A Little More Dead

by Sean Thomas Fisher

  A Little More Dead

  by

  Sean Thomas Fisher

  Copyright © 2015 by Sean Thomas Fisher

  Cover design by Creative Paramita

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Chapter One

  DAY SIX

  A high-pitched scream went off in the distance like a noon whistle, slicing through the falling snow outside. On cue, they stopped chewing, wide eyes silently meeting for confirmation they weren’t hearing things. The lone candle in the middle of the living room flickered against the fear in their eyes. No one moved because out there under the moonlight, the frigid temps weren’t the only thing that could turn you to ice.

  “That sounded closer,” Dan whispered, ears nearly poking through his stocking cap.

  “No it didn’t,” Paul lied, glancing at Matt and Mike and brushing his hand against the nine-millimeter strapped to his right thigh. Just to make sure it was still there. A new tick for the new world.

  Dan’s wide eyes flicked to the two boys, Adam’s apple bobbing. “Probably just the echo that sounded closer.”

  Paul returned to his so-called dinner, staying as low to the stained carpeting as possible. The sporadic shrieks seemed more like warnings than anything else, like those things were fucking with them. Ready or not... From what Paul witnessed back in Des Moines, those things didn’t care about anything except satisfying that goddamn sweet tooth. Whatever the reason, the cries of pain were enough to give a guy goose bumps if Old Man Winter hadn’t beaten them to the punch. The snow-covered farmhouse was cold and drafty, caught in the clutches of Iowa’s snowiest winter in ninety-nine years.

  Polar vortex.

  Of course.

  At least that’s what the weather man said just before every station switched to wall-to-wall coverage of the world wide outbreaks. Paul took his gloves off and blew into his hands before rubbing them together. They would have to get to warmer weather and fast because if those things outside didn’t get them, the freezing temps would.

  Sophia leaned in closer. “I told you I had a bad feeling about this place.”

  Paul cringed. He was positive they would be okay this far out in the middle of nowhere, at least for one damn night. Was everyone dead? Jesus Christ, it must be worse than they thought. He started to tell her they would get through this mess but four years of marriage made him take another bite of his partially frozen Hostess Fruit Pie instead. At this point, it didn’t matter who was right or wrong. They were screwed now and there was no going back. Ghostly plumes rolled from his nostrils as he ate with his mouth closed, staring blankly at a stack of dusty board games on the bottom shelf of a bookcase against the wall. Even through the dim candlelight, he knew Scrabble, Connect Four, and Monopoly when he saw them. He snorted, breath rushing from him like a bronco. Nobody ever won at Monopoly because nobody ever stuck around long enough to finish and he wondered if this would be any different.

  “Do you think they can get in here?” Carla hugged her boys, scanning the many windows through wild eyes.

  Dan followed her jumpy gaze. “We’ve got it sealed up tight.”

  A silence as deep as the snowfall outside settled around them, pressing against the walls. They exchanged nervous glances through hollowed out faces, their expressions changing in the flickering light. It had been a long six days – and don’t forget about the three painful days of building news coverage before that. There were plenty of recorded attacks on YouTube before the power went out but Anderson Cooper was the first to go down on live television. Paul would never forget it. Why that man thought he could roam the streets with only the protection of an overweight camera man, Paul would never know. This wasn't some fucked up revolution in Egypt. Regardless, that’s when the public started taking things seriously, but by then it was too late.

  Paul’s bloodshot eyes gravitated to the family portrait above the fireplace. A man with a brown mustache and big glasses sat on a stool, posing next to his wife, and a young boy and girl – all dressed in their Sunday best from the eighties. Their eyes followed Paul wherever he went in the room, watching his every move like the home intruder he was. He exhaled a slow breath, wondering where they went. Wondering where everyone went because maybe they could go there too.

  “Mom, are they gonna to eat us?” Mike asked, pulling his Iowa Hawkeyes stocking cap down over his ears.

  Carla rubbed the back of his heavy ski coat, the look on her face defying her words. “No sweetie, they’re not going to eat us. You are the one who needs to be eating.”

  “I don’t wanna die!” Matt turned on the water works and plunked his face into his mom’s down coat.

