Zombie Ever After

by Carl S. Plumer

  Donovan noticed only a few guns in their possession, though. Perhaps because most everybody shot everything they had all at once, back on Day One. Fired one big wad of ammo when the events first happened, thinking to overpower the problem with a bit of “shock and awe.”

  Maybe they should have rationed ammunition, though, with the expectation that this “war” could go on for a while. But who knew? They had all shot to kill, and kill some more. So instead, they shot every damn zombie using everything they had, like playing Call of Duty on the Xbox. Could have eliminated each zombie with one or two carefully placed kill-shots, had they only known at the time, rather than pumping hundreds of rounds into each and every twitching, undead corpse. It’d just felt so right, was all.

  There still remained the hope that some armory still unknown would be discovered, and everybody’d re-arm. Which is why most of the humans Donovan came across continued to carry rifles, machine guns, shotguns, handguns. Hope was still alive among the surviving humans.

  “You should come with us,” the man said. “Call me Tenton, by the way. Tenton Abelard. This,” he said, pointing to the Goliath, “is Achilles Kauri.”

  “Donovan Codell,” Donovan said, reaching to shake the Tenton’s hand.

  Tenton shook his hand while Achilles slapped him hard on the back. General mumbling and head nodding among the rest of the group passed for introductions. Donovan wasn’t sure he felt welcome, but he sure felt safer. Strength in numbers.

  “We’re heading back to the city tomorrow morning,” Tenton said as they walked along. “Reports have it that a large contingent of these bastards are headed there.”

  Reports?

  “We’ve built a kind of bomb.”

  Bomb?

  “You know, fertilizer and all. A terrorist recipe Georgio here found on the ’net.”

  “Research for a screenplay, back in the good times,” said a smiling guy who resembled a dusty Morgan Freeman. He sported broken eyeglasses, the cracked lenses held together with black epoxy. “Now we’ve actually made a real, working explosive with it,” he said, mustache twitching.

  “Where’s this bomb?” Donovan asked. “You need a truck to carry one of any real effective size.”

  “We have one.”

  “Okay, good. But you need fuel, too,” Donovan said, as they walked along like old acquaintances or new friends. “None of the cars or trucks I’ve come across had much, if any.”

  “We found some,” Tenton said quietly.

  “Where?”

  “Here and there.” Tenton shouldered his rifle, stroked his beard thoughtfully a couple of times, spit into the dirt. “Found quite a bit of diesel, actually, in abandoned tractors in the fields and in gas generators. Lots of homes out here in the country have ’em for emergencies when the power goes out, which it does quite regular.”

  “Yeah? Interesting.”

  “Not many people thought of these other resources, you know?” Tenton said. “Most were fixated, like you, on conventional transportation and things like gas stations. Those have been dry for a long time. Dead end.”

  “I’m impressed,” Donovan said. “So, where’s the truck then?”

  “Down the hill over here. We thought you were snooping around, maybe. Trying to steal our truck. Or Feds. Only thing better than a government man is a dead government man, like they say.”

  “Yeah, and the only thing worse is an undead government man,” Donovan said.

  “Right. You know, you’re funny.”

  They walked along the ridge for another mile or so. Then they started to head down into a valley, away from the road and into a wooded area. As they progressed into the ravine, Donovan spotted a cabin between the trees. A large garage or barn stood to the right of it. As they drew closer to the buildings, Donovan caught a glimpse of figures in the windows, back a bit in an attempt not to be seen, eyes staring at them. More to the point, at Donovan.

  Donovan and the group proceeded to the barn and stopped.

  “You tell no one about this, understand?” Tenton said.

  “Of course,” Donovan said. “Anyway, who exactly am I going to tell? The undead?”

  A couple of guys in the group chuckled. Tenton turned and unlocked the padlock. He removed the chain from the barn doors. Then he slid one of the doors to the side and stepped in.

