by Chuck Buda
Muncie’s fingers reached the back of the zombie’s sockets, poking into the front of the brain. The zombie shook like an epileptic seizure had taken hold. It released its grip on Muncie’s arm. Muncie crawled on his knees, puffing in exhaustion. He raised the back of the zombie’s head by its matted hair and smashed its face into the concrete floor. Again and again.
The head cratered and fell apart. Long strands of filth dripped from Muncie’s paws. He screamed in victory.
Gorgon shouted and shook the iron bars. “NO! No, no, no, no, no!”
He couldn’t believe he had lost to Muncie yet again.
What would it take to kill this cockroach?
Muncie rose to his feet in a staggering, tired show of survival.
The Warden locked eyes with Muncie. He thought about entering the cage to finish what Muncie had started.
Chapter 19
Muncie had been explicit in his instructions. Rivera was to carry out his orders with secrecy. The decision had been made to bring a swift conclusion to the Warden’s deteriorating control of Warsaw Prison. Muncie reasoned it would behoove them to strike first.
Rivera didn’t necessarily agree with Muncie’s logic. However, in the Warden’s system, Rivera was in the middle of the pecking order. He’d have to contend for survival and resources like a prisoner once the shit hit the fan.
In Muncie’s system, Rivera was a close second. And that made all the difference in the world. If he helped Muncie then he could expect to reap more rewards for sticking with the winning team and playing an integral role. Rivera wasn’t sure how much he actually trusted Muncie to keep his word. But he decided to play the odds in order to live longer.
Rivera glanced around. The hall was void of activity. It was darkened and eerily silent. A chill tickled Rivera’s spine. He felt like a little kid venturing into the basement by himself, afraid of the monsters under the stairs. Except, there really were monsters in this place.
He stuck the key in the door, careful to turn the tumbler with hardly a sound. Rivera clutched the latch. He paused as he thought about what he was about to do. Opening the flood gates of zombies could be the death of all of them. Even himself. Rivera stared up at the faded paint which indicated the A-Pod.
Without further hesitation, Rivera tugged the latch aside. It slid quietly at first. At the end of its travel, the latch scratched a worn segment of paint. The noise was subtle but it froze Rivera in his tracks, nonetheless. He stood rigid, straining to hear if the zombies inside had noticed the warm meal on the other side of the steel door.
Rivera held his breath. He waited a few more moments and decided the coast was clear. A deep exhale washed relief through his system. Rivera began to head back to his post when the unmistakable click of the door. He spun in horror to find Guyton’s husk poking its head through the opening. Rivera’s eyes nearly popped out of his skull. Muncie had wanted to slowly release the creatures into the general population of the prison. But this scenario was too fast. And very dangerous to Rivera as he would be the first tasty morsel the monsters saw. He rushed to the door, throwing his shoulder against it as hard as he could. The thud echoed throughout the pod. Rivera listened as a torrent of moans sounded off on the other side of the door.
Now you’ve done it.
Rivera tried to close the door but Guyton’s arms and head remained lodged in the gap. He shoved at Guyton’s forehead, tucking the creature back into the pod. The head fell back inside but the arms continued to search for prey. As Rivera worked to push the arms back inside, he lost track of Guyton’s head. He had assumed it was still in the pod but it had poked through the opening once more.
And this time it bit into Rivera’s hand.
He yelped in anguish as blood spurted on the pale, cold walls. Rivera threw a left hook into Guyton’s face. The force of the punch sent the head and arms back into A-Pod with a rush. Rivera slammed the door shut and push the latch back into place. He slumped his back to the door, sliding down to the floor, clutching his wound.
Thoughts of becoming a creature of the undead danced through his brain. The pain was immense but he still felt the same. He thought for sure that he would feel death creep over him immediately. Rivera hoped he was wrong. Maybe the blood had to mix in order for the virus to take hold. If it had only been Guyton’s saliva in the bite then he could survive this accident.
I have to keep this quiet.
