I struggle to move, but cannot.
In my confusion, I look over to the shoreline of a familiar island and see Jerry.
Jerry?
Jerry is lying on the rocks.
The others …
The dead are eating his corpse.
Damn you, Jerry …
Damn you for everything.
I want to hurt him so badly …
He let me down, for he’s over there with them, and I’m tied up …
I’m chained up … over here, on the boat.
I want to eat too …
I want to eat my brother …
You let me down, big brother. You let me down when I need you most.
THE END
THE FOUR OF JULY
By
Shawn M Riddle
I wake with a jolt, dreaming of being lowered steadily into a thumping cement mixer. As I struggle back to the waking world, I realize that the sound isn’t only in my dream; it’s resonating throughout the whole cabin. Damn! Those helicopters again. They’ve been flying around here at all hours of the day and night for the past two days. Helicopters in Washington D.C. were common enough, but not all the way out here.
“I’m gonna find those flyboys and tear ’em a new one,” grumbles Jack as he sits up in his cot and rubs his eyes.
“I don’t know man. Something doesn’t seem right,” I say.
“We’re in the middle of the Shenandoah Mountains, for Christ’s sake! I expect this kind of crap at home, but I came out here to get some peace and quiet!” Jack's voice gets louder with every word.
“I don’t know which is louder; you two or the damn helicopters! Will you shut the hell up? I’m trying to sleep over here!” Mike yells from his bed.
“This is starting to freak me out a bit,” I say. “Maybe there’s something wrong.”
“We can ask at a gas station on the way back, if you like,” Jack says with a shrug.
Since there’s no cell phone reception out here, and the local radio stations aren’t much better, it’s about our only option. I nod in his direction.
“Why are you worrying about a few helicopters anyway? They’re probably just on an exercise or something,” Mike says.
“Well thanks to those damn choppers, we’re already up, so we might as well get goin’,” I say. “Let’s get something to eat and pack up.”
Jack and Mike mutter a few unhappy remarks, but finally get out of bed. We get the coffee pot going and load the car. We finish up, lock the cabin and head down the road. After an hour or so of hairpin turns and narrow mountain roads, we finally turn onto the paved road that leads to the Interstate. Jack turns on the satellite radio. The speakers remain silent.
“Did you pay your bill this month, Einstein?” Jack asks me with a smirk.
“Yeah, I did. It should be working. Try the regular radio.”
He switches the receiver to AM/FM and thumbs through about a dozen stations; nothing but a soft hiss. I lean back in my seat and light up a cigarette. I must be looking grim because Jack turns around and tells me, “You worry too much, man. It’s probably just the antenna. I’ll check it when we get to the gas station.” Deciding that Jack is probably right, I hand him my MP3 player and he kills the quiet with some music.
There are no cars on the road, but that’s not unusual for this remote area. Along the way, we pass a couple of people walking in the road, staggering back and forth. One of them is limping. “Looks like they’ve started nipping at the Kentucky sipping medicine a little early today,” Jack chuckles as we pass them by.
We reach the gas station and hope to pick up a snack and fill the tank, as well as hopefully get a few answers. The lights aren’t on inside and neither is the electronic display on the pump.
“Well, this sucks,” Mike says as we get out. “Ten thirty in the morning and the place is still closed? What the hell’s up with that?”
“Closed or not, I gotta take a leak,” says Jack.
Jack walks around the side of the station toward the restroom. When he turns the corner, he stops.
“Hey man, what's up?” I ask. “Didn’t make it to the can? Should we bring you some dry clothes?”
Mike and I chuckle, but instead of the expected sarcastic remark, Jack says nothing and still doesn’t move. We start to walk over to him. Before we reach him, an acrid stench catches in our nostrils. Mike turns his head and retches and I gag and swallow back bile. With eyes watering, Mike and I turn the corner of the building and see what’s rendered Jack speechless.
