I move around Ken’s Ford pickup truck, being careful as I usually am around his baby for fear that he’ll flip his lid and yell at me for getting a smudge on the pristine paintwork. On the left side of the garage is where we keep the bottled water. Ken has always refused to drink tap water, insisting that there is mercury and lead in it and the water manufacturers are in cahoots with the government to make the population dumber. I never had the nerve to tell him that if he really believed that was the case, then there was probably no hope for him anyway.
Sitting in the corner are three cases of his favorite brand of water, and I’m thankful that I had gone to the store on Sunday and stocked up. I grab the top case, feeling the weight of the water but I’m not too concerned as I’m used to carrying it, since Ken never bothered to help. I pass back around the front of the truck and stop, looking at the shiny blue paintwork with a smile. My piece-of-shit car parked outside won’t get me very far, and I can’t just go and steal Phil’s expensive car, but since Ken won’t be using his truck anymore I don’t see why it should just sit here rusting away.
I smile as I drop the water into the back of the truck. I always wanted to drive this car, but never thought I’d have the chance. Thirty-six car payments and I’ve never even sat behind the wheel. My grin grows bigger, my heart pounding in my chest as I load up the rest of the water and head back to the kitchen for my bag of items.
I grab the keys from the drawer by the garage door and then stop in my tracks when I turn into the kitchen and see Phil—Ken’s boss—standing looking out of the window as if in deep thought. He must have been off hiding somewhere and finally come out to check on Ken. He turns to me slowly and I cry out, unable to stop the scream that erupts from my throat as I see him.
Phil growls at me and lurches forward, his arms reaching for food that he cannot possibly see with so much of his face missing, and despite the fear and horror that I feel, my first thought is that I’m never going to get to drive the damn truck.
Six.
I reach for the gun, and curse when I remember putting it down on the driver’s seat inside the Ford. I grab my backpack, then turn and run, heading back to the garage to retrieve it. I slip on the bottom step and stumble down the three concrete steps, hitting my jaw hard against the concrete floor. I cry out again as my teeth smash together hard enough for me to see stars, and though I know my arms are trying to push myself upwards and back onto my feet, the rest of my body is not responding. I feel dizzy, and gag as the smell of Phil fills my nose and his pained groan of hunger calls down to me. My ribs throb painfully, the weight of Phil pressing into the bruises I know are there.
I soldier-crawl myself forward across the floor, listening to the sickening thud of Phil as he falls down the stairs. My vision swims as panic grips me, and I try to push up again only to be pushed down as Phil’s body grabs me and pushes me against the concrete floor. I scream and kick out, feeling his mouth working against the back of my sweater, and I push up and flip myself over so that I’m looking up to the ceiling. He’s relentless in his pursuit, like some crazed attacker as he pulls himself up my body, ignoring the kicks that I land on him.
His jaw snaps at my face, his strength greater than mine even in death. I want to cry out again at the realization that this is it—this is where I meet my end. I’m only grateful that it isn’t Ken who got to finish me off. Sweat trickles from my brow as I push both hands against his chest to keep his snapping teeth away from me, trying not to look at his non-existent face. The only things remaining are his jaws and teeth; the rest looks like it has been chewed up by a pack of dogs.
As the thought hits me, I hear them: more zombies. They crowd the doorway as one by one they fall down the concrete stairs and head toward me, and this time I do scream. I scream, hit, kick, and punch until I can feel blood raining down on me and a snap as the palm of my hand hits where the bridge of Phil’s nose should be and his head snaps back wickedly, breaking his neck bone. His mouth still snaps away as he growls, but his head is now looking up toward the ceiling instead of at me, and the small distraction is all I need to heave his body off me and drag myself to my feet seconds before the other zombies reach me.
I shuffle across the floor and under the Ford, retrieving the backpack on the way. I pull myself along until I reach the other side of the truck, and then stand up quickly and climb in, panting heavily. The keys are there on the seat along with my .38, the flashlight, and the utility tool I had found earlier, and I sob loudly in happiness, fear, and exhaustion as I push the key into the ignition and start the truck.
I stare at the metal garage door for a second before fastening my seatbelt, slipping the truck into gear, and flooring it. The truck hits the door with a screech of metal, but the door doesn’t move. I slip the truck into reverse and pull away from the door as hands begin to pound the side of the truck, and then I accelerate forward again. This time seeing the door coming loose from its hinges and landing heavily on the hood of the truck.
All the zombies are now pounding the glass, growling and snapping their jaws as they try to get in at me, and I try the best I can to avoid their gaze as I accelerate forward, letting the metal door slide from the hood and to the floor. I drive over it and out into the night, leaving my prison home and asshole husband behind me.
In my mirror, I see shadows lurching out of my garage and attempting to follow me. But they soon lose interest, heading toward the front door of someone else’s home. Guilt eats away at me at the thought of who is inside that house, but there’s nothing I can do now. I can’t save them—even if they are still alive. I wish I would have gotten to know our neighbors, but I was always too afraid that they would see my bruises and comment on them. So I kept myself to myself, and held up the pretense that everything was okay. Now as I drive away, it seems even more awful that I’ll never get to know them.
