The Undead (Zombie Anthology)

by D. L. Snell

  They must be close now, he thought.

  Suddenly, the pillar of boxes on either side felt as if they were closing in. He remembered . . . he remembered that he was claustrophobic as well.

  From the ass-end of the aisle just below the manager’s booth, the screech of rusty wheels finally brought Jason to the balls of his feet and off in the opposite direction.

  The mouth of the isle jumped from side to side as he ran. The brighter light at the end beckoned, illuminating the talking magazine and tabloid covers and flashing candy bar wrappers that were strategically placed to snag the dormant majority as they waited to check out. More importantly, he focused on the automatic doors that lay just beyond the checkout counters, to the left of the large windows that stretched along the entire front wall.

  Jason focused on the checkout directly in his path, the one with the empty shopping cart wedged between it and the next. He was confident that he could clear it in one dive and roll, but decided to simply plant his hands on the counter and throw his legs over the cart at the last minute. He fully expected to nip it with his foot; he didn’t expect that his ankle would momentarily lodge.

  Landing awkwardly, Jason turned to run out the double doors. They were conveniently blocked by a man he hadn’t noticed before, a stout serial-killer type who had bent over to retrieve the groceries that had just fallen through the bottom of his paper bag. He nearly jumped out of his shoes when he saw Jason.

  Thinking quickly, Jason opted for the window. Pushing the serial-killer type aside might have been easier in theory, but Jason was afraid of what might happen to the man if he should retaliate. Besides, what were a few shards of broken glass compared to another death on his hands?

  Against the backdrop of night, Jason’s reflection stood out like a black Republican. He was about to stop when he saw it move out of sync. And there was something else . . . something distinctly solid moving behind his two-dimensional doppelganger, growing larger as . . . as it approached from the parking lot. It was a man. Someone he had seen before. He was carrying a shotgun, this man, one of those new, lightweight, heat-seeking jobbers. In fact, he was pointing it right at Jason.

  BLAM!!!!!!!BLAM!!!!!!!!!BLAM!!!!!!!!! Exploding glass chased Jason along the wall of windows. In his wake, stalactites of glass refused to fall from the top of the giant frames until they could hang on no longer. Projectile shards nipping at his back, Jason dove to the floor at the mouth of the L-shaped vestibule. The burly, serial-killer type sprung from his hiding spot between two vending machines when Jason slid to a stop near him. The man stepped right into the path of a bullet with Jason’s name on it. He never knew what hit him.

  From the parking lot came a passionate yell, faint, affected by less restricting acoustics as it had come from outside, and delivered with a certain authoritarian zeal.

  “Freeze, or I’ll blow your ass…!”

  Jason didn’t wait for him to finish. Had he allowed the voice that advised him “We can take him” to dominate his thoughts as it had been trying to do, then he would have most likely had another dead cop on his hands (and his conscience).

  Running as fast as he could—through the checkout lane, into the main area, and up aisle nine, which was empty—Jason just missed being struck by rippled potato-chip fragments traveling at high velocity from the shotgun blast that destroyed an entire display of snacks.

  Detective Philip Makane (Kane to his friends) was beside himself with guilt that he didn’t make it to the bus station before the police. By all accounts, Jason Williamson was a good kid who just happened to be at the wrong place at the wrong time, and now he would have to kill him too. There was no other way. Though he had only spoken to him briefly in the aftermath of the St. Salacious incident, Kane had been smitten by Jason’s quick wit and by the glow of wisdom that swirled beneath those big brown eyes. He remembered thinking that, if given the chance, this kid was going places . . . well, maybe not now, but in a perfect world. Too often, the bad examples seemed to make the most noise, finding empowerment and pride, or something resembling pride, but owing more to rage and insecurity, in the belligerent attitudes that victimization begat. Jason was different: intelligent, charismatic, and street-smart. And look what had become of him. Somehow, it just wasn’t fair.

