The Inhuman Chronicles (Book 1): Inhuman

by Feren, Todd C.

  Shit, I thought. They saw me.

  Then, I saw movement from Mr. Clark's bushes. It wasn't a zombie, it was too small. Maybe a baby zombie? Could a baby zombie crawl any better or worse than a real baby? I squinted my eyes and saw a small dog’s head pop through the top of the bush. It was a very small white dog with a brown patch over his right eye. Luckily, I wasn't the only one who saw the little dog. The two shambling corpses also spotted the tasty morsel and turned their attention to it. Well, better they eat the dog than stink up my lawn with their rotten stench.

  I walked inside and closed the door as I heard the hungry moaning of the two zombies followed closely by the piercing yipping that only a small dog can make. I looked through the broken window at Carl and forgot all about the dog that was probably being pulled apart by hungry cadavers. Carl's eyes were wide and they followed me as I moved from one window to another.

  First things first, I had to cover that window and secure this house. I broke the legs off of my dining room table, and for being such a heavy table, the legs broke like cheap balsa. I did a quick, half-assed job of nailing the tabletop up to cover the hole in the window. Once I had some time, I would do a better job. But for now, this would suffice. My ass was throbbing from the roof, and my ankle was killing me. I curled up on my couch and fell asleep to the sounds of hands on my front door. Those idiots didn't even try the broken window.

  Chapter 2

  A few days have passed, and life has been monumentally boring. For the end of the world, not much is happening. I occasionally see some random zombies walking up the street. They never use the sidewalk.

  Animals.

  There's no power. No TV. I think it's best to write to keep my mind active. I actually considered trying to find another place to stay other than my house, for no reason other than I was bored. Stupid thoughts like that get people killed.

  So, I write.

  I took off every door in my house, cut them to fit every window perfectly, and screwed and glued them into place. I even reinforced them with the metal rods from the closets that all my clothes used to hang on. I left a small opening in the front window so I can see out. It’s a nice view, and watching zombies chase after people and random animals more than makes up for the lack of cable television.

  I've been rationing my food. In the back of my mind I think I always expected some sort of societal melt down. My pantry was fully stocked with canned food and candy even before the first reports of zombies came streaming in. But once the threat of the walking dead surfaced, I made sure to go to the local grocery store and take everything I could fit in my car. Now, THAT was truly a great day to people-watch. Scared old ladies fought with canes over loaves of bread with soccer moms whose skin was surgically pulled so tight you couldn't tell if they were scared or laughing. Weekend warriors wearing camouflage pulled hand guns on teenagers and stole entire grocery carts of food from the weaker of the pack. It was like watching a lion take a zebra from a herd of hyenas who had worked so hard for the kill. Every so often, you would see a real alpha male type get his ass beat by a scared mob trying their best to survive.

  I walked through the chaotic storm with a calm that practically made me invisible.

  I filled up my entire cart with soda, candy, and every last sugary sweet they had.

  Look, I know I need real food to survive... I have a TON of "real food" already on my shelves... But, when are they ever going to make Skittles again?

  Never, that's when.

  I have to have my sugary fix.

  Even with my diet of rationed canned food and candy, I'm starting to trim up a bit. When I wake up in the morning, I do 100 push ups. Then at lunch, I do 100 more. Then, as I'm getting ready to go to sleep, I crank out another 100. My plan is to keep adding 20 to each set every week. So far, it’s paid off. I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror yesterday morning, and I'm starting to look like I did when I was in college. The routine has an added benefit of keeping me somewhat sane. That's why I'm back to writing. I've been working out my body, but my brain has been getting soft.

  Carl is still in my front yard. His eyes still move around, and his mouth still opens and closes like a metronome. I've spent hours up on the roof playing my new favorite game. I call it “Coining Carl." I broke open my penny jar, and I try dropping coins from the roof into Carl's mouth. I get a point for every cent that makes it in. It's pretty tough because his mouth never stops moving. It reminds me of the windmill at the mini golf course. You have to time it just right between Carl opening and closing his mouth. Right now, I'm at three hundred and seventeen points. That means there are three dollars and seventeen cents worth of change in that asshole's mouth. Some quarters, a few dimes, some nickels, and a shitload of pennies. I'm gong to have to go out there and dump some of them out so I can keep playing. It's a great game, but it would be even better if prize tickets dispensed from his ass, so I could trade them in for candy or a wax mustache.

  As well as being a great place to get a tan, the roof also gives me a pretty good view of the neighborhood. A handful of zombies are still congregating in front of Mr. Clark's house. Mr. Clark is a zombie now, so is it technically still his house? Does the bank own it again? Can a zombie own property? I bet having dead and rotting neighbors that want to eat you really brings down a property’s value. It'll take a really creative realtor to help sell any homes in this neighborhood now.

  Three bedroom, two and a half bath home with a lovely view of Lake Natchez. Close to schools, grocery stores, and friendly neighbors who will always love to have you over for dinner.

