She’d screamed incoherently and pulled her .45. A quick push with her index finger, and she flipped the safety off. Jo wasn’t a very good shot with the handgun; it bucked every time she pulled the trigger, and she couldn’t keep it steady. But she didn’t need to aim at such a close range; she just needed to delay the creature until Thomas got there. If he gets here, she thought. The thought panicked her a little more, but the adrenaline cleared her vision, and she saw the world in high-definition, every minute detail. She pulled the trigger at even intervals, attempting to hit the zombie’s bloody shoulders and torso. A few of the bullets that found their mark jerked the zombie backwards, tripping it up a little. But for every one step it took backwards to steady itself, it took two more towards her.
In what felt like no time at all, the magazine was empty and the zombie was still advancing. Jo did the only thing she could think of; she threw the gun at the zombie’s head and slumped back on the bench. She reached a weak hand out and grasped the handle of her baseball bat loosely, but she knew she didn’t have the strength left to lift it.
***
It was as if time slowed down and Thomas sped up at the same time. He dropped the bottle of water he was holding, left his backpack on the floor, and snatched up his axe. He ran down the end aisle, the one unobstructed by debris, and, taking a running start, jumped through the broken glass door. He ducked his head and tucked his knees to his chest like a jump-roper doing ‘criss-cross applesauce’ as he hurtled through the jagged hole. He landed, and continued running without pausing for a second.
He saw Jo pull the trigger and the gun click empty. She looked at the gun, and then, without much hesitation, hurled it at the zombie’s head. With disconcerting speed, the zombie jerked its head out of the gun’s path. His eyes were almost completely white except for tiny, black, pinprick pupils, but they looked at Jo with a dark hunger…with triumph.
It was no more than a yard away from her now; had Jo and the zombie wanted to, they could have reached out and shaken hands. Thomas ran full-tilt at the zombie, and with a slurch, embedded the axe in its abdomen. Its skeletal jaw dropped open, and it let out a screech that sounded like metal grating against bone. Thomas didn’t give it time to do more than that before he pushed all of his weight behind the axe and, like a defensive lineman, ran the zombie away from Jo. Thomas wrenched the axe from the zombie’s stomach and swung it down towards the zombie’s head with every intention of cleaving him in two, from crown to sternum. But all he got was an arm.
The zombie’s whole arm falling violently to the ground was still impressive, but Thomas was horrified. The zombie had sidestepped him, not fast enough to get away unscathed, but fast enough to survive. The zombie gave Thomas what he assumed was meant to be a smile, as if it were taunting him. Then it lurched forward with that same surprising speed and made a grab for Thomas’s bare arm with its remaining hand. Thomas dodged the zombie, hacking at its side like he would have a tree trunk, and the other arm fell. The armless zombie roared in aggravation and spun to face Thomas. The axe whirled to meet him, and this time his head popped off his body.
Thomas turned to look at Jo, panting. She was shaking, and dry sobs rasped out of her.
“Did you see that?” Thomas asked her, wide-eyed. She nodded. Thomas turned back to look at the zombie lying decapitated before him. “They’re getting faster.”
Jo sobbed again, bringing Thomas back from his thoughts. He dropped his axe next to the zombie and strode to her side. He pulled her close, and she rested her head under his chin. They sat like that for several minutes, just breathing.
***
Jo had called her mother once since the epidemic started. Her cell phone still worked, but finding a place to charge it was not high on her list of priorities. Her dad and her sister hadn’t been home, and she didn’t have time to wait for them to return. When her mother had asked if she was all right, Jo had said yes, and had told her that she was traveling with another American student. She complained that he hadn’t been much help, and that he wasn’t taking the crisis very seriously. She said that he was just a jock, a meathead. Jo’s mother was silently thankful that her daughter had someone strong and athletic looking out for her.
