A Bad Day For The Apoclypse_A Zombie Novel

by Jason Offutt

  A scream, a weak scream, a man’s scream called from outside. “Something’s going on,” Arnold said as he hurried to the front of the store. “There’s a strange woman out there talking to Herman Munster.”

  Nikki turned to Doug. “He’s been talking about some kind of a devil woman the past four days. Do you think …?”

  Then they heard it. They all heard it. A rumbling sound coming closer. Arnold stood just inside the front glass, his small frame even smaller as the Bradley Fighting Vehicle pulled up to the store. A man popped out of the hatch and trained a mounted weapon on Carter’s Pharmacy.

  “Run,” Arnold screamed. “Run toward the back. Run outside. RUN.”

  The mermaid didn’t make any sense. Darryl lay in the truck, exhaustion trying to drag his eyes shut, and she kept talking. But he couldn’t hear her. A big boat, tan, or beige, or pink, floated up behind her and he couldn’t hear anything anymore. Just explosions. Clouds of dust grew over Darryl as the mermaid still talked, chunks of things, brick maybe, flew into the back of the truck. Yes, he was sure now he lay in the bed of a red pickup. What was a boat doing here? And what was the mermaid saying? She was beautiful, that mermaid. She looked like an angel. A mermaid angel. A mermangel. Darryl wasn’t sure, but he might have smiled. Wasn’t I just crying? A flower, a big, beautiful red flower suddenly bloomed in the center of the mermangel’s chest. Darryl thought he liked that chest. Should a mermangel have nipples? Her head snapped back, and she dropped, taking the beautiful red flower out of Darryl’s sight.

  Something loud smashed into the pharmacy and the building shook. Then another. Then another. Doug grabbed Jenna’s arm and ran as explosions rocked the building, the Bradley’s MK-19 pounded grenade after grenade into the storefront. He hit the emergency exit bar on the brown metal back door and the door sprang open. The force sent Doug across a short expanse of gravel and onto a patch of grass, his feet left him as he spilled down sharp grassy slope, bottles and packages flew from the shopping basket. Jenna went down with him, followed by Nikki. Terry dug his boots into the gravel and slowed himself enough to turn his head and watch as Arnold nearly cleared the door when the walls gave through. The small man disappeared under the bricks, dust, and roof of Carter’s Pharmacy.

  July 15: Allenville, Missouri

  Chapter 35

  Craig was almost disappointed the Devil woman didn’t put up more of a fight. One shot and she was gone. Just a slight squeeze of the trigger, and she collapsed, her devil body dropped to the pavement as Craig watched through the rifle’s scope. A grin flirted with Craig’s lips, but his work wasn’t done. The scope he pressed tightly to his face might leave a mark around his eye when the day was out, but by then he’d know what he knows now; what he had done was righteous. The tank, well, not quite a tank, whatever in the hell that thing was, shot round after round into the pharmacy. Why was it doing that? Four of the people who’d walked into Carter’s ran out the back and down the hill behind the building. Hmm, Craig was sure there’d been five. The building shook under the gunfire and collapsed in a dusty heap.

  “They’re coming for you next, bitch,” Posey whispered. Craig shook his head, trying to shake out Posey, but he knew Posey was still there. He was now certain Posey would always be there.

  Craig pulled the rifle bolt back and slammed another shell into the chamber. “Not if I can help it.”

  The scene was something out of a movie Karl had watched once, maybe Stallone had been in it. He stood in the open door of the Kingsville Police cruiser, light pops from the MK-19 buried under the force of the blows as grenades pummeled the brick building. Something may have cracked when the walls collapsed and the roof came down, but Karl couldn’t hear it over the explosions. Dust belched from the building as it fell and Mike stopped firing. Karl hoped nobody’d been in the building, but he knew they were. Why else would Crazybitch want it down?

  Then he saw her, lying on the pavement next to a red pickup in a puddle of blood. Her blood. Karl looked up at Mike who looked back, grinning like a crazed man. Mike gave a thumbs up that Karl didn’t return. He cautiously stepped toward Maryanne, her silky hair matted in red. Was she dead? Was this a trick? Would this be like the movies? Karl could see her rising on unsure legs, her eyes milked over, and her undead voice demanding brains. But Maryanne didn’t move. She’d never move again. Karl smiled; he was free. Ding-dong the fucking witch is dead. He knew right then he’d go to Omaha and try to find people, good people, sane people. Enough of this Ninja Turtle shit; he just wanted things to be normal again.

