by Chris Lowry
"They heard our screaming," said Lou. "They came out of the woods. We were surrounded."
Peg and Brian exchanged a look with Anna.
"How many?"
"Two or three dozen," said Raymer.
He looked at the windows on the bus.
"He killed them all," he whispered.
CHAPTER TWO
Something that used to bother me about zombie movies and tv shows. Not that they were unrealistic. I mean, come on, they were about the dead walking.
Until they weren't make believe anymore. Like Star Trek and all the incredible devices Science Fiction promised us for the future.
We were supposed to have flying cars, and robot dogs. Instead, we got Z.
But in movies, the people would have a flat tire or something like it. They would get out of the car and not check their surroundings.
Then the Z would sneak up on them.
Are you kidding me?
Then they would fight, but the simple effort of pushing the Z back, of keeping it from snapping them, would exhaust them. The fighter could barely lift their arms.
Their bare, uncovered arms.
It made no sense. Maybe it was done for dramatic effect, but for me, it just made the suspension of disbelief all the harder.
"We keep covered," I explained to the group.
They probably felt like it was the thousandth time and I'd tell them a thousand more, just so it sunk in. Second nature.
I remember reading a book about a man who contracted leprosy in the modern world. He was taught to do a constant self assessment because of the way the disease worked. If he got a sore, or a cut, he couldn't feel it, and it would progress or advance until pieces started to fall off of him.
He even yelled at people for touching him. He wanted to be safe and be sure.
We were like that.
Or we were supposed to be.
"Two layers," I held up two fingers. "More if you can handle it."
"But it's hot," said Byron.
"You'll get used to it. And if you get bit, you'll get a fever even hotter. Then you're dead."
The kid mopped his brow with a rag damp from sweat.
We were all sweating. And it was not comfortable.
"Pants, tucked or taped to your boots. No exposed skin. Thick canvas fabric works good."
"Like work pants," said Brian.
"Or denim," Peg added.
"Yes," I said. "The movies, they would run around in shorts and tank tops. Or the zombies would bite through blue jeans. That's not the the case. They don't have supernatural strength. Their bite is going to hurt. It's going to bruise, but if they can't get through the cloth, you won't get sick. You won't turn."
"How do you know?" Raymer asked.
"Has it happened?" Julie added.
I looked around at Brian, Peg. Moved over to Anna, and Byron.
They shook their heads.
"I think we don't take the risks," I said.
"WE don't take the risks," said Brian. "You do stupid stuff all the time."
The light giggles sounded from around the circle.
"It's my modus operendi," I said. "I'm kind of an expert at making dumb moves."
"But you're here," said Anna.
"And I cover up. We cover up. We check our surroundings. It's a mantra."
They nodded. I don't know if they got it. But some of them did. Some of it got through.
When I was growing up, they sent a fire marshal to the elementary school to talk about what to do if you caught on fire.
Stop. Drop and roll.
So easy, so simple and it stuck. Like the lyrics to a song so hard to forget, it pops up at the weirdest time.
Stop. Drop and roll.
"One hundred. Three sixty," I tried it out.
"What's that?" Lou asked.
"One hundred percent coverage. Look around you three hundred and sixty degrees. One hundred. Three Sixty."
I grinned at Brian.
"Very clever," he deadpanned.
"You work on that all night?" Peg asked.
"Found it online," I said.
"I miss the internet," Lou sighed.
"We miss a lot," Brian stared at the group.
Being back in Florida was doing something to him, causing him to retreat into his shell. He had wanted to build a safe community, had wanted to fort up and be a leader.
It hadn't worked out the way he planned. There were stronger men out there, armed men, and he made a couple of decisions that put him under their thumb.
Crossing back into the sunshine state had left him depleted somehow. As if his energy came from moving North.
"That's what I'm trying to teach us," I said. "Reinforce the message. We don't want to miss anything. Being covered. Staying alert."
They nodded again.
"NSB is an island," I told them. "We don't know what we're going to find. It could be a haven. It could be a haven for the Z."
