by Annie Walls
I’ve already looted the neighborhood of all basic necessities. Most of the people who lived here were comfortable, and therefore didn’t feel the need to stock up for anything. Middle-class suburbia at its best. My neighbors have long since left, or they are dead. Some I killed. It was either kill or be eaten alive, which is not on my top-ten list of ways to die.
I walk down the road as the sun sets. The clouds swirl in pinks and purples. The last summer flowers still bloom and bring a sweet floral scent in the air. How can the world be so beautiful, but dreary at the same time?
The roads and driveways crack with growing weeds. SUV’s and basketball goals are the only adornments. Rusty trampolines and play sets sit undisturbed, littering backyards surrounded by weathered, unstained fences, not having seen children in four years. Forevermore, the homes of wasps and carpenter bees.
The houses don’t have any overflowing newspapers or mail. All of that just stopped. Bushes and trees cover windows, and vines lace up bricks. I’m sure if I step onto a front porch, it would be covered with webs. All the while, the glass windows still sparkle from old life. The neighborhood isn’t old and crumbling. It’s just empty, like me.
Fast movement catches my eye, startling me to pause. A squirrel sits, frozen, about three feet away to my right, its beady eyes watching me. I can do nothing but stare. It’s rare to see an animal, and this little guy must be getting ready for winter. I take a small step toward him and he scatters away.
Animals have gotten smarter over the past four years, and make themselves scarce. They’re a typical food source for zombies. Even though I love the small glimpses I catch of them, I’m glad they stay hidden. If not, it would draw attention. The birds are the only brave ones, but they can fly.
Luckily, animals don’t turn. I experimented once with a deer I stumbled upon being eaten alive. I hated watching it suffer, but I needed to know. I can’t imagine what would happen if animals could turn. After I killed the dead, I watched the deer until it died. It didn’t come back.
***
I return home, and walk around to the back. Lining the yard, the trees canopy over the weathered privacy fence. The yard is made up of a large garden, practice targets, and a water pump. Years ago, my mother wanted the water pump for decorative purposes. Dad said if we had one, it might as well work. I remember him drilling into the ground in several places before hitting water. I beeline for it, dropping my pack and remove my clothing. The water pumps out generously into a large basin. Sometimes I have problems pumping water when it doesn’t rain for a while.
After scrubbing off the dead-man gunk, I head underground into my makeshift bunker, located underneath my family’s home, to put on some clean clothing. I dress and slip my boots on. No matter how safe and careful I am, I always sleep fully clothed with the crossbow at my side. Just in case.
The bunker was a project my dad undertook when he developed his end-of-the-world theories, but never got around to finishing. He started steps at the crawlspace and dug out the rest with a rented bulldozer. That was as far as he got, but I finished it by bricking up the entire room with bricks and blocks I found near houses under construction. The assortment of bricks gives the walls a calico look.
I start a fire to boil some water and give me light. Sitting at my desk in front of a few computers and a radio, I don’t bother turning them on. It is too late to crank the generator sitting in its home in the original crawlspace. Not to mention, the same broadcast has been playing the same thing for around eight months. This is not a good sign. Usually the broadcast changes monthly, giving updates, survival tips, and advising any survivors to get to a quarantine. Instead of worrying about the rest of the world, I take a huge gulp of Jack and look around my home.
It’s not much, only a bricked in room with one way in and out. Everything I need is here. I have a smoker I use for cooking. The galvanized range hood collects smoke so it can travel out through a PVC pipe, escaping three hundred yards away – a trick I use so I don’t draw the dead. An aluminum tub for any kind of washing sits right beside the bricked-in smoker. There are hoses I’ve rigged to bring in water from the pump with ease and to siphon dirty water out. It’s a pain to do, but works efficiently.
A mattress on the floor beside the desk is piled with blankets. Plywood and sawhorses make up some counter space. Beneath them is a deep hole I dug to store food at a cooler temperature. A locker holds tools, weapons, and other emergency supplies. A loveseat sofa I can’t see any more, due to piled up clothing, and a dinette table in the middle of the room complete the furnishings. The table is mainly used for a gigantic toothpick bridge – a sure sign of boredom in my attempt to survive alone.
