by C. M. Fick
"Look there." Lewis pointed to the end of the street, at the house on the corner. From the second story back window, Powell could see someone signalling with a flashlight.
"It's Morse code; SOS I think. There have to be people alive and holed up in that house." He shot a closing zombie in the head, feeling satisfaction as he watched it topple to the ground and skid across the asphalt.
"How are we going to get in?" Lewis said as they rounded the corner and onto the cul-de-sac where the Macpherson's lived. Powell knew he'd never be able to make it past the five houses on the street to the end where Roslyn lived. There were just too many zombies in the streets right now; their gunfire had drawn out hundreds from the surrounding houses and they were closing in. "Has everyone in the neighbourhood been turned into one of those monsters?" Lewis asked after seeing the sheer number lumbering towards them.
"Over here," a man's voice called from the corner house.
"There's a ladder." Powell pointed before sprinting across the lawn, glad they wouldn't have to try and close a door behind them. He wasn't sure how smart these things were but didn't want to risk them getting in, and trapping him in the breached house.
His foot had just hit the first rung when Lewis shrieked, "Get it off of me!"
Powell spun around and was horrified to see a small little girl, no older than five, clinging to Lewis' leg. A dark spot blossomed from where the little girl had sunk her teeth into the flesh of his thigh. "Brett, watch your hands," Powell shouted as he lifted his gun and without hesitation, shot the little zombie in the side of the head. When she fell away, Lewis clamped his hands over the bit and started blubbering; he couldn't understand what his partner was gibbering about.
Powell was about to go after his partner and help him to the ladder when the man on the roof spoke again. "You can't do anything for him now; a bite means he's as good as dead. Either you come now or I'm raising the ladder and you can find somewhere to hide with your partner until he turns into one of those things and eats you."
"Help me." Lewis reached towards him, his eyes pleading for help.
Powell turned to the man on the roof. "Please just let me bring him up and once he goes, I'll take care of him myself. I can't leave him out here to be eaten. He's still alive and I can get the bleeding stopped. I just need enough time to radio into the station and figure out how we're going to get out of here."
The man shook his head slowly, placing a hand on the ladder. "I'm sorry. I have others here I need to look out for."
A burst of gunfire made Powell spin back to Lewis. His partner dropped three of the closest zombies, but too many were closing in. Lewis was slowly backing up towards the house when the ladder began to rattle back up to the roof. "Wait." Powell raised his hand, palm out in the universal signal for stop.
Lewis screamed, making Powell turn back around. He watched in horror as a massive man in scrubs held Lewis in a bear hug. He pulled something away from the side of Lewis' face and his partner screamed again. "He can't be helped," the man shouted over the screams and the moans. "Are you coming or not?"
Powell waved for the man to lower the ladder. "I'm coming." As he climbed, he felt his eyes begin to burn with tears he refused to shed. Lewis had been a foolish rookie and possibly made their situation worse, but he hadn't deserved to die at twenty-six for those mistakes. Abruptly, Lewis' screams became choked gurgles and Powell turned at the top of the ladder to look down at his partner, lying on the ground with the big man - No, he isn't a man, Powell reminded himself, he's a zombie - bent over the twitching body of Officer Brett Lewis.
The man from the roof pulled on Powell's arm. "Come on man, we have to get the ladder up." He helped Powell navigate around the top of the ladder and sat him down on the extended portion of the porch roof. He hauled the ladder onto the roof and sat down beside Powell. "I'm Ron." He held out a hand and Powell took it in a daze.
"I'm Rick," he mumbled, watching as his partner stopped twitching. The big zombie struggled to his feet and Powell pulled his gun, aiming for the zombies head. It killed his partner and now he was going to kill it.
"Don't," Ron whispered, placing his hand on the gun's barrel. "The report will alert them to our location. They don't seem to understand how the ladder works. Once they can no longer see the living person or where they went, they will wander away and spread out again. I don't know how, but if a living person goes through a door, they'll follow, but the ladder seems to have confused them so far. We haven't had any breaches yet."
