by Josh Vasquez
Once in the kitchen, he went straight to the fridge. It was as empty as the house. There was an expired gallon of milk, a few slices of moldy cheese, and a lone yogurt shoved in the back. Jeremy grabbed the yogurt and closed the door.
Please be good, please be good…
He looked at the expiration date. It still had a few weeks left. He began to frantically search through the drawers for a spoon. After not finding one, he ripped the lid of the yogurt, and crushed the cup, the yogurt erupting into his mouth.
Sweet Jesus. That is some good yogurt. I don’t even care how stupid I look right now.
He wasn’t sure if the yogurt was really good or that he was just so stinking hungry. He finished it and threw the cup into the sink. Wiping off the yogurt from around his mouth, he noticed a picture sitting on the counter.
It was a picture of him and his father.
That’s new. I’ve never seen that before. It might even be the only picture of me in this place.
They looked happier in the picture. Jeremy was wearing a baseball uniform, holding his glove and a baseball. His father stood next to him, beaming with pride. Jeremy remembered that day. It was the day his little league team won the championship. His dad was the coach then. That was before the divorce. Frustration washed over Jeremy’s face.
Why? Why did you have to mess everything up?
He took the frame and placed it face down on the counter. It was then that he noticed the piece of paper sitting on the counter next to the frame. It was a note to the cleaning ladies. Apparently, Jeremy’s father wasn’t even in town. He wasn’t even in the country. He was off on a pleasure cruise in the middle of the ocean on his private yacht. The world has gone to hell and where was his father? Living it up out on the ocean.
“That son of a bi-,” Jeremy started, but stopped when he saw a picture of his Grandmother on the kitchen wall. She seemed to be looking down on him, with disapproving eyes towards his foul lanuage.
“Sorry Grandma.”
He crumpled up the note and threw it across the room. His mother was dead and his father was nowhere to be found. This made Jeremy so much more exhausted. Wandering into the living room, he collapsed onto the couch. His eyes were growing heavy with sleep.
“I just wish this day was over,” he whispered.
He was just about to doze off when he heard gun shots coming from outside.
Chapter Seven
The sleep vanished as Jeremy jumped up to his feet. He ran over to the window, to try and see what was going on outside. From where he was positioned in the house, he could only see a large pickup truck. It was one of those jacked up, big mud tire, bubba-kinda trucks. From what he could make out, there was one bubba in the driver’s seat and two others standing in the bed of the truck. The two in the back were both holding guns. Jeremy was fairly confident that the one driving probably had a gun on him too.
He moved to the front door to get a better look.
Maybe they’re hunting zombies.
Hunting zombies. The thought sent shivers down Jeremy’s spine.
Is that how it’s gonna be? No longer are people going to hunt animals for sport, but the living dead?
The thought was sick. But at least they were getting rid of them. Making it safer. He wasn’t sure if it was that thought that made him go outside or the fact that they were living people. Actual living people. What was he going to do? Tell the living people to leave the living dead people alone? He had already killed several of them, who was he to tell them not to?
As he stepped outside though, he realized that they were not after zombies. Hiding and crouched down behind a car was a single black man.
“Hey nigger,” one yelled. “We got sumthin’ to tell you.”
“Yeah boy,” the other chimed in. “Come on out now. We can do this all civilized. Or not.”
The two men laughed as Jeremy watched on in horror.
“Hey boy! My buddy’s talkin’ to you!” the first one yelled.
Jeremy could see that Bubba #1 was holding a hunting rifle in one hand and a half-empty bottle of bourbon in the other. Not a good combination for a bunch of racist hicks. These were the kinda guys that gave southerners a bad name as dumb, white-trash rednecks.
The guy behind the car did not budge and Jeremy didn’t blame him. He knew they didn’t want to just “talk.” Bubba #2 was holding a camouflaged shotgun. Things could go very badly, very quickly. So, Jeremy did what any sane person would do in that situation.
“Hey! What do you think you’re doing?” he shouted.
The words spilled out of his mouth before he could even think of an appropriate response. The three bubbas and even the guy behind the car all looked at Jeremy as if he was the crazy one.
Tough crowd.
“Go back inside rich boy,” Bubba #1 said. “This don’t concern you.”
“I don’t live here,” Jeremy answered. “Why don’t y’all leave him alone?”
He thickened his accent a little to try and create a language bridge between them. It seemed to work as they pondered it for a moment. But Jeremy realized these were not the bridge building type of men when Bubba #2 pumped a round into his weapon.
“Don’t think we’ll be doin’ that. Now go on and git back inside. Go on now,” he said very calmly.
It was the unsettling kind of calm. The kind you feel right before some serious doo doo is about to hit the fan. Jeremy looked over to the black guy. The guy looked directly back at him.
“Just go,” the man mouthed.
It was at that point where Jeremy began to feel the rage build back up in him. The same rage he felt at the supermarket and in his driveway. This was not right. He could not let them do this. The rage began to seep into his bloodstream, his muscles tightening, and his jaw clenched.
Zombie apocalypse or not, this is wrong.
The only problem was this: they had guns. He had a screwdriver.
Screw it.