***
The sun was setting, and the tired and worried pair had found a house in which to stay the night. They’d broken in (more carefully than they had at the gas station) and then, once inside, barricaded the door. Afterwards, they’d picked one bedroom with an adjoining bathroom on the second floor (Jo reminded Thomas that zombies could break into a first-story window, grab you, and wrench you out into the night…or at least get one good bite in) and then barricaded themselves inside that room as well. Jo sat curled cat-like on the bed as Thomas buzzed around.
“Now,” said Thomas with the air of someone who has just finished fortifying a castle or organized a wedding, “the armoire should keep them at bay long enough for us to climb out the window and down this rope.” He held up a string of bedsheets from one of the other rooms tied together. “But just in case they get through, I’ve laid a trip wire, which, again, should hold them up long enough for us to escape. Oh, and this is for you.” Thomas held a glass of water out to her; in his other hand he had one for himself. Jo took it from him, but didn’t drink, instead she stared down into the bottom of the glass. “I know,” Thomas said, sitting next to her, “it’s tap water, but you have to risk it. That one bottle of water from the gas station wasn’t enough, and if we don’t stay hydrated, we’re never going to make it to England.”
Jo didn’t say anything for a moment. She looked down at the water as if she didn’t want to drink it, but was too tired and thirsty and miserable to resist the impulse for much longer. She flicked her eyes up to meet Thomas’s without moving her head.
“Cheers,” she said, holding out her glass.
“Cheers!” Thomas brought his glass to meet hers, and they clunked together, the water sloshing over the lip of Jo’s glass, just a little. Thomas tipped his head back and drank the entire thing in one go. “Mmm, delish,” he said, looking thoughtfully at the empty glass.
Jo was looking at Thomas. When he turned away from the glass and back to her, she looked away quickly. She silently hoped that he hadn’t noticed her watching him, but he’d seen her turn away. Her hair hung down hiding her face. She sniffled.
“Hey,” Thomas said, putting his glass down on the carpet, “what’s wrong?”
“Nothing, it’s just allergies,” Jo said, her hand disappearing under her dark curtain of hair to rub at her nose. Thomas scooted closer to her and wrapped an arm around her shoulder, his hand dangling by her collarbone.
“Are you sure?” he asked.
“Positive, I just get—” Jo whipped her head to look at him, and was surprised at how close his face was to her own.
“You just get…?” Thomas prompted her. He didn’t seem aware of their proximity, or, if he was, he wasn’t bothered by it.
“The sniffles,” Jo finished, quietly.
Thomas threw back his head and let out a short laugh. “Josephine Walker, zombie-hunter, gets the sniffles,” he said, amused.
Jo smiled. “I know,” she said, “It isn’t very bad-ass of me.”
“No, indeed, it is not,” said Thomas.
They sat in silence for a moment, Jo taking a sip of her water, and Thomas lost in thought. Then Jo cleared her throat.
“Thank you,” she said quietly. Thomas turned to face her, his eyes coming back into focus from some far off place. He knew he could have said “For what?” and made her tell him all the things for which she was thanking him, but he knew what they were, and making her list them would only hurt her already crippled pride.
Instead, he leaned down so that his forehead was resting on hers, the hand that was on her shoulder slid up to her neck and pulled her closer to him, the other rested on her hands. “You’re welcome,” he whispered. After a moment he leaned back, kissed her on the forehead, and stood up, saying, “You should pro
bably get some sleep. I’ll take first watch.”
***
Thomas had never known anyone who had died. All four of his grandparents were still alive, and he’d been lucky enough to be part of a family of people with ironclad immune systems. He remembered the week in third grade when a kid in his class, Bobby McMillan, hadn’t come to school because his mom died in a car crash. The teacher had talked to them about being sensitive to Bobby’s feelings, and about how they should all make Bobby feel comforted when he returned to school on Monday. But Thomas also remembered that when Monday morning rolled around, Bobby didn’t look like he wanted to be comforted. To Thomas, he looked like he’d been hollowed out. His eyes were empty like a jack-o-lantern’s, and something strange and angry burned in the space left behind. Thomas couldn’t figure out what was wrong with him.