I glanced at the buildings across the water. A collection of older two story condominiums built in the seventies to capture snowbirds for their yearly migration to warmer climes.
Eight buildings. All empty by the look of them, but I knew that was deceiving. Each unit could have Z in it.
They could be herded over by the beach chasing seagulls. They could be on the far end of the island.
There was no way to tell from here, except it looked deserted.
The island was seven miles long from the tip at the inlet, all the way down to the long stretch of sandy beach and marsh on the border of the Space Coast.
A thousand houses. Two thousand plus condos. A lot of ground for a scared little girl to hide in.
But Bis was smart. Way smarter than me. She left a sign back at the refugee camp to tell me which direction to go.
She would leave another.
"Tomorrow morning," I said. "We dress. We look around to make sure it's safe. Then we go."
"Are we leaving someone here to guard the bus?" Byron asked.
I glanced at Brian.
"You said we don't split up."
"That settles it," Byron said and checked the chamber on his rifle.
I continued to stare at the conclave across the river, wondered what the morning might bring.
River dolphins breached off the water in front of us and I smiled.
Bem, Anna and Karen moved to the edge of the boardwalk that ran alongside the river, kept their awes in check but watched in fascination.
"They're good luck," I thought, but kept it to myself.
We were going to need all the luck we could get.
CHAPTER THREE
There was no plan. No effort at a proper escape.
There was only too many of them, and not enough of us.
Guns jutted from their grouping like pins on a porcupine. Aimed at the sky. Aimed at us. Around us even.
"Don't move!" one of them screamed.
Like we would even consider it. There were five of them for every one of us.
But they way they were grouped was stupid. Too close together, like they were a phalanx instead of a unit. Great formation against spears and maybe even Z.
They could shoot in every direction.
But bad news against a machine gun.
"I said don't move!" the one in the front screamed again.
Which was weird. None of us were moving.
"When I say, duck," I said out of the side of my mouth.
My people dropped.
"I didn't say," I shouted as I stood all by myself.
"Down!" screamed Brian.
I dropped on top of him, ignored the wheeze that exploded out of him.
He gagged as I yanked his rifle by the strap and used him like a tripod.
A squirming, mewling tripod.
The bullets ripped into the tight grouping of men facing us. Brian had it set on full auto, which I told him not to do.
He never listened and this time I was glad for it.
The front row of the g
roup dropped, as the middle tried to push back. I raked them again before they could recover and respond.
Then they did.
Their aim was off.
Mine was not.
Their shots chewed up the asphalt in front of us, digging up geysers of chunky grit that bounced across us.
Brian screamed. Peg screamed. Maybe some more.
But someone beside me started shooting from the ground, and then on the other side and the group in front of us disintegrated and turned to run.
There is no nobility in shooting a man in the back when he is running away from a fight.
Nobility is overrated.
I rolled off Brian, held out my hand for the hunting rifle the Boy was using.
"Gimme," I said and scooted up to one knee.
I lined up on the farthest, the one who looked like he was going in a straight line and dropped.
I got six more before they figured out what was happening and skedaddled into side roads.
"Shit," I said.
Brian sat up and wiped asphalt off his face.
"Why?" he asked.
"Survivor troubles," I said.
"Don't stop believing," he said.
"Wrong band," I stood up and held out my hand to help him up.
"Really? What am I thinking of?"
"Eye of the Tiger."
"Right," he glanced at the group. "Anyone hurt?"
Everyone chimed in. No hits. No injuries.
I herded us off the road and into a driveway, in case the survivors of our encounter decided payback was in order and took a turkey shoot down the roadway.
"This is no good," I muttered watching the street.
Raymer looked at the dead bodies contorted in the road.
"I'd say half is good," he whispered.
"That means half are still out there," said Brian. "He means they'll hunt us."
"Will they?"
I nodded.
"I would."
"This is going to make a house to house search harder," said the Boy.
"Should we go back? Split up?" Bem said.
"We stay together."
It came out harsher than I meant.
"Sorry," I said.
