by David Reuben
Gabe slowly closed the driver’s side door on the cruiser, and Jeff did the same for the passenger’s. Gabe grabbed his flashlight and held it in his left hand, tactical-style under his right. He eased forward and shone the light up the staircase. The lack of anything there eased his nerves some, but the occasional pop of gunfire far off steeled them back. He started up the stairs to the landing, Jeff in tow. He reached the main entrance to the house, off to his right.
The door was open.
“Shit,” Jeff mumbled under his breath.
“Just what I was thinking,” Gabe said quietly over his right shoulder. He crept forward ever so carefully, avoiding a couple pairs of shoes lined up outside the door. He stepped into the front doorway, immediately turning to his left. The hallway was bare aside from a coat rack that held numerous jackets and hats.
Jeff slowly came in the front door as well, creeping forward into the house. The third floor staircase was off to his right. He pointed the shotgun up the stairs and circled it up until he was on the first few steps, aiming the scattergun up and to the left as he did. He continued up the steps, pausing at the landing between the floors.
“Gabe, come on up. Looks clear.”
Gabe finished looking around on the second floor and came up to meet Jeff on the landing. Gabe shone his flashlight on the stairs.
He quickly realized he wasn’t alone.
Reggie–or the creature that used to be Reggie–came bursting towards them hunched over and arms out. He was in a near dead sprint when he ran into Gabe, spearing him backwards down the steps. Reggie had a large bite mark in his neck, blood oozing out of it. Gabe held him up as Reggie snapped at him with a drooling, bloody mouth.
Jeff fell back from Reggie’s linebacker sprint, but regained his bearings quickly. Reggie had become one of the living dead, and recently, by his fresh bloody look. Jeff pulled his shotgun up and pointed it at Reggie’s head. He reared back and shoved the bayonet flush into Reggie’s skull, crunching bone and splattering blood as it did.
“Sorry, Reggie,” Jeff said, and pulled the trigger. The Mossberg boomed in the enclosed space and Reggie’s head disappeared. Bits of skull fragments, blood, and gray matter exploded on the walls around him.
Gabe shoved Reggie’s headless corpse off him and scrambled up. “I thought you said it was clear!”
Jeff wiped blood, gore, and sinew off his face, and bared a hideous smile. “I said it looked clear.”
Gabe had to laugh at his friend in spite of himself. “Well let’s hope that Reggie doesn’t have a roommate.”
***
After a successful haul of supplies, Jeff and Gabe headed out. Jeff was correct in assuming that Reggie was a well-stocked prepper. They managed to grab four cases of MREs, six cases of water, a brick of 12-gauge shotgun shells, and a stocked bug-out bag. Reggie’s paranoia had served both of them well, even if he wasn’t going to be around to take advantage of it. As they continued across town, dodging the occasional zombie or abandoned car, Jeff flipped through the radio stations.
“What’re you doing?” Gabe asked.
“Just seeing if we can find out what's goin’ on, dude. Plus I wanna see if my station is broadcasting anything.”
Gabe laughed. “Worried that somebody broke in and started playing Michael Bolton?”
Jeff found 96.6 on the FM radio and listened for a second, ignoring Gabe’s comment. “I think that speaks for itself, brother.”
Gabe leaned forward and turned the radio up. Initially there was silence, but after a few seconds, Gabe realized what Jeff heard. The low, guttural sound that came across the radio made it clear what had transpired. There were zombies in the booth, bumping into the microphone and banging on the walls and glass. The sound was macabre, like a Halloween commercial on the radio, but all too real.
***
Gabe made it to his house and picked up Amanda with no further problems. The beautiful brunette had gathered clothes and a few basic medical supplies, aspirin and bandages, and tossed in Gabe’s personal Colt 1911 .45 as well.
After a short embrace by Gabe, Amanda climbed in the backseat as Jeff continued riding shotgun–literally. The three survivors headed out towards the marina.
“Fuckin’ zombies, man.” Jeff commented from passenger’s seat of the car.
“Sorry, dude. At least you'll get to take your boat out now,” Gabe replied, patting Jeff on the shoulder. “I’d say that we got enough food and water for the three of us for a good while. We’ll just steam down the coast until we run out of supplies and go from there.”