Taking another drink, I lean back to look at my ceiling. It is hardly a ceiling at all. I can see the plumbing and air ducts of the house gleaming in the firelight, but I can also admire my work of genius. I’ve rigged blocks held up by two long steel poles – one tug of the connected chain and it will come tumbling down onto any threats. I’ve been thinking about making a second exit. Just a little crawl-through tunnel for extra security, but it will have to be dug out manually.
The pot over the fire hisses as water boils over the sides, putting out half my fire. Luckily, I don’t need to rid the water of any contagion. Broadcasts long ago said water was safe to use and drink, except for the obvious reasons not to use water. I suppose the latter meant not to drink from a puddle with a rotting corpse in it.
I stumble, getting up to dump a half cup of rice into the water and move the pot directly onto a flame still burning. The water sloshes and effectively dashes it out. I can’t help but laugh. I laugh at myself, my perpetual situation, my inevitable demise, my succumbing to a bitter drunkenness. I titter my way to find a lighter to light a small candle.
I sit back at my desk to wait for my rice. When my dad prepared for an apocalypse, he taught me non-perishables last a long time after an expiration date. I still eat canned goods from the old life. Dried beans and rice last even longer. Packaged cakes, like Twinkies, can last decades, and the same with dehydrated food. Chocolate has no expiration date. If food is stored properly, it can last a long time. I still have plenty. Non-perishables like rice, beans, oats, flour, cornmeal and my canned goods I use sparingly. When everything runs out, I know what I can eat from the land. I’m currently reading a vegan book of what kinds of grasses are edible and fiber rich.
Before I find myself in the middle of a pity party, I pick up the book.
“Damn.”
The words seem to spread out into mirror form, and are fuzzy around the edges. After flinging it on the desk, I take a bigger gulp of Jack that seems quite easier to drink now than when I first started. Leaning the old office chair back, I’m thankful for not thinking of the old life. My memories are good ones, but they can bring on physical pain. Grief is a strange thing when you don’t let yourself move on, especially when you don’t deserve it. I giggle, holding up the bottle. “Jack, you’re the bestest friend a girl could have.”
Chapter 2
Vaguely aware of something, I wake with a start, sitting up so fast the office chair rolls backwards. Even though I’m still slightly drunk, there’s no mistaking the shuffling and groaning of what can only be the dead outside, close. I grab my crossbow and arrows, along with my machete from the pack, just in case. I don’t know if they’re in the yard, it’s hard to tell.
Putting my shoulder and upper back to the bunker door, I push up slowly to peek out in the yard. It’s pitch black without any movement in the yard, which means they’re beyond the privacy fence. I sigh at this small relief.
Sneaking out quietly and climbing my fence, I look out into the field beyond, seeing slow movement. A smile stretches across my face. This should be easy and I’m gladly going to take care of it. I jump down and head back into the bunker to crank the ancient generator. It’s loud, but necessary to switch on a spotlight. I can’t get rid of them if I can’t see them well.
Stocked with my arsenal, I
climb my fence, this time jumping over it, but landing unsteadily because of Jack.
“Hello uglies!” I tell my two unexpected visitors. I can tell right off, they’re old zombies – slow and rotting. Old zombies are nasty creatures. One is a man. The other is much slower and female. I can’t really tell the age of the person. The clothes they wear can give an indication of age. She’s wearing almost nothing. I can always tell how long they’ve been zombies, just by how they look, their speed, and how fast I take them down.
They both have dried crusty blood and old festering wounds that leak thick fluids. They look almost like moving skeletons. Their skin is paper thin and translucent. Their eyes, sunken hollows, are bloodshot with milky white pupils. One of the woman's eyes is missing and leaking greenish pus. The blood seeping is dark and thick.