***
The next morning dawned bright and cool, mist floated above the grass outside. Thomas woke and stretched; trying to make those few moments of early morning bliss last as long as possible. Jo was sitting in a chair next to the window, looking out over the field below.
“Good morning, sunshine,” Thomas said, poking a little fun at her.
For a moment she didn’t respond. She didn’t look at him or acknowledge him and then, in a rasping, quiet voice she said, “Thomas, look.”
Thomas hurried to her side and squinted against the sun breaking over the trees, trying to see what Jo was seeing. It wasn’t hard. Out in the field, three zombies stood in a line, staring back at them. Staring straight into the window out of which Jo and Thomas were watching them. Thomas didn’t breathe again for a few seconds.
“Three, there are three of them together,” he said. Jo gave a slow nod. “We’ve never seen more than two together,” he continued. “And what are they doing? They’re not attacking, they’re not moving. This doesn’t make any sense!”
“They’re waiting,” Jo whispered. Thomas, standing behind her, looked down at her, suddenly worried.
“What—what are they waiting for?” he asked quietly. Jo slowly turned her head to the side, trying to look back at him, her bangs hanging in her eyes.
“Me,” Jo said, and her eyes flicked up to meet Thomas’s. Her irises were fading to grey, her pupils small and beady. Thomas staggered away from the chair, his feet backpedaling of their own accord. He continued to stumble away from her until he hit the dresser against the opposite wall. The jewelry and photos on the dresser jingled and fell over as he bumped against it, grasping the edge for support.
“Jo, dear God.” Thomas said. Jo didn’t move, but tears slid out of her terrifying eyes and down her cheeks.
“I think it was the water. I think the rumors were true,” she said haltingly. “I was already weak, I didn’t stand a chance.” She turned to face out the window again. “They can smell it.” A slow sob, almost like a wail, squeezed out of Jo. “I’m so scared, Thomas.”
Slowly, Thomas inched towards her, cautious and without any sudden movements. Her head whipped around to look over her shoulder again. Thomas froze. “And you’re scared, too,” she said, looking him in the eyes. “Just like the zombies outside can smell it on me, I can smell it on you.” She shuddered, and her head fell forward onto her chest. “Don’t worry, my arms and legs are frozen. I—I don’t know exactly but I think it might be some sort of viral degenerative disease, my body is shutting down from the bottom up, it has been all night.”
Thomas carefully moved to her side, careful not to touch her or get within arm’s length.
“Stay back,” she said. “If this is viral, you shouldn’t get too close to me or you’ll get infected.”
“If it’s viral then I’m already infected, I drank the water, too, remember?” he said.
“Your immune system is still strong, you still have a chance,” she said. Sweat was running down her forehead and she was shaking gently.
“I won’t let you go this way,” Thomas said softly. He waited a moment with baited breath, and when she didn’t make a grab for him or lash out, he reached out a hand, hesitated, and then grasped hers.
“You have to,” she said, tears rolling down her face, her breath coming in fits and gasps, “I’m dying and once I’m dead, I’ll try and kill you.”
“Then we’ll be zombies together,” Thomas said, gripping her hand between both of his now and holding it.
“No! You have to put me down. Do it,” she said, staring at him, never breaking eye contact. “Do it now.” She turned away from him to look at the side table where her .45 was resting ominously in its holster.
“No, no I can’t, Jo,” Thomas said. “Don’t ask me to.”
“I’m not asking you to,” Jo gasped. “I’m telling you to.”
***
The zombies watched with animalistic cunning as the human man emerged onto the front porch of the house holding a bundle of sheets draped in his arms. He stared at them, his heavy brow casting his already dark eyes into deeper shadow. His axe was strapped to his back and his jaw was set. The zombies could smell his anger and the blood seeping into the sheets and they wanted it. Shrieking like perverse birds of prey, they plunged forward.
