Zombie D.O.A.

by JJ Zep

  Outside, I could still hear Tom talking, and I headed towards the porch. The front door stood fully open and through it I could see that the front lawn and the fields beyond, were now bathed in moonlight.

  It had stopped raining, and the Z’s stood, silent and bedraggled, Becka and Billy at the front, row upon row of them behind.

  Facing them on the porch was Tom in his pajamas and slippers, his voice taking on the dulcet tones of an advertiser of retirement homes.

  “It’s not your fault,” Tom was saying. “You didn’t ask to become what you’ve become.”

  I crossed the porch slowly, sensing a thousand murderous eyes tracking my every step. I stood directly behind Tom and whispered into his ear. “Tom,” I said, “Betsy needs you.”

  “A moment, Chris,” he said, “I think I’m getting through to them.”

  “For chrissakes, Tom, we’ve got to get out of here,” I said pulling at his sleeve.

  “One minute,” Tom said, and turned back towards his audience. “So friends,” he continued. “If you need to blame anyone, blame the government, blame the military, blame big business. Not yourselves. You are not to blame.”

  Looking over Tom’s shoulder I took in the massed ranks before us. They seemed enthralled by what Tom had to say, chastised even. It brought to mind the control Bronson Chavez had exerted over the Zs in New York City, except this was more complete, more absolute.

  Tom spread his arms then, like a TV evangelist receiving the adoration of his flock, “Go in peace,” he said, “Go in peace.”

  For a moment it was deathly quite, and I almost believed that Tom was right, that he had gotten through to them.

  Then Becka uttered a strange sound, like she was trying to clear something unpleasant from her throat. She whipped her head rapidly left to right and then lifted her gaze, until she was looking directly into Tom’s eyes. Her lips peeled back from oversized incisors, and I saw that she was salivating, a thin line trailing down from her mouth like a liquid spider web.

  Then suddenly she charged, crossing the short expanse of lawn with amazing speed and throwing herself at the raised porch. I pushed Tom aside and lifted my boot as she dived, catching her square in the chest. I felt the impact, and saw her thrown back. She hit the ground and bounced back up like a rubber toy, and then I was running, dragging Tom behind me.

  In my peripheral vision I could see the zombies pouring forward, their faces frenzied and hungry. I reached the door and started to pull Tom through. But then Tom did something inexplicable. He shouted “wait!” and grabbed the door jamb.

  For a moment everything seemed to freeze frame, my hand on the door handle, Tom’s on the jamb, the door tantalizingly close to being closed, its glass panel imploding to reveal Becka’s rage-filled face.

  She grabbed Tom by the arm and before I could react, bit down on his hand. Tom screamed and yanked his hand out of her grasp and it came back with bloody stumps where the pinky and ring finger had been.

  I kicked the door shut and heard it click, just as Billy’s head exploded through another of the glass panels. He started pushing through, oblivious to the shards of glass ripping at his body. I could hear glass smashing in other parts of the house too, as I dragged Tom towards the cellar.

  Behind me I heard the front door splinter and give as we rounded the corner into the kitchen. I pushed Tom down the few steps leading into the cellar, then pulled the outer door shut behind me. It was suddenly very dark and very quiet.

  I felt around in my pocket for the key, retrieved it, and maneuvered it into the security gate. I twisted and it clicked open immediately.

  In the dark, I heard Tom crying, “Oh my God what have I done. Oh Bets, what have I done.”

  I tried to push the security gate open, but it wouldn’t budge. I’d put Betsy too close to it, and her bodyweight was preventing the gate from opening.

  In the kitchen I could hear the sound of glass smashing and being trampled under many feet. Something crashed against the cellar door and then I heard furious scratching, like a dog desperate to be outdoors.

  Tom was still crying and in the darkness I heard Betsy say groggily, “Tom?” and then, “oh thank God, thank Jesus, you’re okay.”

  Something heavy crashed into the wooden door above and I saw a sliver of light shine through as the first crack appeared. I ushered Tom through the gate where he and Betsy embraced, both of them crying.