When the smell hits me, it hits me hard. “Oh, sick!” I gag out, tasting death, infection, and soured milk rolled into one. My throat starts contracting, trying to get my stomach to come up. Keeping it down, I move forward.
I lift my pistol crossbow and shoot the male. It goes a little off-target, to the left side of the forehead, but he goes down. I quickly shoot her and it hits dead on, right in the middle – easy. They must have been attracted to the burning coals. I might have a leak in my ventilation system, but that will have to wait for tomorrow.
I retrieve my arrows, not looking at the chunks that come out with them as I flick them towards the ground to rid them of excess gore. The guy’s skull comes right off with the arrow. I’ll need to burn the corpses. Right now, it will only attract more. I need to get back to the bunker. This surely puts a chink in my already busy schedule. Right.
A loud chattering makes me turn in surprise. A mouth snarls and I’m thrown to the ground on my back. With my crossbow out of reach, teeth snap as I hold the zombie with my hands and kick up with my feet, throwing the zombie over my shoulder with only adrenaline to energize me. It lands behind me with a smack. I jump up, grabbing the machete and run a little distance. The zombie landed on top of the other corpse. Satisfaction makes me smirk as it scrambles to get up, slipping around. It’s moving fast. Much too fast for a zombie. The smirk slips from my face as I stand there in a stunned stupor. If it hadn’t attacked me in a frenzy, I would say it’s human.
It catches sight of me and charges. I shake myself into action, swiping my blade at its throat. It gurgles and I stick my booted foot out to trip him. I quickly hack him before he can get back up. It takes a few well placed chops, but his head comes off.
Breathing heavily, I take in my surroundings and note it’s safe to grab my stuff and leave before any more can make their way here. Jumping back over my fence, I’m shaken to the core that I let zombies sneak up on me. I immediately blame Jack and my need to forget. I also try, unsuccessfully, to skirt around the fact I don’t know everything there is to know about the living dead.
***
Bolting my door and flipping off the switch to the generator, my mishap reminds me of the last time I figured out something new about zombies and my last close call with death. It had been about six months after the outbreak. I found a neighbor hiding out, while looting the neighborhood. We decided to stick together. At the time, zombies were new, well fed, and strong. I dealt with them almost every day. Their food source was down in the cities, and they roamed rural areas looking for animals. It had been a while since coming across any zombies.
We felt relatively secure while carrying bricks to finish the bunker, when half a dozen zombies attacked us. It was weird at the time because they never traveled in packs. My neighbor froze in the face of them. I don’t know if he stiffened from surprise, or because of the small group. Left to fight for both our lives, I took one out with my crossbow and beat the majority with bricks. It wasn’t as easy as it sounds. By that time, my neighbor grew some balls and began fighting the last one. I moved in and swung a cinderblock, knocking the zombie away from him. He sat there staring into space, while I smashed the head in. It didn’t take a genius to know he was infected. He had a seeping bite mark and a vacant look in his eyes.
“You know what I have to do,” I said. Upon him coming to stay with me, we both agreed to show mercy if the other was bitten.
“Yes,” he whispered after a pause. I gave him a few hours. I guess to get right with God. After digging a shallow grave in a wooded area, I shot him with my crossbow at dusk. His name was Jim, and he stayed with me for three weeks.
I move into the “kitchen” area of my bunker, to the big aluminum barrel I use as a tub and sink. The water is cold, but I quickly wash my face, arms, and hands. Then, I wash my arrows. I’ll have to scrub the tub tomorrow, but I don’t care. With the adrenaline wearing off, I change my clothes and eat my bland, mushy rice with several gulps of water. I finally crawl under my blankets, realizing it’s hard to sleep. I quickly scrawl down an account of what happened in my notebook – a composition pad I use to write down any useful information. I don’t know if the zombie attack is a good omen or bad. One thing I know for sure, Jack is no longer my best friend.
***
Waking up without dreaming of faces I once knew and loved as zombies starts my day off right. I get to work siphoning dirty water from the tub through a dirty water hose that drains outside. Doing it without getting any in my mouth is a science. I have three hoses; one for dirty water, one for clean water, and the third’s a short hose connected to the basin for quick cleanups.
