+
Mike and the women ducked when the grenade exploded. They could feel the heat from it, ushering through the closed bar door. And when they looked at the door, they could see the white paint was now charred black.
“Put these on,” Mike replied, leaning the rifle against the wall, shedding his vest and coat as smoke started to billow into the hallway.
The women did as requested, glad to be at least somewhat covered.
“Who are you?” One of the girls asked with a dry raspy throat. She hadn’t had a drink of water for a while. It was a wonder she was still standing as dehydrated as she was.
“Just someone trying to help,” Mike replied, pausing for a moment, as the door to the bar started to burn. “Can either one of you shoot?”
“I can,” the woman now wearing his coat replied. She took the gun from him.
“I doubt you’ll need it, but just in case,” Mike replied, ushering them towards the only door that was closed in the hallway. “Stay here. I’ll be right back.”
Mike opened the door, and stepped into the room. He saw another woman in chains on the bed. He grabbed the keys off the wall, and released the locks. He helped her to her feet and found she was light and limp, barely hanging on, starved of water and food, covered in filth, but was somehow able to stand. Mike hurried her out the door with her arm draped over his shoulder. He met the other two women in the hall, and then passed the woman onto them. He then made his way over to the woman he had first encountered. He grabbed the keys off the wall, unlocked her cuffs, and then helped her to her feet. Both of them made their way out into the hallway, and then Mike led all of them down to the back door. He pushed the door open, and scanned the ground. It was empty. He ushered all of them outside and into the cool night air. He paused for a second, and looked back down the now smoky hall.
“Hell awaits,” he replied, thinking of that old Slayer song, watching the hallway floors and walls being consumed by fire.
Outside, Mike took the lead and led them around to the front of the building.
Voices.
He stopped their progress and told them all to stay put, as he helped the woman he was holding sit gently on the ground. He unshouldered his rifle, and walked around to the front of the building.
The only two Satanists remaining were trying to find the button to release the bridge over the moat. They were arguing about where it was when Mike shot one of them in the back of the head, exploding his brain and face all over the ground. The other guy turned around, pulling a pistol as he did. He aimed it at Mike, as Mike smiled. The Satanist looked confused when Mike lowered his weapon. He then pointed behind the Satanist, who of course turned around to look. A flaming zombie hand reached up out of the pit and grabbed his leg. The pants leg caught fire, as the Satanist was pulled down into the now dying flames.
Mike shot the lock off the cage, as fire poured out of the interior of the building and started to crawl up the exterior walls. The heat was intense, as he helped the two men climb out. He then motioned for the women to join them. They did just that, as he stripped off the pants, vest, and short sleeve shirt of the Satanist lying dead at their feet. He handed the pants to one of the men, and then the shirt and vest went to two of the women. Now only two of them remained without clothes.
Mike took a second to search for the release button to the bridge, and finally found it as the heat from the building was getting so intense that it was almost impossible to be as close to it as they were. The button released the bridge, and they all hurried across it one by one.
Mike paused their forward progress when he saw his friend lying face down in the grass. He kneeled down beside Fred, and checked his pulse. That’s when Fred’s undead eyes opened up. Mike pulled out his knife, and without hesitation put the blade into his skull. He laid Fred down, and stripped off his coat and pants after cleaning off his blade. He turned to face the survivors, who were all waiting on his command. “I saw an old farm close by. We will bunk there for a bit before making our next move,” he replied, as he handed the pants to the naked guy, and the coat to the one woman still unclothed. “Come on, let’s get you guys somewhere warm and safe. Maybe they’ll have supplies there, or at least some better clothes.”
One by one they followed Mike into the woods, and kept their feet moving, eyes always searching for zombies.
+
A few hours later, as the morning’s light was entering the world, a house appeared on the horizon. Mike, and his weary cold survivors, paused their forward progress in order to survey the house and its surroundings. It was an old farmhouse, two stories tall, neglected and abused by the elements with an old sagging barn behind it.
While they waited and watched, the front door opened, and a zombie shambled down the steps dressed like a farmer from head to toe. The farmer zombie walked over to a bright red rusty tractor, checked the gas tank, and seeing it was full climbed on board. He fired up the engine and started to plow the field, which was now nothing but dirt that had been drug to death time and time again.
“The smart ones freak me out,” one of the guys replied, holding his arms over his chest, trying to block out what was left of the cool night air.
“Me too,” Mike replied, aiming his gun with the silencer on it. He shot the farmer zombie in the head, and watched him tumble from the tractor to the ground.
The machine itself lumbered forward for a moment or two before coming to a stop. It idled there, waiting for its driver to move it forward.
“One of you go and shut that tractor off, and make sure that zombie’s dead. I’m going to go and check out the house,” Mike replied, as he left them huddled together.
The woman with the gun set off to do the task, as the rest of them watched and waited.
