by Jon Athan
As he shoved the wallet into his pocket, Trent shrugged and whispered, “You never know...”
Trent kicked Eddie's lifeless body to the side, then sprinted in the woodland. With a hunched back, he ran around the makeshift campsite to avoid John's inevitable wrath. He crawled through the splintered bushes and hid behind the towering trees, constantly glancing at the family tent with narrowed eyes.
As he stumbled back onto the dirt path, Trent placed his hands to his knees and whispered, “I made it. I actually made it.”
Suddenly, a loud click sound emerged from Trent's left. Trent slowly stood and turned towards the noise. John steadily aimed his rifle at Trent from ten meters away. Trent sighed as he raised his hand towards the sky and gazed into John's puffy eyes.
Trent nervously smiled as he said, “Not this again, pal. Come on, we've already been through this. Let's just...”
John interrupted, “Where's Eddie?”
Trent shrugged and suggested, “He must still be pissing. A lot of beer, you know, it goes straight through some people.”
John slowly shook his head and asked, “Why do you have his gun? Where's Eddie, Trent? What the hell did you do to him?”
Trent nervously laughed and shrugged, then explained, “Listen, Eddie gave me his gun. He's... He said he was going back to see his family. He needs to make sure his daughter is okay. That man, he's got a big heart. That's a very caring person, I'm sure you know that.”
“He said that?” John asked as he furrowed his brow. Trent nodded with a conniving corporate smile plastered on his sly face. John said, “Bullshit. His daughter is out-of-state, moron. What's he going to do? Walk to New York? He wouldn't hurt a living thing. He can't travel to New York without a car and he isn't getting a car without violence. Now, where's Eddie?”
Trent bit his bottom lip as he hesitated. His body was soaked by his anxious fluids. Suddenly, Trent narrowed his eyes and deviously smiled upon spotting a silhouette emerging from the trees. The undead figure stood six-two. The zombie had greasy black hair and whitened eyes. He wore a filthy white button-up shirt with the sleeves rolled up, soiled black pleated trousers, and scuffed black dress shoes. His bottom lip was torn off and a chunk of his neck was missing from a brutal mauling. John was oblivious of the undead shambling behind him.
Trent shouted, “Listen! Eddie is okay, I promise. He's in the forest. I took his gun, you're right, but he's perfectly fine. I wouldn't harm a living thing, either. I'm a good man. A faithful man. A man of God, some would say. And...”
Trent paused as he grinned and chuckled. He held his hand to his mouth to distort his conniving laughter. Like a misbehaving child planning a grand prank, Trent couldn't help himself – he indulged in his perverse behavior. He burst into laughter as he slapped at his knees and hunched forward. John watched him with a raised brow.
Trent stood straight as he recomposed himself, then said, “I... I can't do this. It's just too much. You're really a damn fool. You know that, right? I thought you'd be a tough one to crack, but you're... you're just too easy.”
John furrowed his brow and asked, “What are you talking about? What the hell are you doing? Where's...”
Suddenly, the zombie chomped into John's neck from behind. John grunted and groaned as he frantically wrestled with the undead creature. He grimaced from the pain as he was quickly overwhelmed. He hopelessly fired his rifle as the zombie relentlessly gnawed into him. The thunderous gunshot echoed through the grim woodland. Birds rapidly fluttered their wings as they soared away from the earsplitting sound. Woodland critters scurried into the bushes and trees as they sought shelter. Trent diabolically laughed as he watched the mayhem.
Trent whispered, “That's what you get, you fool...”
As he turned towards the right, a zombie wearing a short sleeve button-up shirt, black pants, and insulated boots sprinted towards Trent like a leopard hunting its prey. The zombie's eyes glowed a vibrant blood-red. Shocked and awed, Trent's smile vanished and his limbs locked – he was suddenly incapable of any movement. The undead lunged onto Trent. The pair stumbled to the floor as the zombie chomped into Trent's face. Blood-curdling shrieks and ghastly groans echoed through the desolate woodland as death painted the forest with dolor.
