Out With A Whimper

by Michael Noe

  Out with a Whimper

  Michael Noe

  Edited by J. Ellington Ashton Press staff

  Cover Art by: Michael Fisher

  http://jellingtonashton.com/

  Copyright.

  Michael Noe

  ©2017 Michael Noe

  ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. This book contains material protected under International and Federal Copyright Laws and Treaties. Any unauthorized reprint or use of this material is prohibited. No part of this book, including the cover and photos, may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system without express written permission from the author / publisher. All rights reserved.

  Any resemblance to persons, places living, dead, or undead is purely coincidental. This is a work of fiction.

  Dedicated once more to Hunter, Hailie, Mindy, and mom. I love you.

  Many Hails and cheers to:

  Everyone at JEA. Doc, Dawn Cano, and my running mate for 2020, John Ledger. Toneye Eyenot, Jim Goforth, and Jason Morton. Steve and Jason at Stuff Genie Emporium. Kasey Hill. The fine folks at Snowball Book Shop for keeping me supplied with books. Jeff “Motherfucking” O’Brien, and Leah Negron. To everyone who’s read my work thank you. Without you none of this would be possible.

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter One: In the beginning

  Let's start at the very beginning,

  a very good place to start.

  When you read you begin with A-B-C,

  when you sing you begin with do-re-mi.

  I guess the beginning should be a logical place to start but as I sit here trying to figure out where that is, there are a variety of memories I want to get down, yet there's this fear that I'll get so excited, I'll screw it all up somehow. This is my story after all and I should warn you that it isn't going to be the story you're expecting. The last thing I want to do is lie to you or make myself seem like a better person. I will be the first to admit I'm a coward and a lot of my actions may make me appear to be an asshole.

  We don't know each other so that's okay. What you think about me doesn't matter. You're reading this so maybe my being an asshole appeals to you in some way. We're all assholes. The problem is, we're too afraid to admit it. You want to be the hero. You imagine that when things go south you're going to be calm, cool, and collected. Problem is, when the shit goes down, fear, or in my case, selfishness kicks in and the only ass you think about saving is your own. It sounds terrible and maybe it is but this is my story and one I feel needs to be told. Sounds a bit egotistical doesn’t it?

  Someone once told me everyone has a story to tell but I never believed that. I was one of those people who led a very dull and boring life, so what were the odds of me writing a story? As I write this, I'm nearing thirty-five and I'm gazing out the window of a hotel room in Clearwater, Florida. At one point this was Scientology turf, but now there aren't too many people left and the odds that any of them are into Scientology is pretty rare. I try like hell to avoid people so there aren't too many conversations. How did I get here? That's the question isn't it? Every story has to start somewhere.

  There also has to be a reason for the story. Without a reason, why should I even tell you my tale? For some, its redemption. For others, it's absolution. There's this unwavering belief that the truth will set you free somehow. We all want peace, don't we? We want to free ourselves from the nightmares that wake us up in the middle of the night, sheets damp with sweat and a scream locked behind gritted teeth. How do we achieve that peace? Is there really a moment of clarity that arrives? I wish I knew the answer. Maybe someday I will.

  Wasn't it Don Henley who said that the heart of the matter was forgiveness? The thing is, I have nothing I want to be forgiven for. That's not why I wanted to write this all down. What you do with it is up to you. How you take my story isn’t really my concern. I just wanted to tell it and give you the reality of it. I want the cowards to have a voice. I want them to know that they aren't alone. I'm one of you. I just hope that someone, somewhere, finds something they can relate to in this tale. I think that's what important. The connection you create between you and the reader. That means everything.

  Chapter Two: Blood Falls Like Rain

  The world ended not with a whimper or a bang. Hell, I can't even tell you how it ended. Did it even end? I'm still alive to tell this so maybe the world is just altered a bit. When it altered, there was a lot of screaming. I do remember that clearly. A lot of screaming and begging not just for death, but a quick one. Outside, I could see people shoving other people out of their way. Worse than that was watching as people were being shoved into oncoming traffic. I saw an elderly woman beat someone to death with her walker. They were neck and neck running to God knows where, but then he tried to shove her out of his way. She laughed, picked up that walker and beat the fuck out of him. Brains flew through the frightened mob. The sight of a scared, angry lady wielding a walker was pretty absurd, but it just seemed to fit into the overall chaos of the moment. In the movies and books, when the shit goes down, you always have those few that take control and find order in the chaos, but in real life it doesn't happen. Everyone screams and runs. The only instinct is to survive. Natural selection takes over and the weak are weeded out. You may disagree but sadly, you’re wrong. Just reach back into your memories of that day and tell me I’m wrong.

  That's why I stayed in my house. I was weak and knew that once I went out there, I would die screaming and I also knew I would shit my pants. How's that for dignity? I knew that I was safer in the house anyway. If I went out there, I was dead. No one was attempting to help anyone and I wasn't about to start. Fuck them. I needed to save my own ass. Of all the asses that day, mine was the only one that mattered. I had no wife, no children, so I wasn’t going anywhere. Hell no I won’t go.

