The Dark Times: A Zombie Novel

by Dane Hatchell

  Minding his step so as to not make too much noise, Rico walked back toward the center of the store, quickly scanning each aisle. Angie was nowhere to be found.

  “Angie!” Rico called out, his voice raspy and low. “Angie.” Now he started to get a little worried. He hadn’t checked the back where the Harley was hidden. There was no way that woman could have driven that thing by herself. What if—what if she found someone else to ride off with?

  He was to the back of the store again and seeing a can of deluxe mixed nuts with pistachios reminded him, he needed to eat. But not only did he need to eat, he needed to piss like a race horse. That was when the thought occurred to him. He hadn’t checked the bathrooms.

  Rico stepped over to the door and slowly pushed it open. There she was, lying on the cold, hard floor. Not set up comfortably like he was.

  “Oh my God, Angie!” Rico stepped into the bathroom and dropped down to her side. She was lying in a fetal position, but her arms and legs were tensed up. Was she having a seizure? He pulled the hair away from her face. Her mouth foamed with drool and vomit. The room smelled like puke and piss. That was because she had actually pissed herself. He called her name, watching her eyes for movement. “Angie, can you hear me?”

  Angie blinked a few times and struggled to look his way. Her lips quivered, and her brow creased like waves in rippling water. She was in deep, deep distress.

  “Talk to me. What happened? Did you take too many pills? You didn’t go outside, did you? You’re not bit, are—”

  She reached over and grabbed his wrist. “I… I need,” Angie gritted her vomit-covered teeth and dug her fingers into his skin. “I need a… fix.”

  “A fix?” Rico said. “Withdrawals? You’re having fucking withdrawals already?”

  Angie nodded her head, and then kicked out her legs and screamed in pain. Spittle and puke sprang from her mouth, splashing across the floor as she cried out.

  Once the horrendous fit died down, Rico said, “I want to help you, but I don’t know what to do.”

  Angie tried to reach for a bottle of water that had rolled over by the wall. Her frail, thin arm seemed much more skeletal now.

  Rico leaned over and snatched up the bottle. He twisted off the top and gently turned it up for her to drink. Most of the contents of the bottle just spilled across her lips, cascading to the floor and pooling around Angie’s already vomit drenched hair. At least, through it all she managed to down a gulp or two.

  Angie closed her eyes for a brief moment and began to smile. At least that’s what Rico thought. The smile instantly turned into a grimace, and Angie’s legs kicked out straight again. Her fists clenched white as she held them in close to her chest.

  Angie cried out in pain, spitting up more saliva and chunks of whatever she had eaten last. Rico reached up, trying to wipe her mouth with his hand, but Angie kicked hard again and he jumped. She cried out more. Her wails of anguish reverberated off the bathroom tiles.

  Rico didn’t know what to do. He rose and went to the sink and washed his hands. The automatic paper towel dispenser spit out a few sheets, on which he dried his hands and leaned over to wipe Angie’s face. Fresh urine ran down Angie’s boney leg onto the floor. Gas rumbled from her backside. The stench assaulted Rico’s nose. My God, he hoped she hadn’t shat on herself. Using the wet towels as a filter over his mouth didn’t help much.

  Something thumped outside the door. It sounded like it came from within the store. That was when Rico thought of that lone zombie lingering in the street. Angie’s cries certainly were loud enough to bring unwanted attention.

  “Be quiet. They’ll hear us,” Rico said.

  Angie moaned and drew her legs toward her chin.

  She was calm for the moment, so he eased the bathroom door open. Something fell and crashed to the floor. There was no doubt someone or something was inside the store.

  *

  The last thing he needed was to be trapped inside a bathroom with a junkie going ape shit and a bunch of flesh eating zombies banging to get in. Rico eased the door open and lightly stepped to the outside, careful to release the doorknob without making it click. His stealth efforts mattered for nothing as Angie let out another barrage of cries.

