by Bryan James
“What are your names?” she said, holding back on the drinking jokes.
There was a short pause and then the younger girl answer quietly.
“I’m Annie and my sister’s name …”
“I can tell her my name myself,” the older girl said quickly, before adding. “But why’d you come after us like that? We don’t even know you.”
Kate’s hands were on the walls of the vat, searching for a ladder or another way up. From the walkway above, she could see that there were hatches on the top of the vats. But the curvature of the inside of the smooth walls wouldn’t allow them to access the top unless … ahh, there it was. Welded metal rungs spaced roughly two feet apart.
“I saw your … car … get attacked,” she said, replacing ‘mom’ with ‘car’ at the last minute. “I followed you in to see if I could help.”
“We didn’t make it very far. Stacy can’t drive too good,” said Annie, her voice amused. “We used to play video games and she would …”
“Shut up,” said Stacy. “You cheated. And besides, that car was too big. I shoulda practiced on a smaller one first.”
Outside the vat, a loud echo intruded. One of the creatures outside had slammed its hand against the metal.
“Shush,” Kate said absently, pulling on the rung in her hand to test its strength. “I’m going to climb up and see if the hatch on the top will open—can you girls stay quiet for me? I don’t think those things can get in here, but if they know we’re here, they’ll never leave us alone and we won’t be able to escape. I’m just going to try to open the hatch to see if we can get out that way if we need to.”
Stacy muttered an okay, despite continuing on a quiet argument with her sister about who was better at the video game Drive It Like You Stole It—Kate found it to be a refreshing change of pace from the normal conversation of the end times.
The rungs were awkward, ascending as they did at an inward angle, but she reached the top carefully, being sure to place her hands and feet quietly and softly on each rung. At the center of the vat, a circular hatch—no more than two feet wide—was firmly closed. With great difficulty, Kate managed to hang with one arm from the rungs, and pull steadily but forcefully on the lever that opened the hatch from the inside. A slight squeak escaped the metal mechanism as the lever started its rotation and she stopped immediately, grimacing in the dark and waiting for the sound of more hands against the metal.
Outside, the creatures looked up absently, searching briefly for the noise but spending little time trying to locate its source. In the months that had defined their existence as mindless ghouls, they had learned basic information—at the top of that list was which noises were mechanical, and unlikely to result in food, and which noises were promising. Squeaky metal often fell into the latter category.
Kate made her way quietly to the floor and sighed, deciding that the hatch would open, but that it risked being too loud. Glumly, she realized that this left them with a predicament. They were safe inside this vat, but would eventually die from hunger and thirst. They could leave the safety of the metal container, but in exiting they would alert the creatures outside that they were there and compromise their escape. And worse yet—if the creatures outside did eventually decide to leave, the humans trapped inside would have no way to know.
Leaning back carefully against the metal, she allowed herself to slide down the wall, sitting in the two inches of liquid at the bottom of the vat as the girls whispered softly to each other on the other side.
What was a little swamp-ass when you were on death’s doorstep, anyway? She chuckled at the thought, and seriously considered taking a snort of the wine that was sloshing happily around her ass.
And that’s when she heard the roar of the engine outside.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Great escapes and bad ideas...
The plan was simple.
Step one: don’t die.
Step two: get shit done.
I thought I had explained it sufficiently to my jolly friends, but they kept nagging me with questions. As if details mattered.
So annoying.
“Yes, they respond to sound and they will cluster together. Why do you think they’re all still in town? For some reason, they like to stay together. When the noise starts, they will move toward it.”
But how did I know that? What experience did I have with large herds?
“Because I’ve seen it happen over and over again. With more herds than I could count. They used to be more individualized, but we’ve seen lately that they’re staying together—we think it’s an instinctual tendency or some innate developing awareness that food is easier to take down as a group. But we’re not zombologists, for Christ’s sake. I can’t tell you why, for sure.”
How would we avoid them after we sounded the alarm?
“I told you. You will wait up here. I will go down there. I’ll make some huge-ass noise, and make my way through them somehow, and we’ll meet at the entrance to the dam.”
How would I get through the herd safely? Didn’t I realize that I’d be swimming upstream?
“I’ve got a plan.”
What plan?
“A good one.”
Do you have any more of the peanut butter and jelly MRE’s?
“No.”
How about the cheese and crackers?
“No.”
I was lying about that one.
Those were the best, and I was hoarding them.
What do you want from me? I’m not Mother fucking Theresa.
While it was a simple plan, those were the ones that I had found had the highest probability of success. I would dip down into the town, find the town fire station—no big challenge, since I was staring at it from our perch right now—and sound an alarm. The locals would come shambling toward me, I would flank them in some clever method, then join up with Ethan and Rhi to pull their friends from the dam.
How would I get through the crowd of hundreds of zombies?
Don’t rush me. I work best under pressure.