  I watched it all unfold on my television screen. I lived in a gated community which didn't mean a whole lot. I thought I was safe from crime and all of the evil people of the big bad world but I was deluded. The worst part was the sound of people banging on my door, begging to be let in. If I let them in, I would have to let others in too. I wasn't about to have my house taken over by a bunch of strangers who would suddenly have this great and amazing idea that we could all band together and save people. The problem was that I wasn’t interested in being a hero.

  I was watching the news and I could see just how well that plan would have gone over. No matter what channel I turned to, there were frightened reporters crying while trying to tell us what was going on. I could see what was going on. I didn't need the commentary. Stepping outside meant death. Those people couldn't be saved and it was foolish to think they could. I'm not a hero and I will be the first to tell you that a lot of people died at my front door. If I had allowed them to come in, the odds were pretty high that the things they were running from would follow them. I didn't want to die. I stayed on my couch, watching the news while others died.

  I still don't know exactly what happened that day. What I do know is that the dead escaped from their earthly homes and attacked the living. It was happening in morgues and funera
l homes as well. I would watch reporters filming outside of graveyards as the dead burst through the ground. Once that happened, it didn't take long for them to wage war on the living. From my living room window, I could see people being dragged from their cars and eaten. In hospitals, the dead feasted on whatever stood in their path. There was no way to escape them because it seemed as if the dead outnumbered the living.

  In the books and movies, the zombies are slow and lack any intelligence. These zombies could move, and no matter how fast you were, they were faster. In the remaining days of Internet and electricity, there were a few videos posted on Youtube. They all featured ‘It's the End of the World’ by R.E.M. It was ridiculous because the end of the world suddenly had a theme song. As the world was ending, people were posting videos to their Twitters and Facebooks. As the days unfolded, there were tons of posts from survivors looking for others. I kept quiet because I didn't want to help rebuild society.

  That was another thing which struck me as odd about the survivors in those books. They were always banding together to rebuild or some shit. I didn't think society was actually worth saving and I had a blast making my own zombie montage, but the theme song for mine was ‘Everybody Hurts’. Those books give people hope though, which I guess is a good thing. When the shit goes down, you want to think that someone out there knows what the fuck they're doing. They don’t. It’s all just bullshit fueled by bad ideas that end up doing more harm than good.

  I had no clue what I was doing either. All I knew was that I had plenty of food to last me for a while and the safest place for me to be was exactly where I was. I didn't want to look for anyone, and I sure in the hell didn't want them to find me. I lived in a world that ignored the homeless and lost their shit when their Starbucks order was fucked up. I wasn't putting my faith in those people to save me. In a fight or flight scenario, most people would throw up their hands and say; “Fuck that shit. Not my circus, not my monkeys.”

  I watched as a pregnant woman’s baby freed itself from its mother’s stomach. The woman had been running a zombie hurdle. Her legs had become twisted, and before I knew it she was falling. What killed her initially was a group of the undead swarming over the hood of a parked Chevy Lumina. They would lose their balance and tumble to the pavement where they would crawl along the road. Seeing her fall almost made me want to run out and help her, but she had landed in such a way that both her legs had broken and a large gash on her forehead sent blood running into her eyes. There was no way I could have saved her. The zombies didn’t go near her though. I couldn’t figure out why, but then I could see it.

  Her stomach was moving as if a nest of spiders had taken up residence inside of it. She was pregnant and before the fall, I would have bet she was pretty close to her due date. The skin rippled and buckled as something tried to rip free from the skin. As much as I wanted to look away, I couldn’t. This wasn’t something I needed to see, but I wanted to see. The stomach continued to writhe before the skin gave way completely and seemed to disintegrate as a bloody head emerged. It was the woman’s unborn child. It was eating its way through the flesh of her skin. Once it was free, it scampered up her chest and began gnawing on her face.

  It was horrifyingly fascinating to watch. The baby was ripping chunks of skin from its poor mother’s face and as it chewed, it looked demonic. The other zombies were focused on others who were fleeing and failed to notice the baby or its mother. Someone did though. At first, a man just stood transfixed at the sight as his mind processed what he was seeing. It was unnatural to say the least. The child should have died with its mother but there it was, feasting happily on her nose. The man’s paralysis broke as reality sank in. He was brandishing the walker to fend of zombies. It was bent and twisted in places and dripping with gore. He swung it at the baby and kept hitting it until its brains were leaking from the soft spot in its head.