  Fuck me! Rico clenched his teeth momentarily until the pain forced him to stop. Even with the bathroom door closed and her voice slightly muffled, he could still hear her wails. And so could anyone out in the street not too far from the open doorway. The barricade did little for noise reduction and it sure as shit did little for protection, as evident by the arrival of the new guest or guests.

  He reached around to the small of his back out of habit. His gun wasn’t there and wasn’t in the storage room when he awoke. It wasn’t in the bathroom. Angie had to have taken it—probably had it with her while she was out battening down the hatches. Where the fuck was the gun?

  Rico eased over to the end of the aisle and looked down to the front of the store. The barricade had been breached. A portion of it had been shoved aside, large enough to accommodate a man. In this case, the interloper was the zombie that had been idling out front earlier. It was on the floor—apparently tripping on some shampoo bottles knocked off a display. It reached out and used a shelf to pull itself up.

  It was halfway to its feet when it saw Rico. Milky white eyes glared back at him. The creature opened its mouth in a wide snarl, so wide that Rico thought the monster was going to tear its cheeks apart. Just when he thought the thing couldn’t open its mouth any wider, it hissed a guttural moan. The zombie’s face was pale. Dried blood flaked around the corners of its mouth and chin. In its former life, it might have been a salesman, or had some other white-collar job. Its suit and tie were disheveled; the tie flung over one shoulder. The other shoulder and a portion of the neck bore the mark of its undead transformation. Blood covered skin and clothing, with mangled, reddish pink meat dangling from the wounds.

  It’s party time. Where’s my damn gun? Rico ran his gaze over to the supplies Angie had stacked by the pharmacy counter. If it wasn’t there, he was going to be in a world of shit.

  With no need to hide now, he darted over to the pile of supplies and found it on the backside. He guessed she placed it there just to keep it out of sight. Barricading the door, gathering supplies, hiding Rico in a closet to protect him—despite all Angie’s problems, she really had tried to do the right things to keep them alive.

  The gun was up in his hands against his shoulder with the barrel pointed to the ceiling. He stepped over to the aisle leading to the front.

  There was Mr. Well Dressed Zombie of the Day shambling toward him. Its neck bent unnaturally to the wounded side. Both arms rose toward him as it lifted each foot forward in a wide, mechanical gait. Feet scraped across carpet with each persistent step. The thing’s black eyes transfixed on Rico.

  He lowered the pistol and aimed for the zombie’s head. Angie started up another series of wails. His eyes shifted toward the doorway and the barricade, toward the zombie closing the distance, then back toward the doorway again and the street beyond. He had to eradicate this creature. The pistol felt heavy. He couldn’t do it like this. The report of the firearm might draw more unwanted attention. There was no telling if there were any more of the undead nearby. And if so, how many? The gun’s blast would only alert them. He couldn’t take that chance.

  The creature shuffled closer. The distance between them was half the length of store now. If he were going to make a move, he had to do it soon. The thing would be on him in only a matter of moments.

  He aimed the gun, but the weight in his hands reminded him once again of the potential threat of making such noise.

  Sighing, he lowered the gun.

  “Come and get me, you rotten pus bag!” Rico shoved the gun in his belt, knowing he had to take it down or die. The only question now was how he aimed to accomplish that goal. Playing chase with the thing would certainly buy him some time.

  He waited for the zombie to come within ten feet befor
e making a quick exit right, down an aisle with medical supplies on either side. Rico’s eyes frantically scanned the shelves for anything he could use as a weapon. “You want me? Come and get me!”

  Nothing presented itself as much use for a weapon. The only item that seemed promising enough was a rectal thermometer. An image flashed into Rico’s mind of him jamming the metal end of the device into the zombie’s ear. He had seen that work one time in a movie. In real life, he doubted he had much of a chance to kill the zombie that way. Plus, there was no way he was going to get that close to the thing if he didn’t have to.

  He had spent more time in thought than he should have. The zombie turned down his aisle and he was still empty handed.

  A quick jog had Rico to the end of the aisle right next to a display rack of reading glasses. He caught a reflection of himself in a small mirror on the display. He looked like hell warmed over—even worse than he felt, but now wasn’t the time to worry about that. He snatched up a walking cane out of the bucket next to the display and turned to face the zombie.

