Swarm (Dead Ends)

by G. D. Lang

  I was going to have to kill Red. Not someone else. Me. I will kill a man that was as much a part of my life as any other ancillary person on the outskirts of my social circle. To me, Red always meant happiness because his store was the last stop before Ocean Shores, before my salvation from the stresses of the world I had created for myself. Now, death had managed to claim one more thing I held dear. Living this way, I couldn’t help but wonder how long it would take for things like this to have no effect on me. I can already feel the compassion and empathy draining from my body, being slowly replaced by the things that would now insure my survival: indifference, self-reliance, and perhaps even hatred. Now I wondered if the tradeoff was worth it. If becoming less human was simply the price to pay for being able to stay human at all. I threw the milk carton down in disgust as I tried to shake off the philosophical bullshit that I had allowed to cloud my mind. I checked the pistol to make sure I had bullets left and forced myself to walk to the bathroom.

  Red lay on the floor amongst a swath of blood thinned out with toilet water. His eyes searched for something in the ceiling as his hands grasped at the chunks of porcelain littering the floor. Blood flowed from his neck at a steady pace, the holes in his neck big enough that they seemed to be sucking in air at the same time they were purging blood. He tried to turn towards me but before he could make eye contact, I put a bullet into his skull. More blood flowed and his head tilted just slightly, forcing his lifeless eyes to look up at me. His purposeful old-man squint finally relaxed, revealing a kindness that he always seemed to work so hard to keep hidden from the world.

  Chapter 19

  I sat calmly behind the counter reloading the pistol, scanning the bloodied landscape that used to be Red’s store. The stench from the fat meat pile in blood-streaked overalls already seemed to be peeling the paint off the walls. I would think it would usually take several days for a dead body to smell like that but who knows how long ago he actually turned. The thought of one of those T.V. medical examiners trying to ascertain time of death gave me a dark chuckle. I could imagine Woody from “Psych” or Ducky from “N.C.I.S.” examining the putrid remains, opening up the stomach to find fingers and hair, bones and internal organs. I glanced at the TV remote and a part of me just wanted to detach from all of this, to turn the tube on and find some “Cold Case” marathon to zone out to. I picked up the remote, figuring it wouldn’t hurt to see if maybe I could find a channel that worked. He had satellite after all and unless the zombies came from space, I should be able to find at least one channel that still worked. I found the channel guide and switched it to CNN. The sudden burst of sound made my heart jump. The channel came in perfectly. A reporter was on scene in Kuala Lumpur, reporting from a windswept rooftop as the camera panned down into the streets to reveal a scene eerily similar to the one I had seen in Seattle. Whatever this was, it wasn’t just confined to the United States.

  Humans had been involuntarily turned into savages. Consuming everything that moved. Blood-drenched streets. A mass undead riot. The reporter stopped talking at one point, either to let the scene speak for itself or because she didn’t know what else to say that would adequately explain what she was seeing and how she felt about it. There’s only so many times you can use the words “horror” and “death” in one newscast before their meaning gets skewed and their immediacy loses its momentum. Many of us become immune to the shock of violence and death all too quickly. An easy accomplishment given that we’re surrounded by it constantly. We’re reminded of its existence either for the sake of ratings or the need to sell us a product that might protect us from those very horrors. Maybe it was a good thing, keeping our distance from that aspect of our existence, to exempt ourselves in a way from caring too deeply about it. It was a defense mechanism that allowed us to go about our day unencumbered by the world’s problems; a distinct advantage of living in the Western World. Now it was that same desensitization that might prove to be our downfall. We’re so accustomed to ignoring the uncomfortable side of life that when something truly catastrophic happens, we spend precious time mired in a state of disbelief: This doesn’t happen to us! We’re Americans dammit! Minutes, hours, even days wasted because we refused to submit to the fact that we’re no more special than any other corner of the world; that our problems are no more important than anyone else’s.