Rivera panicked. If Muncie found out he fucked up then he would definitely lose his hold on his status as right-hand-man. Similarly, everyone might turn on him if they believe he is infected. Even if it isn’t true. They’d beat him and throw him in with the rest of the undead. Then there would be no escape. He’d be eaten alive.
He quickly tugged his boot off and pulled off his sock. With one end in his teeth, Rivera tied the sock into a tight knot over his wound. He had to stop the bleeding and the dark color would absorb and hide the blood. Hopefully, long enough until he got to the locker room to get some proper bandages. He’d have to think of a realistic explanation for the fresh wound to avoid suspicion.
Rivera began to feel lightheaded. He hurried to his feet and ran down the hall toward the lockers. The dizziness worried him but he whisked away the fear of infection and attributed the result to loss of blood.
While Rivera disappeared down the hall, the door to A-Pod thumped. The booming from within shook the door in its frame. The knob twisted to the left and then slowly to the right.
The door thudded again.
Rivera hadn’t realized in his haste that the latch had not fully slid back into place. The same patch of rusted paint that had caused the noise had held back the latch from locking. Each thump of the door shook the latch along its groove. Several thumps later, the latch popped back into a fully open position.
The wails and hissing within A-Pod grew more urgent.
The doorknob twisted to the left and the door opened a crack. The fetid odor of meat and bile escaped the pod before the things which carried the odors.
The thing which used to be Guyton peeked around the edge of the door. It sniffed at the stale air in the hall, searching for a scent more appetizing. It pushed its way free of the door, stepping fully outside the pitch-black universe of A-Pod.
Behind Guyton stood a sea of similar demons. They shuffled forward. The back of the mob urging the front to move ahead.
Guyton led the exodus, drooling dark saliva and clicking its teeth.
Chapter 20
Crawford left the restroom after a much-needed squirt. He’d been able to hold his water longer now that they had consumed less rations. But when the time came, Crawford found the urgency just as strong as if he had guzzled two bottles of water. As he returned to his post, Rivera hustled past him. Crawford knew Rivera had sided with Muncie but he was willing to acknowledge the guy anyway. He started to nod a “hello” to Rivera but the man ran by.
Something didn’t set right with Crawford.
For one, Rivera avoided all eye contact as if Crawford didn’t exist. Not so strange given the climate between the factions within the guard corp. However, the way Rivera avoided contact is what struck a nerve with Crawford. The man had skimmed along the cinder block walls like he was afraid to even come near Crawford. And he had one of his arms cradled against his chest. An odd scene considering most people used both arms to generate momentum as they ran.
Crawford smelled a rat. A fat, smelly, bald rat.
He took a detour to scout out what Rivera was up to. Crawford hung back far enough to avoid detection. Luckily, the long empty corridors made a tracking job simpler from a distance. Rivera ducked into the locker room. Crawford picked up the pace so he could slip in the door before it slowly closed behind Rivera. He scanned the near area to be sure Rivera hadn’t hidden in wait to clobber him.
The coast was clear. Crawford heard the sounds of shuffling, like a mess of things being cast about. He knew where the sounds emanated from. The supply closet where the guards stowed things like towels and toilet pap
er. He sidled up to the wall of lockers. The urge to peek around the corner was so strong but Crawford didn’t want to be caught. He slid down the row of lockers until he was on his hands and knees. Stealing a glance from the floor level would be less obvious if Rivera happened to be facing his direction.
Crawford got down to his belly and slid inch by inch until his eyes rounded the lockers. What he found surprised him.
Rivera was haphazardly tossing boxes of bandages around. He appeared to be in a state of panic. His movements were jerky and uncoordinated. With his back to Crawford, Rivera had no clue he was being watched. He tore open several rolls of cloth wrap. Rivera used his teeth to tear the them open and hold an end in place as he used two entire rolls to cover his hand. The white material darkened all the way through as the wound seeped steadily.