I managed to convince Romeo to stay behind, and took the ammunition and a few of the MRE’s with the cheese and crackers, and left the rest of my pack. I needed to move quickly. My leg was still sore, but the hole had already healed over, and the pain was lessening by the hour. I could risk it. The leg was usable, despite the pain.
Ethan scanned the town again and squinted at me.
“Boy, you’re either stupider than a retarded bull dog, or …” he drifted off, then just nodded. “I reckon that’s it. You’re just stupider than a retarded bull dog.”
Not much to say to that, I supposed.
“Okay then,” I said. To Rhi I said, “Take care of the dog. He doesn’t like to listen but he’s good to have around if you need something slobbered on.” Romeo wagged his tail once.
“I figure it will be thirty minutes down, thirty minutes to rig the sound, and another thirty to get to the rendezvous. Plan to meet me in an hour and a half. If you don’t hear anything within the hour, you can assume I was eaten.”
It’s amazing the new phrases our lovely world had normalized.
Rhi nodded and crossed her arms in front of her chest.
“You be careful. There’s children depending on you. And you’re not gonna find your friends if you die down there.”
Iron clad logic and a stellar pep talk to be sure.
“You always did know what to say to a guy,” I muttered, adjusting the strap on my rifle and turning on my heel. “I’ll see you in a bit.”
The rocky path descended slowly into the valley, trees rising to greet me as I approached the valley floor, obscuring the view of the town. The path crawled along the low foothills until it spit out into a small state park near the end of the main road into town. I stopped at the tree line, peering into a small playground surrounded by a low chain link fence, sad and pathetic in its rusted and dilapidated state. A single swing hung from a rusty chain, the other side having broken long ago. A
thin layer of ash had accumulated on the ground, and I checked it for prints. It was clear of recent activity.
Beyond the park, and lining the road, were a number of low, middle-class houses with faded shingles and worn paint. The yards, having long since been overrun with weeds and tall unkempt grass, were all fenced in with the same low chain link fencing—more effective for keeping children and dogs in or out than any real security purposes. Beyond the blocks of houses, a modest commercial district lined the street, vacant restaurants, banks, and drug stores staring into the zombie-filled boulevard.
And at the end of that commercial district sat the firehouse.
I was aiming for the firehouse because I was looking for the loudest noise in town and because the church was on the other side of the river. I figured it had a siren inside, or I’d borrow one from the truck. Not a certainty, but a decent bet.
I crouched low in the small playground, moving furtively toward the fence. The road was quiet, with maybe forty zombies between me and the edge of the commercial district, all of them slow and seemingly sleepy, as if merely minutes from hibernating.
Reaching for the rusty gate, I stopped my hand above the release, realizing that it was probably squeakier than a neutered mouse.
Jumping quickly to clear the low fence, I squatted down again, scanning. Several cars were still parked along the street and clearly hadn’t been moved since the outbreak. One had a shattered driver’s side window, but the other looked abandoned. I didn’t even bother with trying for them. The batteries would have died months ago, and the pack with the starter was lost upriver with Kate and Ky.
I allowed myself a moment of concern, even as I watched a group of five creatures shamble around the corner of the nearest house, their feet kicking clouds of ash into the air as they crossed the mundane yard of the claptrap one-story home, mindlessly searching for food.
I had seen them land safely. They were armed, and they were fast. I heard the gunfire. I knew they were fighters.
They would survive.
My challenge wasn’t to mourn their loss—it was to find them in the earthquake and tsunami-devastated Northwest and get to Vancouver. Not an easy task, but better than the alternative.
I broke from my position for better cover behind a large pile of trash bags on the other side of the street, as the group of five neared the road, pushing through an open gate and shuffling onto the sidewalk.
They were now across from me as I moved up the opposite side of the street toward the center of town. I stopped again as another group—this one of more than ten—emerged from behind a house ahead of me. Without better cover, I only had one alternative. I crawled to the nearest fence and half-jumped, half-rolled over the barrier and into the front yard of a small brick home, half of which had come crashing down in one of the earthquakes.
Red brick and mortar littered the yard, amidst the ash and other debris of the collapse. I cursed briefly as I kicked a hidden plank of wood, but managed to stumble into the meager protection of the remaining walls in time.
The two groups continued their meandering course, moving toward town and away from my position.
Checking my watch, I realized my timing was tight. But I had underestimated the difficulty of moving to the station with the smaller groups still roaming the city. For some reason, these zombies weren’t herding together as aggressively as most. And this was a problem—it didn’t leave me room to maneuver.
From the hills behind me—from where I had left Ethan and Rhi—I heard the sudden heart-stopping sound of semi-automatic weapon fire. The popping of the rounds cut through my indecisiveness.
It was time to call an audible. If they had run into zombies on the trail, they needed to move. And they needed somewhere to move to. I had to make this happen now.
The fire station was out the window. It was too far and time was too short. I scanned the inside of the small home. A horrid armchair was the main fixture in the room, seated triumphantly on top of a swatch of orange shag carpet.
