The apartment they were looking at was at one point in time an office. A desk and several chairs were pushed off into a corner next to two tall filing cabinets. That was all that was left of the former office. In here now, was a small bed, probably scavenged after the invasion hit. The sheets and pillowcases were filthy, covered in dirt and blood, no place for a shower in this store. Beside the bed was a cardboard box, which served as a night stand, sitting underneath a boarded up window. On this box/night stand was a knife, watch, music player complete with headphones, and several well-read books, some by Lee Child, some by Anne Rice, the rest by Stephen King. In front of this bed sat a TV attached to a DVD player, with plenty of DVD’s scattered about.
The light flickered above, the generator coughed outside the boarded up window, as George stepped into the room, Dawn behind him. They started to look around, and both of their hearts lifted when they saw it. In a far corner just over near the desk and chairs was a small freezer. This freezer, like the light above, was starting to die without the fuel it needed to sustain itself.
They rushed over to the freezer and opened it. They peered inside. It wasn’t as cold as it should have been, but it was cold enough to keep the meat from spoiling. They found steaks, burgers, chicken, deer meat, something they couldn’t identify, and the prize of the bunch not one but two small turkeys, each one big enough to fill all six of their bellies with room to spare.
“See, told you to keep hope,” George replied, smiling.
“And I told you I had a hunch. Aren’t you glad you listened to me?”
“Sure,” George replied, not wanting to let her know she had been right; but she had been, and there wasn’t a thing he could do about it. “Come on, let’s get the turkey and get out of here. We have people waiting on us.”
“What about the rest of it?”
“It would spoil before we had a chance to eat it. Besides we just came for the bird. Let’s grab it and go,” George replied, as he made his way out of the room holding a turkey.
The light above them died, a second later the freezer. Then the generator outside coughed for a final time. They were now just more dead things in a world filled with death.
George put the turkey in the shopping cart with the rest of their supplies, and Dawn followed him as he pushed the cart outside. The sun was hanging towards mid-day about to drop into the afternoon as they stopped to take a quick scan of the city that lay in the distance. Raleigh was silent and dark, its few city towers now ghostly shells of their former selves. What they saw as they stood there was a zombie horde (thousands of them), and this horde was now moving their way.
“Let’s get moving,” George replied. “Nothing we can do about it now.”
“I just hoped we would be safe where we were.”
“It was bound to happen before long. We all knew that.”
George started to walk, shopping cart rolling easily down the paved road, as Dawn took one last look at the city she use to call home. Where would they go from here? She had no clue, but at least they had their feast. That would at least be something they could cling to if only for a moment’s time.
“You coming, babe?” George asked, stopping to check on her.
“Sure,” Dawn replied, turning away from the city.
George started walking, wheels of the cart clicking on the asphalt, as Dawn followed after him.
+
That night, they feasted, and feasted well, falling fast asleep with a chunk of happiness wedged deep in their soul. It was the first chunk of true happiness in a very long time. The next morning, they packed their gear, said goodbye to their safety zone, and got moving. They didn’t know where they were going, but they had each other; and sometimes, no scratch that, not sometimes, whenever you have someone to lean on in tough times like this, that is all that really matters. That is the greatest gift of all.
THE END
HAPPY ZOMBIE THANKSGIVING!
A Zombie Christmas
December the 21st
Mike Beem lowered his rifle, put his right eye on the scope, and closed his left eye. The zombie he was about to shoot was an ugly sucker. From what Mike could tell, this zombie used to be a man around five foot five or six, maybe seven. Hell, he couldn’t tell the exact height from just a tiny scope. Its suit was disheveled, full of dirt and blood (it looked fresh, a recent feast perhaps), and half of his face was gone. This zombie was currently investigating Mike’s Santa Claus and reindeer display. The zombie was studying it like he knew what it was or remembered what it was.
“Don’t pick up Rudolf. Don’t,” Mike replied to himself.