Crawford wondered if Rivera had fallen down a set of stairs or something more drastic in order to cause such an injury. His thoughts jumped to Muncie. Maybe Muncie had tried to crush his man’s hand for disobeying an order. While both explanations seemed possible, Crawford figured they were unlikely. If Rivera fell down stairs then he would’ve been limping or suffered a leg injury. But he had ran freely down the hall. And Muncie liked to beat people up with his fists and club. But he would have messed up Rivera’s face. Not a hand.
The curiosity got the best of Crawford. He decided to confront Rivera to find out the truth and maybe offer assistance. If he could help Rivera, maybe the guy would align forces with he and Jonas instead of Muncie.
“Is everything okay?”
Rivera jumped six inches off the floor. Crawford had startled him. The second roll of gauze wrap unfurled across the tile floor.
“Relax, man. I didn’t mean to scare you.” Crawford took a ginger step forward. Rivera backed into the sink counter. His eyes darted across the locker room as if he expected another guard to pop out from behind a wall.
Rivera shook his head. It seemed as if he wanted to respond but the words were lost on the end of his tongue. The only sound that came out was an awkward squeak.
“I can help you wrap that. Go easy. I’m just gonna come closer so I can finish taping you up.” Crawford held his hands up, showing he meant no harm. Rivera continued to act nervously. His head shook and his lips trembled. The man leaned heavily along the counter to stabilize his balance. Crawford got closer so he could assist but the smell he caught a whiff of forced him to stop dead in his tracks.
“You probably lost too much blood. You should sit down, raise your feet.” He thought he saw Rivera’s eyes turn colors. He blinked, believing he was getting swept up in all the drama.
The noxious odor again. Crawford couldn’t help himself. He grasped his face in his hand to stifle the stench which wafted from Rivera’s direction. The smell reminded him of a garbage truck which had been sitting in the blazing summer sun...after it had crashed into a heavily used portable potty.
“What the fuck is that smell?”
Rivera lurched to his knees. The sudden movement frightened Crawford. He jumped back, slamming into the wall of lockers behind him. The sound careened around the room like a handball. Rivera’s head began to jut forward and back like a cat choking on a furball. His mouth dropped wide open and Crawford waited for the inevitable. Rivera was going to puke.
Crawford shielded his body with the edge of the lockers. Rivera evacuated his system, except the contents looked nothing like undigested food. It was a black, sticky bile substance that clung to Rivera’s tongue and chin. It had a syrupy consistency and it enriched the aroma of foul smells in the space. Crawford stared in disbelief as Rivera’s eyes clouded over with a milky sheen. His skin faded from the mocha light brown to a purplish tinge.
Rivera dropped face first into the pile of spew.
Crawford waited, horrified by the inexplicable display of transformation. His brain urged him to run and get Dr. Shipley or the Warden. But his legs wouldn’t respond to the brain’s panic. He was frozen in place. Nothing he had ever witnessed or heard of could help him understand what had just happened to Rivera. Crawford realized the only explanation was Rivera had been bitten and turned into a...
Before he could finish the thought, Rivera’s head shot up. Its cloudy pupils burned a hole right through the center of Crawford’s soul. It had awakened and it was no longer Rivera.
Crawford swung his night stick from his belt loop. He gripped the hickory with both hands, squeezed tight and began fracturing the skull of the thing which shrieked from the locker room floor.
Chapter 21
Sullivan had used a combination of his gear and some remnants of materials from Chuck’s butcher shop to fashion a makeshift papoose. The hardest part wasn’t the development of the homemade backpack. It had been getting Chuck squared away inside it. Unfortunately, Sullivan couldn’t do much to assist Chuck other than stooping low and tilting his angle to make it easier.
Sullivan had swung down the hole into the butcher shop. It hadn’t taken him long to deal with the handful of zombies milling about. Luckily, they had enclosed themselves into the shop when the shit had hit the fan. So no extra creatures had joined the party. Sullivan used his Bowie knife to save bullets and keep the noise down. The last thing they needed was to draw a crowd of zombies or bloodthirsty citizens.