*
The first couple of streets are quiet, and it’s almost as if the last few hours were completely in my head, but then I snap myself back to reality. The last time I started thinking that way, a hungry and very vicious-looking Ken greeted me at the foot of the stairs and tried to eat me. I clutch a hand over my mouth as I gag on the vomit that tries to escape.
I see his face exploding in slow motion, the smash of his skull as the bullet tore through the center of his face, bone and cartilage being thrown in every direction as the bullet escaped out of the back of his head and blood splattered all over me. The truck swerves and I bump into the sidewalk, taking out a couple of garbage cans that have been put out for collection and throwing up the trash across the road. I slam on the brakes and stop, looking up to the ceiling of the truck as I try to catch my breath. The air burns as I swallow it down, trying to control my panic.
“Help, help me!”
I look to my rear-view mirror and then quickly turn in my seat. A woman is running down the street, a child clutched around her middle while a horde of hungry undead follow in her wake. She looks behind herself and then back to me, waving at me and screaming at me not to go.
I climb out of the truck, leaving the engine running, my gun in hand, and walk around to meet her. A zombie stumbles from one of the houses, shambling toward her, and I take aim and fire. Even in the dark with only the moon to offer me light, I know that I hit it. The woman runs to the passenger side and climbs in without saying anything, and I climb into the driver’s side and pull away from the sidewalk, dragging one of the metal trash cans with me for a few hundred yards before it finally relents and rolls away noisily.
I drive in silence, occasionally glancing at the woman and her sobbing child. Both of them are covered in blood, and I can see the woman is shaking, her body trembling from head to toe, but I can’t see any visible injuries. As I drive into the main part of town, I pass the grocery store I had been to earlier, seeing smoke rising from inside, and enough of the undead in the parking lot to fill a shopping mall, and I shudder.
“Thank you.”
I look across at the
woman and offer a small smile. “Is the little one okay?” I nod toward the child, who has sobbed herself into a fitful sleep.
The woman clutches the child tighter to her and nods, kissing the top of the little girl’s head gently. “She’s fine. Just frightened. She doesn’t understand what’s happening.”
I watch the road, swerving around cars on fire and bodies in the way. I try not to think about the things I drive over, the sickening crunch always a telltale noise.
“Do you know what’s happening?” she asks.
I shake my head no, my gaze drawn to the old theatre house. I stare in disbelief at the car implanted in the brickwork roughly halfway up the building. “Jesus,” I mumble.
“You think this was Jesus’s doing?”
I glance at her and frown. “I don’t know what this is—maybe Jesus, maybe not. All I know is that things aren’t going to be the same ever again. Not after tonight.”
The little girl cries in her sleep, and the woman kisses the top of her head again.
“I’m Susan.” I offer her my hand but she ignores it.
“Her daddy, he…he didn’t want to hurt her. He made us leave. He said he knew he wouldn’t be able to stop himself.” Tears escape from her eyes but she doesn’t wipe them away and she doesn’t answer me. Instead, she turns toward the window and lapses back into silence.
As I drive through town, I see other vehicles—some filled with passengers, others with only one or two people inside. We acknowledge each other with nods of the head and sorrow-filled eyes, all of us having seen so much tonight—too much. The police station I was heading to for safety brings me back to reality with a jolt when I see it on fire, with bodies of the dead hanging around the front entrance. Some have gotten too close and flames lick up their backs; others sway silently, limbs missing and gore running free.
I look across at the child and see how much she’s paled. Poor thing must have been through so much tonight. She seems settled now thankfully. Her body still almost lifeless as she sleeps soundlessly.
I keep on driving, not even bothering to slow down and ignoring their feeble attempts to follow me through the darkened streets. The town limit comes into view and I pass the sign that normally offers a cheery goodbye to any visitors. I keep on driving, not knowing where to go, where is safe, or what life will be throwing my way next. After three years of constant abuse, trapped in my prison of a home and knowing exactly what each day would bring, the thought of not knowing what will happen tomorrow or the next day is enthralling.
Freedom like I have not felt in too long washes over me and I get tingles. Yes, the horror of the day is still there; I’m aware that people have lost so much—the mother and child next to me are evidence of that, and for that I can’t help but feel guilt. But for me, I can’t help but look forward to each day. However numbered they may be.
I glance at the woman next to me, a small smile involuntarily playing on my lips. Her head is resting against the window, her eyes squeezed shut, sleep dragging her under. I look down at the child again and gasp. She’s staring back at me, her eyes pale and lifeless, and my sadness is stolen at the sight of something so beautiful and dead in her mother’s arms.
Seven.
I slam on my brakes, sending the mother and child forward in their seat as the little girl clamps down on her mother’s neck, her teeth digging into the soft flesh of her mother’s throat. Blood sprays out from the wound and it seems that all three of us are screaming at once, the noise overly loud in the cramped space.
The mother fights to unclamp her child’s teeth from her neck, and I grab the gun from my lap and aim it at the little girl.
“Don’t you dare! Don’t you dare!” the woman screams and reaches for the door handle, falling from the truck with her child still attached.