  I know that if I were at work the day the shit hit the fan, I’d probably be dead already. Taking unintelligible calls, enduring mindless chatter with other spiritless co-workers, succumbing to the numbness of the 9-5 Drone-dom. I wouldn’t have believed the news reports either. I would have stayed comfortably in that bubble that allowed me to get through my shit life without freaking out and going postal the first time a boss talked to me about my TPS reports. Instead, I didn’t have a chance not to believe. I had to kill or be killed and that made it pretty easy to believe anything after that. I didn’t need any news program to convince me of anything. In a way, I guess I was lucky.

  The more I thought about my life, the more I realized I wasn’t missing much. Excessive caffeine consumption just to get through the day, habitual marijuana use just to get through the night, and when that didn’t work, reality shows and sitcoms that made me dumber simply for having watched them. A life filled with consuming things in an effort to make the time pass more quickly. I was blessed with life and I had made a conscious decision to waste it, all the while trying my hardest not to care about that decision. It’s fucked up to think about but in the last few days, days devoid of media and entertainment saturation and full of survival of the fittest-type battles, I had never felt more alive. Maybe hitting the reset button wasn’t such a bad thing. Maybe we’d finally hit that tipping point that made something like this inevitable anyway. Maybe all of the world leaders who are still alive are pinching the bridges of their noses with their thumb and forefinger whispering “It was only a matter of time.” If the news reports were true, this isn’t some virus that got out of a lab somewhere. This was a calculated terrorist attack. And maybe I’m losing my grip on reality a little bit, but I kind of get where the terrorists are coming from.

  I watched the scrolling news on the bottom of the screen, telling people to stay in their homes, boil their water, and stay calm and quiet. I rolled my eyes and laughed slightly, moving my neck from side to side, waiting for the Advil to kick in. There they go again, telling people to ignore what was happening, to keep their distance from it but at the same time covering the horror from multiple camera angles with intention of keeping fear alive for sake of ratings. I just wanted to shout at everyone watching and tell them to get out and see it all for themselves. It’s often said that seeing is believing but seeing it on television creates a disconnect that doesn’t quite drive the point home. Experiencing it for yourself and allowing your survival instinct to rear its life-saving head is the only way to know for sure. Seeing may be believing. But experiencing is knowing. The distance between the two is immeasurable.

  The video feeds switched to multiple locations; Sydney, Toronto, Hong Kong. It was all the same. The undead soldiering on amongst the rubble created in a fruitless attempt to stop them. The accelerated decay of society as we have come to recognize it. And fame-hungry reporters on the fringes of the death and destruction, covering the end of the world either out of a sense of duty or the slim chance that the world may survive and they’ll become media heroes for their “brave” and “selfless” coverage of it all. I switched the channels hoping desperately for some SpongeBob or even some old Tom & Jerry cartoons to cleanse the palate. While most stations were off the air, others seemed to loaf along, airing the same reruns on the same schedule, end of the world be damned. Tired of flipping the channels, I finally settled on an old episode of Full House, the one where DJ gets obsessed with losing weight, a 1980’s harbinger of things to come. Entertainment with a heartfelt message; a relic of a simpler time before irony and aggressive self-promotion ruled the airwaves. I’d always been of the opinion that the downfall of so
ciety began accelerating rapidly after the ending of ABC’s TGIF lineup of Full House, Family Matters, Perfect Strangers, Just the Ten of Us, Step by Step and all of the other great family programs that gave kids a reason to stay home on a Friday night and have dinner with their family. It was the last great run of true feel-good programming before the “look at me” sensationalism of the 2000’s grabbed hold of us and never let go.

  I looked around the store at all of the food, at the security of the iron door, the access to a working toilet. All I would need to do is clear the bodies out, mop up a little bit, and use every available can of Lysol spray and this could end up being a nice little shelter. I could stay quiet to keep the dead at bay but I’d still have to worry about other survivors, looters maybe, looking for some extra supplies. Maybe I could put a blood-stained sign up outside that read “Caution: Roaming Dead Inside.” That would be enough to keep most people away. And the ones that proceeded anyway? Well, Red’s shotgun had proven itself in small quarters. I’d just have to get all of the blood off of it. I know I couldn’t stay here long-term but even a night or two indoors, watching 80’s reruns would be enough to recharge my batteries and allow me to figure out what to do next.