  With the gate latched behind us I guided Tom and Betsy down the stairs in the dark.

  “There’s a gas lantern,” Tom said, “Next to the pillar at the center of the room.”

  I felt my way towards the pillar, found the lantern and got it going. Tom had certainly stocked the place for an emergency. There was a well-provisioned larder, lots of bottled water, two camp beds, gas for light and cooking, a first aid kit, paperback books and board games. He’d even taken the time to plumb in a commode, with a curtain drawn around it.

  “We gonna have to take a look at that hand of yours,” I said to Tom, and he gave me a look like I was a 4th grade tattletale.

  “Oh my God, Tom, your hand,” Betsy said, and then seemed to understand the implication of it. Her eyes welled with tears and she took Tom’s mutilated hand in both of hers and kissed it tenderly.

  “Now, don’t you fret, buttercup, we’re going to be okay, just you wait and see.” She clung to him then and he kissed the top of her head and looked towards me with eyes that seemed fathomless and haunted.

  After Betsy had reluctantly released him, Tom said, “There any aspirin in that bag of tricks. This thing hurts like growing pains.” There was aspirin, of course, and anti-septic cream and bandages, so I cleaned and dressed Tom’s wound as best I could with Betsy clucking over my shoulder.

  “You weren’t a fighter, you’d have made a pretty good cut man,“ Tom joked, and we both laughed louder than the gag warranted.

  It had gotten quiet upstairs. “Think they’re gone?” Tom asked.

  “I don’t know, but I think we’d best wait it out. At least till dawn, before we…”

  “How do we know I’ve got that long?

  “Tom!” Betsy protested, but Tom held up a hand.

  “How do we know I’ve got that long?” Tom repeated.

  “I don’t know, Tom.”

  And I didn’t. I’ve seen transformations that are almost instant, someone gets bitten, they turn right around and bite someone else. I‘ve seen other cases where it takes hours and I’ve heard of cases where it takes weeks. I’ve also heard of bite victims who never make the transformation, who simply die from their wounds, and others who are seemingly immune.

  “Tell you what we’re going to do,” Tom said, “There’s a length of rope back there. You’re gonna tie me…”

  “No, we are not!” Betsy said emphatically.

  “Bets, just listen…”

  “No, you listen to me, Tom Riley! We are not tying you up like some, like some…oh.” She started to cry again.

  “Betsy, please,” Tom said, “I’ve thought this through, so just listen okay?”

  She looked at him and nodded, then started sobbing again.

  “Right,” Tom said, ”Here’s the deal. We can’t have me loose down here, not knowing when I’m going to turn into one of those creatures, so Chris, I want you to tie me to that pillar, so as I can’t harm either of you. Then, when it’s clear upstairs I want you to go and get my revolver from the nightstand. I want you to come down here and finish me.”

  Betsy started sobbing louder now, but Tom was determined to say his piece.

  “Tom, I…”

  “I know it’s a lot to ask, Chris. But I’ve come to regard you as a friend these past weeks, and I’m asking you as a friend. I once told you, you’d have done the same for me. Now, I’m asking you, begging you…”

  I looked at Tom, then. This man had saved my life and I knew I couldn’t refuse him. I nodded.

  “Thank you, Chris,” he said, as though I’d just given him a great g
ift. Then he turned to Betsy. “Now, Bets,” he said, “when this is done, I want you to go with Chris, I want you to leave this place and I want you to… “

  “Oh no, you don’t mister!” Betsy shouted, “That is the last straw. We had a deal. We go together, remember? There’s no backing out now. So Chris can just shoot me, too!”

  “Betsy, I don’t… “ I started to say.

  “Hush!” Betsy commanded.

  “And another thing Mr. Tom Riley. Don’t go making my decisions for me. We’ll tie you to the pillar if that’s what you want, and Chris can even blow your brains out if that makes you happy. Just as long as you know, I’ll be joining you tout suite!

  “But honey…”

  “Hush!” Betsy said again, “I’m through talking.”