Day 7 - December 29 th, 2015
Survival By Any Means
The rusty crowbar pierced into the gap between the sturdy planks. The wood wobbled and cracked from the yanking pressure until the crowbar slid out. The persistent crowbar immediately penetrated the crack again. As the L-end settled on the plank, the jerking force pulled the board from the window. Balmy sunlight poured into the dusty diner like a wave of water gushing through an open floodgate. A black backpack was suddenly heaved inside. The bulky bag rolled across a table, then tumbled to the floor.
A static and hoarse broadcast reverberated through the opening: “A message to all survivors. Please, find a secure location and wait for rescue. Do not attempt to reach any government facilities or military bases – due to national security threats, you will be shot and killed on-sight. Do not attempt to find loved ones. Do not attempt to communicate with the infected. Avoid all physical contact with the deceased. If you encounter a corpse, avoid it or burn it. This emergency broadcast will repeat every five minutes. Relay this message to your fellow survivors. Thank you for your patience.”
Alan Russell squirmed and wiggled through the minuscule opening with the detached plank in-hand. He crawled across the table, then hopped off onto the tile flooring. He patted the dust off his clothing as he glanced around his dreary surroundings. The room was engulfed by gloomy shadows.
Alan whispered, “A dump. I hope those damn scavengers haven't looted it yet.”
Alan Russell stood five-ten with a lean figure. He had wild black hair and a scruffy beard. His face was slim and starved. He had a blatant mole plastered on his left cheek. His dark brown eyes were surrounded by a web of vibrant red veins. He wore a red flannel shirt with the sleeves rolled up beneath a beige vest with pockets at each side. His grungy jeans were stained with blood, dust, and soot. His mucky boots fared no better. He tightly gripped a bloodied hammer in his right hand as he gazed into the dreary shadows.
As his eyesight adjusted to the darkness, Alan whispered, “I can't believe it... A diner. A real diner.” He loudly sniffled and swiped at the cold sweat on his brow, then said, “There has to be food here. There has to be something. Please, let there be something.”
There were booths with crimson-padded seating across the wall beneath the sloppily-but-sturdily boarded windows. The double-door entrance towards the center of the wall was sealed with frail planks and heavy furniture. A bar with red stools awaited directly across the windows and entrance.
Beyond the bar, there was a cash register, an employee area, and a kitchen. The diner had mucky white tile flooring and chipped eggshell white walls. The room was stained with a vile stench and the air was cluttered with lingering dust and floating cobwebs.
“Good enough...” Alan murmured. “Good enough...”
Alan quickly turned towards the window and covered his makeshift opening with the hefty board. As he squeezed the plank of sturdy wood into the opening and secured it with his filthy hammer, he felt a small tap on his shoulder. He placed his hammer on the table, then slowly turned. Alan found himself at the end of a double-barrel shotgun.
A man standing five-eight aimed the shotgun directly at Alan's head. The mysterious man had long, frizzy white hair atop his dome and down to his broad shoulders. He had a great white beard down to his beating heart. His sleek, miraculously pristine sunglasses covered his eyes. The man wore a white-and-black flannel shirt beneath a black tactical vest with 18-pockets scattered throughout. He wore dark blue jeans and grimy black boots.
The man gently tapped the barrel on Alan's cheek and asked in a hoarse tone, “What do you think you're doing here, boy?”
Alan sniffled as he lifted his arms towards the ceiling, then responded, “I was just looking
for shelter and supplies. That's all, really. I don't want any trouble and I mean no harm. I'm... I'm not armed, I swear.”
The man swayed the gun towards the hammer on the table, then said, “Well, you got a hammer, don't you?”
Alan responded, “It's... It's not really a weapon. It's... It's a tool. I mean, I don't have any guns, I swear. I'm not armed. I'm–I'm not armed like yourself.”
The man rebutted, “Boy, it doesn't matter if you don't have a firearm, you still have a weapon. It doesn't have to shoot to kill. With all the blood on that thing, I can probably guess you've been killing something with it.”
“Zombies,” Alan responded without hesitation. “I've killed a few zombies. Nothing more, nothing less. That's all. I've... I needed to survive and it's the only thing I could get my hands on. A crowbar can handle some, but the hammer is stronger and faster.”
The mysterious man asked, “What's your name, kiddo?”
Alan nervously smiled as he responded, “Alan Russell of Oxnard, California. I'm a wanderer now, nothing more. Just a wanderer looking for shelter and supplies...”