At the front door, Mike paused, and listened. There was a strange sound coming from somewhere deep inside the house. He couldn’t tell exactly what it was or what was making it, as he pulled open the screechy screen door. He stood there a moment to see if the sound of the door had alerted anyone or anything inside the house or outside the house. When he was sure it hadn’t, he turned the front door knob, and pushed the door open, gun pointed forward.
In the distance, the tractor fell silent as Mike paused in a small hallway with family pictures on the walls. On his right there was a dining room with a table set for six, and on his left a living room filled with outdated furnishings. He moved forward on the squeaky hard wood floors, gun aimed and ready to fire, finger on the trigger, eyes trying to adjust to the darkness inside the house.
At the foot of the stairs, inches from the kitchen, he paused, and listened again. The strange sound he had heard was coming from that room. He made his way over to the open door and cautiously stepped inside, ready to fire on anything that moved. That’s when he saw what was making the sound. It was a zombie, an elderly woman, probably the farmer’s wife before the world turned sour. She was standing in front of the cold stove, pretending to cook with an empty cast iron skillet, moving it around and around like she was trying to get something to cook to perfection.
Mike had to stifle a smile, as he lay the gun down on the table. He pulled out his knife and crept up to her. She turned but didn’t attack, as he quietly slid the knife into her soft skull. It almost seemed to him that she was thankful he had done it. He stood there a moment, wiping off his knife with a soft blue kitchen towel, and listened. The house was quiet, but he still decided to see if anyone was upstairs. Finding nothing up there, but dusty rooms and shattered lives, he decided to check out the cellar. Down there in the unfinished basement, he found a large pantry filled with bottled water, canned goods, and preserved meat. Feeling confident, Mike made his way back to the small group of survivors.
+
The next morning, one of the male survivors (tall guy, lean from starvation, dressed in clothes they had found in the house) saw a note sitting next to Mike’s two fully loaded pistols on the kitchen table. He picked up the note, and read it.
&
nbsp; “Below is the address to my home. Tell them Mike Beem sent you and that Fred Walg is dead. If anyone asks where I’ve gone, you can just tell them I decided to go coastal. Best of luck, keys are in the sedan outside.”
He folded the note and placed it in his pocket, as he looked through the window to the old car sitting outside. He was still hurting and sore from his ordeal, but hummed a happy tune as he turned away from the window. He walked over to the gas stove, and turned it on. He smiled, a real genuine smile that hurt his face, as he waited for the stove to warm up.
Chapter 3: A Week Later
Double looked up at the sky, it was somewhere past noon, and there wasn’t a cloud to be seen in the sunny blue above. She heard loud voices up towards the gate, a new gate that ran on tracks. She turned to look in that direction. Trouble was on guard duty, and she was currently looking down at the ground beyond the wall. Double heard someone yell up to her sister, and she heard Mike’s name mentioned in this brief conversation. She hurried on down to Guard Tower 1 to see what was going on. When she reached the place where Trouble was stationed, she stopped, and looked up at her sister.
“What’s going on?” Double asked.
Trouble looked down at her. “About seven people want to come inside. They say Mike sent them.”
“They’ve seen Mike?”
“A week or so ago. He saved them from those guys who attacked us.”
“He did?”
“Yep, and then he took off for the coast.”
“The coast?” Double asked.
“Do you want them to come in?” Trouble asked.
“Sure. If Mike sent them, I know they’re safe,” Double replied, and then walked over to the gate and popped the lock. She looked up at her sister before gripping the handle. Trouble gave her the thumbs up, zombie free in all directions, and with the go ahead from above, Double opened the gate.
The seven survivors were standing in the road in front of their car, almost lined up side by side. Double smiled at them, and then ushered them forth into their new home. She closed the gate and locked it, and then ushered them towards the REFUGEE CENTER, which had been cleaned, re-stocked, and freshly painted.
“What’s that?” One of the women asked when she saw the mass grave set up for all the loved ones lost during the Satanist’s attacks. The dirt upon it still fresh.
“Just a reminder,” Double replied, as she looked at the wooden cross standing erect on top of the grave with the words “WE WILL NEVER FORGET YOU” scrawled across it.
At the REFUGEE CENTER, Joy greeted each one of them and ushered them inside.
Double stopped and looked back at the neighborhood, now mostly filled with empty homes. She then looked up at a bird sailing overhead, and then glanced back at the gate. “Thank you, Mike. We will never forget you. Good luck and be safe wherever you are,” she replied, and then made her way inside.
THE END
Zombie Beach
Part 1: Mike and Captain
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. He was currently hanging ten on a tall gigantic wave. The zombie surfer was riding a long board, wearing red flowered swimming trunks, and a tee shirt with a dirty smiley face on it. His shirt and shorts along with his thin long blonde hair were flapping in the breeze as he sailed down the wave at top speed.
Poof!
The zombies head exploded leaving only a ragged stump shooting blood up into the air. The headless body surfed for a moment or two before tumbling into the crashing wave.
“Why’d you do that?” A voice behind Mike asked, an older voice full of age and salty wisdom. He sounded like a man who had sailed the sea for most of his adult life.