The zombie leaned over and picked up Rudolf the Red Nosed Reindeer.
That did it.
You see, the biggest problem was this. When you messed with Rudolph, you screwed up the whole display. All the reindeer were attached by string; and that string led into the hands of Santa, who was glued by his butt to the sleigh he was sitting in. When the zombie picked up Rudolph, the rest of the display just went into disarray.
Mike didn’t want to shoot the zombie just yet, because if he fell forward then it would crush the display all together. Mike waited until the zombie was trying to walk away with Rudolph, shambling off, munching on the plastic reindeer, and the display dragging behind him.
Bam!
Perfect head shot, display still safe.
Mike was on the balcony of the house when he made the kill, so he took the rope ladder and dropped it over the side. He put the rifle down and grabbed a couple of pistols nearby. He checked their chambers, full, locked, and loaded. He put the guns in their holsters and climbed down to the ground.
Mike walked across the lawn, eyes back and forth, looking for zombies.
He stopped, got down on one knee, took out a pistol, and aimed this pistol with the light reflecting off the metal.
Bam!
It was another perfect head shot. The zombie hit the pavement, and he didn’t move. The noise from the gun had stirred up more of them, so Mike had to get to his display, fix it, and then get back.
So, Mike grabbed Rudolph out of the dead zombie’s hands, and put the display back in order. He quickly made his way back to the house, where nothing was stirring, not even a mouse. He shot a few zombies with his pistol as he ran across the yard, climbed back up the rope ladder and found his place on the balcony.
He turned on his boom box.
Perry Como flooded the air with Christmas cheer.
The zombies were getting restless, so Mike decided it was time to even out the herd. It was pretty easy shooting.
He stopped his rampage when something white hit his nose. He looked up into the sky as flakes of snow began to fall. It was the first snow fall of the year.
December the 22nd
Mike was sitting in his living room reading a Stephen King novel when he heard someone knock on the door. He grabbed his gun and walked over to answer it.
Mike stood about five foot eight, not too pudgy, not to lean. He was a runner before the world turned to chaos, a brick layer as his trade. He had brown eyes, a shaggy beard, and graying hair that needed to be cut. To be 40-years-old though, he was still looking great, could pass for a 30-year-old most days. He had learned a lot about hunting before all this happened, and had become a great shot because of it.
Mike leaned down, and looked out the peep hole as a zombie shambled down off the porch. There were four of them out there. All zombied up, rotting, bloody, fresh from death, and they were all dressed like carolers and holding caroling books. One had his book upside down, two of them had theirs sideways, and the smart one, the one who knocked, had his right side up.
Mike didn’t put up anything with lights in it or on it. There were no lights around the house. He had muted decorations so they wouldn’t attract attention. He didn’t know why or how the carolers had found him, but they did.
Mike began to smile, as the zombies grunted out Jingle Bells and moved on to Silent Night. He didn’t know if he should s
hoot them or let them be. He stood there a moment and thought about it, listening to the comical tune coming from the mouths of those zombies. He went over to the window and looked out onto the lawn. Their singing was attracting other zombies, so he knew he had to take them out, funny as it was, he had to do it.
He put on his cold weather gear and ventured back upstairs. He walked into the master bedroom and walked over to the balcony doors. He stepped outside and into the cold grey light of dusk.
Mike checked his lawn decorations to see if they were unharmed. His Santa Claus and reindeer display with Rudolph leading the team, the cross on the front lawn, the elves and Santa’s work shop, the nativity scene, and various candy canes he had spread throughout the yard were all still safe.
Now, most people would ask, why? Why worry about lawn decorations when the rest of the world was suffering through a Zombie Apocalypse?
It made Mike feel good inside, and he hoped that whoever saw it would feel a bit of that joy as well. That is why he did it. It might be a zombie-filled world, but he still hoped a lawn full of Christmas decorations would bring some kind of cheer to this dreary holiday season. It was the first Christmas since the zombie invasion. It was the first Christmas without his family. It was the least he could do.