  “I never could win an argument with you,“ Tom mumbled.

  eight

  After I’d tied Tom to the pillar, we turned out the gas lantern, but I didn’t sleep at all that night. I lay in the darkness listening to Tom and Betsy reminiscing about times past, their conversation punctuated at times by tears, but more often by laughter, as though they didn’t have a care in the world.

  After a while they fell silent and I heard the sound of Tom snoring. “Good night, sweet prince,” I heard Betsy say and then I heard her quietly crying in the dark.

  Not long after I heard the sound of Tom clearing his throat in the way the Becka had done, and I knew that the virus had taken him. I thought about turning on the light, just to be sure, but I didn’t want to see him that way, and more importantly, I didn’t want Betsy to see him either.

  It had been quiet upstairs for a long while, and I decided it was probably time to check things out. I crept up the stairs, slid the key into the security gate and heard it click open. Then I crawled the last few steps to the wooden door and pushed it open a crack. I surveilled the room at floor level, saw glass and broken crockery. It was gloomy in there with the half-light of dawn doing a poor job of illuminating the place.

  I was about to stand when I noticed a familiar shape, lying on the floor against the counter, the Louisville Slugger. I stood up, pushed through the door and made a dash for the bat, picking it up in one swoop and adopting a stance that would have done Hank Aaron proud. The kitchen was empty.

  I walked furtively towards the hall, and peeked around the corner looking towards the front door. The hall was empty too but the door had been smashed and hung off its hinges. Beyond the porch I could see that Tom’s prized lawn had been trampled into a quagmire by hundreds of feet.

  I took the stairs three at a time and walked quickly along the short passage to Tom and Betsy’s bedroom. It was less chaotic up there, but darker.

  The bedroom door was open, and I crossed the room in three strides and slid the nightstand drawer open. Inside, there was a yellow chamois cloth enclosing a bulky object. I flipped the chamois aside and picked up the .38. It was oily to the touch and when I spun it open there were only two rounds in the cylinder.

  I slipped the revolver into my waistband, picked up the baseball bat and turned to leave. Becka was standing in the space behind the door, blood on her face and a low growl thrumming in her throat.

  She charged me and I swung the bat, two-handed, at its widest possible arc. The bat collided with her cheekbone and drove her into a solid oak closet. It was a blow that would have killed most grown men outright, but Becka staggered to her feet and scowled at me with one side of her face caved in.

  She blundered towards me and I swung again, catching her on the ear. She stayed down this time and I finished her off with three solid blows that crushed her skull.

  I stepped over Becka and walked from the bedroom into the gloom of the passage. To my left I heard a low growl from the darkness, and I instantly brought the bat up in a batter’s stance.

  A boy of about twelve stepped out of the shadows. Billy. He had a wicked sliver of glass protruding from his neck and he had obviously been at the hens. His face was covered in blood and chicken feathers.

  Billy showed his teeth and then rushed down the passage towards me. I brought the bat down and drove it into his midriff like a battering ram. Then I spilled his brains on the carpet with one blow.

  Downstairs I found Betsy standing at the kitchen counter, staring through the broken pane into the distance.

  “You found the gun?” she said, without turning towards me.

  “Yes.”

  “Give it to me.”

  “Betsy, I…”

  “Give it to me,” she insisted.

  I walked towards her, took the gun from my waistband and placed it on the counter next to her.

  “When this is done,” she said, still staring into the distance. “I want you to burn this place to the ground. Take Tom’s truck and whatever else you need, but burn this place down, you understand.”

  “Yes.”

  She turned towards me then and there were tears in her eyes but also a steely resolve. “You’re a good man, Chris,” she said. “Both Tom and I have enjoyed your company immensely.”

  Then she picked up the gun and walked towards the cellar. A short time later I heard a shot fired and then another.

  nine

  I burned down the house as Betsy had asked, but before I did, I buried Tom and Betsy next to each other under the Tulip trees.

  Then I got into Tom’s pickup and drove away.

  I headed west, avoiding the clogged interstates and sticking to the auxiliary roads. I still wasn’t sure exactly where I was going but the dreams told me that Ruby was being held in a house near a beach, and for some reason I believed that house to be out west.