  The zombie’s pace quickened as it realized Rico was soon to be in its grasp. Its fingers scratched through empty air, waiting for that sweet second when it could tear flesh.

  Rico saw jagged red veins like lightning bolts in a milky white sky around its black pupils. Its jaw dropped open, and it let out a moan so eerie his colon quivered. The moan sounded similar to a bear in the wild, only more ominous and nasally. He tried to shake off the net of fear threatening to immobilize him.

  Raising the cane over his head, Rico waited for the zombie to be in the right spot. Close, but not too close.

  It shuffled forward.

  Rico gripped the cane tightly.

  The zombie grew closer.

  Then, when the undead son-of-a-bitch was within swinging distance, Rico came down as hard as he could on the ghoul’s skull. The zombie went down on both knees, but that wasn’t all that happened. The wood cracked over the thing’s head, splitting in half like the piece of cheap junk from China that it was. The part Rico held in his hand wasn’t even a foot long now. Bits of hair and pale chunks that looked like skin embedded the jagged end of the cane.

  The zombie may have gone down, but it wasn’t out. It grabbed Rico by the leg.

  He tried to jump away, but stumbled back and fell to his ass. His empty hand slapped against the floor as he pushed to free himself out of its grip.

  It pulled itself toward him, teeth snapping in anticipation. Rico’s heart pounded in his chest. His palms grew damp with sweat, but he held fast to the splintered piece of broken cane.

  Just as the zombie was about to take a bite from his leg, Rico sat up and jammed the jagged end of the cane into the creature’s ear; just like he had imagined he could with the thermometer. Only, it didn’t play out quite like he had anticipated. There was a hell of a lot more blood. And a lot of convulsing. Through it all, he maintained a firm hold on the slender stock of the makeshift weapon and pressed harder. Blood oozed from the wound like too much jelly on a sandwich when taking a bite. The red substance oozed out in high volume and soaked the carpet and Rico’s pants leg.

  The zombie shuddered as if it was freezing to death.

  Rico worried it might break free and survive somehow. He struggled to keep the piece of wood securely in place.

  Then it fell to its side and lay still.

  Rico put his hand against his chest, released the protruding object that jutted from the side of the zombie’s head, and fell to his back on the carpet. He took a deep breath and sighed with relief.

  It only took a few moments lying there like that for Rico to calm enough to focus again. Angie’s groans helped pull him back to the urgency of the situation. A zombie had broken through the barrier and now the entrance of the store was wide open.

  A noise rose in the building that sounded like wind rising. Was there a storm brewing outside? Or worse, a tornado? Rico listened intently for a continuous rumble, a sound similar to a freight train on a track.

  Rico hurried to his feet and headed for the front of the store. Outside looked less like rain now. In fact, the sun brightened the area as he gazed onward. It was silly for him to think bad weather was the source of the noise.

  He knew better.

  The dead were out there, and Angie’s incessant cries were leading them right to him.

  Chapter 18

  A faded green Dodge Caravan sputtered to a stop in the middle of the highway. Gus put the transmission in ‘Park’ and tried to start the engine without any luck.

  “I think we’re out of,” he coughed, holding his blood soaked side, “gas, Boss.”

  Gus’ skin was as pale as his knuckles on the other hand that gripped the steering wheel. He coughed again. This time, the taste of blood filled his mouth as crimson colored spittle ran down the corner of his lips.

  It took a great bit of effort to acquire the minivan; too bad that it was low on fuel. The back of the trailer was free of the undead, but leaving in the El Camino was no longer an option. The two managed to huff it through the woods to a trailer park despite their injuries. Once there, picking a vehicle to escape was a no brainer. The owner of the van was one of the zombies taken down by Gus’s shotgun. Marcus pilfered the keys to the minivan from the corpse before moving out. Once they had the van and were on the street, it was time to find that bitch and the cop.