"Geez Dad, you don't have to say it. I know how you are when you get scared."
She punched me in the shoulder.
"That's him scared?" Lou whispered to Raymer loud enough to hear.
"Shoot," said Peg. "You should see him when he's terrified. He probably would have gotten them all."
I shook my head.
"I got lucky," I said.
"He gets lucky a lot," said Peg.
"Yeah he does," Brian said in a perverted voice that drew a few laughs. Nervous laughs.
"Next house over," I said. "We go in, lay low. At least until we figure out the next move."
I didn't wait for their nods. I led them around the side of the driveway we were in, and across the green strip that separated the houses.
"You said next house," Brian said as we passed the first two by, slinking from yard to yard.
I stopped at a two story home and tried the door.
"I wanted elevation," I told him.
The door was unlocked and opened to an empty home. It had that feel, and smell. Not dead, but stale.
Unused.
I stepped back and ushered everyone through the door then closed it behind us.
CHAPTER FOUR
The front room stretched from the bay window overlooking the street to a wall of sliding glass doors in a family room in the back.
The two rooms bracketed a kitchen, with stairs along the opposite wall that led to the bedrooms.
The furniture in the front room was scooted against the windows, scratches on the hardwood from where it had been moved.
"Check the kitchen," Brian said and moved with Raymer to inspect the cabinets.
"With me," I said to Tyler.
He readied his rifle and followed me up the stairs. I almost told the Boy to stay, but he dropped in behind Tyler and moved up with us.
There were two small bedrooms to the left of the landing, and a master on the rear that overlooked the back yard.
All were empty, though the beds were messed up. Clothes were scattered in front of the closet, like someone had packed in a hurry.
I moved to the French doors in the master bedroom and peeked out into the backyard.
The view was better, but still didn't give me enough information.
I could see over several of the surrounding houses, but nothing moved.
Everything looked deserted, which we knew wasn't true.
Maybe they were hiding.
"Anything?" the Boy breathed next to me.
I shook my head.
"Keep watch," I told him. "Get me if you see something."
I motioned to the front bedroom that overlooked the street.
"Same," Tyler said and moved to the side of the window.
I left them to watch and slipped back down the stairs.
"Anything?" Brian asked.
"No."
"Nothing here either," he said. "Not a good place to call home."
"They emptied it out," said Peg.
"Or someone came and got it," Anna said.
"Are we going to stay here?" Raymer asked.
I shook my head.
"We need to find someplace better to wait," I said. "This is good for an hour. Maybe two. If we see them do something. But we're going to need water. Supplies."
Bem cracked open the bathroom door to a half bath under the stairs. She lifted the lid to the back of the toilet.
"Got some," she said in triumph.
Not to be outdone, Karen took the stairs two at a time and checked the two bathrooms upstairs.
"Same here," she called down.
"Three gallons?" said Brian. "It can last for a little while."
Julie and Peg went to help the girls drain the backs of the tanks into bottles.
"Did you check the garage?" I asked.
"No time," said Brian.
I reached for the knob then thought a second. The house was empty, but my rule was check first. Be prepared.
So I knocked.
There were no moans that answered, no scratches on the other side. Just silence.
I pulled open the door and gasped.
A canary yellow convertible was backed into the far stall, facing out. The one close to us was empty.
The walls of the garage were covered in beach toys. Umbrellas. Chairs. Nets, and seashells. Plastic buckets.
Bikes hung from hooks on the ceiling, dusty beach cruisers for sunshine days.
I stared at the car.
"I don't like that look," said Brian.
"I've got an idea," I told them.
"That's why I don't like it."
CHAPTER FIVE
The idea was to get in and get food and get out. Fast.
And it meant splitting up. Against an unknown force.
“This thing could go sideways six ways to Sunday,” said Brian as I buckled my seatbelt and rested a rifle on the passenger seat within easy reach.
I leaned up and pressed the button. We both watched the drop top fold up and back and disappear into a little boot at the back of the car.
“I always wanted one of these,” Brian sighed.
“I’ll let you drive next time.”