Mike turned around to face him, lowering his rifle.
“Just saying, he wasn’t hurting anybody,” the old guy replied, leaning on a wooden cane with a silver metal ball on the top of it. His long white hair and soft white beard reminded Mike of his own granddad who had died when he was just a boy.
“I found this silencer, and I just wanted to try it out,” Mike replied, reloading his gun. “Besides, one dead zombie is one less zombie in this world as far as I’m concerned. Don’t care if it’s a threat or not.’”
“Got a name, son?”
“Mike Beem, you?”
“Most folks call me Captain, and I’m fine with it,” the old guy replied, as a cool blast of air pushed back his long hair. “Storm’s moving in. Going to be a nasty one.”
“I had the same feeling,” Mike replied, scanning the late afternoon sky filling up with grey storm clouds.
“That your truck?” Captain asked, nodding towards the 1955 Chevy.
“It was,” Mike replied, turning to face the machine, which was currently sitting perfectly positioned in a parking spot. Pieces of zombies where sticking out of the smoldering radiator, including one complete head with the eyes still looking around, mouth chomping away. “Parking lot was full of corpses. I had to get down to the beach somehow.”
“Guess so,” Captain replied, thinking this Mike guy wasn’t exactly all there. “How about a hot meal and a place to rest your head?”
Mike looked up and down the empty beach, across the decaying splintered boardwalk and the buildings now falling into disrepair. His decision was a quick easy one to make. “Sure, lead the way, Captain,” he replied, climbing down off the bench he’d been standing on. He slung the rifle over his shoulder, picked up his small bag of personal items, and then set off after the old man.
+
Captain’s house was a small two bedroom home with one bath, a kitchen, and a big open living room. Mike and Captain were currently sitting in the living room, listening to the storm rage, watching the fire crackle and pop in the fireplace and smoking cigars after a satisfying meal.
“Early for a snow like this,” Captain replied.
“Yeah, guess a lot of things are screwed up these days including the weather,” Mike replied, puffing on his cigar.
“Where are you from? Forgot to ask that earlier.”
“Raleigh area.”
“Is it bad up there?”
“Some spots,” Mike replied.
“I’ve been down on the coast since this all began. Hell, been on a boat or on the coast for most of my life,” Captain replied, blowing out a plume of cigar smoke.
“Never left?”
“Once. Met a girl, fell in love, moved to Kansas of all places and tried to start a life with her.”
“Didn’t take?”
“I was landlocked and she was stubborn. Just a bad combination. We got a son out of it though. My only child. Good boy. Stubborn just like her,” Captain replied, and laughed.
“Aren’t most women,” Mike replied, glancing over the pictures on the wall. A lot of them were filled with Captain’s son growing up through the years.
“I didn’t get much time with him once the wife and I split. I found a boat to work on, and just went sailing.”
“How long were you gone?”
“I think I sailed the world three times over. My feet rarely stepped on dry land other than to get a yank on my crank or to rest for a day or two,” Captain replied, smiling.
Mike chuckled as a strong gust of wind tore at the house, making the walls and ceiling creak and pop. “I’ve always wanted to go sailing. Just never had the time to learn.”
“It isn’t for everyone.”
“Guess so,” Mike replied, glancing at a few more pictures scattered around the room. The pictures (some in color, some in black and white) showed Captain throughout the years on many different boats and in many different locations. “I bet you have some stories to tell, don’t you?”
“I could probably fill a book or two. Would you be interested in trying your hand at sailing?” Captain asked, studying Mike, who was a man now close to his mid-forties. He stood about five foot eight, not too pudgy, not to lean. He had brown eyes, a shaggy beard, and long gray h
air that hung almost to the middle of his back.
Mike looked at Captain as the house shook from another gust of wind. In the distance, the sea crashed and broke onto the beach. It sounded like angry thunder. “Why do you ask?”
“I have a boat, but I haven’t been able to get down to it because of the bum leg. My son and daughter-in-law took off for it a few days ago. Said they’d sail it back up here, but I haven’t seen them since.” Captain paused. “He learned to sail in Kansas of all places in case you were wondering.”
“Kansas?”
“Yep, found a big lake out there. Took the lessons on calm waters, but believe me that boy has salt water in his veins. I would trust him in the roughest of seas or the calmest of oceans. The boy’s a natural,” Captain replied, and paused for a moment. When he thought he was ready to ask the big question on his mind, he turned and looked at Mike. “Would you be willing to help me get down to my boat?”
Mike looked at him. “Sure, I guess. Do you know how bad it is where your boat’s docked?”
“No clue. The corpses haven’t been too bad around here. They bunch up at times, but mostly they just seem to be straggling along by themselves.”
Mike listened to the wind for a moment, and tried to game plan in his head. The old man would require a lot of help with the bum leg and all, but he thought it might be possible to get there if the zombies didn’t horde up around them. “Do you have a wheel chair?”
The Mike Beem Chronicles: 6 Tales of Survival, Hope, and The Zombie Apocalypse Page 18