  “Peanut, will you stop? No one is going to die.”

  Paul and Dan looked at each other, jaws slowly grinding their dinner.

  After getting her minivan stuck on a snowy rural route road a few hours ago, Carla couldn’t have been any luckier to have Paul’s Grand Cherokee come upon them before the infected did. Luckier than winning the lottery. Now, here in the darkness where they couldn’t see the shame pulling on his face, Paul felt guilty thinking about how much easier this would be without them. Carla was out of shape and Matt and Mike were so damn young and afraid and Paul didn’t blame them but silence was golden in this world. Shit!

  “Matt, they have guns,” Mike bravely reminded his younger brother.

  “That’s right,” Carla replied, struggling to hang onto a heavy smile.

  Paul looked away. The poor woman was scared shitless. They all were and it worried him to no end. They were just normal everyday people and normal everyday people could never be ready for something like this. A week and a half ago, Paul took his wife to the best restaurant in town for Valentine’s Day. Now they were sucking on frozen apple pies in some rundown farmhouse, ready to kill the next motherfucker who walked through the front door. And if they were lucky, they wouldn’t shoot each other in the process.

  “Matt, we won’t let anything happen to you.” Sophia gave the kid a warm smile that melted Paul’s heart. Even in this world, her compassion knows no bounds.

  Matt pulled his wet face from his mom’s coat and sniffled. “You promise?”

  “I promise,” Sophia replied, squeezing Paul’s hand. “We’ll be playing volleyball on the beach in no time.”

  “I’ll teach you guys how to surf.” Dan shifted on the carpet and bit into his cherry pie. “Just as soon as I learn first.”

  Carla raised her brow. “See, sweetie?”

  Matt studied Sophia for a moment with a mixed look on his little red face. Hesitantly, he stuffed another stale graham cracker into his mouth and crunched down. “Can we go fishing?” he asked, spitting a piece of cracker onto the carpet.

  Sophia’s green eyes glittered in the candlelight. “You sure can.”

  “Can we get boogie boards?” Mike asked.

  “Of course.”

  Matt stopped chewing. “Can we have guns?”

  Sophia opened her mouth, eyebrows drawing together.

  “No, you cannot have a gun,” Carla answered, bailing her out.

  They grew quiet again, a current of tension running through the old creaky house. Paul was dead tired but it would, more than likely, be another long night of tossing and turning. He’d probably bagged less than fifteen hours of sleep since this shit-storm blew up and fatigue led to mistakes and mistakes led to death’s door.

  Da
n leaned over and whispered in Paul’s ear. “Dude, I have to poop so bad right now it hurts.”

  Paul furrowed his brow. “Again?”

  “My IBS is flarin up somethin fierce.”

  “Then go.”

  Dan pulled his cap off and ran a hand through his tangled yellow curls. “Both toilets are overflowing with frozen turds.”

  “Go in the snow.”

  “Are you insane? I’m not going out there.” Dan did a double take, noticing Matt and Mike staring at him with their mouths gaping. “Do you mind? This is a grown up conversation.”

  Both kids replied with weak shrugs and went back to barely eating as another guttural scream pierced the night, this time definitely closer. Paul blew out the candle, plunging them into a moonlit darkness that smelled like lilacs.

  “I told you,” Sophia whispered.

  “They’ll never know we’re here if we’re quiet.”

  “I’m just saying, we have kids to think about now, Paul.”

  He tipped his head back and blew a stream of visible air to the ceiling. In the old world, they couldn’t have kids no matter how many doctors they saw but in this one they did and it was the last thing they needed. Right now, they just needed to eat, sleep and shut the hell up. His eyes migrated to the family portrait and Paul found himself wondering what they did immediately after the Sears photo shoot. Did they go out to eat? Did they see a movie? Or did they just go home and piss the rest of the day away watching standard-definition TV and playing Monopoly? He shook his head, knowing he’d never get used to hiding out in a different house like this every night. Not with their rotating smells and furniture and pictures of the people who used to live there, a continual reminder of the way things used to be and the way they’d never be again. Shit, Paul had a hard enough time sleeping in a hotel room let alone in this ice box. At least in a hotel room nobody came pounding on your door at three in the morning unless it was security and oh sweet Jesus what he’d give to see some security now. They hadn’t seen a single cop or National Guardsman in over three days. Three days! It was numbing how fast things were changing. Six days in and they were already on their own.

