by Zombie Bowl
Table of Contents
Zombie Bowl
Author’s Notes:
The Out-Break
Preparation: Danville, KY
Safety:
Supplies:
Home:
The Library:
The Survivors
Danville:
Refuge:
The Zombie Bowl:
The End
Zombie Bowl
The Legacy of Dr. Z
As Recorded by KT Swartz
Copyright © 2012 by KT Swartz
http://graphicartofwriting.blogspot.com/
Cover Illustration by Mike Crawford
This is a work of fiction. All characters, names, and events portrayed in this story are of the author’s imagination and are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual people, living and dead, business establishments, or incidents is entirely coincidental.
Author’s Notes:
There’s an old lady who lives in the apartment above mine. She isn’t like most old ladies, with their dozen cats and pictures of their families decorating the walls. She keeps propane tanks in the bathroom, bottles of bleach and ammonia under the sink and in the pantry, and a bow and dozens of arrows in the living room closet. She also owns a storage unit full of sheet metal, matches, non-perishable foods, assorted combustible chemicals, nails, a hammer, and other bizarre things.
Most days she sits in front of the window in her living room and watches the world pass her by, but I know better. She’s waiting. Her windows are reinforced with bars, both inside and out, and over the front door is one of those retractable garage door set-ups with steel netting. The netting is so she can shoot zombies reaching for her through the gaps. That’s also what the arrows are for. And though she has guns all over the apartment, she still favors that willow bow her deceased husband made years ago.
I asked her once why she kept that primitive thing, and her eyes grew distant. I wondered what she saw that I couldn’t, but I changed my mind when she responded.
“Bullets run out,” she said. “Trees don’t.” And then she taught me how to string it.
When my parents and I first moved into this complex, people already whispered about the crazy woman in Apartment A4. They called her Dr. Z, but they laughed when they said it. I used to sneak up the stairs and sit at the top. That’s all I did, just stared at the door and wondered about this Dr. Z. Every once in a while a shadow would pass by the crack underneath the door. Feet would pause right in the center, but then they would disappear again.
One day black vehicles started showing up across the street. Men and women in black suits and black sunglasses locked their cars and headed right for our apartment building’s front entrance. And with them came the doctors. To a child, their presence was scary. They were too clean-cut, too clinical, and too polite. They always knocked on Dr. Z’s door. Sometimes she answered; most times she didn’t.
And even though those men and women in black suits and those doctors kept coming back, I got the feeling they weren’t really listening to her. Curiosity got the better of me, and on my thirteenth birthday – after I’d convinced myself I was a grown-up – I knocked on her door. She didn’t answer, not that time nor the four times after that. I was almost fourteen before the door finally opened.
Chain locks swung back and forth when it did. I counted seven, all spaced evenly down the door. I’d also heard deadbolts and finally the door handle unlock. A brown eye glared at me from a face wrinkled and lined with age. Cotton-white hair was cut short and straight. The old woman looked me up and down. To this day, I still don’t know what she saw when she looked at me. A thirteen year old girl with a ponytail and glasses, I couldn’t have looked like much. But she let me into her private sanctuary.
That was our first meeting fifteen years ago. Now I know why those men and women in black suits – and the doctors – keep visiting. I understand why people avoid her and why she chooses never to leave her home. If I lived through what she did, I wouldn’t either. I’d probably keep propane tanks in the bathroom, chemicals in the pantry, and arrows in the closet. But I didn’t. And I’m thankful for that.
This is the true account of Dr. Z, one of the last survivors of the twenty year blight that killed billions of people across Earth. I have collected her memoirs through our interviews, through eye-witness accounts, and by visiting the towns she wrote about. I give these accounts to you, because should the Out-Break ever happen again, I want you to survive too.
~ KT
The Out-Break
The first local news stations to broadcast warnings were one week behind the real threat. Like the Bird Flu and Swine Flu, a few cases first cropped up in cities with major airports.
A man was rushed from the Orlando airport to a nearby hospital. His condition was listed as critical. His symptoms included – but were not limited to – seizures, swollen joints, foaming at the mouth, organ failure, and severe tachycardia.
At the Los Angeles airport, a mother and her two kids suddenly collapsed. All three were rushed to a nearby hospital. Their symptoms included – but were not limited to – elevated body temperature, advanced Necrosis in their fingers and toes, extreme aggression, and Anhidrosis1.
The third outbreak that day occurred in the New Haven airport, in Connecticut, where a young African-American couple checked themselves into a nearby hospital after they began complaining of symptoms including some of the above-mentioned.
All three cases were considered unrelated due to their varying symptoms. No connections were drawn when each victim died within four days. In that time seventy-two people were bitten or scratched by the infected. Hospital emergency rooms flooded with the suddenly ill. Once-healthy individuals were dying from no apparent cause.
The CDC issued an emergency warning to all inbound and outbound international flights. The Red Cross began immediate steps to support those hospitals incapable of handling the increased number of cases. And the death toll began to climb.
During that first week, one thousand and four people were admitted to hospitals. There were no survivors.
