by TW Brown
“Evan Berry, and…yeah…about that…” I wasn’t sure how to word things.
“Relax, I get it,” Andrew said, casting a glance over his shoulder to see his people as they encountered a good number of ours, including Marshawn who was already examining the person on the stretcher. “I’m not a doctor, but I know her odds are slim. A gut shot with a barbed arrow? Hell, who knows what that punched a hole in. If she doesn’t bleed out, what are the chances she makes it through recovery without getting some kind of infection.” It was more statement than question. He glanced around the woods. “Not exactly a sterile, surgical environment.”
I nodded as I felt a surge of relief sweep through which instantly made me feel just a bit guilty. “Do all your people understand that?”
I hated asking that question almost as much as I disliked the guilt I was already stuffing down. I didn’t want to come across as an ass. And if there was a possibility that this group was going to join us, I sorta wanted things to start on the right foot. Still, I had to know what to expect.
“Let’s just say that everybody has already said their goodbyes…just in case.”
I didn’t know what degree of relief was the appropriate amount. I was pretty sure my levels bordered on inappropriate. The thing is, I already have two members of my group pissed at me and one who might be a wolf in sheep’s clothing.
“So, you say you guys got attacked?” I said as I began walking into the heart of our little camp with Andrew.
“Yeah. We pulled off Interstate 205 to search for supplies. I used to drive UPS in the area, and I knew of this mobile home park. Figured that we could at least check it out to see if the risk was worth the possible reward,” Andrew explained. “We’d just pulled in and got out to check one of the outer units when this freaking school bus roared past the entrance to the park.”
I felt a lump form in my throat. It couldn’t be… No, I dismissed quickly before Andrew could resume his narrative. After all, that other little band of punks back in Damascus had been driving around in a school bus as well. They were large, sturdy, and probably not a bad form of transportation if you had more than just a few people.
“We all heard the brakes squeal and knew that the person driving or one of the passengers had spotted us. We’d been in two trucks at that time, and everybody ran back to them. We have a variety of weapons, but our ammo supply is about tapped.”
I needed to hear what this guy had to say before I came at him with a million questions. The first thing I needed to know is just how much he saw of his attackers.
“When the bus came flying backwards, we were just climbing into the trucks.” Andrew paused and took a deep breath. “They had a fucking machine gun mounted on the top of the bus.”
Scratch that. I didn’t need to know any more to be certain.
“They cut down four of my people and destroyed the other truck.” Andrew glanced at me, and I could tell he was considering how much more to tell me.
I decided to save him the trouble. I related my own encounters with Don Evans. It took a while, and as I told my tale, more of Andrew Greene’s people had gathered around…along with several of Griffin’s.
As I told my story, I felt so many emotions. All of them began to cluster together to form another: Resolve.
“And that is why I don’t have any other choice.” That last part was more just me thinking aloud.
Marshawn picked that moment to emerge from the tent where he’d been trying to save a person’s life. His grim expression told me the outcome before he gave a slight shake of his head.
I’d done the one thing I knew I couldn’t. I’d let the bad guy live. Okay, so maybe that wasn’t an entirely accurate or realistic stance to take.
I knew what needed to be done, though. Otherwise, more people would die unnecessarily. More atrocities would be committed out of a pure and evil hatred.
I stood up and looked around. Sure, Griffin needed to be dealt with, but I didn’t have any solid proof that he was evil. I’d yet to see him do anything that I could classify as wrong. Suspicious? Sure. But blatantly wrong? No.
With Don Evans, that was an entirely different tune. In this moment, I had no doubts as to what I should do.
“I have to kill Don Evans.”
Zombie
The Cat Mansion
“Your mom and dad said for us to get everything packed that we will take,” Ethan McDermott said to the two boys who made no acknowledgement of his presence.
He stood there for a moment as the two boys continued to hoot and yell at the pinball machine. It was as if they hadn’t heard him, but since he’d practically yelled those words from less than ten feet away, he doubted that was the case.
“Trent, Ian! Did you hear what I said?”
“We heard you, Uncle Ethan,” Trent, the older of the two said over his shoulder as he smacked the side of the pinball machine, causing the ‘TILT’ lights to flash.
“Yeah, Uncle Ethan…we heards you,” little Ian parroted, almost nailing the snotty ambivalence and disdain exhibited by his older brother.
“Then move your asses!” Ethan snapped after several seconds passed and Trent went so far as to launch another pinball into play.
Glancing up at the televisions mounted in the game room that normally ran sports and music videos, he saw varying scenes of the unimaginable horror that was sweeping the world. The two boys both made loud protesting groans before reluctantly leaving the machine.
At nine, Trent was what Ethan considered the epitome of a spoiled rotten rich kid. He was often coming home from the private school he attended with a note from the faculty explaining that his behavior and bullying was a problem.
That fault rested solely on the shoulders of the boy’s mother, Ethan told himself. He made a sweeping gesture with his arms to usher the two boys through the door. The youngest, Ian, looked up at him as he passed and stuck out his tongue. It took all his restraint not to bop the seven-year-old brat under the chin to teach him a lesson.