  I leaned against the counter as the slow music began on the TV, announcing the beginning of the “family moment” that Full House was so good at. It could work, I thought to myself. I pulled out a half-empty bottle of Johnnie Walker Blue that I had spotted when Red was looking for the revolver. He may have been a crotchety old man but when it came to booze he had impeccable taste. A smile reluctantly took root on my face, the muscles that formed it almost caught off-guard by their sudden popularity. A few of them seemed to misfire, contracting in odd spasm-like motions as they familiarized themselves with movement once again. I could get drunk, eat an entire bag of potato chips, pass out on the cot I had spotted in the back room as Nick at Nite or Adult Swim lulled me to sleep, perhaps allowing me to pretend for a night that everything was alright. It was a damn good plan. I smiled again and opened the bottle of scotch.

  In the middle of a man-size swig of hooch, the power flickered slightly, sagged in one last gasp and finally went out for good.

  “Fuuuuuck me” I whispered to myself, slamming the bottle down on the counter. I looked towards what was left of the corpse with overalls. “What’s that they say about plans and God laughing?” I laughed as the booze quickly reached my head. “You know what I’m talkin’ about right?” I briefly wondered what size I’d be in a white strait-jacket. Maybe one of those head-to-toe numbers that would make me look like a felonious mummy. A mental institution doesn’t sound half bad right now. Free pills and pudding. Bars to protect me from the undead. White walls devoid of blood. Conditioned air that didn’t smell like rot and ruin. And maybe even a fun little electric shock every Wednesday just to keep me in line, just to remind me how lucky I was. Instead I’m stuck here talking to corpses, attempting to locate my sanity at the bottom of a $200 bottle of scotch. It’s down there somewhere, I’m sure of it. Heaven help me if it isn’t.

  A few more swigs brought with them a heady clarity as the alcoholic buzz seemed to awaken my brain cells. They fired on all cylinders, unaware of the fact that they would soon die off as that ephemeral buzz faded into block-headed inebriation. I needed to leave if I wanted to survive. I needed to load the van with supplies I would actually need. Not just things I wanted or things I could consume but things I could perhaps use as trade for something I needed. Cigarettes, pain medication, tampons, toothbrushes and toothpaste, can openers, coffee, medical supplies, candy bars. In the right circles, these things would be worth much more than firearms and ammunition. We could live without central air, cable TV, and cell phones. But try to take away our vices? Our simple modern world conveniences? We’d probably kill each other off before the meat grinders got their turn.

  I found a few large sealable camp containers and filled them with anything that seemed useful. I filled a few coolers with ice and stuffed as much live bait as I could into them. I found several collapsible children’s fishing poles that looked as if they’d been there for decades, probably because they had. Every last carton and individual pack of cigarettes got its own bin. I wasn’t a smoker which meant that these things were worth ten times their weight in gold. People will do just about anything for a smoke. Nicotine, along with pain meds, would be as close as I could get to actual currency given the state of things. I pulled out the car keys attached to the peace sign key chain and looked them over. I needed to make sure that the patchouli-soaked Mystery Wagon sitting outside was actually going to be able to hold up for the hundred or so miles left to get to Ocean Shores. But I didn’t really want open the iron screen door, given the noise that had rattled the store in the past 20 minutes. There is no doubt that more of those things are out there. There’s no way they didn’t hear the slaughter. The problem was that Red’s store had horrible sight lines and windows almost completely covered with beer and cigarette advertisements from the Reagan Era. So much so that once the power went out, it felt like nighttime in the store. Pulling down the posters wouldn’t really help. The windows don’t look like they’ve ever been cleaned and the only sight lines they afforded were straight out onto the road. I couldn’t see the parking lot or the woods behind it at all.