  Donovan noticed something—no doubt the truck bomb—covered by a large tarp. Tenton whipped the tarp off. It was the truck, all right. A small white ’70s-era Ford pickup, pocked with rust. The entire truck bed was filled with the ingredients of a homemade bomb: drums labeled “NH4NO3 ammonium nitrate fertilizer”; more drums labeled “C12H23 / diesel fuel”; detonators, wires running here and there. The whole mess was strapped together with bungee cord and rope.

  “Wow,” Donovan said stupidly. “That’ll do the trick.”

  “We think so,” said Tenton. “What you see before you has been many weeks in the making. Since we first heard the original rumors.”

  “Amazing. It’s like you had inside information about the zombie apocalypse.”

  Silence filled the barn for a moment.

  “Regardless, it’s ready, now,” said one of the others, proudly.

  “Yes, we’re ready to roll on into the city, light it up, and make a hella big noise!” said another. “Three blocks or more of zombie carnage.”

  “I’ll walk you through the setup of this bomb a little later,” Tenton said to Donovan. “It’s a dangerous bit of equipment, but I want everyone to know how to wire this baby. Just in case something happens. We’re all Plan A. You’ll be our Plan B. The complicated part has been done already. We broke out the final wiring into a color-coded, snap-together system. Even you could do it.”

  The laughter that followed was cut short by a female voice behind them.

  “Who’s our guest?”

  Donovan turned and gazed toward the barn’s opening. A black woman in her thirties, who was quite pregnant, stood with her hands on her hips. A small Latina girl hid behind her. They both appeared as dirty and crazed-up as if they’d been wrestling wild horses.

  “This, Astrid, is a friend. Donovan Codell,” Tenton said. “Codell, this is Astrid, my wife. The little one’s Maria.”

  “Mr. Codell, nice to meet you,” Astrid said.

  Donovan smiled and nodded.

  “There’s a bit of food inside, if you’re interested.”

  “Thank you, yes. Haven’t eaten much for a while.”

  “Well, come on then. We’ll see what we can scare up for you.”

  The girl beside her made a face and stuck her tongue out at Donovan. She turned to follow her mother—or so Donovan assumed the relationship.

  Most of the group went inside. A couple of the men stayed back as sentries, one in front, one guarding the perimeter of the property.

  In the kitchen, a handful of woman and men of different ages prepared the evening’s meal. Something boiled in a large gray pot on the stove. Didn’t smell delicious to Donovan, but at the same time, didn’t smell too bad. Donovan sniffed and peered at it, a quizzical expression playing on his face.

  “Possum,” one of the women said. “Domestic meat—chickens, cows, goats, all them—long gone. Killed by zombies.” She returned to what she had been doing before addressing Donovan. It looked like she was washing some sort of root vegetable, but none he’d ever seen before. Donovan supposed it wasn’t a turnip, possibly a strange wild tuber that was now all that was left to harvest.

  “Please, sit,” Tenton said.

  Donovan picked a spot at the large table and sat. The men propped their weapons against the wall, positioned them on counters or shelves, or jammed their weapon into their belts. Meanwhile, the cooks continued cooking and then began placing dinner before the rest of the men, women, and children. Then they, too, sat and joined in the food and conversation. Donovan had to admit, after days of eating leaves and foraging for nuts, the meal tasted pretty damn good. Real (although road-kill-ish) meat. Real broth
. Real (albeit unfamiliar) vegetables.

  “So, how’d you all get here?” Donovan asked with his best winning smile.

  “Simple. When the trouble started, we left,” Tenton said. “We trusted in God to find us a new home, and He provided. We call our home, New Earth. We are New Earth colonists.”

  “Amen,” someone at the table said.

  “We knew we were sinners, that we were the cause of this new plague. We didn’t deserve His favor. His mercy. But He shined his light on us.”

  “Amen!”

  “Praise the Lord!”

  “Here we are, now, safe from the outbreak,” Tenton continued. “Ready to do God’s work to bring this terrible scourge to an end.”

  “You shouldn’t be so hard on yourselves,” Donovan said. “Shit, you didn’t cause this mess. I don’t care what kind of sins you committed.” Donovan grinned, hoping to ingratiate his way into this new family.