  Something about the color of the sky, the ocean, the lay of the land told me that. But it was the rusted sign that most convinced me my daughter was in California. Don’t ask me why. The dreams were frequent now, almost every night. But the sign remained elusive, never allowing me to see the clue I knew was there. And yet, even without seeing it I knew that it was pointing me west, towards California.

  I traveled across southern Missouri and northern Arkansas, avoiding all but the smallest of towns. I saw very few humans and no Zs, but one incident bears mentioning, simply because it provided me with the means to stay alive.

  I was traveling through a mountainous wooded area that a sign identified as Mark Twain National Park. As I rounded a bend I came across a faded red Dodge pickup stopped at an angle in the middle of the road. Both doors stood open.

  I reversed my vehicle back around the bend so it was hidden from view. Then I took Tom’s .38 from underneath the seat and holstered it in my waistband. I’d taken the gun from the house and I’d been able to find half a box of ammunition. I figured Tom had probably used the other half getting Betsy used to handling the gun.

  I walked back to the curve in the road and peered around. It was quiet, perhaps too quiet. Aware that this may be a trap, I removed the .38 and held it two handed, like a TV cop.

  I edged my way towards the pickup using the cover of an overhang at the side of the road. The tailgate was up and as I got closer I noticed thick blood seeping from under it and dripping to the tarmac.

  For a brief moment I considered just getting the hell out of there, finding another route or trying to push the Dodge out of the road with my truck. But I figured that if this was a trap I’d already taken the bait, and if there was someone lying in the bed of the Dodge, they were either already dead or in need of help. With that amount of blood, probably dead.

  Edging slowly forward, I finally reached the Dodge. In the bed were four deer, including a young buck, and a stag with a majestic set of antlers. They hadn’t just been shot, they’d been raked with gunfire and blood seeped from multiple bullet holes. The buck had taken a bullet that had blown away his lower jaw.

  Now, I’ve never been a hunter and I’ve never understood the appeal of killing a beautiful creature just to stroke your ego. But I accept that some people see it as sport. A professional hunter prides himself on a clean kill. On
taking the animal down with a single shot, so he never even knows what hit him. But this wasn’t hunting, this was a massacre, and it filled in me a rage deeper than I’d felt for a long time.

  Just then I heard automatic gunfire, then a whoop and laughter and someone shouting, “You got him, son of a bitch, you got him!”

  I instinctively ducked behind the truck and edged my way towards the cab. Inside the floor was covered in crushed Budweiser cans, candy wrappers and other debris. There was a half eaten bag of beef jerky and half a six-pack of Bud sitting on the seat. A shotgun was wedged into a rack above the rear window.

  From my crouching position I could see through the windshield towards the woods from where the shots had come, and as I watched two men emerged from between the trees. The guy in front was big and overweight with lanky red hair and an unruly beard. He wore a bandana across his forehead and a blood-stained St. Louis Cardinals t-shirt.

  The guy behind him was taller and thinner. He was wearing a red and black plait shirt and a matching deer-stalker hat. He had the corpse of a small deer slung across his shoulder.

  The front guy carried a weapon, an AK-47 like the one I’d lost in my encounter with Jake and Elwood. The other guy had a sling belt across his chest.

  I watched them approach and looked wistfully towards the shotgun. I knew I couldn’t make a move for it without being spotted. I also knew that with my .38 against their AK and whatever else, I was hopelessly outgunned.

  I could hear them approaching now. The St. Louis guy was talking, “I tell you, that bitch was pure hell on wheels. And the best thing about it was her old man worked my shift and he never had a clue. I’d look at him and just chuckle to myself, thinking he never…”

  He paused to slide down the overhang. The other guy did the same, after first dropping the deer the eight feet or so, then sliding down and picking it up again.

  “…he never knew that the mouth he was kissin’ goodnight had been blowin’ on my clarinet just a few hours before.” His laughter boomed in the silence and then I stood up from my crouch with the .38 pointed at him and the laughter died in his throat.