  I eventually found an old roof access panel that led to the top of the small store and afforded me great sight lines of the whole area. The parking lot looked clear and the road and everything else was abandoned. It was nice and quiet. Just the way I liked it. A rusty old ladder rested at the edge of the roof, looking like it hadn’t been moved in years. I picked it up, tested its integrity and after I was satisfied that it wouldn’t collapse on me like some Third World apartment building, I slid it down the side of the building. I thought it would be useful to have an alternate method of escape if one of the dead managed to sneak up on me while I’m loading the van as well as serve as a quick getaway for anyone else who might find themselves in this area, running for their lives. In my slight alcoholic bewilderment, I almost went down the ladder without thinking about the fact that the door to the store was still locked and if this rust-encrusted ladder shit out on me, I was screwed. I went back inside and loaded the camp containers onto a dolly that rested in the back room and unlocked the bolted iron screen door, carefully opening it and peering outside before wheeling everything out as swiftly and quietly as I could manage.

  I unlocked the back doors to the van to reveal almost exactly what I had pictured in my mind when I’d first seen this eyesore. Purple shag carpeting, an explosion of tie-dye, the smell of granola and hemp oil barely covering the undertones of hash and homemade candles. I loaded the containers into the back and walked through to the driver’s seat, trying my hardest not to touch any of the floor to ceiling carpeting. I didn’t know how long the former owners had been camping so I figured I’d better start the thing up and let it warm up before I wanted to take off. I turned the key and it begrudgingly lurched to life, surprisingly not half as loud as I was expecting. I looked at the gas gauge and saw something I should’ve expected though. The tank was nearly empty. And with the power out, there was no way to fill it up. I turned the engine off and threw the keys into the windshield, resting my head and arms on the steering wheel. Fuckin’ hippies. I composed myself and glanced towards the only other car in the parking lot. A Prius hybrid which also required electricity to run. I thought about it for a second though and wondered if the kind of people who have these cars may be the kind of people who also stupidly put a spare key in a magnetized container and attach it the underside of their wheel well. My face lit up at the possibility. There’s no way the tank on that thing would be empty, especially not up here where there was nowhere to charge it. If I could manage to get in that thing, I’d get to the coast no problem. When I thought about it, it was actually the perfect car for a zombie apocalypse. At least until its battery ran out. It’s quiet, for one. I could probably drive right by a pack of those things wi
thout them being the wiser. And I remember test driving one out of curiosity back when they first became popular. I was surprised at how much torque they had. Those things could jump off the line like a Corvette, perfect for a quick getaway. Sure it couldn’t hold much in the way of supplies but it seemed like a small price to pay if I could get some miles out of it and maybe even sleep in it if I had to.

  The large chrome door handle of the van fought me as I tried to open it. Just as I heard the click, I saw a man slinking out of the woods. It definitely wasn’t a zombie. He had dark brown skin, thick glasses, and the kind of attire that only tech workers think is appropriate for the great outdoors. The outfit alone probably cost him close to a thousand dollars. I assumed he was some tech millionaire from Amazon or Microsoft getting out of the office for the first time in years and “roughing it” with $200 boots and enough Gore-Tex to choke a river full of salmon. He looked around, hyper alert as his chubby little legs carried him closer to his car. I could’ve sworn he looked right at me but maybe it was more like right through me. When he was within about 30 feet from the car, he stupidly unlocked the doors with the key fob. An annoying beeping sound radiated from the Prius, announcing that it was unlocked and most likely turned on. I cringed as the sound resonated. A second later, one of those nightmarish hunters came barreling out of the trees, snarling and running at top speed. I wanted to get out and help but I just sat there, paralyzed by fear but intrigued in that train-wreck sort of way, to see how this would play out. Sick I know, but given the fact that I had left the guns in the store, I didn’t really feel like I had a play to make that wouldn’t fuck it up for both of us.