  Deep in his subconscious, Kane looked to redirect blame, pointing the finger at Jason’s poor judgment in the people with which he associated. Meleeza Duncan, his late girlfriend, certainly was attractive, and seemed nice enough, but for a girl of only seventeen, she came with a lot of baggage, most of all that wack-job mother of hers.

  Jogging toward the shattered front window with his shotgun held at the ready, Kane filed his guilt away and concentrated on stealth as he traversed the moat of crystalline shards, climbed in through the empty frame, and crouched behind the checkout counter.

  With his back against the filthy bag-bin at the end of the lane, Kane looked to his right, at the mess of red flannel that blocked the entrance. He quietly apologized to the burly man (serial-killer type) who lay bloodied on the floor (feet facing into the store, arms stretched up over his head, automatic doors chewing on him). Kane swallowed his disgust. It never would’ve gotten this far had he not been bickering with Allison, his partner and occasional fuck-buddy.

  Peeking over the lane to develop a visual layout of the store, Kane waved the scattered bystanders who were jockeying for his attention back into hiding. As big as the place was, Jason could’ve been anywhere.

  He was such a good kid. Such a good kid . . .

  Kane had thought it was a joke when he first heard Sgt. Stern mention the name Boring. His colleagues were notorious practical jokers. But how on earth would they have known? He never told anyone about Boring, the talking pterodactyl with large human eyes and a long, devious smile that would fly in his window every night when he was ten and berate him for hiding under the covers. Kane never actually saw Boring, so he could’ve looked like anything; if he had, he might’ve saved himself from the horrors that his imagination conjured up over the years. It had haunted him ever since, this imaginary friend who, despite Kane’s skepticism, he knew in his gut to have been real. Could it be that they were one and the same, that his Boring had resurfaced twenty-five years later?

  . . . or . . .

  Maybe this was just some hyper-contagious virus. All three hosts (Gus Rollins, Meleeza Duncan, and now Jason) had come into close contact with each other. Rollins had taken Meleeza hostage before he was killed by police during his shooting spree at the Springfield Mall, and Meleeza died in Jason’s arms after running naked from St Salacious Episcopal a week and a half later and having the shit knocked out of her by a fast-moving SUV.

  But then, why the games, why the stab at poignancy with Jason, in his bullet-down guise, representing some twisted metaphor on urban violence? Maybe he was wrong, but that’s how Kane saw it.

  “Jason!” The voice cut into his concentration with the subtlety of a dull blade slicing through gamey beef as he hid in the frozen meats and seafood area at the back, near his original entrance. “This is Detective Philip Makane. We spoke at the scene of Meleeza’s accident a week ago.”

  “Don’t listen to him,” the voice inside Jason’s head demanded just as he was rounding the corner to recognition.

  “I know that you’re a good kid, Jason, and that you’re being forced to do these things.”

  “He doesn’t know shit. He’ll say anything to get you to come out.”

  “The police will be here any minute, and I’m sure you know how they feel about cop killers. To put it bluntly, I’m the only hope you’ve got. Now, come out with your hands up, and I’ll do my best to see that you get some help.”

  “Fuck him! Make that piglet work for it.”

  Jason had yelled out to Kane, whom he now remembered vividly as someone he could trust, only his voice never left his mouth, and even there it was but a mumble trapped beneath figurative meaty palms that stunk of sulfur and ass.

  “Don’t you
fight me, boy. I’ll rape your insignificant little ass from the inside out.”

  Working within the limitations of his cerebral lock-down, Jason searched his mental database for something to distract him from the present: his mother’s smile, his dog Emit jumping up to greet him, Meleeza purring in his arms.

  “God-dammit!” Kane growled, watching uniformed officers pour hastily from four cars out in the parking lot. Two more stayed at the entrance to assist the rent-a-cops, who had lost one of their men to the zombies.

  Warmth fled Jason’s body as he marinated in what ifs: what if their bullets, laced with tangible scorn, somehow hurt more; what if he went out looking like some run-of-the-mill thug with a supernatural upgrade. He hated being lumped into the same group with the corner jockeys, who warmed the steps outside liquor stores in his neighborhood, taunting average-looking women and intimidating those whom they envied.

