Scavengers

by Nate Southard

  One foot at a time, using the piles of junk as the world’s largest set of crutches, he made his way to the garage door. Like most others, this one sported a row of windows along the top. None of them had been busted out, so he felt a little bit safer. He hated to think the hungry corpses wandering the streets might be able to smell him if he got too close to an open window.

  He reached the dust-frosted panes and peered out. No vehicle in the driveway, either. Whoever had lived here had probably made a break for it. He wondered if they’d cried at the thought of leaving their junk behind. Maybe they’d crammed as much crap as they could into the back seat, maybe had the kids carry some of it in their laps. No, nobody was that crazy. People knew their lives were more important than their possessions. If they forgot, they probably didn’t qualify as people anymore.

  He turned away from the window and examined the space around him. The windows didn’t provide much light, but he could make his way through the garage without too much trouble. After he hobbled his way back to the door, he inspected the areas closest to him. A nearby section of pegboard held a broom, shovel, and rake, along with several other tools of varying usefulness. He eyed their handles, wondering how much weight they could support. He’d need to find a tool he could use to cut them, and there just had to be duct tape somewhere in this mess.

  With more than a little apprehension, he looked down at his broken leg. The pain had settled into a steady ache, but it was still enough to pop the sweat on his forehead and keep his teeth set together. His jaw had grown sore at the constant tension. He wondered if an attempt to splint his leg would even matter, if something might be so terribly wrong with his wheel that it was already too late. Blood poisoning, gangrene-the possibilities punched him right in the gut. He didn’t want to make it home just to have somebody saw off his leg like some Civil War soldier.

  He considered the alternative. What would a dead man trying to run around on a broken leg look like? He imagined one of the decaying bastards loping along, bringing new meaning to the word limp, trying to catch anything to feed on and hoping like hell its flapping leg didn’t just break off.

  He realized he was laughing. It sounded terrible, like the noise a psychopath might make. But that wasn’t right. He hadn’t gone crazy, not by a long shot. All things considered, he’d never felt more right in the head. Surrounded by three thousand dead cannibals, he knew he hadn’t gone crazy. For some reason, he thought that was even funnier. A new round of laughter seized him in a choking grip. His cackles echoed through the cluttered garage, bouncing off the walls and junk and pounding at his eardrums. He let go of the doorframe and grabbed hold of his belly. The laughter doubled him over, and then his balance disappeared. He tumbled forward, and he didn’t even make an attempt to catch himself as he crashed into the nearest stack of odds and ends. Boxes crumbled and plastic bent. Glass shattered somewhere, but he didn’t feel it pierce his skin. His leg wrenched to one side, and the sudden pain was almost blinding. He didn’t stop laughing, though. He howled and shrieked and whooped into the air. Tears streamed down his face, cutting paths through the dirt and grime and sweat. He forgot whether he was laughing or crying, and the sounds that bounced through the garage suddenly sounded pathetic to his ears.

  Holding his breath, he fought to gain control of himself. The laughter stopped. The tears followed close behind. Slowly, he rolled onto his back, his leg grinding pain into him every inch of the way. He hissed again, his eyes squeezed shut and lips peeled back as he fought the agony that rolled through him like high tide.

  When he came to a stop he lay on his back, staring at the ceiling. A sharp corner, something wooden by the feel, dug into his back, working the edge of his shoulder blade. He pressed against it, and the pain helped him ignore his leg for a moment. He wiped at his face with dirty hands. Some of the sweat dried, and he felt almost human again.

  “Dammit,” he said to nobody in particular. His actions weren’t right, and he knew it. He had to worry about getting across the street and then back home in that order, and he sure as hell couldn’t do that if he spent all day laughing like a lunatic rolling around in garbage.

  He struggled to his feet an inch at a time, fighting through the pain as he wrestled for balance. Once he worked himself upright, he hobbled to the garage door again. He checked the windows, peering out at the street. A single zombie wandered through the road. It looked lost, maybe bored. It wasn’t hunting, so it probably hadn’t heard him. Good. With any luck, the backyard was just as clear.