“Go to your rooms and grab your backpacks,” Ethan said between clenched teeth.
As the day had gone from bad to worse, he’d had to fight every urge to just walk out and never look back. He’d never really been that close to his sister, and he thought the husband was a pompous jerk that needed to have his ass kicked one good time to remind him that all his money didn’t make him invincible.
“When are Mom and Dad gonna get home?” little Ian whined as he trudged down the hall and into his bedroom that was probably twice the size of Ethan’s apartment in one of Portland’s less than desirable neighborhoods.
“When they walk in the door,” Ethan snapped.
He pulled out the pint of bottom shelf whiskey from his coat pocket and took a pull from the bottle. As he stuffed it back into his coat, Trent exited his room.
“Mom says you aren’t supposed to drink in front of us,” the boy said with a sneer. “I’m telling.”
“I don’t give a fuck.”
That made the young man’s mouth open in a silent ‘O’ that invited a backhand if Ethan was just a few steps closer. The boy looked as if he was about to say something, and then obviously thought better of it.
At least he ain’t a complete idiot, Ethan mused.
“Now, get downstairs. We need to be ready the moment that your folks get here.” Ethan turned on his heel and headed down without looking to see if the boys followed.
When he reached the main floor, his eyes rolled. The number of bags, footlockers, and giant suitcases were ridiculous. If his sister and her husband thought that the people at the FEMA shelter were going to allow them in with that much crap…well, he looked forward to that confrontation. He turned to head for the kitchen. He knew where a quality bottle of whiskey was stashed.
Just as he reached the hall closet that her sister used to hide her liquor the same as their mother had when they were younger, a loud bang sounded at the front door. He turned, but the two boys darted past.
A
thought occurred just as the boys reached the front door: Who the hell would be banging on that door? Certainly not his sister or her worthless husband.
“Mommy! Daddy!” Ian squealed as Trent turned the lock and threw the door open.
It most certainly was not their parents. The man that stood in the doorway was short and verging on obese. With his insides dangling from a nasty rip in his protruding gut, it was even more pronounced.
Being across the foyer, Ethan was just getting a whiff of the horrible monster, but the boys were already both staggering back as vomit spewed from their mouths in dual geysers of bile.
Ian stepped wrong and fell back as Trent turned and ran a few steps before dropping to his knees as he continued to heave the remaining contents of his stomach in a wet splash onto the tiled foyer. Ethan had seen enough on the news to know what was now stumbling into the house. The only problem was that he was not carrying a weapon.
Turning, he sprinted to the kitchen. The first thing he spotted was a medium-sized cast iron skillet that he’d used earlier to make their dinner of fried potatoes, onions, and smoked sausage. Of course, the boys had complained and insisted that was no kind of dinner their mom ever had made for them. He hadn’t missed the “had” in that statement. The house had a full staff of servants. If he was a betting man, he was willing to guess that this man was one of the groundskeepers.
As he rushed back into the room, he saw that there would be no way he could reach Ian before the monster staggering towards the small boy. One voice in his head began to insist that it wasn’t his problem. He didn’t even like his nephews. But there was a piece of him that drove him forward and demanded he protect the child.
As the gutted gardener flopped down and grabbed Ian by one arm, Ethan threw himself at it with all he had. He slammed into the lump of dead flesh just as its mouth closed on the young boy’s forearm.
There was a shriek as the collision occurred. It was horrible and unlike anything that Ethan had ever heard in his life. Coming to a stop, he pushed away from the foul-smelling corpse and took a firm grip of the pan’s handle.
He’d heard enough to know that these things only went down one way. With everything he had, Ethan brought the pan down on the head of the creature that was struggling to get to its hands and knees.
The sound was like a muted church bell as the flat bottom of the cast iron weapon connected solidly with the top of the skull. Ethan yelped and dropped his weapon as a stinging pain buzzed through both his hands.
As for the zombie, it’d fallen back to the ground, but was struggling to return to its feet. Ethan considered retrieving the skillet, but his hands sent a veto to his brain.
The sound of feet scurrying up the stairs caused Ethan to glance over his shoulder. Trent vanished from view down the hall that led to his bedroom leaving him and Ian alone with the zombie.
Correction…zombies.
Two more staggered in through the open front door. Knowing he was not prepared for a fight, Ethan scooped up the wailing Ian and ran for the stairs. He glanced over his shoulder to see the zombies bumping into each other in a slow-motion pinballing that had them careening off the stacked luggage as they reoriented on him and made their way to the stairs. The little boy seemed to gain ten pounds with every stair climbed.
As soon as he reached the landing, Ethan tried to set the little boy down, but the child clung to him with all he was worth. It took a considerable effort to pry Ian’s hands from around his neck. When he was free, the child began to scream in absolute terror as his eyes found the trio of undead making their slow ascent of the stairs.
Grabbing the boy by the hand, Ethan scurried down the hall that Trent had disappeared into. He could see the boy’s door was shut and had to skid to a halt and open it. He flung it open and spied a pair of feet just as they vanished under the bed.