Mike looked down at the four caroling zombies, as they went into a rendition of Frosty the Snowman, the year’s first snow only a couple of inches underneath their feet. The group, of course, was led by that one smart zombie. He was leading them and pointing to their books even though none of them turned a single page. He was the one that started grunting out the tune to Frosty just like the songs before, and the other zombies just sort of harmonized with his lead.
Mike aimed his gun at the leader, but had to stop because he couldn’t aim. His smile had turned into full-fledged laughter. He let the laughter pass, wiped the tears from his eyes, calmed himself, focused, and then started shooting.
By the time he was finished, fifteen zombies lay littered across the lawn, bleeding red into the snow, the four carolers included.
He went back inside, but didn’t feel up to the clean up just yet. He turned on the Christmas tree and watched the white and colored lights dance a blinking happy tune across the walls and ceiling of his room. He stoked the fire with more wood, turned on Christmas music, sat back in his chair, and closed his eyes. The last image he saw (which was on purpose mind you) was of the picture on his mantel. Smiles frozen forever, Christmas outfits never to be worn again.
December the 23rd
Mike woke up the next morning to a knock at the door and a quiet house. The Christmas tree was still sparkling and doing its thing, the ornaments hanging here and there with a precision touch, neat and organized, as he grabbed a pistol nearby, shook the bad dream cobwebs free, and walked over to the peephole.
He peered through, and then reached down and unlocked the door after putting his pistol away.
“I was wondering if you were going to let us in or not,” Jim Wells replied, as he stepped into the house. He turned around to see where Fred was. He was still standing guard on the top step, so intent on watching the area that he didn’t even know the door was open or that two people were talking. “He’s good Mike, too good sometimes.” Jim tapped the man on the shoulder. “Fred. It’s safe. We can go inside.”
Fred Walg didn’t jump or move in any spastic manner when he was tapped on the shoulder, he just turned and followed after them.
“Can I get you guys something to drink?” Mike asked, closing and locking the door.
The three guys meandered into the living room. Jim and Fred took a seat on opposite ends of the couch while Mike worked on getting a fire started.
“What do you have?” Jim asked.
“I have cold, homemade eggnog, beer, wine, and water.”
“Any soda?”
“Don’t drink it.”
“Water will be fine,” Jim replied, eyeing the Christmas tree. It felt so much like the holidays inside this house. It made him home sick for days gone by.
“Fred, you want anything?” Mike asked, finishing up with the fire, which was now burning hot in the fireplace.
Fred stared at the fire, lost in thought, wrestling with his own demons. “Beer me, if you got it?”
“All I got is Corona. No lime.”
“Sounds good,” Fred replied, and then turned back to his thoughts. He couldn’t stop thinking of his girlfriend. She haunted him daily. Could he have done more? Should he have done more? What could he have done, though, in a horde of zombies? She was already partially eaten before he got to her. He could still see her reaching out to him, could still see the hope in her eyes, the fear as he pulled out his gun, the realization that dawned on her when the gun was aimed at her head. He could still hear the gunshot that had ended her life. It rattled around in his brain like a ghost unable to find its rest. He hoped this Christmas run Mike had planned would take away some of his grief. That’s why he was sitting here right now, because he had to do something before he went insane or tasted the metal of a barrel.
Mike went into the kitchen and came back with a cold beer and bottled water. He handed the men their respective drinks.
Fred was still seated, still lost in thought, so Mike just put the beer down beside him and left him alone.
Jim had moved over to the table, and he was staring at several rough and crude blueprints when Mike joined him.
The first blueprint was a design of the neighborhood and a wall surrounding it. The other blueprint showed a crude, but effective way to obtain water and store it when it rained.
“These are pretty good. Were you an architect before all this?”
“No. I’m just a man with ideas and time,” Mike replied, looking down at his work.