“Y’all are gonna have to leave. Now,” Jeremy said, just as calmly as Bubba #1 had.
Bubba #2 fired his gun into the warm night’s air. All three men began to let out whoops and hollers. Bubba #1 took a swig from the bourbon.
“Woo doggie! This boy has some balls,” he yelled out.
And that was when they heard the moans.
Oh, shit…
The gunshots and noise had attracted the dead. Moans and groans came from every direction. Perhaps the neighborhood was not as empty as Jeremy had thought. The bubbas were locking and loading, getting ready for the oncoming dead attack. Driver Bubba got out of the truck and was holding some kind of long barreled revolver. Jeremy noticed the guy behind the car start to stand up from his hiding spot, but still staying low enough to the ground in case the rednecks turned their attention back to him.
The first of the zombies began to shamble out from every direction. Ten of them, easy. And more were beginning to trickle in. Jeremy was right. This neighborhood was not empty at all.
“Alright boys,” Bubba #1 shouted to his friends. “Let’s kill sum zombies!”
Before they could fire a shot, a new sound filled the night. Not a moan or grunt that was accustomed to the living dead, but this time a piercing shriek. It was a higher pitch, raspy, and sounded forced through decaying vocal cords. This was something else. This was something new. Something worse.
The rage that Jeremy had begun to feel just moments ago was long gone now. The only thing that filled him now was fear. Fear of what horrible thing made a sound like that.
They came quick. These zombies weren’t shambling and stumbling over their feet like their other dead brothers. No, these were running at full speed, agile. There were four of them, but Jeremy wasn’t so concerned with how many of them there were compared to how they looked.
The other zombies always looked dead. Grey skin, dull eyes, and some were more decayed than others. Not these freaks. Their skin still had a pink tinge to it; their eyes bloodshot. As opposed to the congealed, coagulated b
lood of the normal zombies, these new infected had dark-red blood dripping from their mouths. Jeremy watched as one coughed and hacked as it ran, a chunk of brownish-red meat shooting out from its lungs.
The Bubbas opened fire. They were obviously unaware of the whole headshot thing. Either that or they were just really poor shots. Just blasting away, the runner zombies ran full sprint into the gunfire. One jumped onto a nearby car, and then leapt again, propelling itself through the air at Bubba #2. It was easily twenty feet. Impossible for a normal human being. These were no longer normal human beings.
Unfortunately for Bubba #2, who was mid-reload, the jumper hit him like a sack of bricks. It began to tear, not bite like the others, chunks of flesh off the man. Bubba #1 turned his rifle on the infected and by chance shot it directly in the head. It dropped cold.
Thank God they still die when you shoot them in the head.
Bubba #1 did not last very long as another two runners tackled him and knocked him off the bed of the truck. Jeremy heard the sickening crack of bone. The rather large redneck’s fall made his femur snap and poke through his leg. He didn’t seem to notice the leg injury as he was being torn to shreds by the runners.
Jeremy looked at the guy hiding, motioning for him to run to the house. He did, pushing a shambler out of the way to do so. When he got to the door, Jeremy swung it open and they both ran inside. They didn’t stick around to see what happened to Driver Bubba. Judging by the gunshots and screams, he didn’t make it.
As soon as they were inside, Jeremy spun around and closed the door. He locked the deadbolt, the doorknob and the extra security lock his dad had installed on the door, both men slumped against the door.
Jeremy looked over at the guy. He was African American, probably early thirties, wearing a nice button-down shirt, and some tan khakis. He was wearing what looked like dress shoes, not the kind you would want to run in.
He was probably at work when everything went down. Man, I’m glad I got to change clothes.
“Jeremy,” Jeremy whispered, holding out his hand.
“Ben.”
Ben also reached his hand out and the two shook hands. Jeremy nodded and took a deep breath. Ben seemed like a good guy so far.
It might be a good idea to hang together, but we’ll have to chit-chat later. Right now we gotta get this door more secure, Jeremy thought.
He stood up and walked over to the love seat and motioned towards the door. Ben stood up and walked over to him and the couch, and both pushed it in front of the door. As soon as they did, there was a slam against the door.
The runners had finished with the Bubbas. Jeremy knew it was the runners, which is what he was calling the new type of zombie, because of the screams. Not moans. He almost missed the moans. Others began to beat on the door. The wooden door cracked. It was not going to last long.
“We have to get out of here,” Ben said. “Is there a safe back door?”
Jeremy motioned towards the kitchen.
“Through the kitchen. The garage.”
Ben nodded and motioned with his head that they should get going. They quickly moved through the kitchen, Jeremy only stopping to grab his father’s keys off the counter.
When they got to the garage, it was dark. Jeremy went to turn on the lights but Ben stopped him. He shook his head and pulled out something from his pocket. It was lighter. He flicked it on and the small flame gave them enough light to see why Jeremy stopped to grab the keys. His father’s jeep.
Another one of his father’s many toys. A brand new, four-door, jet black Jeep Wrangler. And just like its owner, it was fully loaded with a bunch of crap. They both got in and buckled up. Safety first.
“What size shoe do you wear?” Jeremy asked.
“What? Why?”