  Sophia shivered against him beneath the musty smelling blanket and tried to hide it. Two weeks ago, she managed a vintage boutique. Today, she walked with a pink gun on her hip at all times. Two weeks ago, she blew a gasket if a spider showed its hairy face in the bathroom. Today, she had three kills and counting.

  The backdoor opened in the kitchen with a slow rusty creak, drawing their startled eyes. The cold wind slipped inside as Paul set his pie down on the coffee table and grabbed the twelve-gauge lying next to him on the floor without looking. Rising coolly to their feet, Paul and Dan slid shotguns into their shoulders in an eerie choreographed symmetry.

  “I thought you locked it after you grabbed the water from the truck.”

  Dan tightened his grip on the Browning. “I did,” he replied, following Paul into the kitchen.

  Paul stepped onto the cracked linoleum and studied the open door with the wind blowing in his face. Free of intruders (and wet footprints), he rushed across the room and locked the door before turning back to Dan. “Obviously, you didn’t.”

  Dan lowered his weapon. “I’m telling you I did.”

  “Then how did the wind just blow it open?”

  “Paul, you think I’m forgetting to lock the fucking door with all of the shit going on out there? I sleep with a shotgun now!”

  A dull thud drew their eyes to the ceiling.

  “Holy shit, someone’s upstairs.”

  “No, they’re not.”

  “You just heard that.” Dan held up a hand and cocked his head to the side. “There it was again.”

  “That’s impossible. We checked every square inch.”

  “No one could’ve gotten past us,” Dan said, tucking the shotgun into his shoulder.

  Carla screamed when someone pounded on the front door, making Dan jump so bad Paul was certain he would accidentally shoot him. The candle whisked through Paul’s mind as he pushed past his best friend and stormed into the living room. The front door rattled with each bruising wallop, vibrating the pictures hanging on the walls. Carla hugged her boys on the floor in front of the couch and spoke in a cold whisper. “They found us.”

  Paul glanced back into the kitchen – the backdoor still shut and locked. He jerked his chin to the front door and Dan nodded before quietly crossing the room. Only six days in and they already had a new language, one without words. In this world, words could only get in the way.

  The hammering stopped.

  They stared at the front door, their shallow breaths the only sound in the room.

  Dan stepped through a stripe of moonlight and peered out the peephole. “I only see one but he’s a big one,” he whispered.

  “Perfect,” Sophia muttered, standing next to Paul with her pink nine-millimeter pointed at the floor.

  Another bone shattering blow to the door made Dan flinch so bad it was almost funny.

  Almost.

  Paul took aim with the Mossberg. “Open it.”

  Carla pulled her boys closer.

  “On three,” Dan whispered, gripping the worn knob.

  Normally, they didn’t waste ammo if they didn’t have to but this sonofabitch would eventually get inside and it wouldn’t be long before he attracted others.

  “One,” Dan started.

  A window broke out in the kitchen behind them and this time Sophia screamed.

  “Open it!”

  Dan yanked the door back and the thing barged inside, slobbering and snarling. Floor lamps shook with each heavy step and despite the man’s speed, everything slowed to a crawl in Paul’s mind. He had time to adjust his aim and time to notice the Rick’s Heating and Cooling logo on the man’s coat. Bloated hands reached for Paul through bloody sleeves, clawing at the frigid air, desperate for purchase. And holy shit, Dan was right, he was a big one. Had to be close to three hundred pounds, yet moved like he was half that. Paul unloaded a shell on him right away to keep most of the mess outside. They still might spend the night here. He watched the ghoul slide backwards across the front porch and bounce down the steps head first, leaving his only shoe behind in the doorway as a souvenir. Dan scanned the porch for more decaying visitors with his gun leading the way while Sophia put her back to Paul’s to cover whatever was coming in through the kitchen. To her chagrin, Paul insisted they start practicing these SWAT-like moves after they fled their home and now it was paying off. Common sense was a hell of a thing to go to waste.

