by K Helms
“I am not getting eaten alive by a fucking elf!” he whispered aloud. “Claire, if you’re not going to help me then get in the damn van!” he shouted at her. She nodded her head enthusiastically. She kicked her heels off and limped to the van as fast as she was able and got in the driver’s side. An immediate thought of dread washed over Mitch: She was going to leave him. He heard her put the van in gear and the tires spin on the ice. The tires made a whirring sound as they fought to find traction; he knew that if she would just ease off the gas a little she would start moving. He couldn’t worry about her right now, though, he had his hands full. He slammed the tire tool across the jaw of the elf and it knocked the zombie down, its jaw clearly dislocated, but it wasn’t out of commission yet. He cracked it in the knee cap and heard the bone break and he hoped that that would slow it down some. He turned his attention to the construction worker and swung for the side of its skull; he could feel the metal crush the side of its skull and it went down in a pile of flailing limbs. He heard himself scream as he felt fingers digging into his coat. He spun to break free and his legs went out from under him again as he fell to the frozen pavement, the zombie landing on top of him; the zombie had once been a nurse, but all resemblance to humanity had vanished when she opened her mouth so wide that he heard the tendons in her jaw cracking, before she bit into the shoulder of his coat. Her teeth hadn’t broken the skin but she wasn’t letting go either. He slammed the point of the tire iron into the back of her skull, penetrating her head. The tool slid into the skull about six inches and he twisted the tool around, effectively scrambling whatever was left of her brain. Mitch tried to push himself up with his free hand and felt a foot step on it and when he looked up he saw a national guardsman staring blankly down upon him, a line of drool and blood hanging heavily from its lips. The guardsman dropped onto all fours and sunk his teeth into the top of Mitch’s chest and snapped his clavicle. Screaming in pain, Mitch pulled the tire tool out of the nurse’s head, which was still clamped securely to his coat. Even as he felt hands grabbing his ankle, he heard Claire begin to scream again. Two more of the dead had broken the driver’s side window and were dragging her from the open frame. She tried to fight them off, she ripped out tufts of their hair, pieces of scalp clinging to the hair and she dug her long, red nails into their eyes and clawed deep furrows into their faces, but they did not respond to pain, intent on only one thing; spreading their infection and feeding. They wrestled her from the window and slammed her onto icy parking lot. Mitch dreamily wondered what had happened to her boots.
Mitch thought that it was ironic that the first zombie to reach her had once been an EMT, a first responder. This guy did his job well, even in death. The EMT slashed at her, clawing her cheek and leaving three long gashes with his filthy jagged fingernails. The other zombie that reached her had probably been someone’s teenage daughter; her throat had a huge chunk torn from it revealing her windpipe, awash in blood. She abruptly grabbed a handful of Claire’s long blonde hair and jerked it back with staggering force. A third zombie reached her and ripped her coat and blouse open, revealing a botched boob job while ruining her designer coat. In virtual, perfect synchronicity they bent over her and began biting, tearing the flesh from her cheek, breast, and calf. She thrashed, kicking wildly with each bite. The zombies shook their heads violently as they fed reminding Mitch of hungry crocodiles and waited to see the death rolls begin.
Mitch wanted to see his girls, he wanted to hug them and tell them he loved them. He wanted to tell his wife how much he loved her and tell her that he had quit his job that he was going to get them out of this hell on earth. He wanted to tell them that everything was going to be alright, but he thought there was a price for being a righteous dude.
“I hate you, Claire!” he screamed, and then one of the dead chewed through his larynx and his curse turned to a hoarse whistle as it exited his throat.
Chapter 15 - A Tale of Two Brothers
Dayton, Ohio
Thomas Walters was forty-two years old, he was also a two-time loser currently out on probation, forced to find work as a janitor, cleaning toilets for a living. He was divorced and by all accounts trouble with a capital offense; acquitted, of course.
Since his release from the Orient State Penitentiary he had been living with his elderly mother Enid. He was aware that people talked smack about him when he wasn’t around, saying that he was a sponge or mooch, that was sucking his mother dry, but she was all he had.
Thomas loved his mother. There had been no other person that had given him as many second chances as she had. Deep down he wanted to make her proud. He wanted to win the lottery and buy her a big house and a new car, but mostly he wanted to hear her brag about him like she did about his older brother Trevor.
Vindication would be good. He wanted to show everyone that he was every bit as good as Trevor, if he was given half a chance. Trevor had been his father’s favorite, while Thomas had been his father’s favorite punching bag. If it hadn’t been for his mother stepping between them and taking the brunt of the beatings herself, Thomas doubted that he would be alive to be such a failure.
Luckily, Thomas Walters had been gifted by the Good Lord with a quick wit, cordial smile, contagious laugh and the uncanny knack to tell a good story. He was an ex-con after all. He was born to be a used car salesman, politician, or con artist, if indeed there was a difference between them, and as such he was a little on the low side of moral fiber and ethical integrity: hence the felony convictions.
