by Jason White
Unfortunately, Chuck couldn’t keep quiet himself. He had a terrible habit of yelling and screaming whenever anything didn’t go his way. This often attracted the undead. The last time he was yelling at Cindy because she was crying. What he didn’t know was that she was crying because he wouldn’t stop yelling at her. This time all his yelling, and no doubt Cindy’s cries, attracted a horde that was a lot bigger than what such noise usually brought about in the middle of nowhere, as we were, surrounded by trees with an old garage.
That was the first time I truly wanted to kill him. What I didn’t know was that I’d get my chance ten, maybe twenty minutes later.
Now this new stranger looms over us with all his biker gear of leather armor, a costume to instill fear and loathing.
His eyes grow wider as his own fear dies and curiosity takes its place.
“You’re just kids,” he says. “What the fuck was going on down here?”
He doesn’t wait for a reply. He pulls out a large knife, a small sword really, but I’m no longer afraid and tells me to move so that he can get access to my restraints.
The knife is surprisingly warm as it touches my flesh.
chapter three
It takes an eternity for the pins and needles to flee my hands and feet, for them to feel anything close to normal again.
“You’re lucky,” the man, whose name is Grant we have learned, says. He’s opening cans of pea soup and pouring them into bowls. Motioning at me with the can opener, meaning my hands and feet. “Much longer and you would’ve lost them.”
As though it was my fault.
“Yeah,” I say, not really sure how to respond. “Thanks. If you hadn’t shown up, Dahmer would have made us his new sex toys.”
Grant’s upper lip curls as his eyebrows knot in the middle. He places an opened can of tepid green gunk before me but he doesn’t ask for any further details. We’re sitting up in Dahmer’s kitchen, Cindy’s at my side and curled up in my arms, trembling as though she were the one tied like a pig. I’m betting that she knew at least a little of what Dahmer had planned for us, though, and I figure that she’s trembling in relief. I wonder why there’s no relief in me? Instead my mood is black.
“Was that really his name?” Grant asks, and there’s that look of disgust wrinkling his eyes, showing off his yellowing teeth. “And you’re telling me that he was fucking zombies?”
I nod. “Don’t know what his name was, though. I just called him Dahmer for his inclination towards necrophilia.”
Grant laughs, catching my sarcasm. “How old are you?” he says.
“Fifteen.”
“You don’t talk like a fifteen-year-old.”
I shrug. I guess that he’s right. Before the dead began rising I never did have many friends. You can assign my way of talking to my preference of reading Lovecraft over playing Halo. But I don’t say that. It would probably come out angry and wrong and I don’t want to piss off our savior. Instead, I pick up a spoon and work my way around Cindy, shoveling the thick soup into my mouth. An open can is placed in front of Cindy and she moves away from me. She picks up a spoon in her way and lets out a laugh of pleasure. The laughter is like music, good music, and my spirits lift a little. She can’t eat on her own, though, so I put my spoon down and gently take the one she’s holding from her. It’s always so much easier to feed her when she’s this hungry.
“I can’t imagine having to take care of someone like her with all this going on,” Grant says. “I mean, I don’t know …”
“How we survived this long?” I finish for him, and he nods his head, looks the other way. He’s eating from his own can of pea soup now, though he doesn’t seem as hungry as Cindy and me.
“It hasn’t been easy,” I say. “We should be dead. We’ve had people … looking after us, I guess you could say, but they left one day to scavenge for supplies and never came back.”
Grant looks up at me.
“I doubt they abandoned us,” I assure him. “They were like a mother and father to us. They took better care of us than our real parents did, before they died of course.”
“Damn. I just … I mean, I’ve known some tough bastards, you know? And they’re dead. Yet here you guys are, eating pea soup in some fucked up serial killer’s house. There’s gotta be something stronger in you than you think, little man.”
The good mood Cindy’s laughter brought dies with Grant’s words. He obviously doesn’t get it. Once Cindy’s taken the spoonful of soup I’m holding in front of her mouth, I turn to the hairy stranger, my eyes daggers, my vision stained with white rage.