  “Relax, boy. You ain’t just in here by yourself now. And I don’t intend to make it easy for those pigs this time.”

  “Maybe you didn’t hear me, Jason,” Kane yelled louder this time to compensate for the sirens outside. “Do you hear that, then? They’re right out front. Do yourself a favor and come out now, before it’s too late.”

  “Save your breath, pig!” the voice spoke via Jason’s mouth. “You might need it to scream bloody murder when all those teeth are ripping into your flesh.”

  Kane gave the threat little merit as he, realizing that he was going to have to kill Jason, tried to find something that might comfort the boy.

  “For what it’s worth, Jason, I’m sorry.”

  If anyone was going to kill that kid, it was going to be him. That way he could at least ensure that Jason wouldn’t suffer anymore than he already had.

  “Where are you, you bastard?” Kane whispered. His eyes rolled from left to right, tracking the sound of Jason’s voice via recall, and ignoring, for the moment, the frightened shoppers who were starting to make tentative movements toward the front to greet their rescuers.

  A loud crash from the lot spun Kane around.

  Kane’s POV: The guard-tower and fencing along the front of the lot lay flat, dead rent-a-cops entangled in the broken scaffolding. Chain links bounced beneath slipshod feet shuffling away the weakened electric tentacles that reached up and danced around their legs before fizzling out. Hundreds of full-blown zombies staggered into the Megamart parking lot and immediately went after the escorts, stumbling over and trampling each other along the way. Something resembling enthusiasm grew in their deadened eyes as they reached the escorts and either lunged right through them, or snapped their jaws together with such force that cracked or shattered teeth. Still, they tried and tried. The rest followed the general flow of undead husks toward the store like a tidal wave of molasses rolling both slow and fast toward the cops who stopped, turned, and opened fire.

  With all their firepower, the cops probably didn’t expect to be overcome as quickly as they were, caught in the undertow of grasping hands and dragged beneath the surface. Jolts of light popping with brilliant yet brief life-spans provided a “you are here”-style position marker as some of the cops tried in vain to shoot their way out of the swarm while others punched, clawed, and scratched the anonymous hands and teeth that tugged their flesh and pinched it away from the bone.

  There was a certain pitch of scream that seemed specific to being eaten alive. It was an awful sound, one that came as close as possible to translating the experience, especially the first and last bite.

  Kane turned away and repeatedly cleared his throat to block out the sound.

  “You were saying about the police?” The voice resonated with maniacal glee. “The question now is . . . is it too late for you to help yourself and the rest of these sheep who you’ve sworn to protect?”

  While the words hit him square in the ear, Kane was busy measuring the parking lot left between him and the zombies. Most of them were on their last legs, so they were slow (he’d seen some first-stagers run as fast as a low-level sprinter for short distances) and basically easy to maneuver around, but it took a certain kind of person to remain calm enough to work out a path through the maze of bad meat, open wounds, and funky stenches. He had no idea what kinds of people he was dealing with here in the store. Nine times out of ten, they weren’t the right kind. And with Jason running around to boot, their composure was most definitely stretched thin.

  Fuckers are worse than roaches, Kane thought.

  The lead zombies already had Kane focused in their sights. When he saw the carnal anticipation bulging from their clouded eyes, as if they knew that his flesh was somehow tastier than the norm, he looked down at his body, almost expecting to see a big red bull’s eye painted on his chest. This fucking place . . . flat and rectangular, with sickening hospital-white light pouring from the large fanged opening in the front of the building as if to advertise all the edible goodies inside.

  These people would surely take his effort for granted, even though he’d be putting his life on the line, again, and would lump him into the general slop of authority figures the next time they had a gripe. It made him think twice about wasting his time to come up with a solution rather than just going for broke and hunting down Jason.

  Decisions . . . decisions. . . .

  As it was close enough to present the possibility of danger, the slap of flat, heavy feet wrapped in hard-soled shoes and traveling at a living stride from his immediate left-rear, bitch-slapped Kane back into action-mode.