  I’d made it to my bathroom to look out the window for a clearer view. I could see the rotting skin of the dead, and could smell the pungent odor of blood and rotting flesh. It was just wave after wave of death. I hid and watched the world crumble around me. Over the next few days, the screams began to die out. I knew where a few safe zones were but I didn't plan on seeking them out. The wave of the undead was being driven back, but there was no way to fully stop them. Once you made some progress, more would rise up to take their place. The man and his walker were long gone. I wonder how far he made before he too was overcome by the living dead.

  When the electricity died, all the news of survivors fell by the way side. I had no idea if any of those camps had survived and even if they had, it didn't really matter. Those camps and safe zones allowed the egotistical to play God for a while. New religions and cults would rise from the ashes. A higher hierarchy of bullshit would stake their claim on a better society while stroking their egos. Follow me or die would be the new battle cry, and the weak would find themselves oppressed once again. It was the way the world worked. It was how it always worked.

  The fact was, as the hippies died away, people forgot the message of peace and free love. It gave way to greed and the desire to be better than everyone else. We were ruled by our first world problems, but now they were eradicated. I had no faith in my fellow man to fix what was once broken and I knew that my ideas would get me a bullet in my head as I slept. If I were to rebuild society, I would remove God, and maybe the idea that we're better than everyone else. We could work together to create something we could be proud of, but that wouldn't happen. Without direction there could be no rebuilding. It was all rather simple, but I doubted if anyone saw it the way I did.

  I know what you're thinking. How did I sleep knowing that I did nothing to help anyone? The answer is, quite well. Initially, I armed my security alarm and slept like a baby. The screams of the dying became a new lullaby. There was nothing I could do to save them anyway. I was inside and they were out there. Surely, they must have known what would happen once they ran outside. If they were too stupid to listen to what the newscasters were telling them, it wasn't my fault. I didn't own a gun and even if I did, why would I waste precious bullets trying to save someone? They were dead the moment they stepped outside. I couldn't save them. I didn't even know how to save myself.

  Here comes the part where you judge me for being a coward, but trust me, if the roles were reversed, you'd do the same damn thing. In those stories, the general theme is survival, but they give you an unrealistic view of how to achieve it. They want you to think there's safety in numbers. Let me pop that bubble for you right now. There is no safety in numbers. No matter what happens, someone is going to give into fear and what happens when you give that person a gun? Not everyone is calm, cool, and collected under pressure. They hear one noise and they're opening fire, and then what? You find yourself a victim of friendly fire. The moment they start to lose their shit, you're limited in what you can do. You can't leave them because you'd be an asshole.

  The more people you have, guess what? The more food you have to find. What happens when it begins to dry up? On top of that, you have to contend with ego. If someone doesn't like your decisions, then you're either killed or left behind, and now you're in a strange place you don't know and the odds you have of surviving are now almost nonexistent. The idea of safety in numbers just doesn't hold any water. I was better off by myself and if you think otherwise, maybe you should find yourself another book to read. This has to be realistic. My story, my rules.

  The silence was something that really got to me. When you're immersed in the sounds of traffic, you really miss them when they're gone. I always wondered what it would be like to be alone and now that I was, I wasn't sure I liked it all that much. When the power went out, there was too much of it. The hours just seemed to drag by. I spent a lot of time reading and venturing into my back yard. I had a privacy fence and that kept the undesirables from peering in at me but allowed me to occasionally glance over it with the help of a small step stool. I could see the bodies and smell the decay blank
eting the warm spring air.

  As I watched the numbers dwindle, I could see the panic set in. No matter how many zombies they killed, there were more to take their place. The homes offered little protection and soon there was no one left on my street. After day three it was tomb silent and as I waited for more people and more zombies, nothing showed up. It was as if the zombies had grown bored and moved on. That scared me more than anything. I knew that I couldn’t really be that lucky. It was as if they were waiting me out. At any moment, I expected my house to become besieged with either the dead or the living.

  I didn't see anyone at all which I guess really did surprise me because I expected to see a few stragglers. I lived on a private street in a gated community. My road ended in a turn around so there was no way out. If you weren't from the area, it would be easy to assume that there would be some other way out. There wasn't. My backyard looked out onto a wide expanse of woods. I wasn't sure what lay beyond that but it was safe to assume they led somewhere. I had a privacy fence surrounding my back yard that kept me from a direct path to them. If I wanted to get to the woods, I would have to go through the neighbor's yard next door. They liked to hike through them but I wasn't very athletic so hikes weren't high up on my list of priorities. I bought the house for the privacy, not for the view.

  The one thing I refused to think about were supplies. I was running low. I had a few can goods, but soon the water would eventually dry up, and then what? As much as I hated the idea, I knew that at some point I would have to make a run for supplies. There was no way around it. I was afraid of what awaited me once I stepped through that door. There were no guarantees that I would even make it back. I had no idea what was waiting for me, but soon I would have to find out. My only other option was to starve to death. I had come too far for that. I hadn’t watched others die such agonizing deaths so I could simply die from starvation. I needed to see what was out there. As much as I hated the idea, I knew what needed to be done.