A few feet from the restroom entrance, a man is sprawled on the ground, his skull split wide open, pinkish gray remains of his brain smeared on the sidewalk. On the wall, next to the body, there is a reddish brown stain. Maggots are crawling over the rotting flesh of his skull.
“Holy shit!" I gasp.
Mike gapes at the corpse. “What the hell?”
Jack’s face is deathly white. He turns around, falls to his knees and throws up. I struggle to contain the contents of my stomach. Covering my nose and turning my head, I take a few deep breaths to compose myself.
“You OK, bud?” I manage to ask, as Jack regains some composure. He slowly nods his head, but says nothing. I help him to his feet.
“I’m OK, man,” he says finally.
Mike pulls out his cell and stares at the display. “No Service. Hey, either of you got a signal?” he asks as he flips his phone closed.
Jack and I check our phones. “No dice,” I say as Jack shakes his head.
“Well, let’s not just stand here with our dicks in our hands. Let’s get inside and call the cops,” says Mike.
“What if the guy who did this is still here?” I ask, glancing around nervously.
Mike turns and heads towards the shop. “You gotta be pretty stupid to hang around after doing something like this.” Jack and Mike, despite being the best friends a guy could have, can be impulsive and reckless at times. As if to prove this point, Jack follows Mike without a word.
“At least keep your eyes open, guys,” I say as I hurry to catch up.
The shop is unlocked and the interior has been trashed. Packages of candy, chips and cans litter the floor. I go behind the counter and pick up the phone. It’s dead.
I take a long look at the mess. “What the fuck is going on?” I ask. Neither one of them say a word.
I light up a cigarette and inhale deeply. Mike follows suit.
“Hey man, hand one over,” Jack says.
“I thought you quit?” Mike asks.
“Just give me a damn cigarette!”
I toss Jack my pack and lighter. He lights up and inhales half the cigarette in one drag.
“What do you think happened?” I ask finally.
“Who gives a shit?” says Mike. Motioning in the direction of the corpse, he says, “All I know is someone popped that guy’s head like a zit and we need to get the hell out of here!”
“You’re right,” I say. “Let’s just go.”
Before we get to the front door, Jack says, “First things first. Hold up.” He heads to the cooler in the back and opens it. Pulling out a twelve-pack of beer, he frowns and then says, “Well, warm beer is better than no beer!” He opens up a bottle and downs it in seconds.
“What are you doing?” Mike asks, incredulous. “Isn’t this is a fucking crime scene?”
After belching, Jack says, “Do you think the cops are gonna give a shit about a twelve-pack of beer? Are they gonna come in and take inventory? No, they’re gonna walk straight over to dead Fred or whatever the hell his name is, stick a meat thermometer in his ass and vacuum up what’s left of his brains.”
Mike and I glance at one another then, despite the situation, we start chuckling and it doesn’t take long before we’re out right laughing.
“Fair point,” I say and head for the door.
As I open the door, something grabs me by the arm and pulls me toward it. I stare into my attacker's face and nearly piss myself. The thing looks
like a man, with pale greenish, bloodshot eyes, but half of the left side of its head has been torn away; its left eye bulging from its socket and dripping with thick yellow pus. The bones of its jaw protrude through the torn skin. It moans as it tackles me to the ground, opens its mouth and lunges forward. I lash out, yelling, “Get this fucking thing off me man!”
Mike kicks the creature in the head, sending it reeling across the floor. It stands up as I scramble away. Jack stares into its rotting face, his eyes wide with shock. Mike is fixed to the spot, staring in horror.
It begins to move toward him. Jack reacts first. He punches the thing in what’s left of its face, knocking it back to the ground. Breaking the empty beer bottle against the wall, he jumps on its chest and jabs it straight down into its left eye. Thick yellow-brown fluid shoots out the top of the bottle, splattering his shirt. It twitches, and then lays motionless.
Mike helps me up. I stand there, shaking, staring open mouthed at the bloody corpse on the ground. My heart is pounding in my chest; every beat sounds like an earthquake. I’m sick to my stomach, sweat pouring off me. My friends look first at me, then at the body on the ground.