  “Look out!” Carla shouted.

  Sophia’s body recoiled as she sunk a hollow point into the slight kid limping out of the kitchen. Paul whirled around so fast he bumped the coffee-table and knocked his apple pie onto the dirty carpet. Last one too. The kid jerked backwards onto the linoleum with his sunken eyes staring vacantly at the useless kitchen light above. Matt bawled louder than ever, reaching the boiling point for eight year-olds. His older brother sat beside him looking like he’d just seen a ghost, and he had.

  “Matt, it’s alright, buddy!” Paul said, gliding across the living room while Dan shut and locked the front door. “It’s over. They’re gone.”

  “I wanna go home!” Matt blubbered, clear liquid gushing from his eyes and nose.

  Carla hugged him tight and told him everything was going to be okay, another blatant lie.

  Paul stepped over the dead kid’s body, careful not to slip in the pooling blood, and examined the broken window above the kitchen sink before turning back to the fair-haired little boy on the floor. Blood matted the kid’s strawberry blond hair and he probably wasn’t much older than Matt. Paul stared at his blood-stained John Deere sweatshirt, wondering what nearby farm he shambled from, wondering how far he traveled through the snow with no shoes. “Damn,” he whispered, looking up to find Sophia’s frightened eyes. A tear streamed over the apple on her cheek and she was about to say something when her gaze slowly rose over Paul
’s shoulder. He turned to see a woman with long gray hair and a dirty nightgown folding her bony limbs through the broken window like a poisonous spider. Paul raised the shotgun. Her thick toenails perched upon the sill like a gargoyle. She stared at him and he stared back. Paul adjusted the weapon and she screamed at him, baring her bloody teeth. He winced with the painful cry and squeezed the trigger, blasting her back out into the night. Paul spun back to the farm kid, positive he would be getting back up right about now and looking for an ankle to munch on. But he was as motionless as the look gripping Sophia’s face. She stared at the boy on the floor with her chest heaving beneath her puffy red coat, Matt’s cries in the living room a hundred miles away.

  “He looks like Jason.”

  Paul’s incredulous gaze dropped to the kid. She was right. He did look like her nephew, freckles and all. Paul sharpened his gaze. Or were those blood spots? Matt suddenly stopped crying out in the living room, turning Paul and Sophia to stone. Their eyes met, the wind whistling through the busted window, stinging their cheeks.

  “We should check upstairs again.”

  Paul turned to see Dan standing in the archway with his hand resting on the Glock tucked into a paddle holster clipped to his hip.

  Dan stared at the dead kid on the floor and blew out a long breath. “If we’re not safe way out here…” He looked up, a grave look in his eyes. “There are over three hundred and twenty million people in this country alone.”

  Paul tried rubbing the wrinkles from his forehead. It didn’t make any sense. This kid should be home in bed with a Thor action figure tucked under his pillow, not lying on the kitchen floor in a pool of blood. Paul ran a hand down his grimy face, grief blocking the air from entering his lungs. How did it come to this? Two weeks ago he was running the number one rated morning show in town. Today, he was running for his life. Movement out the corner of his eye spiked his adrenaline. He turned to see the frizzy haired lady stand back up outside the window and stare off into the backyard as if something had snagged her attention, something like an easier meal. The moonlight turned her skin white and Paul had to know what she was looking at. Were more of those things coming? Perhaps a lone survivor lost in the storm. Paul took a step closer and she turned to meet his eyes, his heart sinking when she reached her arthritis-twisted fingers through the window. Sophia said something but it sounded like she was talking underwater and Paul was too busy watching the old woman grab the faucet and pull her skinny-ass inside. With the shotgun tight against his shoulder, things slowed down again, giving him too much time to notice she didn’t feel the piece of glass slicing through her back. He also had time to observe she had a new wordless language as well. She grunted and snarled and Paul took her head off with a booming indoor blast. Her body jerked back outside, fingers taking a piece of the laminate countertop with her on the way out.