“Are you stupid?” I say. “If you hadn’t have come, we would have died. We were almost killed by the last people we were with. There’s nothing strong in me and certainly not in Cindy. Death is coming, it’s right around the corner. All we’re doing is trying to make ourselves as comfortable as possible until it comes.”
“Well, you’re very fucking welcome,” Grant says. He tilts the can of soup up to his mouth, draining the contents into his throat. When he’s done, he stands up, throws the can across the room that produces a shocked cry from Cindy as it bounces and clangs atop the counter and the towers of dirty dishes, pots and pans.
He leaves the room, the words, “Ungrateful little shit,” shadows his back, echoes along the hollow walls.
I know that he’s right.
I don’t know what’s wrong with me.
I just want it all to end. Am I trying to find ways to make this terrible prophesy come true? Even if at Cindy’s expense?
Despite these dark thoughts, I pick up her spoon not realizing that I had dropped it. I dip it into the pea soup, press the spoon to her lips, but they’re clenched so tight the skin turns white. She moans and tries to push me away. She’s no longer hungry.
Cindy never weeps. When she cries it’s almost always a loud wail that’s painful on the ears. Like daggers stabbing deep into ear canals. She cries like that now in frustration, anger, and confusion.
“Fuck,” I say. The word comes out a sigh, completely betraying the rage I’m feeling deep inside. I put the spoon back down, rub at my eyes where a headache is beginning to pound to the rhythm of my heartbeat.
What is wrong with me?
I should be happy that Cindy and I are still alive.
But I’m not.
“Hey, wait!” I yell. “You can’t just leave us!”
Grant doesn’t turn around. He’s got his backpack shouldered, his guns holstered, and he walks as though nobody’s begging for a second chance. I don’t blame him. Not really. Everyone who’s ever helped us since the zombies came has died. Sylvia’s probably the worst example.
“Hey, come on, man. I’m sorry! Okay? You try being tied to a couch for a couple days while watching some freak continuously rape your friend’s decapitated head. See what kind of mood you’re in then, eh!”
There’s a pause in his forward momentum. A tilt of his head before he turns around.
“Listen, kid,” he says. “No offense, but I wasn’t taking you with me anyway. You … you’re sister really, is too much of a risk. I don’t plan on dying anytime soon, and if she gets upset at the wrong place and time, whoever’s with her is toast.” He scratches his head, squints up at the sky. “The way I see it is that you ought to hole yourself up somewhere. Learn to garden. Hunt. You wouldn’t want to come with me anyway.”
He turns back around just as a zombie shuffles out from the bush. Its gait is slow and stumbling like a drunk’s. This is an older zombie, probably from when the disease first started spreading nearly a year ago. Unlike the popular fiction before the plague, zombies, it turns out, don’t rot. Not really. They smell like they do, and I can smell this zombie as it moans excitedly at Grant. Its stumble speeding up with surprising accuracy. It never falls down, though it should have tripped over its feet long ago.
Its skin, as with all older zombies, is dried and clings to the bones beneath. The muscles, dried out and atrophied—despite their contin
ual use—must have shrunk to the consistency and mass of chunks of beef jerky. The skin is light brown and looks like a mummy wearing torn and decaying jeans and a t-shirt, shoes with ribbons of toes sticking out.
Old zombies never rot completely away. They just sort of dry up.
One thing the fiction of the past did get right were the head shots.
Grant removes a Smith & Wesson .30 .06 rifle from where it was holstered on his back. He approaches the zombie with the rifle in both hands. When it’s close, he bashes the stock of the rifle into the undead’s skull once, twice, three times. It falls and Grant continues to bash at its skull until there’s a loud and dry crack, and the zombie remains still.
“I wouldn’t stay here, if I were you,” Grant says. “All the undead in the area probably heard those gunshots from this morning. Your yelling at me don’t help either. They’ll be coming in numbers soon. That psycho’s shack back there won’t help you.”