  My ass still hurts from the fall, but it doesn’t feel like it is broken. It’s definitely bruised, of that I have no doubt. I can’t sit down without a sharp pain shooting straight up my spine. I will definitely be sleeping on my side for the next few weeks, that is for sure. It makes me think though... I mean, there's nothing a doctor can really do for a busted ass, but what if I had broken my leg? It's not like I can just go to the doctor, get some pain medicine, and have him slap a cast on me. Injuries in this new world will be drastically different. What was once a minor injury or illness could mean a death sentence now. People with asthma will not be able to get their prescriptions refilled for a new inhaler. Diabetics will never be able to get more insulin. Insane psychopaths who were previously on antipsychotic medications are about to go cold turkey. It won’t be pretty, but I bet it’ll be fun to watch.

  All those thoughts have been shooting through my brain like lightning, but then I remember one very important fact... I really could not give less of a shit about any of it. The whole world could burn, but as long as I am safe, and have a good supply of Skittles, everything is just fine.

  Earlier today I was pulled out of my thoughts by a scratching at the door. I took a quick gander through the peephole, and saw a dead guy who wanted to eat me.

  No biggie.

  One zombie scratching at the door wasn't an issue. If I let him continue scratching for a few years, he might make it through the first few layers of paint. Then, I might have to deal with him. I left the door and went to the couch to lay down for a quick nap. I let my tender ass hang off the side of the couch to keep any pressure off of it. Then, I drifted off to a dreamless sleep.

  I woke up twelve hours later. For someone who sleeps an average of four hours a night, this was insane! I groggily stood up and stretched. My spine cracked like bubble wrap. Getting older really sucks. There was still the scratching at my door, but it was so constant and gentle that it was actually kind of soothing. I decided to take a peek through the un-boarded portion of the window to see how the day looked.

  I was wholly unprepared for what I saw.

  FOUR rotting corpses meandering around my lawn like old people in a hospital waiting room. It took me a few seconds to realize that they weren't randomly shambling about at all. The were fixated on a small azalea bush in the center of my yard.

  What. The. Fuck?

  Why are these damn thi
ngs here now? Why MY lawn? Did they hear me boarding up the broken window? No. That was hours ago. I might snore, but I really doubt I'm that loud.

  And then, as if answering my questions, I saw it. That same fucking dog that I saw in Mr. Clark's bushes shot its head out of my azalea bush and looked right at me. But, as quickly as its head came out, it vanished back into the bushes as a gnarled up decaying hand took a hopeful swipe at the small pup. All of the zombies looked at the bush like they were watching a David Copperfield illusion. They didn't understand how or why this food kept disappearing and reappearing. The dog shot its head out again and looked at me. It cocked its head to one side like it couldn't tell if I was a threat or not.

  Again, the zombies lunged at the dog but came back empty ended. This could get interesting. I went to my pantry and grabbed a bag of Skittles and went back to the window. I swung my La-Z-Boy closer to the window so I could get a better view. Ever since the power went out, I've really missed Animal Planet, and this was the closest thing to watching lions hunt down a gazelle.

  This dog didn't stand a chance.

  I popped a handful of the sugary goodness into my mouth and chomped hardily. My molars squeezed every ounce of sugar out of the tasty sweets. The dog popped it's head out several more times, always looking at me, and each time, the zombies would swing and miss the nimble mutt. Each time the dog looked at me, it seemed to be more and more confused by my lackadaisical attitude. One of the zombies, obviously frustrated by continually missing this tasty meal, swung his arms with everything it had to get the dog. When again he missed, his body fell onto the bushes from the force of his swing. The dog let out a yelp, and I was sure this would be the endgame for this round of hide and go eat.

  But, alas, this dog had more fight in him than I thought. It squirmed its body out from underneath the zombie, and bounced and weaved his way around the three who swung their arms wildly at the beast. For as nimble and quick as the dog was, it didn't run away. It bounded between the zombies and deftly dodged their swings, but it remained in my front yard.

  "Come on,” I whispered. "If you're not going to be their food, at least lead them away from my house."

  Then, the dog put a ten foot gap between him and the closest zombie. It sat down and panted from its overexertion during the dodge and weave portion of its escape. The dog took a moment to look directly at me, and then it did something really stupid.

  It barked.

  It didn't bark like a dog that wanted to play, or even a dog scared for its life. It barked like a dog who wanted everyone to know it was right there. In my front yard. The piercing bark seemed to rile up the zombies on the lawn, and make them double down on their efforts to devour it. Once again, the dog dodged every hand swipe and foot fall from its would-be attackers. And again, it put enough of a gap between them that it had time to sit, pant, look at me with a look that I would swear was indignation, and then bark again.

  I ran upstairs and looked out my bedroom window to see about fifteen zombies no more than a block away.

  Shit. I thought. That fucking dog is going to bring them all here.

  Again, the dog avoided capture and put enough space between it and its attackers that he had time to breathe. From my upstairs window, I saw the dog look to the downstairs window where it became used to seeing me. It could see that I wasn't there, and its head cocked to one side, as if to say, “what the hell?”