  Tenton sat silently for a moment. Donovan glanced around the table. Everyone nervously avoided his eyes, taking great interest in what was on their plates.

  “We are ex-ATELIC. All of us,” Tenton muttered.

  “What?”

  “That’s right. Former scientists, researchers, technicians, lab assistants. All formerly employed, and passionate about, ATELIC and its goals.”

  Donovan sat still, as if he’d fallen into a viper’s nest.

  “It’s our duty to right this wrong,” Tenton said, deep in thought.

  Now it was Donovan’s turn to act as if nothing was more important to him in the world than the contents of his plate.

  They finished eating in silence. With the meal done, they stood and reacquainted themselves with their weapons. Others helped clean, and others helped get the children ready for bed.

  Night was falling; it would be dark soon. As if he’d read Donovan’s mind, Tenton said, “We need to get ready. We only have the light and warmth from fire now, no electricity. For obvious reasons, we wouldn’t think of using the generators. Fortunately, there is no shortage of wood—at least not yet.”

  “Yeah,” Donovan said, not knowing what else to say.

  “Let me explain to you how this works,” Tenton said. “Some of us take the first shift; stay up on lookout for zombies, or fossils, or city folk. Not sure if there’s any city folk left, though.”

  Donovan had the feeling that there were, and that some of them still held Cathren captive.

  “Whoever is on guard duty also feeds the fire, here in the kitchen.”

  “I’m happy to take the first shift. I’m not sleepy at all,” Donovan said.

  “Good. Georgio, Duggie, Bladeface, Dork, Smitty, and Achilles will join you. Each of you has a different area to patrol, to protect. We’ll relieve you all in six hours. About 4:00 a.m.”

  It would prove to be a longer night than anyone could have predicted.

  Chapter 46

  The noises in the night started about four hours into Donovan’s shift. He’d been dozing on and off, fighting fatigue and the effects of the first full belly he’d had in over a week. The others on duty with him walked by now and then or called out once in a while from their posts. All activity had died down in the last hour; however, as it approached 2:30 a.m. Donovan rested against the back door and closed his eyes, struggling to stay vigilant.

  Then something cracked in the dark. A twig?

  Someone groaned.

  Donovan’s eyes shot open and he strained to hear and see in the overwhelming darkness, but no other noises followed.

  Then, after a moment, out of the night it came.

  A shadow. A figure. The moan, the shuffling gait. Donovan reached for his bat.

  It was gone.

  The hair on the back of his neck stood up. Shit. He’d left his bat by the barn doors and had wandered back to his post minus his weapon. He’d drifted into a deep sleep without protection and without a clue.

  As the creature leapt toward him, Donovan rolled to get out of the thing’s grasp.

  “Georgio! Duggie!” Donovan yelled, jumping to his feet and stumbling backward. “Bladeface!” he yelled louder this time.

  Nothing.

  “Dork, Smitty!”

  The thing behind him started to close the gap between them.

  Jeez, these bastards move fast nowadays. Like they’re evolving. Zombus Superiorus.

  Donovan turned to run, almost slamming into another zombie who stood panting and drooling less than three feet from him. Donovan dodged to the right, like he carried a football instead of his own brain. The two corpses turned and followed him.

  “Achilles!” Donovan called out.

  Still nothing.

  He tried again, louder, almost screaming: “Achilles!”

  Donovan sprinted to the front of the building. He almost tripped over Achilles, who was on the ground soaking in a pool of his own blood. Donovan stopped for a second, surprised, but he shouldn’t have been. Not after all he’d been through.

  He ran to the side door. Georgio, or what was left of him, was stretched across the threshold. The doorway was open, bloody footprints on the hallway floor. Screaming echoed from upstairs amid more crashing and moaning. Loud shrieks, then nothing. Not quiet, but not any sound he could name.

  Out of the silence came the slick, sick noise of chewing, like a dog gnawing a bone. Donovan didn’t need to imagine what made that sound. He knew.

  He leapt over Georgio’s body into the house. A couple of shotguns leaned uselessly against the wall in the kitchen. He grabbed one and headed for the stairs.