And then he’s gone, into the shadows of the woods.
The craven bastard’s right. I can almost hear the forest surrounding Dahmer’s house thrashing with the shuffle of zombie feet.
Cindy and I have to get out of here and find new shelter. Only there’s a couple of problems with that. Judging by the sun in the sky, it’ll be dark soon. We also have no real idea where we are and therefore have no idea where to go.
We’re fucked, no matter how you look at it. Getting stuck out in the woods at night with the undead coming means our death. But , so does staying at the house. Its walls are flimsy with most of the windows broken out.
I don’t even know if Dahmer lived here before the Zombie outbreak. As I near the house to where Cindy’s silhouette stands curled in on itself in the front doorway, I can see that the earth has been dug into. Green grass interrupted with patches of upturned earth approximately six by three feet each. I stop counting the mounds at fifteen. Some of them are fresh, others much older and over grown with grass.
There’s no doubt then that the psycho has lived here for a long time.
There’s a sense of relief that was lacking before. Cindy and I almost became one of these mounds of upturned earth, but now we have a chance at living at least another day on our feet. If death comes, it’ll be quick. I can make sure of that.
It’s good to be back in control.
Who needs men like Grant? They only die.
I’ve got to rely on myself.
Nobody else..
chapter four
It’s twilight. Autumn has turned the nights cold and I can see my breath mist before my eyes. I pull Cindy with me, but she’s reluctant, pulls back, wails until I have no other choice but to stop and let her rest. I can’t blame her, really. She was trapped in a basement, even if unchained, to watch unspeakable horrors with little sleep for too long. All she wants to do is lie down somewhere comfortable and fall into a deep sleep. She either doesn’t understand the danger around us, or doesn’t care. Since she doesn’t speak, I’ve no idea if she truly understands the concept of death, of being eaten alive by a horde of zombies, but I’d bet money on it that she does.
What it really comes down to is immediate pain and the desire of its release. I want to lie down somewhere comfortable, too. Close my eyes and try to put all this insanity behind me for just a few hours letting my body and mind drift. I understand the reality of cause and effect, where as Cindy does not. To lie down now, without getting free of the undead Grant’s and Dahmer’s gunshots attracted, is instant death. We need something secure, or a lot of distance between us and the zombies, or both, or we will die. That’s what Cindy doesn’t understand.
“Come on, Cindy,” I say anyway. “We got to keep moving or they’re going to get us. We need to find somewhere to hide before the sun goes down.”
She holds her chin down to her chest and glares at the ground. She’s breathing hard from exertion, frustration and pain. Afraid that I’ll grab her arm again and drag her deeper into the woods she leans away from me. All around us sticks snap and moans from cold withered bodies haunt the forest. I can see movement in the woods, shadowy phantoms, wraiths, stumbling around and just as blind as we will soon be.
I regret leaving Dahmer’s house, and I continue to remind myself that the place was a death trap. I gotta keep moving. I gotta convince Cindy that it’s in her best interest.
“Come on, Cindy,” I repeat. “I know a place where we can hide. It’s safe and no one can hurt us. And, the best part, it’s got really big comfortable beds.”
She shies away from me and the scowl on her face deepens. At least she’s stopped crying, but I can hear the zombies getting closer. I want to pull my gun, but I know that doing so will only make her panic again.
I desperately wish that I could turn on the flashlight I have in my backpack.
I raise my eyebrows at her, try to hide the panic pounding through my veins. I’m just about to throw her body over my shoulder when she lets out a giggle and looks to the sky. My fingers weave into hers and we’re moving again.
Thank Christ!
It’s no use; unless we find a house and within the next few minutes, the sun will have completely disappeared and we’ll be in the dark. Back to square one. There will be no moon, and I can just imagine the inky blackness that awaits us. A death with a cold flesh-tearing bite.
I imagine drawing the Colt revolver when Cindy can no longer see what I’m doing. I pull the gun from the back of my pants where I stuffed it before leaving the psychopath’s house and aim it at her head. I shush her, tell her that what’s touching her is just my finger. I struggle, knowing that this is not what I want, feel the anger that becomes reality within the tears building in my eyes, rolling down my cheeks. I hate this. It’s not fair, but it is what it is.