“Does anybody have a clue what caused this?” Amanda asked from the backseat.
“Hell, does anybody ever have a clue what causes shit like this in zombie movies? It could be toxic gas, or a crashed satellite, or some kind of virus. Nobody ever really knows for sure, might was well just leave it at that,” Jeff replied.
“Yeah, besides, at least we have each other. Once we get to the marina, we can discuss all the zombie-related stuff we want. Let’s just get off the island first, shall we?” Gabe added.
“Amen to that,” Jeff said.
“How much farther is it to the marina, Jeff?”
“It should be another mile or so. I haven’t had much time to get down there lately, so bear with me,” Jeff said as he scanned the area, looking for the marina entrance. After a painful few minutes of watching, the entrance appeared.
“Here we go. Gabe, kill the headlights,” Jeff ordered. Gabe reached down and turned the headlights off. Surprisingly, there was ample light still left due to the full moon out. The white glow it cast on everything in sight gave the area an eerie pale look.
Gabe eased the cruiser precariously through the parking area and past a broken wrought-iron gate. The gate looked as if someone had already smashed it through, the middle bent and bowed in. The bad shape of the gate did not go unnoticed by any of the three occupants, each one giving the area a fervent scan.
“Pull up right to the boardwalk, Gabe. Let’s just grab whatever we can and do it in one trip. I don’t want to stay out here any longer than I have to. Grab food and water first.” Jeff was giving orders like a seasoned veteran, but in all honesty, he had seen too many bad zombie movies. The people in the movies always went after the guns and ammo when making their escape; nobody ever went for the food and water. Oftentimes, it was starvation that took the lives of survivors, not the undead.
Gabe pulled the cruiser onto the boardwalk and put it in park. He killed the engine and got out, as did Amanda and Jeff. Once outside of the relative safety of the police car, all three of them tensed up a bit more. The inside of the car had been reasonably quiet, but now that they were outside they could hear the ghastly wails of the undead carried along by the ocean’s steady breeze. The sporadic pop of gunfire, along with the occasional boom of explosions, completed the amalgamation of noises that gave them their cue to get moving.
Gabe popped the trunk and walked back to it. He grabbed the bug-out bag and slung it over his shoulder. He stuffed his .45 into his waistband and grabbed a couple of boxes of MREs.
“Jeff, I want you to lead the way with that shotgun; Amanda and I will follow close behind. I have two cases of MREs, Amanda; you grab a case of water. We’ll last a lot longer without ammo than we will without food and water.”
Jeff nodded and checked his shotgun. One round in the chamber, as well as five in the tube. Amanda grabbed her designated case of water and in fell in line behind her fiancée and Jeff.
Jeff stepped forward rapidly but surely. The dock was in front of him with each boat tied to its respective mooring. He swung the shotgun back and forth, quickly looking for any movement. There was none. After a tense few minutes, they reached Jeff’s boat.
“This is yours, Jeff? Nice setup, brother.”
Jeff’s boat–a 120-foot Couach Arion–was bigger than Gabe’s house. The boat slept eight and normally was taken care of by a crew of five. It was Jeff’s pride and joy. Jeff stepped off the dock a
nd onto the bow of the boat. Gabe and Amanda revered the luxury yacht, taking in the sight of it for a few moments before handing their respective cases to Jeff. Amanda climbed over the edge of the deck, followed by Gabe.
“Jesus, Jeff. How come you don’t just live on this thing? It looks like there’s plenty of room on here,” Gabe asked.
“Brother, I came from nothing. This boat is just my way of showing off. I keep a modest house and try not to show off too much, except for this thing. It costs over a hundred grand a week to rent this thing.”
“You spend a hundred grand a week on this?”
Jeff looked up absently. “Nope. I bought it outright.”
“Well, let’s hope that she’s full and can get us away from here for a while. I don’t know what the hell happened, but I’d vote to stay on here until it dies down. Do you have a radio or some kind of satellite on here?”