  Too late.

  At least three of the undead were descending, blood on their lips and brain goo splattered on their rotting bodies. The brain-eaters were more than halfway down the stairs now. Donovan aimed and squeezed the trigger.

  Nothing. The safety was on. Who would leave the safety on in the middle of a zombie apocalypse?

  He released the safety and tried again.

  Click.

  The zombies were almost upon him.

  Who would leave an unloaded shotgun in the middle of a zombie apocalypse?

  Then he remembered: ammo had been scarce for quite some time. Guns gave the illusion of safety these days, not the reality.

  “Ah, shit balls!” He threw the weapon at the encroaching creeps and ran toward the door.

  Unfortunately, other zombies blocked that exit.

  Midstride, Donovan turned and made for the kitchen door, which looked to have been forgotten by the undead. He grabbed the knob, shoved the door open, and ran into the night.

  Right into an entire horde of zombies.

  Donovan was weaponless, defenseless. Out of options. Out of luck.

  Out of nowhere, shots rang out in the dark night. One zombie fell, then another. A third zombie’s head exploded, and then the creature, too, collapsed. Donovan couldn’t make out much in the darkness, but he caught Tenton, standing ten paces away. Tenton popped shots into the swarm of the undead with astonishing precision, working like a surgeon.

  “Donovan!” Tenton yelled, waving to him. Donovan jogged over to join him as Tenton reloaded. “Head for the barn. The others are already in there,” Tenton shouted. Then Tenton walked backward, keeping stride with Donovan while firing his shotgun into the night at any unseen undead that might be tracking them.

  “Where’d you get the ammo?” Donovan asked.

  “Last box. Kept it for just such an occasion. This is the end of it, now,” Tenton said.

  Donovan ran to the barn. The surviving women—and, by quick head count, all of the children—filled the truck. Donovan wouldn’t say they all crowded safely in the truck, however, considering they sat on over five hundred pounds of explosives. Incredibly touchy explosives. The women and some of the older kids carried sticks, bats, shovels, scissors, knives, whatever they’d been able to grab. And they were ready to fight.

  “Uh—” Donovan said, pointing to the group and then looking back into the night for Tenton. He couldn’t make him out at first
. Donovan’s eyes adjusted from the lights in the barn to the dark of the yard outside. He realized he could no longer see Tenton at all. Where Tenton had been standing mere seconds ago, a mound of zombies writhed in frenzy.

  It was too late for Donovan to save the man who had saved him. Though lapsed in the religious department, Donovan still knew how to give the sign of the cross. He did so now.

  Donovan opened the passenger door. No one sat on the driver’s side; that was to have been Tenton’s place. Instead, Donovan slammed the door and ran around to the driver’s seat. He spotted a machete on top of an upright barrel. Without hesitating, he grabbed the weapon, tossed it into the truck, and then got behind the wheel. The engine roared to life, and he slapped the stick into reverse and stomped on the accelerator.

  “Hang on to whatever you can grab!” he yelled out the window at the passengers behind him. “We’re going on one hell of a ride.”

  * * *

  Donovan pulled out of the barn, tires spinning in the dirt, and whipped around a hundred and eighty degrees, aiming for the road. As the truck rotated, the headlights illuminated zombies everywhere. Over by the house. On the driveway. In the yard. By the barn door. Inches from the truck. Each scene a frozen vignette from the Zombie Natural History Museum.

  “Stay away from the sides of the vehicle,” Donovan hollered. “They’re real close.”

  He started driving immediately, taking out three zombies in the first few seconds. The truck roared up the dirt driveway to the pavement. Donovan tried to assess which direction appeared to have the fewest zombies, but all routes looked thick with the monsters. He chose left, for no reason other than he had to go somewhere . . . now.

  Donovan plowed the truck through the zombies, but he wasn’t sure they’d make it out of this sewer of undead. The truck started to bog down, as if caught in sticky mud and not the broken body parts of zombies. The truck struggled, even though Donovan had the pedal to the metal. He wouldn’t be able to make the laboring machine go much further. Too many undead.