I climb out and run around to the front of the truck, watching as she pushes her daughter away and stumbles backwards, one hand clutching at her throat even as blood bubbles between her fingers, tears and blood mixing across her chest.
“Layla, sweetie, it’s Mama, stop, please stop,” she sobs over and over.
I raise my gun again as the little girl crawls forwards on hands and knees, growling and snapping her jaws.
The mother’s eyes go wide when she sees me aiming my gun. “Do not shoot my little girl!” she screams at me.
I cock the gun, my chin trembling but my hands steady. The little girl has reached her mother. She grabs at her leg, and the mother feebly tries to kick her away without harming her.
“She’ll kill you,” I yell back, uncertainty washing over me.
“You do not hurt my daughter,” she sobs again, shuffling back once more. She looks toward the small child. “Please Layla, I know that you’re in there.” She reaches a hand out to the child, her palm opening up.
The little girl looks at the hand, her pale eyes staring at the gesture of peace from her mother. She moves forward, and reaching forth she places her small hand inside that of her mother’s, and I let out a sob at the same time as the woman does.
The woman looks to me. “See? See, I told you, she’ll be okay—” Her words end on a scream as the little girl bites down on her fingers and I hear the crunch of teeth breaking bone—or perhaps vice versa. Either way, the mother screams in pain as blood gushes from her hand.
I take aim and shoot her daughter in the head instantly, and they both collapse in a heap.
There’s a split second of silence shortly before the mother begins to painfully wail, calling her daughter’s name repeatedly. She pulls the little girl’s lifeless body into her lap and rocks her back and forth, kissing her head, and all I can do is stand and stare as sadness engulfs me, ripping me apart from the inside out.
“I’m so sorry,” I murmur after several minutes of listening to the pained cries.
She looks up at me sharply, her skin already beginning to pale, her lips turning blue. “I told you,” she chokes, coughing up blood. “I told you she would be fine.” She coughs again and continues to sob.
I sit down on the ground, letting my gun fall into my lap. The blacktop is cold underneath me, but I am already chilled to the bone. Any happiness I ever thought I could have has evaporated, and I know after seeing this I’ll never feel any sort of happiness again.
Rain begins to patter down on me and I take in a deep shaky breath before looking toward the mother. She’s still holding her child, but at least she’s stopped crying for now. She looks up, her eyes meeting mine, and I feel my own eyes fill with tears.
“It’s nearly time,” she whispers, and licks a tongue across her lips. There’s so much blood everywhere that it’s hard to distinguish where it ends in the dark.
I watch her in confusion as she continues.
“I’m dying,” she clarifies. “I can feel it coming. It’s starting to take over. That’s how he knew.” She smiles and then chokes on blood, coughing up more of it and spraying it across her daughter’s lifeless form. Blood still bubbles from her neck wound but she doesn’t bother to try to stop it now, as if she’s given up on life. “Help me,” she asks quietly.
I nod and stand, moving toward her. I put my arms around the child to lift her but the woman clings to her child’s lifeless body and shakes her head, so I let go. I move to the woman, lifting her up with difficulty as she clings to her daughter. She nods to the side of the road and together we stumble over. She heads to a large oak tree and I help to slide her down it so that her back is resting against it. She pulls her daughter onto her lap again and closes her eyes as she places a kiss on her head.
“I’m ready,” she whispers and takes a shuddering breath.
I stare at them, wrapped together in each other’s arms, and try not to cry. The bite in the daughter’s side is visible now: a large hole in her stomach that even if hospitals were taking patients, I don’t think she could have survived something like that. Her mother knew all along, and yet she still held her, still loved her, still waited with her until the end. And now she
wanted to be with her daughter and husband.
I raise my .38 and without a second thought and fire a hole into the mother’s head.
I walk back to my truck, climb in, and put my seatbelt on before pulling away. I see a sign for an old army base and decide to try my luck there. It’s some miles away yet, but I should arrive just before morning, hopefully.
I hope someone is there. I’m so tired right now.
BIG GIRLS DON’T CRY
One.
Max.
“Max, can you come into my office, please? I need you to take some notes for me on a new contract.”
I look up from my bright computer screen at Mr. Slewson—my boss—with a nervous smile. I hate it when I have to go into his office. He’s a total creep, always standing behind me and trying to see down my shirt. I may be blond but I’m not dumb, and I know exactly what he’s doing. And he knows I know, which is worse—because really, what can I actually do about it?
I force a bigger smile. “Sure, be right there.”
He slaps a hand on top of my desk over-enthusiastically. “Great, bring your pad and a pen to take notes.” He winks and struts down the hallway to his office, leaving a trail of expensive and overpowering cologne in his wake.
I roll my eyes at his back, his broad shoulders stretching the rich fabric of his suit.
“I can’t stand that guy.” Mary, the new temp leans over from the other side of the small office booth, her chair creaking. “Total creep. Did I tell you I caught him looking at porn in his office last week?”
“You did not!” I gasp and laugh, running my pink-manicured fingers nervously through my blond waves. She’s only been here for six weeks or so, but has fit right in to the office.
The Dead Saga (Novella Part 2): Odium Origins Page 6