickly tempered by how ashen she looked. She wiped the corner of her mouth and waved weakly at him, before crashing back against her pillow. He reached out and grabbed the bucket before she could drop it. He’d smelled his fair share of stomach butter during his time in the precinct; this was different. There was a sickening, cloying scent—as if her organs were liquefying.

  “You’re burning up,” he said, as he placed the back of his hand against her forehead. “We need to get you to the hospital.”

  “No,” she shook her head. “Epidemic. Can’t.”

  “What? I haven’t heard anything about that.”

  After she recovered from her latest expulsion she took a couple of deep breaths and managed to give him a soft smile. “I’m sure Candy Crush didn’t make an announcement.”

  Lawrence tried to mirror her smile but he’d never been much of an actor; she knew him better than anyone, she’d spot the lie easily. “I’m on level fifty-eight; I don’t have time for world events,” he said as he stroked the side of her face. “What can I do?”

  “I’d love some orange juice. I forgot to buy it while I was out.”

  “I’ll get some. What else?”

  “The buck…” She reached out; he quickly handed her the receptacle.

  When he got back he checked in on her. She was fast asleep. He turned on the TV to see if he could get any updates. The people in the grocery store had looked concerned, bordering on scared. More than a few had been binge shopping with their entire families, grabbing everything that they could off the shelves—almost as if in preparation for an impending blizzard. He’d always scoffed at those alarmists. There’d yet to be a storm in Denver that had trapped him in his house for more than a day and a half. But some people were so easily led into a panic. This time, though, he was beginning to feel the effects himself. He felt almost foolish when he showed up at the small order line with only a gallon of orange juice when people in front and behind him were dragging multiple carts.

  An old lady sneezed two aisles over and she got enough glares that Lawrence thought she might be Typhoid Mary. He paid and walked home as quickly as possible. He’d never liked to drive, and now that he lived in the city, there was no need for it. There wasn’t anything he needed, including work, that wasn’t within walking distance. Right now though, he would have flown a rocket to get back quicker. Instead of being filled with Christmas cheer, those that were out and about looked wary and protective, not just for themselves, but of the many possessions they were carrying.

  “What in the hell is going on?” he asked as Graham, his doorman greeted him.

  “I heard it’s a terrorist attack—some kind of bio-weapon,” Graham said, glancing nervously up and down the sidewalk and pulling the door clo
sed tight behind them.

  “What?” Lawrence turned to look at the man.

  “Excuse me for saying this, Mr. Tynes, but you seem to be the only person I’ve run into today that doesn’t know what’s going on.”

  “Linda’s sick. I’ve got to go.”

  “How sick?” Graham suddenly got very interested.

  “Morning sickness,” he lied.

  “You sure? I didn’t think you two were trying for another six months.” He followed Lawrence to the elevators. “This is serious, Mr. Tynes. If she’s sick, she can’t be in here.”

  “You own this building, Graham?”

  “You know I do not, but my family lives here and I will not have them be endangered by your wife or anyone else.”

  “The only danger you’re in, Graham, is from me. Now if you don’t stop fucking following me I’m going to grab you by your feet and swing you around like a club and I don’t give a shit where your head hits. You got me?”

  “I do, Mr. Tynes,” Graham said, backing up. “But me and a few others will come up later to see how you’re doing.”

  “You even step on my floor, Graham, and I’ll consider it a home invasion. You listening to me?”

  There was menace in Graham’s normally mild stare. “You just make sure nothing from your home escapes, or I will stop it.” Graham tapped a bulge on the side of his hip, hidden under his heavy woolen work coat.

  The ding from the elevator broke the uneasy standoff. Lawrence walked in and pressed the button for his floor, never taking his eyes off the man that had been exceedingly civil for all of the three years they’d lived here.

  He was having a hard time believing the reports coming in from around the country—he thought perhaps it was the news station pandering to the fear factor. He switched channels to see if he could find less biased versions. If anything, they became more alarmist with every channel change. People were biting others, there were mass attacks and riots in major cities from coast to coast. The National Guard and the Army were being deployed as a measure to contain the civil strife. It sure did look like a bio-attack, like Graham had suggested. He went to his closet and pulled out the large strongbox he’d all but forgotten way in the back. He’d promised Linda that once they had a child he would get rid of it, but for now, he was keeping his old service firearm. Right now the weight of his Desert Eagle fifty cal felt mighty nice in his hand. If Graham and his friends came knocking, he was going to show them the exit one way or the other. Right now, he was going to exercise his sovereign right to defend his home.

  He checked the door to make sure it was locked, then checked on Linda, who hadn’t stirred for a few hours. He hoped the rest was doing her some benefit and that she just had an early winter cold—not whatever was afflicting the country. He sat back down on the couch and succumbed to the long, strange day. He barely noticed when the television timer expired and the power went off; this was another of Linda’s compulsions. She didn’t like power to be wasted needlessly and Lawrence had fallen asleep in front of the tube more times than she could count. He told her that sometimes he needed the distraction, that it helped him to not think about some of the things he’d seen on the force.

  “Callis don’t!” he shouted himself awake from a particularly disturbing reoccurring nightmare that had its roots in the real world. The apartment was dark and quiet, but he was not alone. Someone was silhouetted against the large picture windows that overlooked the city. At first, he feared it was Graham; that he had somehow circumvented his security measures and entered. Then he relaxed when he realized that unless Graham was into see-through nightgowns and had the shape of a Greek Goddess it probably wasn’t him.