  One lurching, clumsy step at a time, he moved away from the garage door. His eyes fixed on the yard tools he’d seen earlier. He’d find a saw and get to work on a splint. Fucking around and trying to break the damn things against the floor wasn’t an option. He’d need that strength for later.

  His mind worked quickly. He had the beginnings of a plan, and with each passing second it became clearer. Excitement slipped its fingers around him, and he moved faster. This just might work. It was a one in a million shot, sure, but what wasn’t in a situation like his?

  Sweat shining on his forehead, Blake got to work. Morris and the rest wouldn’t hang around forever, and he suspected he didn’t have much time. If he could make a splint, one that was strong enough to get him moving again, he just might be able to reach them.

  ————————————

  Morris opened a can of Bud and choked down the hot contents. He grimaced and then took another swig. This one tasted a little better. Or maybe his first drink had only primed him for the next. He didn’t really care. At that moment a hot beer was just about the best thing he’d ever had.

  He leaned against the nearest shelf and ran his light through the space. Stevenson sure as hell hadn’t been lying. The stockroom looked like it had been hit by just about everybody in town. The largely empty shelves looked like the ribcage of an animal nearly picked clean by scavengers. If he could find a bright side, it was that what remained was pretty useful: rice, baby food, cereal, pasta, and even some canned goods. When Rundberg panicked, they’d lost the ability to shop smart. He was willing to bet if he checked the town’s freezers and refrigerators he’d find plenty of bad milk and spoiled steaks.

  He jumped as something crashed. Cardboard and metal hit the floor.

  “Dammit!” Stevenson’s voice was equal parts frustration and embarrassment.

  “Take it easy,” he told man. “Just keep it steady. We aren’t exactly in a hurry now.”

  “Right.”

  He heard more boxes crumple as Stevenson climbed to his feet. The man’s grumbles crept through the metal shelves, gaining volume and then returning to a whisper.

  Morris narrowed his eyes as he heard something else. He moved his flashlight along the wall until he found the mouth of a hallway. The passage must lead to the double doors that opened onto the grocery’s main floor. Muffled noises floated out of the hallway, slaps and hisses and the rough, whispering sounds of bodies trying to press past each other. The noise sounded like an ominous promise.

  We’re still here, and we haven’t forgotten about you. Don’t you dare think you’re safe.

  Morris drained the last of his beer in a single gulp. He gasped as the liquid rushed down his throat. Then he grabbed another brew and stepped into the rows of shelves. He needed to help Stevenson. Maybe they were in a hurry after all.

  ————————————

  Chris grunted as he hefted the box full of rice into the truck’s bed. He shoved the cardboard as close to the cab as he could manage, and then he wiped a fresh layer of sweat from his forehead.

  This entire situation reeked of bullshit. He had a flashlight, but Morris had said they needed to save their batteries. He wanted to keep things running smoothly with the ape, so he got to spend his time falling all over the blackened stockroom. Yay.

  He lowered his eyes to gaze at the sheet-covered forms of Jeremy and Eric. Splotches of blood worked with the shape of their bodies to create an alien landscap
e, a rolling contour of death. He felt a nervous twitch at the base of his spine, a sensation that traveled upward and became a thought.

  Fuck Morris. That big bastard’s just like every other piece of trash in this neck of the woods. He doesn’t like you, can’t stand you. Maybe it’s because you didn’t loose your virginity by chasing down your sister, or maybe it’s because you went out and got a fucking education. Maybe he just doesn’t like that you can make your point without beating the piss out of somebody.

  So teach him a lesson. Go back there with a flashlight in one hand and a pistol in the other. Spotlight him just like the rednecks like to do, but put the bullet in his belly instead of his head.

  Then open those double doors. Let the zombies get at him. Sure, why not? Guy doesn’t give a shit about you, why should you offer him the same courtesy? He’s just like that murdering asshole and his friends, and you didn’t show them any mercy.