Jeff walked around to the starboard deck and up the ladder well. At the top of the steps were the controls for the boat. He flipped some switches and the boat lit up. “I got you one better than that, Gabe.”
Gabe chuckled nervously. “And what might that be?”
Jeff fired up the boat’s engines, the twin five-thousand-horsepower diesel motors roaring to life. “Let’s get away from the dock first and out into open water. Once we do, I’ll show you.”
Jeff maneuvered the boat out of the marina and into the sound, passing under the bridge that connected Roanoke Island and Nags Head. He pushed the engine a little harder once they were out in the open ocean, showing off the yacht’s impressive power. As they skimmed the coastline, Amanda, Gabe, and Jeff watched as flares of light popped up, the brilliant blue hue of transformers exploding. The island was in near total darkness as they reached the end of Nags Head Island. Jeff steered them into open water and brought the boat to a stop about a half-mile from the shore.
“C’mon guys. I got something’ to show y’all,” he said, waving Amanda and Gabe to follow. Jeff slid down the ladder like a seasoned pro and headed towards the middle deck, his friends close behind him. He strolled to the aft of the yacht and down below decks. “I give you the mobile version of 96.6 FM.”
The deck below them was set up as a duplicate version of Jeff’s booth at the station. Jeff happily bounded down the steps and plopped down in his chair. He swung around to the console and flipped a few switches and the board lit up, indicating it was ready to broadcast.
“I thought the station in town was still broadcasting. How are you going to do it from here?” Amanda asked.
Jeff swung around to his friends. “I can control either one from either station. As soon as I turned this one on, the one in Kill Devil Hills turned off,” Jeff grinned and winked. “Money can buy you some hellacious technology.”
Gabe stepped forward to the console. “So, wait. Are we broadcasting right now?”
“Not yet. You just gotta push that big red button in front of you. Once you do that, we’re good to go.”
“Tell people that we are alive. Tell them to get on the Coast Guard rescue channel. It’s Channel 16 on the marine radio.” Gabe pressed the big red LIVE button and pointed to Jeff.
Jeff winked. “I’ll do you one better than that.” He swung around to the board and grabbed his microphone. His words echoed out from the boat, over the airwaves and towards the remaining survivors–if indeed there were any.
“This is Jeff Kerry broadcasting from off the coast of Nags Head. If there are any survivors out there, tune to the Coast Guard rescue channel–Channel 16. These zombie bastards out there aren’t going to take us out without a fight! If you’re hearing this, then you are one of the lucky few. Stay safe and contact me, or get in touch with some of the boats out here off the coast. We will try to rescue you, and if we can’t, we will send help your way. I will be on here all night if need be.”
The radio crackled to life almost immediately.
“We’re stuck out in the sound near Roanoke Island!”
“Hey! Come get my wife and me! We’re stuck at the pier at Ocracoke! There’s zombies all over the place!”
“Our fishing boat’s motor died! We’re four miles out from Nags Head! Help!”
Gabe grinned and pulled Amanda close. As he savored the embrace, he keyed the radio. “We’re on the way. Keep calm and stay near the radio if you can.” Gabe turned to Jeff. “We got some work to do, brother.”
Jeff paused and put on an evil smile. He spun around in his plush chair and went live on the console again, broadcasting to the masses. “Here’s some motivation to get you going … a soundtrack to the apocalypse, if you will …”
The squeal of a guitar fades in and out; rain and thunder pound the background. The wail of the dying chord slowly gives way and the symphony of bass pedal, cymbals, and a crunching riff combine. The crescendo hits and the song blasts out of the speakers like a machine gun. The sound breaks loose, chugging the headbanging riff of Raining Blood.
BEAST OF THE TRENCHES
By James Michaels
The mist drifted through the winter barren trees, white silk caressing skeletal fingers reaching to the sky as if to ask where the warm summer weather had gone. Large white snowflakes drifted lazily down through the air to settle gently to the ground, veiling the war-ravaged land with a virgin white blanket. An eerie and surreal light settled over the landscape casting the terrain in a soft warm glow belying the frigid temperature. Small mounds, soon covered, hid the mass of twisted and broken bodies that lay strewn throughout the land before the deep trench sheltering the survivors of the most recent failed attack. Most looked just as dead as the slain lying before them.