  “Hey, Cowboy,” Mike called from the Bradley. “What happened to Crazybitch?”

  Karl bent and rolled Maryanne onto her back, a ragged hole had exploded on her chest. “Shot.” He stood and looked in the bed of the truck, a familiar figure laid on a mattress strapped to the bed of the truck. “Darryl?” he said. “What the hell happened to you?” Did Darryl do it? Did he do Maryanne? The man moaned, his eyes seemed to float in his head. No, he couldn’t have. Darryl was hurt, sick, fevered, that much was obvious. Darryl couldn’t even talk. Something moved in the corner of his eye and he turned; Trent and the Greasyman walked slowly from around the side of the RV. Hiding? Were they fucking hiding until the dirty work was done?

  “Hey …” Karl started before a rifle crack broke the suddenly quiet day and the side of Karl’s head exploded, blood rained over Darryl as he lay moaning. Karl’s body slumped and fell on top of Maryanne. One last hump for old time’s sake.

  “Shit,” Mike hissed. Trent and Greasyman dropped on the pavement. Another shot rang out. A buzz like a lead bee screamed by Mike’s head, ricocheting off the Bradley’s armor. “Shit,” he said again. He turned and looked behind him as another crack split the air and hit the metal hatch behind him. The clock tower. There was a sniper in the damned clock tower. Mike motioned to Trent and Greasyman to follow him in the police car before he ducked inside the Bradley and turned the armored vehicle back toward the square.

  “What the hell was that?” Nikki screamed. Nikki, Jenna, Doug and Terry stood at the bottom of the short, grassy hill, their shopping marked a path where they slid down. Doug raised an index finger to his mouth. The explosions stopped when the pharmacy fell; he didn’t know what was up there.

  “Shh,” he hissed. Then a rifle shot cracked, and another, and another. Gravel and bricks shattered by grenades crunched under the treads of the rumbling tank. Was it leaving? A car engine started in the parking lot; sounded to Doug like it was turning around. They listened as the sounds quickly receded and were soon gone.

  “I don’t know what happened,” Doug said, cradling Jenna under one arm. Tears ran from Terry’s eyes, but he stood tall. Nikki just looked angry. “I’m going back up. I’ll sneak that way and come up behind the Taco Bell. When I signal,” Doug said, raising his arm and spinning his finger. “It’s safe to come up. Grab whatever you can when you do.” He kissed Jenna softy on the head and let her go. She bent, snatched the white jar of amoxicillin, and placed it in his hand.

  “Thanks,” Doug said, and crawled up the embankment.

  “They’re coming for you, McAllister. I told you they were going to come for you.”

  Shut up.

  “What are you going to do, bitch?”

  Craig knew they were coming. He could see them well enough; the tank followed by the police car. What were they going to do? Storm the courthouse? Craig wiped a short sleeve across his face. Damn it was hot up here. He didn’t care about the police car. He could take that out. It was that tank. Unless people crawled out of that thing, he’d run out of bullets and not leave a scratch on it.

  “Run.”

  Craig shook his head. “What?”

  “Run,” Posey spat. “Flip up that trap door, climb down all those steps and run. Run and hide.”

  “Where the hell would I go?”

  Posey laughed, the soulless cackle of the dead man raked up and down Craig’s flesh. “You’re too goddamn stupid for me to play with anymore,�
�� Posey said. “Have a nice death, McAllister. I’ll see you in hell.”

  And he was gone. Craig felt it. The old bastard was gone. “Posey?” he said softly. What the hell? “Posey. POSEY.”

  Then the first grenade struck.

  Doug signaled when he reached the top of the hill. Whoever destroyed the pharmacy had gone.

  “Who are they?” Nikki asked, pointing toward the pickup, the bodies of Maryanne and Karl sprawled on the ground next to the F-150.

  “Don’t know,” he said. “Don’t care. Let’s just get the hell out of here.” He tossed her the bottle of amoxicillin and they ran to the trucks.

  “Where we headed, bossman?” Terry asked.

  “Home?” Doug said. Jenna looked at him, her green eyes plaintive. She shook her head. “What’s the matter?”

  “That,” she said, pointing south.