The man bit his bottom lip, then lowered the shotgun. He glanced at the boarded window and said, “Well, considering you fixed your mess rather quickly and you've survive with that measly thing, I think we can use a bright man like you. We need as many resourceful people as possible during a time like this. You just might fit in with the rest of us.”
Alan slowly lowered his arms as he gazed at the man, then asked in a dubious tone, “With the rest of you?”
The man smiled from ear-to-ear as he explained, “Our little close-knit community. Our little safe haven. It's not much, but it's enough to survive for the time being and it's truly something special. Something we've built with blood, sweat, and tears. Listen, my name is Arthur Wolff. Let me show you around and introduce you to everyone. Get acquainted, you know? Grab a bite to eat and have a little discussion. Maybe you'll like what you see, maybe you can help us out. Come on, boy, follow me.”
Alan nodded as he sniffled and ran his fingers through his unkempt hair. He responded, “Sure, sure. I've got nothing better to do.” Alan grabbed his hammer and tossed his black bag over his shoulder, then murmured, “I'm starving anyway.”
***
With his right hand, Arthur Wolff held his shabby shotgun like a cane as he turned towards the bar. He tapped the barrel of the firearm on the floor. The thud reverberated through the seemingly vacant diner. After five seconds of dead silence, the fluorescent lights illuminated the truck stop. Alan held his hands to his eyes as the bright light temporarily blinded him.
As his eyesight adjusted to the beaming light, Alan watched as the hidden community emerged. A man and a woman walked out of the kitchen. A boy, no older than 12 years old, stood from behind the counter. The young boy wore a ripped white shirt, blue jean shorts, and black sneakers. He had a buzz cut hairstyle.
Arthur waved his left hand and said, “Welcome to our safe haven. Our humble abode. A few of us are out for the moment, but we can introduce you to everyone later. For now, I'd like to introduce you to two very important people.” Arthur beckoned to the man and woman behind the counter, then said, “Introduce yourselves.”
The timid woman walked towards the pair with her head slumped downward, then said, “Hello, friend, my name is Ellen Wolff. I'm Arthur's beloved wife.”
Ellen Wolff stood five-three with a frail posture. She wore washed blue jeans, white sneakers, and a white sleeveless western shirt. Her beach blonde hair was tied in a tousled bun, hair protruded every which way. Small speckles were scattered across her wondrously youthful face. Her crystal blue eyes glimmered with uncertainty. She slowly stepped to the side as the man approached.
The stony-faced man said, “My name is Eric Palmer.”
Eric Palmer stood a towering six-three. He had a strapping physique with brawny arms and a protuberant chest. He wore a sooty gray polo shirt, blue jeans with droplets of dried blood scattered throughout, and a scuffed black boots. He had dark brown eyes, messy black hair, and stubble on his defined jawline.
Arthur patted Eric's shoulder and said, “Eric is my faithful right-hand man. He'll handle anything I need. He's more trustworthy than the most obedient dog. That, my friend, is true loyalty. You'll need that to survive in this world.”
Alan nodded and said, “That's good to know.” He nodded towards the child and asked, “What about the boy?”
Arthur smiled and said, “He's not important now, at least for us adults.” He turned towards Eric and said, “Get the boy to the safe room for the time being. He shouldn't be out here to begin with.”
Alan asked, “What about everyone else? I mean, this is it, isn't it? How else would anyone get in here if you're locked inside?”
With wide eyes, Arthur answered, “No, no, of course not. You see, you broke through our defenses down here. You made your own entrance. There's a ladder around back leading to the rooftop, then we climb down into the storage room. Those things can't climb. Fortunately, they're not good with hammers, either.”
Alan nodded as he apologized, “Sorry about that.”
Arthur nodded and reassured, “Don't worry about that. You didn't know any better. Listen, let me tell you our motto. It's cliché, but it goes a little something like this: Survival by any means. It really resonates at a time like this. It speaks volumes about our situation.” Arthur chuckled, then said, “Enough introductions, though. You must be starved.”
Alan swallowed loudly, then explained, “Yeah, I haven't had a real meal in days. The preppers scavenged everything, then hid somewhere in the forest. They have the advantage out there. I was lucky to find this place, though. Well, if you have food you can offer, then I'm the luckiest man on the planet...”