  “You feeling better, hon?” he asked, trying to wipe the sleep from his eyes. She said nothing. “I got the orange juice. You want some?” he asked, keeping an eye on her. Again she said nothing, although this time, she turned to look in his direction. Whatever cobwebs lurked in his mind were burned away as the reflected city light caught her features. She was an unhealthy bluish color, her eyes as flat and dead as a reptile’s, her mouth pulled back in a sneer. He stood quickly.

  “Linda?”

  She took a tentative step toward him, then another. Lawrence stood, unsure if he should rush towards her or away.

  “Say something, honey,” he pleaded. A ghostly moan escaped her lips. He looked down to the gun sitting on the couch and quickly dashed his thought, this was his Linda after all. There was nothing they couldn’t work through. Hell, if they could survive her abusive, stalking ex-boyfriend, they should be able to get over the flu. Lawrence put up his hands in a defensive gesture. “I need you to say something, Linda.”

  He remembered something from the TV...someone official looking from the CDC saying that infected people did not behave in their normal fashion and you could test them by attempting to have them communicate. If they could not, assume the worst and extract yourself from the situation. Linda thumped against the back of the couch as she walked into it. She was less than three feet from Lawrence, saying nothing, snapping her teeth wildly. He looked again down to the gun. He knew fundamentally that there was something irreversibly wrong with her, but he was not quite ready to throw the towel in.

  “I’m sorry about this,” he told her as he grabbed the sofa cushion. He swung hard enough to send her reeling off to the side where she eventually toppled over. He was quick to follow before she could rise up on her own. He grabbed her ankles and dragged her back down the hallway to their bedroom. Her ankles locked under his arm, he once again searched through his closet for supplies from another lifetime and came up with two sets of handcuffs. All the while, Linda was struggling, attempting to twist and turn to sink her teeth into his flesh.

  “I’m so sorry,” he pleaded again as he lifted her feet-first, like a chicken about to meet its maker. Supporting her by the knees, he swung her up onto the bed. Pressing firmly down on her chest to keep her from sitting up, he was finally able to secure her legs to the footboard before catching her flailing hands. “I’m going to find out what this is, Linda, I promise. And when I do I’ll come back for you.”

  She snapped and snarled as he took her arms and placed them over her head and then secured her wrists to the headboard. The entire time her eyes were locked on his, not in a pleading manner, but rather in a voracious one. That first night, he’d dragged the couch into the bedroom to be with her, staring for long hours, hoping to see some sign of his beloved return. Finally, when he couldn’t take it anymore, he’d lain down and turned his back to her. His dreams were riddled with images of Linda chasing him through all manner of buildings, forests, and streets. It was the clicking and clacking of her restraints as she tried to free herself that finally awoke him.

  BT screamed out “Linda!” as he bolted upright in his tractor seat. He thought for a moment the female zombie tearing at the lone windshield wiper was her; she grabbed it with her teeth and it would pull back then snap the windshield, the rubberless blade making a very similar sound to handcuffs on an oak headboard. With the sun just beginning to peek through, BT started the engine and tore through the trees, back onto the road. He completely destroyed a row of zombies who were coming into the woods. For the moment, the only zombie he had with him was his new window washer.

  Chapter 15

  MIKE JOURNAL ENTRY 11

  “What the fuck?” I asked my sister as we watched the front end loader approach.

  “That’s BT,” Lyndsey said.

  “Plus one.” I was pointing to the zombie on the hood. “You see any others?” Zombies weren’t known for their lone wolf approach. We walked out onto the road from our hiding spot. At first, it looked as if BT was going to roll on by; he wasn’t looking too particularly well. He was close to abreast of us when his head finally turned. The tractor came to a sudden stop, sending his passenger for a short ride down the hood, a bounce off the front blade, and to the ground. A normal person would have been banged up a bit—not so with the zombie. She’d stood
and was looking to get back up to her mark before she saw us and had a change of heart.

  I was hesitant to shoot her because of the sound, but if the sound of that huge diesel engine wasn’t bringing them running then one short report shouldn’t either. I neatly drilled her in the forehead. BT shut the engine down and looked out.

  “You guys alright?” he asked. “Where’s Steve?”

  My sister finally broke down as if she’d been waiting for an apparent rescue to allow herself to cry.

  “Aw shit, I am so sorry,” he said as he came down and wrapped her up in his arms. Her sobs were muffled into his chest.

  “What am I going to tell our son?” she’d asked at one point.

  “Huh. A tractor?” I asked, when my sister had finally extracted herself from BT’s stomach. She seemed the better for the cry.

  “I’ve had a bad night, Talbot don’t give me shit about my ride.”

  “How come you kept the clinger on? Hood ornament?” I was goading him. I’d looked inside the tractor and had not seen a weapon.

  “Oh, you know just wanted a little company for the long haul.”

  We did quick run-downs of what had happened the previous day, both of us gaining a new level of respect for the other after hearing the harrowing tales of what we’d been through, but now it was time to get back to the house. There was part of me that wanted to go to the school and get a bus, but we’d already been gone for so long that if they needed help, the time saved could make the difference. My sister had wedged herself inside the cab with BT, she sort of looked like packing material as she was pressed up against the glass. I’d initially opted to ride in the bucket. Big mistake, I guess I forgot just how horrible my short-term memory is. Every bump the machine hit made me rock violently back and forth. After smacking my head for the fifth time, I jumped down and went around to the back where I stood on the trailer hitch.