Thomas knew that this life of scrubbing graffiti from the stalls and puke from the floors would not last forever. He would eventually land on his feet, like he always did, and find his feet firmly planted in someone else’s goods, but then his brother Trevor, five years his elder, had come up from Lackland, Texas to visit their mother. Thomas hated his brother. He had lived under his older brother’s shadow his entire life and found that shadow to be a virtual eclipse.
“Trevor is such a good boy,” his mother would always say to Thomas. He wasn’t sure if she was complimenting Trevor or insulting him with that little praise. Trevor had been All-State in wrestling at Riverview High School, gotten a full scholarship to the Ohio State University where he became an All-American wrestler and graduated Valedictorian. Then it was on to the Air Force Academy, where he graduated first in his class there as well. Now, his brother Trevor was known as General T.S. Walters. He drove a sweet government vehicle, had a chest full of ribbons and medals, a portfolio of commendations, had his own staff and could retire at ease whenever he chose.
The two brothers were polar opposites and Thomas secretly hated his pompous blowhard of an older brother. Outwardly though, he painted on that plaster cast smile as he listened to his brother spew out his little sermons of integrity, morals, Jesus and getting an education ‘Because you are never too old to go to school, Tommy.’ Thomas' blood would boil as his brother tousled his hair at the end of these little lectures, like he was a five year old, but Thomas would force out his contagious laugh that was every bit as false as his teeth were.
Thomas would bide his time; he would wait. Doing time had taught him the values of patience, waiting and then seizing the opportunity when it presented itself.
It was no surprise to anyone that when the dead rose up and began to run amok that the golden boy got down on his knees and gave a quick prayer to Jesus, strapped-up in his pretty blue suit with its shiny silver stars on its epaulets and offered his services to the Dayton Police Department like he was fucking Batman or something. Thomas just shook his head, amazed at how many people bought into his older brother's bullshit. But what was a surprise, especially to the D.P.D., was that Two-Time Tommy rode with him.
Thomas figured that at the very least he could vent out some frustrations and legally get away with shooting people in the face. He hoped he saw some people lumbering around town that he had known and hated, groaning and drooling down their chins. He couldn’t help but smile a little as he thought about giving
a quick double tap into his seventh grade history teacher’s face or his parole officer, that would be the cat’s ass.
Trevor’s government vehicle was a brand spanking new, black Crown Victoria, plush and loaded, the heater and heated seats efficiently removed the chill from the winter air.
“Thanks for coming with me, little brother,” said the General, as he steered the car through the littered and burning wrecks along the way. The P.D. had equipped the Crown Vic with a magnetic light bar and siren that wailed above them. Evidently, the cops had been keeping track of the hometown hero and admired him greatly.
The dead were beginning to swarm, but the General paid no heed to the dead.
“I’ve always wanted to do some good deeds alongside of you, man,” replied Thomas in a buttery tone, concealing the sarcastic envy of its intent. Eat shit you arrogant prick. He smoothed his prematurely gray hair that was in need of a cutting with the palm of his right hand.
“Have you ever used a gun before?” asked Trevor, with a bit of concern etched on his profile.
“Yeah, I used to do a lot of hunting,” Thomas lied. You must not have seen my rap sheet, did you, Genius?
Trevor nodded. “Hunting is good, but shooting animals is a little different than shooting a person.”
“Well, they are already dead, so it shouldn’t be that difficult” said Thomas with a hearty laugh. Trust me I know how to shoot people.
“Tommy, we still need to have respect for the dead,” admonished his older brother who quickly crossed himself.
Really, is that necessary? “Sorry, man,” said Thomas, placating his brother. Dick.
“I know. You’re probably just nervous,” conceded the elder, and then added, “Look under the seat.”
Thomas reached down between his legs and felt with his fingers beneath the passenger seat and pulled out a plastic box.
“Go ahead and open it. It’s for you,” said the general, glancing to his right.
Thomas clicked open the two latches and opened it. Inside rested a Beretta 9mm with two loaded thirteen round magazines.
“I’ve already got my Glock,” reassured the general, patting his side arm affectionately.
Thomas jammed a magazine into the grip, jerked the slide back, letting it slam forward; chambering a round in the pipe. He then eased the hammer forward as he depressed the trigger and clicked the safety on. He tucked the pistol behind his belt buckle and slipped the remaining magazine into the right hand pocket of his Carhartt coat.
The older brother gave him an appraising glance of, approval. “You look like a pro, little brother, and from the looks of things, I am thanking Jesus for it.”
You have no idea. “Thanks, man,” Thomas replied then added “Just what exactly are we looking for anyway?”
“People who need help,” said the General incredulously, as if the answer couldn’t have been more obvious.
“Wouldn’t it help them if we shot some of these dead things wandering all around us?” asked the younger brother.
Trevor sighed. “We only have a small amount of ammunition.” He gestured at the view before them with a sweep of his hand above the steering wheel. “Look at how many there are. They are becoming more and more while we are becoming less and less. For now, all we can do that makes any sense is to save those in danger and wait it out together.”
“Is that why you left Ma at home by herself?”
“What?”
“You heard me,” retorted Thomas. “You were in such a Jesus loving frenzy to get out here and be a big shot that you left your own mother alone to defend her home against an enemy that gets more and more,” he chided in a mocking tone.