  Not long after the chase began, they reached a fork in the road where Gus needed Marcus to give him directions. Marcus had passed out and was snoring. So Gus just played a quick game of eeny meeny miney mo and drove. He hoped Marcus wouldn’t be mad at him if he took the wrong direction. Hell, he could always lie and say Marcus told him where to go before he passed out. Whatever, he just couldn’t idle in one place unto his boss woke, so he kept the pedal to the metal.

  Marcus opened his eyes a time or two and looked around as if he had no idea where he was. When Gus spoke to him, he was mostly unresponsive. Marcus just groaned and held his bleeding shoulder.

  The farther they drove, the worse Gus began to feel. His bullet wound needed medical attention. That was when he got the idea of going to a hospital—if he could find one. He had no idea where he was, or where he was headed. Everything all looked the same: a narrow winding highway and an expanse of trees on either side for miles.

  Now it didn’t matter where they were going.

  They were stranded.

  No hospital.

  No civilization in sight.

  No Angie.

  No cop.

  Just Gus coughing blood and Marcus passed out against the passenger door. His eyes were closed. The man had lost all natural skin complexion. The area around the bite on his shoulder was enflamed. Gus wasn’t as smart as Marcus, but he knew a bad situation when he saw one. They were in trouble.

  He checked himself out in the rearview mirror. There were dark rings around his eyes and he was sweating heavily. Blood lined one corner of his mouth. Fighting back a fit of coughs, the large man lost. A fresh lining of blood filled his mouth again.

  Once the bout of coughing was over, Gus wiped his mouth with his arm and stared at Marcus.

  Marcus didn’t move and was cold to the touch. He studied the man further and noticed that he wasn’t even breathing.

  “Marcus,” Gus gently shoved his friend’s arm. “Marcus… you okay?”

  Of course, he wasn’t okay. Neither of them were.

  Marcus shifted in his seat, his head sliding down toward his lap.

  Gus sighed, looking out the window. “I can try to go for help, Boss.”

  He knew better than to think he would make it very far. Nevertheless, at this point, what options did he have?

  Marcus sat upright in his seat.

  Gus turned to him. “Boss?”

  Marcus craned his neck. The color in his eyes was gone, matching the chalky tone of his pale skin.

  “Boss?” Gus reached out, touching Marcus on the elbow. “You… you don’t look so good.”
/>   Marcus’s maw dropped open, revealing nicotine stained teeth.

  “Boss?”

  Marcus lunged. Had Gus been attacked in an open space, he might have had a fighting chance. Even with his wound and current condition, he would have easily been able to push away, but not now. Not in the confined space of the front seat of a minivan. He had nowhere to go.

  The van rocked.

  As Marcus sank his teeth into Gus, the large man cried out. His shouts echoed across the open highway with no one there to hear.

  Gus’s blood splashed across the windshield as Marcus tore away a chunk from his face. Bone and cartilage crunched in the dead man’s mouth as he swallowed down the meaty bits.

  “Boss, no!” Gus gurgled, bloody bubbles billowing out where his nose had just been.

  With the flesh consumed, Marcus struck again. And again. And again.

  The expanse of trees on either side didn’t protest.

  Eventually, the van stopped rocking.

  Chapter 19

  Two days had passed since Rico slept for more than five minutes at a time—sometimes sleeping while standing up. His eyelids felt like they weighed a ton, and even the skin on his face drooped so badly it forced a perpetual scowl. Zombies taking notice of the fortress had been steady. Thus far, the numbers of undead had been manageable. How much longer would his luck hold out?

  Angie still had fits of withdrawal pains which had her screaming in agony. If she were getting any better, it was impossible for him to tell. At this point, Rico wondered if Angie might die.

  While Angie’s cries led zombies to the store, the battles to keep them at bay drew more. Once a fray kicked up, any zombie in the immediate area seemed to instantly know and hurried over.

  For the first day, he had gathered enough makeshift weapons to dispose of the undead without making too much noise. The wooden canes were total shit. He had gone through the supply in no time. He had found some adjustable height metal canes which really came in handy, along with some long screwdrivers in the hardware aisle. When he wasn’t fighting for his life, a lot of time was spent fortifying the storefront barricade.