“Thanks, guys.” Neither respond, just nod numbly. They’re dazed, almost like they’re moving in slow motion.
“What the blue fuck is going on?” Jack asks. “We’re in the middle of a bad horror movie! That thing was a zom–”
“Don’t even say it,” Mike interrupts. “We all know what that thing was.”
“We have to go. Now! Maybe we can find some help.” Jack looks around and walks over to the service island to grab a few paper towels. After wiping some of the blood and pus from his shirt, he comes over to me and puts his hand on my shoulder. “Come on man. Let’s get out of here.”
A moan sounds from across the road. One of those things is running from the rear of a house, heading right for us. Its moan becomes an ecstatic howl.
“Get in the fuckin’ car!” Mike yells.
As we race away from the station, tyres squealing, I look out the rear window and see the creature chasing the car. It falls behind quickly and then disappears out of sight.
Mike lights up another cigarette and, offering me one, says, “You gonna be OK, bud?”
“Yeah.” I take a cigarette from him, my hand trembling slightly.
“I don’t know about you two, but I need to get to my parents’ house and check on them. I hope they’re OK,” Jack mutters, staring ahead.
“Me too,” says Mike.
My family is Jack, Mike, and Jack’s parents. I’ve known these guys since grade school. They’re the closest things I have to brothers. Jack’s parents sort of adopted me after my parents died. I spend holidays, weekends, and most of my spare time with them. I’m just as worried about them as he is. If something’s happened to them while we’ve been off screwing around in the mountains, I don’t know if I could deal with it.
We drive for a long time. As we reach the outskirts of civilization, we see other vehicles, broken down and abandoned. At first there’s only one or two, but then more and more clog the roadside. On the other side of the highway, we see another vehicle heading our way. It shoots by at high speed. Several more pass us before we merge onto Interstate 66, east bound towards Washington D.C., and home.
We all live in Rosslyn, just outside D.C. proper. We see signs of further carnage as we drive. Burning vehicles and numerous bodies litter the highway. Many appear to have been torn to shreds. Jack has to swerve several times to miss creatures that are wandering in the road. Some chase after us as we pass them, but most of them continue to stagger aimlessly.
“What do you suppose started this shit in the first place?” Mike asks the question we have all been wondering.
“Don’t know and don’t care right now,” Jack says. “What I do care about is finding some gas for this heap before we end up walkin’. From what we’ve seen so far …” Jack pauses and points to one of the creatures stumbling in the road, “walkin’ ain’t exactly my preferred choice and we’re damn near empty.”
“We also need to start thinking about where we are gonna get supplies too,” Mike adds. Jack and I nod in agreement.
Jack takes another look at the gas gauge. “Keep your eyes open, and let me know if you see anyplace we can stop.”
A little further down the road, just outside the City of Manassas, we come to a rest area and coast into the parking lot, out of gas. Two other vehicles are here, one SUV and a large van with the markings of the Virginia State Police on the side.
The SUV’s driver’s side window is smashed; the half eaten corpse of a woman hanging out the door. Bite marks cover her torso and arms, and her severed head is lying on the ground a few feet from the vehicle, cheeks and eyes gouged away. The van appears to be intact, with the exception of one flat tyre.
The rest stop is a small single level building, with two separated sections for public restrooms and a lobby in between. There’s a small picnic area and a pet rest area at the side of the structure. Scanning the area, we see no signs of life or movement. Dismembered bodies are littered everywhere.
“Fuck me,” Jack says as he takes in the scene. “It’s a war zone.”
A man, – or what used to be one, – staggers out from behind the building near the pet rest area. Its left arm is missing from the elbow and its torn business suit is covered in blood and gore.
“Shut up and get down,” I whisper, pointing to the creature. We kneel down behind the car, out of the creature’s line of sight. We and wait for a few minutes. The creature shambles on aimlessly.