“I…”
“Yeah, you. With you it’s always me, me, me,” Thomas rolled his eyes.
“We don’t have time for this, Tommy,” said Trevor sternly, his expression hard. He hit the brakes and the Crown Victoria slid to a halt. He pointed at the Emergency entrance to Our Lady of Hope hospital, “That girl needs our help,” he said, slamming the gear selector in park.
Thomas pulled the pistol from his belt, his heart was racing. He watched through the windshield as three of the undead converged on a hysterical, pregnant teenage girl.
“Are you ready?” asked the General, before taking a deep breath and crossing himself again. He looked at his brother beside him.
Thomas squeezed the trigger and shot Trevor just above his right eye; the back side of the General’s head exploded through the glass of the driver’s side window. Instantly the cold converged inside the car and a torrent of blood flowed from the dead man’s nose and mouth in pouring cascades of red, soaking his uniform and the ribbons adorning his chest.
“Yeah, I’m ready you stupid dick.”
The General’s body stayed upright for a second then slammed sideways into the steering wheel. Thomas reached over and unbuckled his brother’s pistol belt and yanked it from around his waist and slung it over his shoulder. He exited the passenger side, shot the three zombies, looked at the pregnant girl and shooed her away. He walked around to the driver’s side and opened the door. He unbuckled the seat belt and unceremoniously shoved his brother’s body over. Trevor’s body fell sideways and Thomas pushed the legs over out of his way. Through his still ringing ears, he could hear the pop, pop, pop of gunfire and the muted sirens whining their escalating drone in the distance as he slid behind the wheel. Out of habit, he picked the wallet from his brother’s back pocket and pulled out a handful of bills. Jesus saves, but the Devil invests, he thought as he stuffed the bills into his coat pocket.
Thomas smiled that politician’s grin of his and admired it in the rear view mirror. Chaos was good. He knew that he would land on his feet; he always did. He looked down on the twitching corpse of his brother, “Look Ma, no head,” he mocked.
Thinking of his mother he knew that he should hurry; he needed to get back to her and make sure she was alright.
Chapter 16 - Special Delivery
St. Mary’s Hospital
Point Pleasant, West Virginia
Doris Flannigan concentrated on her boyfriend’s face as he carried her through the emergency room doors. Joe Flores’ face was stretched tight with tension, his jaw set and clenching while Doris’ bright green eyes rested on his, in complete trust of his strength and determination. Joe had earned at least that much.
Doris had met him at his family’s restaurant, where he worked full time; she had been a month pregnant and recently abandoned by her husband Kyle. Joe had taken her order and had immediately been taken with those unique, bright, green eyes and her flaming Irish red hair. He hadn’t cared that she was pregnant, only that she was single, which had been enough encouragement for him. They had dated for a few months and he found that her strict catholic upbringing had forbid her from having sex before marriage, but that didn’t matter to him either. She was worth the wait and, after all, he was a professional waiter; besides, he had also grown up in a catholic home and knew the pressures surrounding that type of situation. He had a good family name to uphold and the last thing he wanted to do was soil that reputation.
The emergency room was a mad house and a virtual abattoir, where people lined the walls, shouting at each other in a panic stricken state; they screamed for help, some sobbing uncontrollably; but all in need. Blood trails streaked the black and white tiles of the marble floor; a wheeled mop bucket stood with the mop sticking out of it and Joe noticed that the water within the dingy yellow container was thick and red. Joe had been reasonably sure that he had seen at least three people lying unmoving on the floor, most likely dead, judging by the large pools of blood surrounding them.
“Help!” he yelled in his deep baritone voice.
“Hey you!” he heard from behind him. Joe spun around and faced a bearded biker type. “You ain’t cuttin’ in front of the line.”
“My girl is having a baby,” Joe explained impatiently.
“I don’t give a damn about your girl; my son got bit by one of tho
se psychos out there,” said the biker, thumbing to the window.
Joe shook his head and turned back to the reception window. He felt sorry for the man and his son, but Doris and the baby was his priority. He saw that there was no nurse on duty at the desk so he scanned the signs that were hanging from the ceiling and spotted one that read Maternity Ward. He felt the front of his jeans suddenly become wet and looked down at Doris, who was breathing in quick breathes.
“My water… just broke…” Doris panted.
Joe spotted an empty wheel chair facing the wall down the long hallway and rushed her toward it.
“Hey, you!” he heard from behind him and recognized the voice as that of the bikers. He made it to the chair and heard the fast footfalls of the biker closing in from behind and Joe eased Doris into the chair just as he felt a large hand grab the collar of his white shirt and yank him backward.
He turned and saw a fist coming straight toward his face. He feinted left and reflexively countered with his own right hand, his fist connecting with the biker’s nose with a horrific crunching sound. Blood instantly saturated the biker’s mustache and poured over his lips, covering his bearded chin. The man clutched at his face with one of his beefy hands.
“You sonofabitch…you broke my nose!”
“Maybe you should go and sit down before I break something else,” muttered Joe.
“Fuck you!” spat the biker already defeated. Joe could see it in the man’s face as the biker turned and walked back to where his son sat shivering violently. Joe knew he wouldn’t have any more trouble with him.