He basically flung the younger boy into the room and then yanked the door shut. Turning, he ran back to the arcade. Set just off it was a cleaning closet. As he ran, he cursed his sister for not having any proper weapons in the house. He reached the arcade, his eyes darting over his shoulder to ensure one of the undead wasn’t on his heels.
Opening the closet, he grabbed the first thing he thought might be a suitable weapon: a broom. He rushed back up the hall and arrived at the landing just as the first zombie reached the top of the stairs.
He shot a quick glance at the front door and allowed himself to breathe a sigh of relief that no other zombies had stumbled in…yet. By now, the second one had reached the top.
He took a few steps backward as he tried to decide how best to handle the situation. An idea came; it seemed a bit far-fetched, but it might work. If nothing else, he should be able to clear a path and make a run for it. His conscience could go screw itself. He needed to get the hell out of here. Bringing along those two brats would slow him down. Plus, he could still hear the little one bawling his head off. That would attract attention that he didn’t want or need.
The nearest zombie closed the distance and Ethan swung as hard as he could. The head of the broom connected and sent the zombie slamming into the railing. Its lack of coordination did the rest as the zombie flipped over and plummeted to the floor below, landing with a sickening thud, crack, and splat.
He’d been more prepared for the electric buzz that shot through his hands this time, and managed to keep his grip on his weapon. Good thing, too, because the next zombie was already on him.
Bringing the broom up across his body this time, Ethan charged, catching up the zombie as he did, and sending it over the railing as well. He watched it as it fell gracelessly to the floor, landing just to one side of the first one he’d knocked over. Its head connected solid with the floor and burst, spraying chunky black brain matter like a rotten melon.
By now, the one he’d first hit in the head was reaching the top of the stairs. He stalked up to it and jammed the end of the broom into its face. The zombie toppled easily, but only fell a few stairs until it connected with the wall and came to a stop with its feet in the air.
Ethan charged in and began plunging the end of the broom handle down on the zombie’s face again and again until it was a ruined mess. At some point, he punched through an eye socket and apparently ended the zombie.
Rushing down the stairs, Ethan reached the front door and looked out into the dark yard. Reaching over, he hit the main switch to bring up the exterior lighting system. What he saw made him let out his own soft cry. Standing just at the end of the walkway were three children. Their eyes were filmed over and the black tracers that the lady on television had spoken of could be seen very clearly.
He looked past at the gate and saw the dark outlines of at least a dozen more children. He had no doubt as to their condition.
Where had they come from? It took him a few minutes, but then he thought his sister had said something about one of the neighbors having a birthday party.
He was trapped. Those children were between him and the detached garage where any vehicle he might consider using was parked. Very briefly, he considered making a run for it, but then he realized that eventually his sister and her husband should be arriving soon. The same driver that had picked him up and brought him here had left to fetch them. Hadn’t they said they were leaving the hospital where he was chief of staff and she was the administrator within the hour? And that call had been—he glanced at his watch—just about an hour ago. If they’d left on time, then the ride out here was about another hour.
He slammed the door, but not before he realized that the zombie children hadn’t advanced. They were just standing there…watching him. That was almost more frightening, Ethan decided as a shiver coursed through him.
Turning back, he looked at the mess splattered all over the foyer. One of the fallen zombies was still struggling, trying to crawl for him. Its back was at an angle that left no doubt it was broken. It was pulling itself by its arms, but not having much luck as the legs were obviously useless.
Taking a
nother long pull of his bottle, Ethan strolled casually up to the struggling creature. The stink was bad enough that it threatened to send the contents of his stomach spewing from his mouth. It would only add to what the boys had already done, and there was no way he would clean that up. His snotty sister could deal with it. Of course, she would fob it off on her staff.
Glancing at the corpses on the floor, he amended that to what was left of her staff. After all, Ethan thought, what other reason would three Mexicans have for being here?
He put an end to the last zombie and took another drink. It was the end of that bottle. Well, as far as he was concerned, his sister owed him. He went back to her so-called secret hiding place and grabbed a bottle. He read the label and had to admit he’d never even heard of the stuff before. The only thing that mattered was the word “whiskey” on it.
He took a drink and shrugged. He doubted it was worth the price his sister probably paid for it, but it was decent enough.
Stepping back into the foyer, Ethan set the bottle on a table and decided that he needed to get the bodies dealt with or he was not going to be able to hold his liquor in much longer. He knew his sister had one of those big walk-in sub-zero freezers. And again, it would be her problem.
It took a bit, and he had to finally walk away, find a towel to cover his face and then return to the task, but eventually he got it done. To celebrate his completion, he took another long drink. By now, his head was floating, and the edges of his vision were a bit fuzzy.
He sat down on a chair and cocked his head. The kid had finally stopped bawling. He’d been so focused on moving the bodies that he hadn’t realized it. That brought another idea to him.
He walked to the front door, each step taken on unsteady tiptoe as if he thought he might make a sound that would jinx the hoped-for result. Cautiously, he opened the front door.
“Fuck,” he hissed, slamming it shut.
In the short glimpse he’d taken, he saw the three children from earlier. They had gotten closer but were now five. He knew he’d seen more on the driveway, but he’d only managed a very brief peek.