  He shrugged to himself as he considered the thought. Why couldn’t he do it? He could probably outrun any killbilly that didn’t stop to take a chunk out of the big guy. Then could jump in the pickup and get the fuck out of Dodge, see about setting out on his own again. It wasn’t like he owed all those bastards back in Millwood anything.

  Footsteps approached, slow and steady. His stomach twisted in anticipation, but he forced himself to remain calm. He didn’t have to make a decision right now. He had all kinds of time.

  He raised his flashlight and found the big man walking toward him, a box balanced on his good shoulder.

  “Taking a rest?” Morris asked.

  “Not really.”

  “Good. I don’t want to stick around forever.”

  “Thought we weren’t in a hurry.”

  “How long do you want to stay here?”

  “Fine.” He left the truck, sweeping the area with his flashlight to make sure he didn’t go tumbling into another pile of boxes. As he killed the beam and made his way back to the shelves, he wondered if he’d heard a note of anxiety in the hick’s voice. Had something in the stockroom spooked Morris, or was the big guy just ready to get back to Millwood? He had a feeling the ape wouldn’t answer if asked directly. Probably wasn’t in a talkative mood. Fine, neither was he. Better to just get the work done so they could leave.

  He clicked on his light again and scanned the shelves, found nothing but cobwebs and shadows. His gut clenched a little, and he wondered how much longer until he’d need to reach a final decision.

  ————————————

  Blake sat on the floor of the garage, his back to a washer dryer combo and his legs stretched out in front of him. He’d first sat with his back to the door, but he’d decided that was a little too idiotic and switched positions. Now he looked up at the doorway every few moments, always sure he would see a decayed cannibal staring in at him, hissing and ready to attack.

  He’d found a handsaw that cut through the yard tools’ wooden handles easily enough. Working as quickly as he could manage, he’d cut the handles the length of his entire leg. He didn’t want to run the risk of bending his knee right now. Sure, running this way would slow him down, but how much slower could he really get? He already had to move at a speed that was almost a crawl.

  He grabbed the duct tape he’d found and started wrapping. It was slow going, and he had to be careful as he looped the wonder tool around his swelling leg. There was only so much of the silver stuff to work with. He cinched each layer tight, and it sent a fire-burst of agony through his body each time. Still, he fought through it. He didn’t want this little invention coming loose on him halfway across the street.

  Once he had the wood secured to either side of his leg, he worked a third piece behind his knee. The thick dowel stretched from his Achilles tendon all the way to his right cheek. He wiped his sweaty palms on his shirt and got back to work. Holding the dowel against the back of his leg and wrapping it with the other proved to be clumsy work, but he persisted. He needed all the support he could find. This wasn’t the kind of thing he could half-ass. If he did this right, it just might save his life.

  Once everything was in place, he wrapped a final layer of tape around his ankle, making sure the wood pieces wouldn’t ride up with his jeans. Even a slide of an inch or two would be disastrous.

  By the time he finished, sweat had turned his vision hazy. His teeth ached from constant grinding, and he was pretty sure he had cracked one of his molars. That would be a fun little nugget of pain down the road.

  Once he thought he’d strapped down his makeshift brace good and tight, he reached behind him with both hands and pulled himself up the front of the washer. The task proved anything but easy, and he started groaning against the rising pain well before he reached his feet.

  Standing at his full height, he braced himself against the washer. He wondered if he really wanted to try standing on his own. If his leg buckled, he’d discover an entirely new realm of screwed. If he never made an attempt, however, he had no chance of reaching the grocery and the others. He’d be stranded in a town full of hungry dead folks. No choice at all, really. He needed to try.

  He took a deep breath and leaned forward, easing some of his weight onto the broken leg. It throbbed in response. Slowly, he added some more, taking one hand off the washing machine. The pain flashed once, a hot wave through his body, and then settled into a pulsing ache once more.