  Leading with his shotgun, Kane spun around too late to stop the obese black woman from running out the door with her son Darius in tow.

  Kane’s arm check-beckoned, his lips curling around the words “Stop! Wait!” in silence as he realized just how much momentum she had gained and just how hard it would be to stop her without hurting her. What is she thinking? The cops were dead, all but the one whose severed torso was being torn between a cluster of zombies.

  “Sweet Jesus!” The obese woman cried out when the burly husk that blocked the doorway (serial-killer type) reached out and grabbed Darius’ ankle as he attempted to step over him.

  Trapped in a tug of war, Darius shrieked at the top of his lungs.

  By the time Kane came within reach of the burly zombie’s feet, the obese woman had fallen out of the doorway onto the parking lot. Darius, who snapped like a whip out of the zombie’s grip, fell on her, then bounced off. The automatic doors closed behind them, rejoicing with a hiss, trapping Kane’s echoed footsteps in the L-shaped vestibule.

  The burly zombie whipped around on his hands and knees and flashed a dripping red snarl. Between his teeth dangled a ripped swatch of blood-soaked fabric. It looked like denim.

  In the parking lot, the obese woman examined Darius’ ankle as he whined at her twisting and turning. There was a large chunk missing from both his jeans and the back of his ankle at the hemline.

  The obese woman held Darius close to her enormous bosom and rocked back and forth. She appeared to whisper something in his ear, but Kane was both too far away and too diverted to hear it.

  The tidal wave of rotting flesh and raspy moans grew deafening as the zombies approached with greater purpose now that the obese woman and Darius had stumbled onto the scene.

  She pulled Darius away, grasped his face in both hands, and ordered him to stand on his injured leg. “Try dammit, try harder than you’ve ever tried before!” Darius simply cried louder and louder as he watched the zombies close on them.

  Maybe you’d be able to carry him if—Kane stopped himself. He had a thing about obese people, especially the ones who sported fake satisfaction in their size. “God gave me food to eat,” was their credo. The obese woman definitely fit the description, but now was not the time to judge.

  As he watched the zombies draw closer, eyes bulging, mouths opening wide, yellow, red, and black-stained teeth clacking in expectant glee, there was no doubt in his mind that the obese woman and Darius were as good as dead, and there wasn’t muc
h he could do about it save for dying in their place. Without looking, Kane kicked the burly zombie backward onto his ass, then raised his shotgun and calmly blew off all his limbs.

  For a moment, the zombies outside looked up, distracted by the gunplay.

  Kane looked down past his shotgun at the limbless zombie that still struggled to reach him, slamming its face into the floor and using it to inch himself closer and closer like a caterpillar. This was once a man, a beer-swilling, chain-smoking, white-trash malaise, but a man nonetheless.

  Lifting his shotgun in disgust, Kane aimed down at the burly zombie who, upon reaching him, pushed with his forehead against the end of the barrel. Stiffening his hold, Kane held him at a distance, then at the last minute took a few steps back and whipped towards the screams of “Lord help us!” coming from the parking lot. He could barely hear it over the zombies’ collective voice, over the muzak that poured from the overhead speakers, the overlapping jingles, and holographic pitchmen and pitchwomen.

  Thumbing a button next to the scope, Kane zoomed in his view of the obese woman and Darius as the zombies began to encircle them and reach down. There were only seconds to decide whom to shoot first.

  Kane cringed at his options.

  Darius was facing away, so at least Kane wouldn’t have to see the look on his face should he take the mother out first.

  He pulled the trigger in mid-thought. In his haste, he forgot to close his eyes, and he didn’t even look away when he lifted his foot, stomped on the limbless, burly zombie’s head, and pinned him to the floor.

  Gore was nothing new to Kane; however, every nuance of the shotgun’s devastating punch into the obese woman’s face resonated with nauseating discomfort: the way her fat body seized and jiggled, fingers curling into a claw; the way her legs kicked; the sound that rushed out of her mouth along with the blood and brain matter that landed all over Darius, herself, and the first tier of zombies, some of whom recoiled due to residual flickers of instinct.