Jeremy reached into the back seat and pulled out his father’s gym duffle bag. He pulled out a pair of practically new running shoes. His dad probably used them twice.
“These are an eleven. Will that work for you?”
Ben nodded and took the shoes, quickly putting them on.
“Ready?” Jeremy asked.
“As ready as I can be,” Ben replied.
Jeremy hit the garage door opener. As soon as the door cleared, Jeremy threw it in reverse and backed out into the drive. A few shamblers were on the driveway, but no runners. Jeremy began to drive towards the street. He swerved around the first zombie, but nicked the second. It let out a moan as the jeep bumped it. It was answered with shrieks. The runners noticed the jeep. There were two of them and they broke out into full sprint towards the jeep.
“Go! Go! Go!” Ben screamed.
Jeremy floored it and hit the third zombie head on. Speed bump. He took off down the street, the runners trailing behind. Something else grabbed their attention and they took off down another street. Ben let out a deep breath.
“Sweet Jesus,” he said.
Chapter Eight
The two men rode in silence as they passed through the neighborhoods leading into town. The appearance of this new type of zombie had really shaken them. As if the slow, dumb shamblers weren’t dangerous enough, now you have these dead, free running freaks to deal with. Both men knew the odds were now greatly stacked against them.
Before, they could just have been avoided, or at least out smarted, Jeremy thought. But now these crazy mofos? This is not good…
The future did seem bleaker. They had no weapons to defend themselves against these runners, with the exception of Jeremy’s screwdriver. And he did not want to get close enough to use that thing.
“We’re going to need to find some kind of weapons,” Jeremy said, breaking the silence.
“Yeah,” Ben replied. “I had a baseball bat, but I lost it when I was running from those deranged rednecks.”
“I had a machete. Got stuck in a zombie’s head.”
“Zombies?” Ben asked. “You mean like in the movies?”
“Yeah, that’s what these things are right?” Jeremy asked in reply. “I mean, they sure do act like them. I haven’t seen many zombie movies, never really was into that kinda stuff, but dead coming back to life and eating the living? That seems like zombies to me.”
Ben shook his head.
“But those are the movies man. Fiction. This can’t be real,” he said.
Jeremy did not know what to think. He hadn’t really had a chance to stop and think about it. If these things were not zombies, then what were they? Sick people? If they were just sick people, then when Jeremy killed them… He couldn’t think about that.
“Whatever they are, we are going to need something to defend ourselves. Especially if there’s more of those crazy, jumper ones,” Jeremy said.
“Yeah. What were those?” Ben asked.
“I don’t know. Maybe there’s different types of zombies. Or maybe they’re evolving or something.”
“Alright, so where do we go?” Ben said, nodding. “I can tell you that any local gun shop will be crawling with rednecks. And if it’s not, then it’s empty. Just trust me on that one.”
“Is that where you ran into those guys?” Jeremy asked.
“Yeah. Apparently, there are too many black people with guns and they thought they’d even it out. You know how many niggers were there? One. Me.”
Jeremy could only shake his head. One of the great things about the South. Where the racism wasn’t blatantly obvious, it was quietly lurking in the shadows.
“You have to be careful on that side of town.”
“What is wrong with those people?”
Jeremy had heard it all. Especially the older white women on the island. They had no problem with sharing their opinions on everything. But rednecks, man, you gotta love the rednecks. It was like they were trapped in their own little country-bumpkin world. And what drove Jeremy insane was that so many people chose to live that way. There were kids at school who would act all backwoods, but he knew they lived on the islands, in houses on deep water. It just made no sense to him. To be fair though, it
was not as if just white people were the only racist ones. Everybody was kind of racist in the south.
“Can I tell you something,” Ben said, interrupting Jeremy’s thoughts on racism in the south. “I’m adopted. You know by who? White folks. Yup. Man, I grew up in the country! I was probably more country than those rednecks! I didn’t grow up in no ghetto, listening to gangsta rap and drinking forties. I grew up out past Rincon, listening to George Jones and Skynyrd, and drinking sweet ass tea!”
“Ass tea?” Jeremy asked with a coy smile. “That sounds gross.”
Ben looked at the 19 year old with a brief dumbfounded look, but then cracked a smile, and both men burst into laughing. They laughed for a good minute, something they had not done in a while. It felt good to laugh. Everything was beginning to seem so bleak; it was nice to know that there were still some funny things in the world. Like “ass tea.”
Jeremy stopped when they got to Montgomery Crossroads. If it was clear of any traffic it would give them a straight shot across Savannah’s Southside. As far as he could see in the dark, it looked clear. Maybe they would get lucky. But Jeremy knew that they would have to be extremely lucky to get across town with no problems.
There was a Super Wal-Mart not far from where they were. If there was something they needed, then that was the place they would find it.
“How about Wally World?” Jeremy asked.
“You don’t hunt much do you?”
“No, but I play a lot of paintball.”
The older man chuckled at this.
“Paintball, huh? Well, I don’t know how paintballs are selling nowadays, but gun ammo is scarce. Especially at ol’ Wally World. And that was before all of this happened.”
“Oh,” Jeremy said. “I didn’t know.”