  Then its eyes scanned up, and found me in my new hiding place. I hid as quickly as I could, but it was clear that this asshole dog had seen me. It let out another tirade of its incessant barking. At this point, I was sure if you could translate dog bark to English, it would be telling me to fuck myself for not helping him. I'm sure it would also add something about my mother, but that could just be me projecting because the dog looked immature.

  I looked up the street again and saw several of the clump of zombies looking in the direction of my house. The closest flesh bag looked like a professional rotting corpse. He was wearing a business suit that looked very expensive at one time, and he moved with the grace of a ballerina that had been run over by several buses. The business man was the most curious. He broke away from the pack and ventured towards my house. It would only be a matter of time before the rest shambled over to investigate.

  I looked back down at the dog, and its eyes were locked onto mine. It sat down and raised its two front paws like it was pleading with me to help. I was fuming. I hoped that it would see the hatred in my eyes and realize that it had a better chance of surviving the zombies than it did with me. I shaped my expression to match murderous intent (it’s a great expression to use when I wanted to scare the shit out of overambitious sales people at clothing stores in the mall).

  The dog either didn't see my rage, or it just didn't care. It just wanted to be inside and away from the zombies. The dog barked again. This time the bark ended with a little howl.

  "Fuck!" I shouted as I ran down the stairs. Why did this little shit bag come into my lawn?

  I grabbed one of the table legs that I broke off earlier and hefted it to see what kind of weapon it would make. It felt fairly sturdy, so it would have to do. I walked to the front door and thought through my game plan.

  Open the door. Smash the first zombie I see. Dive roll over the bushes. Jump up, smash the next zombie. Do a double front flip, and bring the table leg down into the skull of the third zombie. Throw table leg at the dog to either kill it or make it run the fuck away.

  Perfect. That's exactly the way it will go. I'm sure of it.

  I took a couple of deep breaths to try and get my adrenal glands pumping in some additional strength, then flung open my door and ran straight into the action. So far, it was exactly how I thought it would be. I saw the first unlucky zombie directly in front of me. I wound back my bludgeoning tool and ran right for him. I swung for the fences, and as the wooden table leg exploded in my hands, and around the skull of my enemy, a memory flashed before my eyes of the day I bought that table, and the smarmy salesman who tried to up sell me on a more expensive table.

  "You don't want this cheap one. Trust me. Pay a little more for this solid oak set. It'll last forever."

  Damn my thrifty ways.

  My hands were tingling from the impact, and the fragments of the table leg that remained were far too brittle to act as anything other than confetti. My weapon might as well have been a pool noodle. The zombie I struck was stunned by the impact, but he quickly recovered. I shoved him back, and he tripped over his own clumsy legs and fell into my azalea bushes. Damn, I thought. Those bushes can't take much more of that.

  I got close enough to the dog that I could smell that stereotypical wet dog smell. The fact that I could smell that over the rotting flesh bags that shambled around us was saying something. I used both hands to give an overly exaggerated shoo gesture to the dog who only looked at the gesture with confusion.

  "Get out of here!" I stage whispered through my teeth.

  In response, the dog rushed at me and ran through my legs. As I spun to follow its movements, I saw it leap at a zombie who was a mere four feet behind me. How did I NOT know he was there? The tiny dog jumped about waist-high to the zombie, and with all its force, it managed to make the swaying zombie stumble back a half a step.

  Did that dog try and warn me? Or does it have delusions of grandeur to where it thought his nine pound body was more fitting to the name Cujo?

  I looked beyond the immediate threat of the four zombies moving towards me, and I saw Carl still lying face up on the lawn moving his jaw like he was dining on the air. Something shimmered next to his head, and I squinted my eyes to make it out. THE HAMMER! In my hurried scramble to safety, I had accidentally left the hammer next to his head. It's not as long as I would like a hand to hand weapon to be, but it might work. The dog ran a big circle around the lawn, and then stopped between me and the approaching undead attackers. It let out a growl that sounded slightly more menacing than a newborn kitten's purr.
I bent over and picked up the dog of a yet undetermined breed, and held it out towards the zombies. The dog’s growling stopped, and it began to kick the air wildly trying to get away from the threat I was handing it to. I could see a gleam appear in each of the zombies eyes as though they were children, and I was offering them candy. Their rigor mortis inflicted arms reached for the proffered furry food, but I made sure they couldn't quite reach it. Walking backwards, I made a big circle back towards Carl and the hammer I desired. Once there, I slowly lowered the dog to the ground. Its tiny heart was beating like a series of small cannons firing in rapid succession. Once the dog's feet touched terra firma, it took off like a bolt of lightning. The zombies never took their eyes off of it. I gripped the hammer tightly and moved as slowly as I could. The frightened pooch ran back into the safety of my azalea bush, which had the fortunate side effect of making the zombies all turn away from me. I lined up my first shot, and raised the hammer high above my head.