  “Oh, shit,” Terry hissed. Vehicles moved north on U.S. 71; the first one turned onto Main Street. “I think Omaha might be better.”

  Goddamnit. “Omaha,” Doug shouted and hopped into the H3. “Terry. Side streets.” He nodded.

  Nikki stepped on the tailgate, but Terry grabbed her arm. “No way, lady. We gotta move fast. I’ll take care of Herman Munster. You drive.”

  She pushed his hand away, his big, calloused hand. “No way. You can probably drive better than me. I can handle it.” She hopped into the back, grabbed the Marstens’ black Winchester shotgun and smiled. “I promise to hold on tight.”

  “You got it, sister.” The old F-150 sprang to life and followed the black H3 two fast blocks up Main Street, and west onto Mulberry. Nikki shifted uncomfortably in the back. “Hold on, baby,” Terry said to no one but himself.

  They drove with the widows down, explosions shattered the air. “Are we going to make it, Doug?” Jenna said, her voice barely audible in the battle that raged just a few blocks away. Doug nodded. I hope so. I hope so.

  A right on First from Mulberry took them back north. A short glimpse showed the Bradley sitting in the street two blocks away firing round after round of grenades into the second story of the old brick courthouse. The clock tower, at least three stories tall itself, swayed like a drunk, teetered left, then collapsed, the brick edifice crashed to the ground, the impact sent the trucks skidding across the street. A police cruiser suddenly shot from a side street cutting off the Ford from the Hummer, a dust cloud from the courthouse billowed behind it.

  “Damn it,” Terry grunted, twisting the wheel. The F-150 hit a shallow ditch and popped into a yard, he left the seat, and his head hit the roof of the cab. Herman Munster moaned as his body jerked. Nikki gripped the mattress tight, hoping like hell the bungees held. The cruiser slid to a stop, the faces in the front seat white, terrified. One face froze Nikki’s eyes. She knew that face. The Greasyman. The bastard from St. Joe, the man who came into her house, HER HOUSE, and threatened to rape her. She cocked the shotgun with one hand and waited for Terry to careen back onto the street before she let go of the bungee cords and took aim.

  “Fuck you,” she screamed and pulled the trigger, the blast sent her flat on the mattress, Herman Munster screamed at the body landing on his infected leg. Nikki leaned up to take another shot, but didn’t. The car hadn’t moved; the front safety glass had imploded.

  “You bastard,” she screamed as Terry straightened the truck on Mulberry and chased the H3 north.

  A gun cracked and a bullet whizzed near Nikki. She turned as a yellow Mustang closed behind them. A car from the highway. “Shit,” she spat and cocked the shotgun.

  “Whazzit?” Herman Munster moaned. Nikki ignored him and got on her knees, the driver of the Mustang reached outside the window, a pistol in a gloved hand, and fired. It went wide again. Nikki aimed low and shot, the front driver’s side tire exploded, and sent the Mustang into a skid, the pickup behind it smashed into its side.

  “What the hell?” Terry screamed from the cab.

  In the H3, Jenna screamed a different scream.

  Doug snapped his head toward her. “What’s wrong?”

  “Cars,” she said. “The ones pulling into town. Nikki just blew one up.”

  Shit. “You gotta drive,” Doug shouted, the panic in his voice unmistakable. Jenna had never heard his voice sound like that. “Slip over me and take the wheel.”

  “Nope,” Jenna said. She slid open the sun roof and grabbed an M27 light machine gun from the back seat and pulled back the bolt. “I got this. You just get us out of here.” She stood in the seat, her upper torso stuck out of the sunroof as she held the machinegun. Doug slowed and let Terry pull next to him in the Ford.

  Nikki cocked the shotgun as two more cars swerved to either side of the wreck and closed fast. She fired right between the headlights of the lead car, an old Grand Am, steam spewed from the ruined radiator. The second shot hit the driver’s side windshield, the Grand Am swerved and hopped into a yard, smashing into a tall, thick oak that didn’t budge. The impact pitched the driver through the ruined windshield, his limbs flailed as he disappeared into the yard’s tall grass. The wheels of the fourth car, a Chevy Berretta, squealed as the driver locked the brakes, wild shots from Jenna’s M27 danced around the hood of the car. For a moment Jenna and Nikki locked eyes, Nikki smiled, then Jenna nodded and dropped back into the H3 cab.