Arthur smirked and said, “Of course we've got something for you. What kind of monsters would we be otherwise.” Arthur turned towards Ellen and instructed, “Bring the boy a plate of steak. The decent meat.”
Ellen quickly pranced into the kitchen. Alan sat at the bar on a three-foot tall stool as he nervously smiled. He salivated and his body quivered from the mere thought of food. Ellen hurriedly scampered back from the kitchen with a white ceramic plate. She placed the plate in front of Alan, then handed him a sparkling fork and knife. A slab of roasted meat sat atop the plate. The stench was inexplicably noxious. Alan furrowed his brow as he attempted to shrug off the malodorous aroma. The rumbling in his stomach was louder than the dubiety in his mind.
Arthur urged, “Take a bite. Go ahead and feast, boy, there's enough for everyone.”
Alan sliced the meat, then took his first bite. The chunk of meat was chewy and rough, but the taste was bizarrely appetizing. His eyes widened as his taste buds tingled, like an army of ants scurrying in his mouth. He shoved another slab of the succulent meat into his mouth as his eyes rolled from the delicious taste.
As he loudly swallowed, Alan turned towards Arthur and asked, “Have you been hunting?”
With a devious grin plastered on his face, Arthur responded, “Yeah, of course. We've been hunting and rationing all of our supplies since this all started. Trust me, boy, we won't be starving any time soon.”
Alan asked, “You hunt in the forest? How?”
“Occasionally, depending on our manpower, we'll head into the forest and hunt. Remember, though, those things can't climb. So, we also stand up on the roof and snipe the wanderers. When the coast is clear, we swoop in and scavenge what's left. Everyone has a purpose, everyone carries their own weight,” Arthur explained.
As he swallowed another chunk of the tantalizing meat, Alan inquired, “What kind of meat is this? Why is it the 'decent' stuff when it taste so... so good?”
Arthur chuckled as he rubbed his fingertips on his moist forehead, then explained, “There's a surplus of food out there, Alan. We're just staying ahead of the pack. Staying ahead of those damn preppers. We're not admitting defeat, we're adapting. Whether it's decent or exquisite dining, we'll eat. T
he motto, Alan, the motto. Survival by any means.”
As he glared at Arthur, Alan grimaced and sternly asked, “What type of meat is this?”
Arthur chuckled as he stared up at the ceiling. Ellen distorted her laugh as she held her skeletal hands to her mouth. Alan could see Eric standing in the kitchen with a devious smirk on his steady face. Alan pushed the plate forward and swallowed the anxious lump in his throat, then turned towards Arthur.
Arthur smiled as he responded, “That's zombie meat.”
***
Alan angrily stood from his seat as he glowered at Arthur. The stool wobbled and thudded as it clashed with the floor. Alan tightly gripped the splintered handle of his bloodied hammer as he contemplated. Uncontrollable fury swelled within every limb. His sharp eyes sparked from the fierce anger.
Suddenly, Alan huffed and shook his head, then said, “You... you go ahead and live the way you want. You follow your damn motto and eat your meat. I don't want any part of this. I'm... I'm out of here. I'm leaving.”
As he turned towards the boarded window, Alan heard the shotgun click and felt the barrel at the nape of his damp neck. He shut his eyes and slumped his head towards the floor as he sighed – a cornered animal. Slowly, he lifted both arms towards the ceiling.
Arthur tapped the shotgun's barrel on Alan's arm and demanded, “Drop the hammer, boy.” The hammer collided with the floor in an instant. Arthur returned the barrel to Alan's neck and explained, “Listen, boy, we don't want to hurt you. Really, we are only looking to survive. 'Survival by any means' could be a simple change in lifestyle. From regular meat to undead flesh. Or, it could be needlessly slaughtering your own kind to stay one step ahead. We don't want to kill if we don't have to. Which route do you want to take, boy? Choose wisely.”
Alan grimaced from the sheer disgust. His puffy eyes swelled with sorrowful tears. His arms trembled from the revulsion and fear. Sweat oozed out of every gland, rivers of anxious fluids streamed down his lean torso. His face twitched uncontrollably from the infuriating conundrum.