After my morning routine, I head out for a jog to figure out how I attracted the zombies from last night. I always jog with my pack, just to be sure I can, if it’s ever needed to escape a sticky predicament. I always push myself for stronger endurance because I never know what will happen or when it will, but one thing’s for sure – it’s inevitable.
It’s warmer today than yesterday. The sun is high in the endless blue sky. Everything seems perfect and clear. I loved days like these in the old life. The reminder makes me chipper despite a slight hangover. The weather has always affected my mood.
Ignoring my recent injury, I speed up the pace, my breathing not yet labored, kicking rocks as I go, and avoiding cracks in the road. My crossbow and pack flap on my back comfortingly, like a security blanket. Every now and then, the machete taps my thigh. Same with the double sided hatchet I added this morning. The wind blows, and leaves swirl. Birds chirp as I run to the tune of their melodies. It sounds normal, like the old life. Breathing in through my nose, brings in the dry grass scent mixed with evergreen. I go on like this for twice my normal workout time. The endorphins are flowing, and talking to someone would be a welcome change. I could find people, but surviving great on my own, I don’t want to.
I double back to dispose of the corpses, when a scream and a high-pitched squeal followed by loud moans grab my attention. My great mood evaporates so dramatically, I could kill the person who said, “Be careful what you wish for.”
Chapter 3
I freeze, realizing there is a person – a living, breathing person – getting chased by a zombie. I hear another scream. Willing my breathing to slow, I wait and strain to listen. More screams, grunts, and groans confirm more than one person. They echo through the deserted neighborhood like an eerie ballad carried by the wind.
I pinpoint the struggles to a wooded area behind a row of houses. The noise isn’t far from where I buried Jim. I run between two houses, creeping as fast as I can through the trees.
I hear someone yell, “Get back!” My feet hit muddy spots causing my boots to sink in the damp ground, the earthly smell rising to meet my nose – musty like dirt and dead leaves with a whiff of evergreen. A feminine screech pushes me faster, but I remain in stealth mode. The brush whips against my bare arms. I haven’t tied my locks back, so they slither around me like snakes.
Finding the source of the noise, I assess the situation. There aren’t two people – there are four. Four people and three zombies, to be exact. It’s a heavily shaded clearing. The morning sun puts a cheery tint to the aut
umn coloring on the tree tops. The setting does not match the scene. Someone should be having fruit, cheese, and mimosas on a picnic blanket. Instead, a bloated zombie is on top of a strawberry-blonde, kneeling woman, who fights for her life, while a man with shaggy, gray streaked hair tries, unsuccessfully, to grab the zombie’s head and twist.
Another guy, lanky, with dark hair, and a skinny blonde girl fend off their own zombies. The lanky guy holds a huge walking stick, and the girl throws her fists like a wild animal. The feelings coursing through me are unbelievable. I want to leave them here to their fate. I want to run, hug them, and kiss their mouths. Breathing heavily, I feel like someone lit a fuse inside my body. People. Finally, the fuse ends and I explode. I drop my pack, grab the machete and hatchet, and run toward them without another thought.
“Take this,” I shout at the skinny girl throwing punches. She looks to be a few years younger than me. I toss the hatchet toward the ground at her feet, and barely notice it sticks straight up in the ground. I run toward the zombie on top of the woman who looks to be in her late thirties. She’s terrified and shivering. The zombie is so bloated, fluids drip from its mouth. Its skin is stretched to a translucent state – so clear, the fluids inside gush around like a filmy cloud. I shove the older man with shaggy hair out of the way as hard I can, barely having time to notice he is heavy, and looking at me in shock.
“Get your head down,” I command the woman. She ducks under her bloody arms. I make a giant sweeping motion with my machete, and the zombie’s head explodes into blood and sticky bits. I turn to notice the skinny girl slicing through the air with the hatchet. Fluid and gore from the zombie sprays all around in a fine mist.