  “You okay out there, babe?” Terry shouted out the window. Nikki gave a thumbs up in the rear-view mirror, then saw Terry’s face. Oh, my God. Blood leaked from a cut on his scalp, cutting two rivers down his face. Nikki leaned over the driver’s side of the truck and screamed into the wind.

  “Terry, are you okay? You’re bleeding.”

  He pulled a red handkerchief from somewhere in the seat and wiped it across his forehead, soaking the cloth. “Ain’t got time to bleed,” he shouted out the window. “That was for Arnold.”

  Four blocks later, Doug turned west on a side street alongside a park and back onto Main. A sign welcoming them back to U.S. 71 north read, “Burlington Junction – 10 miles; Clarinda – 30 miles; Interstate 80 – 120 miles.”

  “You know how to get there?” Jenna asked.

  Doug nodded. “I just know that I-80 goes through Omaha, so we’re headed for that.” Jenna rested a hand on his leg. Her hand felt comfortable there. He relaxed and drove away from Allenville as fast as he could.

  July 15: Exira, Iowa

  Chapter 36

  Green grew in the fields and roadsides of southern Iowa like unkempt hair. The H3 and F-150 shot up U.S. 71 through Clarinda, nearby Villisca, and into the great wilds of corn and soybeans, seed company signs barely visible through the tall roadside weeds. The great line of gray asphalt wound over hills and through shallow valleys, glaciers carved out of the Iowa bedrock millennia ago. An old white Primitive Baptist Church lay on the west side of the highway north of Villisca, its yard mowed low. Terry tapped one honk to Doug, but Doug kept driving. Eighty miles north of Allenville, north of the shooting, north of where Arnold lay crushed by the roof of a dead pharmacy, the left blinker of the H3 clicked on and off, and Doug pulled into a heavily treed roadside park, a small faded sign read “The Plow in the Oak Park.” Terry followed him off the highway.

  Doug killed the H3 engine and stepped onto the dusty park lane. “Everybody okay?” Terry stepped out of the pickup cab, his face crusted with blood. “Hell, Terry. What happened to you?”

  “Didn’t have my seatbelt on when I made a detour through somebody’s yard. I’m all right.”

  “I still need to look at it,” Nikki said. She hopped out of the truck bed and stood beside him.

  Jenna walked around the F-150; the man they’d found glaring at them through the blood streaked glass at the Marstens’ home, the man they’d sacrificed Arnold to save, lay still, his face ashen.

  “Herman Munster doesn’t look so good,” she said, and pulled open the cooler, a plastic on plastic creak barely noticed in the still afternoon air. Beer cans floated in water mixed with a few ice cubes from the Marstens’ freezer. She grab
bed four cans and handed them out.

  Nikki took a Budweiser from Jenna, the cold can felt good in her hand. “I pulled open two of those capsules and mixed them with a little water somewhere around Clarinda. I think Herman got most of it down, but Jenna’s right. He doesn’t look well at all. I need to change his dressing, and we have to get him out of the sun. This drive hasn’t been good to him.”

  “How long you think?” Terry asked, leaning against the Ford, sipping his own beer.

  “A couple of day’s solid rest in a real bed with plenty of fluid and antibiotics should help a lot,” she said.

  Doug nodded. “I agree. And after today, I think we could all use a couple of days of nothing.”

  Terry moved the truck under the shade of an ancient oak tree to keep the July sun from baking Herman Munster’s skin, then the four sat at a wooden picnic table at the shelter house, and slowly ate MREs.

  “You know, these aren’t half bad,” Jenna said, shoving a plastic forkful of cold macaroni and cheese into her mouth. “I could live on these for a while.”

  “Where are we going to live, Doug?” Terry asked. “Omaha still the plan?”

  Doug nodded. “If that’s okay with the rest of you. We can at least try. If nothing’s there, I printed out maps to Tanelorn. The Marstens’ pictures looked real nice.” He leaned over and dumped his empty MRE containers into a rusty 55-gallon can, “Plow In The Oak Park” painted on the side. Sure, he knew the world was over, but they didn’t have to trash the place. “I saw a sign for I-80 a few miles back. It’s about twenty miles up the road. There’s bound to be motels where the highways cross. We could stay there until Herman Munster’s more up for it.”