  “C’mon, you bastard.”

  He let go completely, easing a little more weight onto his bad leg. The pain tried to consume his body, but he growled his way through it. He refused to move, refused to give in to the pain. Instead, he ground his teeth and waited for it to recede. No other option existed.

  Once he felt he could open his eyes and mouth without screaming, he took a step. He moved forward on his good leg, brought the broken one forward. It was like swinging a tree trunk or a steel girder. The wooden handles kept his knee from bending, just as he’d hoped, but the splint was a clumsy mess.

  His broken leg stretched out in front of him, he curled his hands into fists. Moment of truth. He cocked his good knee just a little and took the step, half-hopping and half-limping. The agony was immediate and bad enough to wrench a scream out of him. It waned quickly, though. Squeezing his hands into fists, he panted.

  He tried again. The pain came once more, but he stopped himself from crying out, settling for a pained grunt instead.

  He kept moving, learning to walk through the pain and figuring out what his makeshift splint would let him do. Some act of God let him reach the doorway without falling or even needing to grab hold of something. His body felt like it was on fire. He grabbed hold of the doorframe and leaned against it for a moment, catching his breath and letting the pain subside just a little. Then, he walked back to the washer. He added a little speed, testing his limits. It felt better when he moved quickly. The pain became constant but manageable. Or maybe his nervous system had just started to short out, robbing him of feeling.

  He suspected climbing the stairs to retrieve the shotgun was out of the question, not that he had any more shells. What he needed was a new weapon. He found an aluminum baseball bat amid one of the piles of crap. When he tested the weight in his right hand, it felt good, deadly. He tightened his fist around it and then started taping, wrapping the duct tape to his wrist a few times before covering his fist and the bat’s handle. Within moments his hand had become a silver sheath. He tried to loosen his fist and found he couldn’t. Good. With any luck at all, the bat wouldn’t leave his grip anytime soon.

  He found everything else he needed near the garage door. He picked it up with his good hand and left the garage.

  The gas stung his nostrils as he splashed it around the living room. The fumes burned his eyes. He worked carefully, trying to keep the liquid from his clothes. Setting himself on fire was the last thing on his mind. He wanted the house to burn because it might send a signal he wasn’t dead to the others. It wasn’t the best plan, but it was the only one that came to him.
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  He reached the home’s kitchen and tossed the nearly empty can back into the living room and watched its remaining contents soak the carpet. Slowly, he hobbled around the kitchen, yanking open drawer after drawer. He found a box of matches inside the fifth, stuffed inside with two cartons of Marlboro Reds.

  Stepping back to the doorway, he carefully thumbed a wooden match out of the box. He stared at the two objects in his left palm and then glanced at his right hand. All that duct tape presented a problem.

  “Smooth move,” he told himself. Then he placed the matchbox between his teeth. He pinched the wooden match between thumb and forefinger and ran it across the striking pad.

  A single flame popped into life on his third try. It wavered and then slowly became a steady triangle of orange and blue. He watched it for a second and then decided he’d seen enough. He tossed the burning stick into the living room.

  The carpet went up with a sound like a muffled bass drum. Sudden heat pushed at him, told him it was time to leave. He didn’t move, though. Instead, he watched black smoke curl into the air and writhe across the ceiling.

  “There’s your smoke signal,” he whispered.

  Something behind him hissed.

  ————————————

  “You think Ellis is still out there?” Chris asked.

  “You care?”

  He grunted as he hoisted a box of canned vegetables over the side of the bed. “Yeah. I mean, we don’t exactly get along, but he’s still alive. At least he might be. Far as I’m concerned, that puts him on our side. Hell, I wouldn’t have saved his ass so many times if I wanted him dead.”

  “Right.” Morris leaned his good arm against the side of the bed. He kept his other arm tight against his side. Even in the dark, Chris could make out the bloody stain on the big man’s shoulder. He hoped it still hurt, hoped it burned like a motherfucker.