Stacey Longo's short stories have appeared in numerous anthologies and Shroud Magazine. She serves on the Board of Directors for the New England Horror Writers. When she isn't turning her family and friends in to shambling zombies in her works, she enjoys spending time with her husband Jason at their home in CT. Visit her website atwww.staceylongo.com.
Here’s a tasty morsel fresh from the chomping block. It’s served up just the way you like it, cold as a cadaver, ready for you to sink in your undead loving teeth, and always with a fresh helping of brains. Love Stinks by Stacey Longo is a tale of love that lingers long after death. It’s the kind of love that seeps into your rotting bones and festers like a fetid sore. The kind that reaches out like a putrid corpse, grabs hold of you, and doesn’t let go ‘til you’ve been utterly devoured. Ah, young love. Annie’s and Peter’s was a match made in heaven, or perhaps better suited for the morgue. Annie is just your average farm town girl…with a zombie shackled in her barn. Peter is just your average all American boyfriend, but with a taste for the…finer things in life. Peter’s hunger is insatiable, and Annie’s running low on cows…
Love Stinks
By Stacey B Longo
Peter had been one of the shambling undead for a little over a month now, and Annie was running out of cows. Her father had originally estimated their herd at sixty head, but she had quickly realized the first time she had to milk the cows by herself, that Dad had over-inflated that number. She had started out milking about forty-eight head, and with Peter eating one cow brain a day, she was down to just forteen Holsteins.
Annie knew it wasn’t an emergency yet—she still had the pigs, after all, and an assortment of barn cats—but she didn’t know what she was going to do come fall. She shook her head in frustration as she pulled on her work gloves and headed out to the milking barn. She couldn’t, after all, allow Peter to starve.
Could a zombie starve to death? Annie was unsure. After all, this plague of the undead had only started at the end of March, and while the newscasters had been clear that a good clean shot to the head would end a pesky zombie infestation, there was little information out yet on other methods of terminating one’s zombie predicament. Not that she had any intention of letting Peter waste away—dead or undead—he was still indisputably the love of her life, and she intended to take care of him until a cure could be found.
Annie struggled with the rusty latch that held the screen door to the barn shut. She could hear Peter groaning inside, and smiled. He’d made it through the night’s stifling heat just fine, and she greeted him with a sing-song “good moor-ning!” as she let herself in to the milking parlor. Peter shook the chains around his neck and arms in response, emitting a low “mrrr-rrr-rrr” in reply.
“It’s me, darling! It’s Annie! Can you say ‘Annie’? Come on, Peter, say my name. An-nie?” She lea
ned her face in close to the bars that confined Peter, close enough to smell the rot of his skin, but not so near that he could snake a bony claw through the bars and get a grip on her. Peter moaned, turning away. He shuffled to the corner furthest away from her, fixing his blank gaze on the gray cement wall.
Annie was worried about Peter; she suspected he might be depressed. When she had originally lured him in to the milking parlor and trapped him in one of the chutes built to hold the cows in place while they were being milked, he had been a frenzied, snarling mess. He’d howled and scrabbled at the clamp she’d swiftly fastened on his neck, foaming at the mouth in anger. These days, he could barely muster up enough energy to dribble a little drool. She was sure it was because he was locked up in the damp, dank barn 24/7. He probably missed the sunshine and fresh air.
Annie hummed to herself as she started preparing for milking. With Peter in one chute, this left only one side of the milking parlor open for milking, and she had to carefully herd the girls in to the right side of the barn. She slid the back door of the barn open to find her final fourteen cows standing around, lowing softly, waiting for the relief of having their bags emptied. Her father had been milking these cows for a few years, and they knew the routine. The cows began to mosey in to the parlor, lining themselves up with little direction from Annie. She squatted at the first station, and began the comforting rhythmic motions of milking.
Hell Hath No Fury... Page 18