Jack scans the area. “We can’t sit out here all day, man. There’s got to be more of those things creeping around.”
“Well, we can’t just walk by that thing,” I say.
“I’ve got a plan.” Mike leans into the open door of the car and takes out a long metal flashlight. “I’m gonna go around the other side of the building, sneak up behind that thing and crown its ass.”
“Are you on drugs?” I ask him. “What if there are more of those things around back? They’ll rip you to pieces!”
“What choice do we have?” Mike replies fiercely.
Jack and I look at one another and then nod to Mike. I don’t like the idea at all, but it’s all we’ve got. He is small and fast, so he has the best chance of the three of us.
He inches around the side of the car and takes a peek. The creature is standing motionless in the pet rest area, looking in the opposite direction. He takes his chance and darts around the side of the building and out of sight.
Several tense minutes pass before I see Mike appear around the other side. He crouches low and creeps up behind the creature. It seems oblivious. Once close enough, he swings the flashlight over his head and brings it down onto the back of the thing's skull. Blood spurts upwards and it falls to the ground with barely a sound. He jogs back with a big smile on his face. “Fucker never saw it coming.”
“Don’t bust your arm patting yourself on the back man,” Jack says, but manages a smile.
We head for the building, stepping over bodies along the way. We see dozens of empty bullet and shotgun casings amongst the dead. I reach the front door first; it’s locked and chained from the inside.
“Stop right there and put your hands up!”
Looking up, I see a woman on the roof with a machine gun pointing at us.
“Hold it lady, we’re not armed! We just want to get inside,” I say, putting my hands in the air.
“Are you bitten?” she asks.
Jack looks to me and Mike then to the woman on the roof. “What?”
“Are you bitten?” she snaps.
“No,” Jack says. “We’re not! Will you put that thing down before someone gets hurt?”
She stares at us down the barrel of her weapon. “I give the orders here. If you want in, you’re gonna have to strip!”
“What the hell are you talking about?” I ask.
“Strip, now, or get the hell out of here!”
As if to emphasize her point, she pulls back the charging handle of her weapon, chambering a round with a series of dry clicks.
We strip fast. We’re standing there naked, in front of a rest stop off Interstate 66. Under different circumstances it would all seem pretty funny. “Turn around nice and slow; now!”
After we've turned a full circle, her tone more relaxed, she says, “OK, put ’em back on and get over to the front door. I’m coming down.” We nod, getting dressed even faster than we stripped.”
A short time later, she appears at the door, wearing the uniform of the Virginia State Police. She fumbles with her keys, unlocks the chains and gestures at us to come in. Keeping her eyes on us, she chains the door once more.
“Look, lady, if you wanted a date, there are certainly better ways to ask than that,” Jack says with a smirk. Leave it to Jack to make a smart ass remark to someone who just threatened to shoot us.
She ignores his comment. “I’m sorry. You can’t be too careful; I let some folks in here a few days after I got here and one of them had been bitten. In a couple of hours, she turned and chewed up her family and two of my men before I put the bitch down. You three are the first living people I’ve seen since then. My name is Sergeant Diana Ortiz.”
After somewhat shell-shocked introductions, she leads us into an office and hands us some bottled water. A table in the centre of the room is cluttered with a variety of shotguns, pistols and ammunition.
“That’s a nice piece!” I say, gesturing to the machine gun in her hands. “I didn’t know cops were allowed to carry those.”
“I’m a trooper; it took me a lot of hard work to earn this uniform.” She scowled at us to emphasize the point then added, “It's an MGA MK46LE SAW; very useful as an attitude adjuster. We had a few back at the barracks. They’re issued on a limited basis – crisis situations, terrorist attacks, that sort of thing.”
“OK, sorry,” I say. “Can you please tell us what the hell is going on?”
“Where the hell have you three been?” Sgt. Ortiz gapes at the three of us in astonishment.
Holiday of the Dead Page 44