At the close of day seven, the CDC issued a second emergency warning. The United States of America had been hit with an epidemic. All international airports were closed. Flights to Canada, Mexico, and South America were canceled. Weeks later, planes stopped flying between cities. The media labeled this spreading killer ‘the Black Death’, after the pandemic in Europe in the 14 century.
They were partially correct. And simply too late.
Preparation: Danville, KY
The Erickson McKenzie Medical Center sat just off Main Street. A recent expansion doubled the hospital’s size; it now took up an entire block and had consumed a two-lane street and a parking lot, but when the dust cleared, the monolithic maze resembled nothing she remembered. May Morris-Reid stood at the one-time crossroads of 4 Street and Martin Luther King Blvd, now paved over by the only hospital in Danville.
Under her thick-soled hiking boots, glass cracked. She looked down and stepped to the side of the broken bottle’s remnants. Her eyes closed, forcing her to focus on the sounds around her. A low moan from the hot August breeze rustled vinyl blinds against broken windowpanes, making them buzz like excitable bees. A glass door squeaked on its hinges. No birds. No human voices. No roar of a car engine.
Those metallic monsters were nothing more than lawn ornaments scattered down 4, Main, and every other street in the world. They rusted in the rain and faded in the sun. Only insects had any use for them now.
She opened her eyes. The hospital still stood in front of her. Like the obsessive Count from Sesame Street, she counted every window she could see. Under her breath, she whispered one number at a time, hesitating after each one, just long enough to add ‘Mississip
pi’ to it. Her eyes bounced from one pane to another, and her head nodded in synch, all the way to the ground floor.
Nothing but the sun’s rays moved across each window, and yet her feet refused to step forward. She held still for another second. Then flexed her shoulder muscles to relax away the tension. She flexed her arms, relaxed them. Tightened her core, let out a soft breath. One muscle group at a time, all the way to her calves. But she was still jumpy. So much for stress-relieving methods.
From her left side, a single dragging footstep kicked a metal trashcan lid. Not moving her head, she looked at it from the corner of her eyes. At the point where a flicker of dull pain zipped through her eyeballs and across her forehead, she saw movement. A shift of light behind a sedan. She blinked; had to look straight ahead to prevent a headache from building.
She didn’t move. A few strands of black hair blew across her face. The wind came from the northwest and mixed her scent with that of the putrid, black gunk that stained her heavy leather jacket, her jeans, and boots. She should have had her gasmask on, but the August heat had her sweating under her many layers. The humidity lay thick over everything, where even the glass windows sweated and thin mirages danced across blacktop. If she had to guess, she’d say the temperature was close to – if not already past – one hundred. On one of the hottest days of the year, she wore leather, layers of shirts and pants, and a heavy, thick scarf.
And here she stood out in the middle of the heat, in the abandoned city of Danville, Kentucky, to let the shambling dead shamble closer. That shifting of light took on a shape, one with a head and shoulders, with a hunched back and drooping arms. She stood the same way. Fingers hanging loose, bent forward, no sound, no quick or sudden movements. Maybe if she hadn’t waited so long, she would be one step closer to Step One. But she’d waited, erred on the side of caution, while caution wouldn’t err on her side. The zombie dragged the soles of his feet across the blacktop; the garbage lid bumped and shrieked, and then got caught between his heavy foot and rough pavement.
She kept her curses behind her teeth. Held her position and tried to focus on something else besides the metal lid’s constant shrieking. But whatever footsteps she might have heard from other zombies were lost to her ears. Something could be standing right behind her, and she wouldn’t know. That’s why her clothes stank like a bloated corpse and why sweat rolled down her back.
Her fingers itched to draw her crowbar as the trashcan lid clanked and banged its way down 4 street. The zombie on top of it stopped. He was distinct now, in his plaid shirt and jeans. Oily patches of green and black goo stained his outfit, except for a swatch of red on the hem. His once-red plaid shirt was now black and bulging awkwardly around the stomach. The extra weight gave the zombie a roly-poly appearance, as he shuffled and stopped, only to have his protruding belly tug him forward another step.
When the garbage lid stopped, the zombie moaned softly, more a loud expulsion of air than anything. He rubbed against a truck bumper, left a black streak across chrome. The garbage lid jumped over a reflective light in the blacktop; the zombie didn’t. His shoe snagged on the obstacle; his foot skidded across the lid. With absolutely no attempt to catch himself, he punched the ground hard; his distended belly burst like a water balloon, spraying gore and undigested meat across the pavement.
She drew her crowbar, turned immediately while the zombie was down. His knuckles scraped blacktop; clear brown eyes lifted, locked onto hers. A rotting tongue flopped from his jaw as that low, hungry moan filled the air. She stomped on the fingers reaching for her ankle and dropped down on one knee. The pointed end of her crowbar punctured his skull; bone cracked, followed by a wet squelch of smashed brain matter. Like a puppet with his strings cut, the zombie sagged onto the road.