A brown sofa that looked like it had survived several decades of college door rooms was pushed against the front door in a half-assed attempt to bar the entryway. To my right, a galley kitchen held rotten piles of trash and the remains of half-washed dishes, with a sponge still sitting perched on the sink. It was clear that people that had lived here had left quickly.
I would have to make this shit do.
I bolted to the couch, pulling it to the chair and throwing a cigarette-scarred end table on the top of the pile. Several pieces of old firewood made a nice addition as I scoured the hallway for linens. A few towels and a set of dingy sheets made the pile. Then I let my eyes search upward for the device I needed. Even a crappy little house like this one … ah, there it was.
My hand shot to one of my cargo pants, pulling a zippo lighter and snapping it open. I quickly lit the large pile of debris from the bottom, putting the flame against the torn and scuffed hem of the large chair and watching the fire burst into being and happily begin eating through the cheap, dry material.
As it burned, I flew to the kitchen, opening the back door to find the crusty grill I knew would be there. Beside it, a moldy bottle of accelerant sat staring at me with glee, as if asking “What took you so long?”
I smirked and grabbed the bottle, spraying the liquid onto the carpet with abandon.
My parents had had a carpet like this and I had always wanted to burn that shit to the ground.
The flames were high already, and I placed the smoke detector next to the conflagration and stepped to the back door. As I did so, I checked the load in my magazine. I had enough to add to the confusion.
As the alarm began to blare its intensely annoying chirp, I fired ten rounds into the air in three second bursts, careful to maintain consistency. As the flames licked into the roof, catching the supports and shingles with a bright orange and red inferno, I backed into the yard and scanned my surroundings. Low fencing on either side, backed by trees. Beyond the trees I could see nothing.
Suddenly eager to be anywhere but here, I vaulted the fence closest to me on the town side of the yard and slunk to a small wood shed near the rear fence in the adjoining yard, sheltering behind the rotting wood siding as the first of the creatures began to appear in the front of the house.
I wondered briefly if I was too exposed in the rear of the houses, but realized with some relief that the unbroken expanse of four-foot high chain link fences presented enough of a border that I could gain distance from any pursuers before I was in any real danger. Assuming, of course, that everyone along the way had left their gates closed when they left.
Dozens of zombies were already streaming toward the flaming home as the beeping of the alarm inside was nearly drowned out by the roaring of the flames. Dark black smoke curled into the sky, a pale mockery of the volcanoes’ wrath from the last twenty-four hours. I stared past the long grass and broken slats of the small shed into the street, watching them flock to the light and sound. They didn’t see well, but the bright flames in the gray air combined with the sound of the alarm and the smell of the smoke was sufficient to pull at least the zeds within six blocks.
That would have to be enough for now.
I rose from my crouch and, keeping my eyes on the blazing inferno, I started toward the next yard.
In the street before me, at least a hundred of the creatures had assembled already, some even attempting to enter the blazing structure. A group of six or seven approached the inferno where the wall had collapsed. They made their way as far as the edge of the carpet and turned away, realizing as they became engulfed in flame that the destruction of their muscle tissue and bones was hindering their ability to find food.
They streamed out of the home, into the yard and out onto the street, their eyes having long since melted away. As I spared a second glance, my hand on the fence next to me, they followed the sound of several other creatures who were scrambling to get out of a fenced yard, and stumbled together into the yard of the
home across the street, where the gate had been left wide open.
Three of them made it through the gap, despite the flames leaping from their bodies and their lack of eyesight. Remarkably—perhaps driven by some primal instinct to hunt for humans inside houses—they simply walked up the cement walkway and collapsed on the porch of the home.
I watched with a mix of satisfaction and dread as their flaming bodies immediately caught the dry wood of the porch on fire, moving quickly to the structure of the home. By the time I had moved across the next yard, inching carefully toward the commercial center, the home was engulfed, and the flames were licking the side of the next home.
I had never considered this possibility.
Looking back to the small house I had set ablaze, I watched as the wind pushed flaming embers onto the roof of the neighboring home. Already, small pieces of shingle were smoldering.
Yes, this would work out nicely—as long as I could outpace the fire. I didn’t fancy burning to death on this run.
Lingering a moment too long near the edge of the fourth house down from where I started, I kept my eyes locked on the flames and smoke several seconds too long.
The pain of the bite was shocking, and I choked off a scream as I swung my arm around in a wide arc. A group of four zombies had wandered into the overgrown yard—whether intentionally or purely through happenstance I had no idea—and were nearly upon me. Even through the pain, I cursed my clumsiness. How do shambling sacks of shit sneak up on a grown-ass man?
Dumb shit cluster fucking asshole.
That’s the kind of shit that happens in my movies, not real life.
I took out my frustration on my new friends.
The creature that had bitten me was latched onto my shoulder like a Rotweiler, his rotten mouth sending little daggers of pain lancing through the meat of my left shoulder. His hands were scrabbling for purchase on my back, and I reached up for his head with my left hand instinctively, knowing that if he pulled back to tear the flesh off and consume it, the wound would be worse.