“You know the view from here ain’t bad.” Chuck’s stale breath wafted around Sullivan’s helmet. Sullivan thought of making another wisecrack about Chuck’s lack of legs but decided not to be a dick. He liked Chuck and he didn’t want to hurt the man, even if he appeared to be jovial about his condition.
They kept to the shadows, skipping from building facades to tree in order to minimize their silhouettes along the landscape. The best form of protection was no detection. A phrase his boot camp Sarge used to shout in their faces. The enemy couldn’t shoot what they couldn’t see. Technically, the Sarge was wrong about that. Soldiers fired their rounds into anything and everything if they feared for their lives. But the lesson was worth remembering, nonetheless.
At the edge of a vast field, tall stalks of some wheat-looking crop undulated in a breeze Sullivan hadn’t felt but had wished for in order to cool his sweaty skin. Among the growth, he noticed several pockets, spread far apart, where gray heads bobbed and moved.
They’re fucking everywhere.
Exasperated, Sullivan crouched down. He wanted to use the field as a means of travel and cover, but he couldn’t trust that more of the zombies were lumbering about in there.
“You thinking about shielding us in the high stuff as we move? I couldn’t agree more.” Chuck offered his opinion as Sullivan mulled over their options.
“I thought about it but...”
“But the deadheads are in there too. Yeah, I saw them. We could probably navigate through them fairly easily as dispersed as they are.” Chuck finished Sullivan’s sentence for him.
“It could if they stayed spread out. I don’t like our chances if they get bunched up around us.” Sullivan caught himself before saying that they could run in different directions to evade the zombies. He realized it was much harder being sensitive to someone’s disabilities than he had imagined. So much of what people say and think is tied to similarities in the species. Not the differences. He smiled to himself that that was most likely the reason folks had so much trouble with racism and discrimination. The human species was built around a commonality. Anything outside the norm was an anomaly and could endanger the survival of the hive. Stupid. But so built into the fiber of our thinking.
A sudden stomping shook the men from their thoughts. Sullivan swung around and pointed his firearm at what broke through the tall wheat. The commotion had been so immediate, Sullivan squeezed off a round through instinct.
The child fell to the ground.
His heart stopped.
He’d killed a kid. A stupid kid who had probably been scared and lost. Just searching for someone to take care of them. Tears filled his eyes and he began shaking uncontrollably.
�
��It’s not your fault, man. It happened so fast.” Chuck rubbed his hands long Sullivan’s shoulders, attempting to comfort him. “Oh, God. Forgive us. We didn’t know.”
Sullivan dropped his rifle. He knelt down, burying his face in his hands. There was no way for him to stop the crying. Sullivan had never been good with killing but he understood it was part of his job. Something he was bound to do, to survive, to protect his brothers. Never in his worst nightmares had he envisioned a scenario where he would rob a young, precious life from the earth. He wanted to kill himself as penance for the misdeed.
“Watch out.” Chuck screamed in his ear.
Sullivan raised his head to see the child getting up. The eyes looked like two juice glasses filled with skim milk. The blond hair drifted in the breeze which Sullivan still didn’t feel.
It was a boy. Maybe five or six years old. Dressed in a cute, blue and white striped Osh-Kosh overall. The shorts revealed pudgy little knees which were covered in dirt. But the face. The face resembled nothing like a child. It was worn and the flesh drooped as if gravity had clung to the skin. Its mouth spread wide and a black tongue and filthy teeth encased a dreadful sound. Like bugs and Jell-O squiggling together.
Sullivan grabbed his knife and stuck it into the side of the child’s head. A long squirt of darkened fluid shot across the wheat, marring the perfect symbiotic color. Noiselessly, the thing that used to be a child flopped back to the ground. Sullivan sniffed up a bubble of snot and retrieved his knife from the kid’s skull. It required some rocking back and forth to free the blade of the bone. He wiped the gore from the blade on the child’s innocent outfit.
“That was fucked up.” Chuck’s words croaked out in a stunned whisper.
Sullivan gathered his senses. He could hear the approaching drones following the sounds of commotion. In a few moments, they would be overrun with more monsters hunting for meat. They had to keep moving.