Jim took a sip of his water and found pleasure in the cold. He scanned the neighborhood plan once again. “I like this concept, but is it even possible? We have zombies crawling up and down this street every day. It would take an army to make it happen.”
“I figured we could have posted guards while the rest of us worked. I know there are plenty of people here who wouldn’t mind helping out if it meant we could be safe again.” Mike paused and sipped on his water. “If we put up a wall, get guards posted at all times, we can come out of our homes and enjoy life again. We can build a community garden. Maybe, if we’re lucky, we can bring in some livestock, raise a small farm. Just get back to normal the best we can.”
“I like that way of thinking, but this is a big project that will take a lot of work.”
“Anything in this time and place is going to be a lot of work, but if we’re going to survive, then we have to think like this. We have to think big. We have to think beyond our limits. That’s why I’m doing what I’m doing to celebrate Christmas this year. I want the kids in this neighborhood to wake up Christmas morning and find a present at their door. I want them to feel like Santa is still here, and he is one mean zombie-killing machine that won’t let Christmas die, no matter what the odds or the situation. I want them to have hope. I want them to know that, yes times are bad, and there are horrible things everywhere, but they don’t always have to be. You can still have happiness in a world filled with death.”
“You don’t need to sell me or Fred on it. That’s why we’re here.”
“I know, but I need you and Fred to understand why. So if it gets bad at the mall, you will know that what we were doing was for a good cause,” Mike replied, eyes popping to the picture on the mantel, and back to Jim.
“Let’s just go over the details. Hammer this thing out once and for all,” Jim replied, as he scanned the picture Mike had been looking at moments ago. That picture made him think about his life before the zombies. Single and working a dead-end job, but he was somewhat happy even if his life was routine. He longed for those days now. He longed for the weekends. He longed for normal, and he hoped Mike’s plans about Christmas would go a long way to help him restore some of it. If the three of them could just get
Christmas right, then at least normal would be back if only momentarily.
Fred (freed from his thoughts) got up and walked over to the table to join the conversation, which he had been half listening to. He was one of those guys, the ones that just seem to know how to survive. He was a tall fifty-year-old man with a lanky build and graying hair. In his life before this, he was an accountant by day, hunter by weekend. You wouldn’t think an accountant would know so much about surviving, but trust me, he did.
Jim was more of a following kind of guy with a big heart and big ideas. He was a teacher before the world turned to crap, and Mike hoped that one day he would lead a school in this neighborhood. Jim was about average height, somewhere in his mid-thirties, still youthful, but mature beyond his years with dark eyes, black hair, and soft features. It looked like he pushed a pencil every day of the week; but he didn’t shoot like it, and he certainly didn’t survive like it.
“The details are like this.” Mike grabbed a nearby binder, and in this binder were three separate folders with each of their names on it. Inside each folder was a map of the route they were to cover when delivering the toys, a map of the mall (where to go in, where to meet if separated), and stuff they would need to take with them (weapons, snacks, a couple bottles of water, things like that).
Mike handed Jim and Fred their folders, and all three of them found a seat in front of the fireplace.
“Silly question, but how do you keep the tree lights on?” Jim asked, curious, as he watched the tree blink. It had no idea of the world it was in. It just did what it was supposed to do, bring Christmas cheer.
“A generator out back.”
“This is pretty elaborate, Mike,” Fred replied, as he studied the maps. “How did you get so much info?”
“I started thinking about all of this back in early November just after it all went to hell. I had lost some . . .” He looked up at the mantel and the picture. “. . . important things in my life. It was hot. I was trying to survive. I was suffering. I was miserable. For some reason, I started thinking of Christmas, and what it meant to me and my family. Christmas meant everything to us. It was our time of year. We lived for it, and I was determined not to let it die because of a few flesh eaters. It was mid-November before I made it to the mall for the first time, but I managed to get my plan –”
The Mike Beem Chronicles: 6 Tales of Survival, Hope, and The Zombie Apocalypse Page 4