Powell watched, half in fascination, half in horror, as Lewis' corpse began to move. The entire right side of his face, along with his ear, was gone and he was missing one of his eyes but still, he sat up and struggled to his feet. The squawk of Powell's radio made him jump.
"Turn that bloody thing off," Ron hissed. The zombie, who was once his partner, turned and stared up at Powell with grey, flat eyes that were already beginning to turn milky; he lifted his arms and moaned. Powell spun the volume dial on his walkie as Ron got to his feet. "That moan seems to bring more zombies in. We'd better get inside before they find us and figure out a way to get into the house."
Powell didn't remember climbing through the window or lying down on the bed - he knew he was going into shock but couldn't do anything about it. He didn't remember the call on his radio or even his promise to Roslyn as the world faded into black and he found a reprieve from the waking nightmare.
In the light of day...
Powell woke to sunlight pouring through the open window. At first he was afraid he'd slept in and missed the beginning of his shift, but soon the memories of the night before came flooding back. Roslyn coming to the station with bite marks... the zombies in the streets of Pecan Valley... the little girl clinging to Lewis' leg... Lewis staring up at him with one dull eye and half of a face...
"You're finally awake," a woman's voice interrupted his thoughts. "Sit up and have something to drink; you must be thirsty." Powell turned his head and saw a plump woman who appeared to be in her forties, not that he'd ever been good at guessing a women's age. He blinked, slowly rolling to his side in an attempt to delay becoming vertical once again. Once he was up, he'd have to figure out what his next plan of action would be and where he was going to go from here. "I've made you some toast as well, but that can wait until after you've gotten some fluid into you." She held the glass to his lips and he took a sip of the offered water.
He hadn't realized how dry his mouth and throat were until those first few drops hit his tongue. He sat up, taking the offered glass, and drained it in one long gulp. "Thank you," he croaked, wiping the back of his hand across his mouth.
The woman set a plate with a piece of toast on it in Powell's lap and plucked the empty glass from his hands. "I'll give you a few minutes. Eat the toast and I'll be back with a bigger glass of water." She smiled gently and left the room.
The clock on the nightstand informed Powell it was just after two in the afternoon, reminding him he hadn't called his wife last night to let her know what was happening. He dug into his pocket, pulled out the cell phone she insisted he carry, and grimaced when the screen read there were four missed calls and two voicemail. He didn't bother listening to the voicemails; rather, he hit the key to call home and took a bite of the toast.
"That won't work." The woman stood at the door holding a large glass of water. She was right; the phone beeped a fast busy in his ear. "I'm Ruth. Whenever you're ready, we're down in the basement. We don't want anyone on the main floor for too long as it might attract unwanted attention," she said, as she handed him the glass of water and retreated, leaving him alone once again.
Powell took another long swig of the water and stood, going to the window and looking down onto the street. He could see Roslyn's house from here, but the garage door was still open along with the inner door and his hopes in finding her daughter inside faded. Turning on his radio, he called into the station but there was no response. He watched a zombie wander aimlessly along the street as
he shoved the rest of the toast in his mouth. He needed to relieve himself, he realized, and wandered into the hallway of the small home.
Just as he was washing his hands, his radio squawked. "Who was that trying to call in?" the strange female voice, he didn't recognize, asked in a whisper.
"Officer Richard Powell," he responded. "Why wasn't there an answer when I first called in and who is this?"
"Oh thank God! This is Tracy from booking Officer Powell. Is Brett with you?" Tracy was still whispering, making Powell's stomach drop. The bread he'd just eaten felt like a stone in his gut; something wasn't right.
"Negative," he responded, unsure how to answer the next question he knew was coming.
"Wh-what happened?" Tracy's whisper quivered as if she'd started crying.
"You don't want to know Tracy. Where is everyone? What happened at the station?" The response that came back was drowned out by banging in the background. "I didn't get that Tracy, please repeat."