Without moving, she looked around. No movement down any of the streets, no shuffle of dragging feet. She rose, wiped the crowbar on the back of her coat, and stuck the weapon in the carpenter’s belt around her waist. Shoulders hunched, arms swinging loosely, she shuffled forward two steps to the hospital. Stopped. Her eyes moved across the abandoned facility. Still no movement. The hospital’s shadow fell over her as she moved forward. Against the heat, its touch chilled her skin. The shade from this useless monolith was a welcome relief.
Standing in the ‘Patient Pick-Up’ area, she looked through the sliding doors. Shards of glass lay scattered around them. Dried, black blood stained the metal doorframes. Her eyes followed smeared footprints to the doors. Inside the dark building, overturned gurneys and wheelchairs created minor obstacles down the hall. She closed her eyes and sucked air through her nose until her rib cage pushed her lungs back into place.
No hint of rot, only an empty hall. She stepped over the broken glass and paused in the doorway to listen. Her nose flared, pulling in another deep breath. Only dust and mold filtered through the air. Silence reigned in halls that once called it ‘stranger’. For a moment she stood beside the gift shop. The door was gone off its hinges; broken glass created a patchwork of glimmering puddles over the black and white marbled tiles.
‘As I stood in front of the gift shop, with its broken windows – and the door gone – I felt this overwhelming sense of sadness. Brightly colored wind chimes no longer sang and would never share this music because there was no one left to hear it. Lonely teddy bears held empty picture frames and smiling clowns presented me with ‘Get Well Soon’ signs. I wanted to take them with me, to give them purpose, but I couldn’t. Even the clowns I wanted, and I hate clowns. I wanted everything in that room, from the stained glass panels with Bible verses on them, to those fuzzy teddy bears. But the problem with surviving hasn’t just been the zombies; it’s having to ignore myself.’
• excerpt from August 23 entry
With no movement in the hall, she stepped into the gift shop. Her heel ground tiny fragments of glass into dust. She flinched but kept going, heading for the vending machine. Bottles of water sat untouched inside. Their expiration date still had three months left. She shrugged off her army-issued backpack and lined the bottom with the bottles.
She glanced over the counter. The register lay on its side, coins scattered across the floor. All the dollar bills were gone. She shook her head. To take the cash and leave perfectly good water behind was just plain stupid. The empty register was yet another example of the undeniable level of stupidity in humans this Out-Break had revealed.
She slid her pack on her shoulders. Stood. And listened to the sound of shuffling feet. Muffled, distant. The gift shop wasn’t the best place for a fight. Too much glass, too many loose items on the shelves. Not a spot on the floor was clear of obstacles. She could trip over the shelves or knock over one of the display tables. All the wind chimes needed was a slight breeze to draw all the zombies on this floor to her. The fake stained glass was just as bad. She had to leave.
In the hall outside the gift shop, nothing moved. Her eyes went to the curved staircase to the basement level. She backed up, drew her willow bow and a metal-tipped arrow from its quiver, and knelt down in the corner between the gift shop and the patient exit. She drew the arrow back to her ear and held it as dragging feet stumbled over the lip of one of the steps. A rotted head, lacking hair, stopped in the middle of the staircase. A neatly removed portion of his skull over the right eye showed his brain.
She suppressed a shudder. A patient’s robe hung from his shoulders, stained black instead of sterilized white. The poor man probably never had a chance when the Out-Break spread through the hospital. Maybe under anesthesia, he wouldn’t have felt teeth sinking into his flesh, or sharp nails tearing chunks of muscle from his bones. In those last seconds of life, maybe the pain roused him from sleep, only to show him the horror of monsters consuming him alive. While their previous meals’ blood still glistened scarlet and shining on the white tile, they would keep eating, keep ripping chunks from this man until his ribs showed.
His left arm below the elbow was missing; most of the shredded skin across his stomach and leg
s showed deep bite marks clear through his muscles. The gluttons that were the walking dead knew no satiation. He moved sluggishly, two shuffling steps to turn himself toward the upper floor. Again he paused, as if exhausted; his shoulders slumped. She adjusted the angle of her shot. Let it loose. The zombie’s head kicked back; rotted bone snapped, spraying black liquid across the white stone behind him. Arms flailed. And the zombie hit the floor with a heavy thud and a dying gurgle. She drew another arrow but held it as shuffling feet disturbed the silence. Two pair. Unlike this patient, their steps came quickly.
Shuffle, step. Shuffle, step.
She rose, went to the railing overlooking the staircase. Pointed the arrow straight down. Two female zombies appeared, two nurses returning from their break. She aimed, let the arrow fly. With a wet sucking sound, it sank into the zombie’s shoulder. The dead nurse stumbled. Her deep, shuddering moan filled the staircase and only encouraged her friend to drag her bloated body up the steps.
No time for a second shot, she dropped the bow and pulled her 9mm and silencer from its holster. Her swift movements had both zombies looking up, their eyes not quite rotten enough to make them blind. In chorus, rasping moans escaped their throats. She squeezed the trigger twice. With two bullets in her brain, one zombie tripped over the patient’s body, flopped down across the stairs, and lay still. She put a bullet in the remaining undead. Blood and brain matter burst from the back of the zombie’s skull, painted the floor and wall behind it.