Corporal Ted “Teddy” Boris lay at the lip of his trench scanning for any enemy movement. The failed attack would let the Germans he was facing know their ability to defend this section of trench would be greatly inhibited due to the amount of casualties they had sustained. The cold seeped through his threadbare uniform, chilling him to his very soul and inhibiting his ability to concentrate. His mind, exhausted from the stressors of close combat, soon began to wander to happier times.
His parents, Russian immigrants to the United States, made their pilgrimage to the promised land in the summer of 1895 when he was just eight months old. His father, a devout Protestant, was determined to be the best American to ever walk the earth, thus ingraining this concept into his oldest son. When the First World War broke out for the Americans in 1917, Teddy was one of the first men to volunteer. Never had he imagined the horrors that lay in wait for him on the battlefields of Europe.
An avid hunter, he roamed the hills of his adopted Idaho every chance he could. An expert shot and horseman, he soon became known as a man who brought down whatever it was he was hunting. A fanatical patriot he was, yet those ideals did not extend to his patience. At an early age, all that knew him knew he was not one to mess with. Easy to anger and loving any kind of fight, he became adept with his fists as well as with his trusty Bowie. Still a bit of the Wild West, the valleys and peaks of the Salmon River Mountain Range were ruled by the law of the gun. Teddy had killed his first would-be robber by the age of fourteen. Ruled a fair fight, he was acquitted of all wrongdoing by a jury of his peers. From that day forward, he became more and more aggressive towards those he deemed preying on the innocent and peaceful.
There was a gentler side to him as well. His love of his mother knew no bounds and his loyalty to his father was without equal. To those who minded their own business and worked hard to eke out a living in the rugged terrain, Teddy was known to give the shirt off his back. He could often be found working to repair fences or helping in the fields of those who had earned his respect and loyalty. If he cared about you then he cared deeply, yet if a person betrayed that, they no longer existed in his universe.
Movement to his front caught his attention, snapping him back to the present. Through the falling snow, he caught the source. What appeared to be a very large dog was bent over the corpse of one of his colleagues. The beast ap
peared to be ripping and tearing at the body. Large wolves had been seen hanging around the fringes of the battlefields feasting on the bodies of the fallen for months now. The thought of some wolf devouring a fellow American was too much for him. Taking careful aim, Teddy fired, striking the beast in the head as it came up with a mouthful of flesh. What happened next would haunt him for the rest of his days.
The creature froze as bits of flesh and bone fell from its open maw. With golden eyes shining in the snow-enhanced moonlight, it stared directly into Teddy’s eyes. Then, with a roar that caused all occupying the trench with Teddy to cease whatever activity they were engaged in and quickly man their posts, the beast rose to stand on its hind legs, resembling a human form. Completely unfazed by the bullet wound weeping blood down its snout, it roared again and then bounded off into the surrounding forest after dropping back to all fours. The sight had so completely unnerved the veteran hunter that Teddy could only lay shaking upon the cold hard ground in shock.
“Are we under attack?” a young lieutenant asked, running up to Teddy’s position. “How many and where are they coming from? I don’t see anything! Speak, Corporal!”
Finding his voice, Teddy croaked out, “No sir, we are not under attack.”
“Then what in seven bloody hells were you shooting at?!”
“There was a very large wolf eating some of our dead out there. I … I … I shot it, sir.”
The lieutenant paused for a moment. He had known Teddy for many months now and never had known the young man to be spooked at anything. Shooting a wolf was common enough, let alone Teddy’s vast experience of hunting back in his native Idaho, that the act should not have upset the woodsman.
“Corporal, what exactly did you see out there?”
Teddy took a moment to collect his thoughts. He knew what he had just witnessed could not be possible, yet seen it he had. How was he going to be able to tell his commanding officer what he had seen and not have everyone think him battle-fatigued? To be labeled as insane, even if it was later rescinded, would stick with him all the rest of his days. The more he thought about what he thought he had seen, the more he began to doubt. Had he really seen what his mind was telling him he had?