I pull the trigger. Cindy’s moaning and nervousness is ended as she collapses to the forest floor.
I then put the gun into my own mouth, aim it up at the sky. A few deep breaths, a blank mind, and I pull the trigger a second time.
Would I feel the bullet tear through my skull, destroying my nasal cavities, turning the grey matter above that into chunks that spew out the top of my head like a volcano? Would I feel the ground as it rushed to meet my collapsing body? Would I look up into the black sky in those last few seconds and wonder if I were looking at oblivion?
Can I really do any of that?
It’s not like the thought hasn’t occurred to me before, and I’ll admit that I’ve become a little obsessed. It’s all I can think of these days.
I finger the Colt tucked into the belt of my pants, feel its wooden handle warmed by my flesh.
There’s a moan to my left, right beside me and I notice that the sun has completely set and it’s as dark as a mineshaft. Cold fingers wrap around my forearm. I didn’t even noticed the stench, the smell of the dead is everywhere these days, but now that the vice of its grip is on my arm, all I can smell is the musty slow rot of atrophying meat.
Now that it’s got me, the moan becomes violent and the snap of its teeth snaps and clacks. Cindy, sensing the danger, cries out and I lose my grip on her arm and she’s lost to the night.
With a hand now free, I reach around to where I have the Colt tucked in my pants. I pull it out and aim right where I figure the zombie’s head is. The gun blasts and for a single moment, less than a second, the zombie’s mummified face is illuminated, its rotting brown and black teeth wrapped with snarling thin lips. The bullet hits its target and the grip on my arm lets go. I am free. And I need to find Cindy before one of the undead does.
I reach out into the darkness, my hands searching the abyss for something warm, something that will cling to me, not to eat or sink its teeth deep into my flesh, but for protection and warmth. Maybe I want her touch for my own sanity, so that I don’t feel so alone, so that I can touch another whose heart is racing as hard as mine.
Fuck it, I think. I stuff the Colt back into my pants and quickly swing the knapsack off my shoulder. I stuff my fist inside the large pouch
. It’s full of cans of food and some other supplies, but my fingers cannot locate the one thing I’m looking for. Murphy’s Law is working its magic today, and I curse aloud, unafraid of zombie’s hearing me over Cindy’s crying. Finally, my fingers wrap around cold cylindrical metal that fits perfectly in my hand. I yank the flashlight out and turn it on.
Cindy isn’t as far away as I thought she was. She stands just out of arms reach, hunched down with her arms protectively covering her head. Not far from her, yards maybe, stumble two of the undead. They’re reaching out for her, for me, but they were just as blind as I was moments ago. Now that they can see, they adjust their trajectory with wide, excited eyes. Their mouths emit a low growl, their teeth snapping.
The gun is quickly in my right hand and I think of the movies I used to watch with Dale where the hero uses a handgun and flashlight much like I’m doing right now. The thought is just a flash and does nothing to make me feel powerful, like I won’t piss my pants at any moment, but I aim and fire anyway.
Again the Colt erupts in my hand, kicking back with each shot. Two go wide and two find their mark. Two zombies hit the ground, unmoving.
But they aren’t the only ones.
The gunfire has shocked Cindy into momentary silence, and there’s more moaning from behind. To the left and right. All around us.
I move the flashlight and Colt to the left and right and fire when I see the slow, stilted movement of a zombie. With the second zombie I find the Colt clicks on an empty barrel. My hands are shaking, heart pounding in my ears. I grab Cindy, whose wailing like a two-year-old again, and move us deeper into the woods away from the undead. I reach into my pocket, grab a handful of bullets, quickly reload the barrel and then continue on with a jaunt, as fast as Cindy will allow us.
The zombies keep coming. They’re everywhere now, spaced out. If we stop moving now or slow down too much, we’re food. Simple as that.