Now it was obvious that Tracy was crying. "The woman you brought in died in the night. Someone covered her up and closed the conference room door. We noticed banging on the door a short time later and someone went in to check, thinking that she hadn't really died. She bit them and then went around the station biting other people. I managed to lock myself in the dispatch room but they're outside the door now. They're trying to get in Officer Powell."
"The same thing that happened here..." Powell was about to go into more detail but was cut off.
Over the splintering noise in the background, Tracy shouted, "They're breaking down the door." Loud moans were the last thing Powell heard before his radio fell silent.
Shaken, he made his way down to the basement and was surprised to find twelve people; some standing, talking in hushed tones while other sat huddled on the cement floor. On the floor, he noticed several children, two teens and a handful of adults comforting the youngest of the bunch. He couldn't imagine what they'd gone through, but every set of eyes that met his were haunted - they'd never be the same again.
Powell cleared his throat and the four people standing turned in unison; he immediately recognized Ruth and Ron. He gave Ruth a weak smile and lifted the glass, nodding his head in silent thanks while Ron made his way over to him.
"We were just discussing what our options are," Ron said, clapping Powell on the back in a friendly gesture. "Everyone's eager to meet you." He held out his arm, indicating Powell should join the group.
"You've already met my wife Ruth. This is Thomas," Ron indicated an older man with grey hair, whom he guessed was close to seventy although he appeared to be fit for someone his age, "and this is Peter." Ron indicated a man who was in his mid-thirties and wore thick glasses. "We were discussing gathering supplies from the surrounding houses, but no one's willing to risk going out and possibly getting eaten in the process."
Thomas spoke up, "I was a marine in Nam, and after fighting those gooks, I think I can handle a few walking corpses. I just have to get back to my house and load up on more ammo for my glock." He patted the bulge at his waistline. "I have enough to arm everyone here and then we can go out and take back our neighbourhood from those flesh-eaters."
Ruth smiled indulgently, patting Thomas' arm. "I know you have an arsenal, but we can't risk losing more people." Thomas glowered at the woman and Ruth shrank back; Powell was glad he wasn't on the other end of Thomas' stare.
"Now, now..." Ron held up his hands, "We need to come up with something because we can't just hide in here, but we can't go charging out with guns blazing either." He looked to Powell for support.
Powell held up his hands, "I'm not sticking around. I need to get back to my car and home to my wife and kids. I'm going to blow town and hide up at my cabin until this situation is resolved. My station's been overrun and I know a hospital has been as well. I'm sure the army's been called in and they'll close down all roads in and out of the city until it's been declared safe; I need to get gone before that happens."
"Then why did you come if it wasn't to help?" Ruth glared at Powell accusatorily.
"I made a promise to a woman named Roslyn that I'd come look for her daughter..."
A quiet voice behind Powell spoke, "You saw my mom?"
Powell turned and his heart leapt at the sight of the girl with pink streaks in her hair, sitting on the floor. "You must be Marcy." He blew out breath, feeling a weight he hadn't known he was carrying lift.
"Is she okay?" Marcy asked, getting to her feet, hope shining in her eyes. He swallowed a lump in his throat and slowly shook his head. Marcy's shoulders slumped momentarily and he expected tears, but when she lifted her head and straightened her shoulders, he only saw determination in her eyes. "I'm going with you." She ducked her head and shrugged, "that is if you're okay with me tagging along."
Powell smiled back, "I told your mom I'd look out for you and I wouldn't feel right leaving you here."
"Now wait one minute," Ron said, stepping forward. "You can't just leave with Marcy. We don't know you from Adam and I will not allow a sixteen year old girl to take off with a stranger."
"I'm going too," Thomas said, as he put a protective arm around Marcy. "I knew Roslyn better than all of you and if she asked this officer to look after her little girl, then I say she comes with us." Ron and Ruth spluttered in comical unison but Thomas wasn't having any of it. "She's lost her whole family and has the right to decide how she's going to survive this. I think she stands a better chance with Officer Powell, than holed up in this house with the lot of you."
Escape from Pecan Valley...
It took some convincing, but after assuring Thomas that he had enough at home for them both, the old man finally agreed to leave without first stopping at his house to get more guns and ammunition. They'd found a talking dolly and a remote controlled car to use as a distraction while the three escaped the house. The distraction also gave Ron and two others Powell hadn't been introduced to, to get to the surrounding homes to search for supplies. They taped the doll, already turned on, to the remote controlled car and opened the garage door just enough to allow it to roll into the driveway. It zoomed down to the end of the street, coming to a stop in the Macpherson's open garage; zombies shuffled towards the home to investigate the possibility of fresh meat. The distraction worked perfectly, allowing Powell and his two new companions the opportunity to escape. They made it back to the cruiser with little incident, only having to dispatch with two zombies on the way. Soon they were driving north; the city around them oddly quiet.
A sinking feeling came over Powell when they finally pulled into his townhouse complex. He immediately noticed the dark splotches in the driveway and how quiet it was - he couldn't even hear birds chirping. He didn't see any of the undead wandering about, but wasn't going to take a chance. As soon as he'd stopped in front of his unit, Powell popped the trunk of his car, handing Thomas a shotgun and fresh clip for his glock. He put an extra clip of ammo for himself into his pocket and started towards the house, gun drawn but at the low-ready.
"What about me?" Marcy asked in a petulant tone.
"You're too young to handle a weapon, Marcy," Thomas replied, as he loaded rounds into the shotgun's barrel.
"I know how to use a gun." She crossed her arms over her chest, stomping after Powell.
"Keep it down," Powell snapped as he inserted the key and turned; the thump of the lock sliding back sounded too loud to his ears. He turned the knob and opened the door, before stepping into the entryway of his home. Thomas and Marcy followed him inside, closing the door quietly behind them.
Powell suppressed the urge to call out for his wife and children as he poked his head into the living room; it was dark and empty. He went into the kitchen; it was clean and looked as if dinner hadn't been made the night before. He saw movement in his backyard and stepped up to the patio door, peering into the sunlit yard; whatever had been there already moved past his fence.
"Can you close the living room curtains?" he asked Marcy, as he pul
led the blinds over the patio door. She nodded and hurried back to the living room.
"Powell," Thomas' voice sounded grim, "you'd better come see this."
Not wanting to go, but unable to stop himself, Powell holstered his gun, made his way down the hall, past the laundry and stopped cold. Thomas stood in front of the door to the garage where the portable phone was lying in a dry puddle of blood at his feet. Bloody handprints marked the inside of the door.
"I'm sorry," Marcy said behind him. All three stood there staring at the blood until a loud thump came from upstairs, startling them all into action.
"Marcy, you gather all the non-perishable food from the cupboards. Make sure to fill anything you can with water - we'll need lots of water." He turned to Thomas who stood with the shotgun in the crook of his arm. "My gun safe is in the closet of the laundry room." He pointed to the only door off the hallway. "The combination is twenty-four, eighty-three, o-one. Put everything in the duffle beside the safe and grab all the ammunition from the top shelf. Everything will need to go into the SUV in the garage." Thomas nodded, mumbling the combo to himself as he went. Marcy bit her lip and Powell patted her shoulder, trying to reassure the young girl although he didn't feel the same reassurance. "Go on, I'll go upstairs and see what's making that noise."
At the bottom of the stairs, Powell stopped and listened. The bumping noise came again, but he couldn't tell where the sound was coming from. He pulled his gun and held it pointed at the ground as he walked up the steps, glad they didn't creak beneath his feet. Once he reached the top, Powell paused, took a deep breath and stepped into the hall. His wife stood in front of the closed bathroom door, dragging her fingers down its surface. She lurched forward and bumped into the door, stumbling back two steps before reaching out and dragging her fingers down the door again.
When he cocked the gun, she turned and his heart stopped. Her long hair was bloody and matted. A chunk of it torn away from her temple. Her sleeveless, flowery dress revealed a nasty bite mark on her bicep and her eyes were that strange milky colour. A sob broke from Powell as his wife lurched towards him; he raised his gun and pulled the trigger.