by Brown, TW
From where he’d anchored, he could see a long expanse of sandy beach. He was pretty sure that this was near the area that the “nudie” beach was located on Sauvie’s Island. He’d been out here once about ten years ago with a girl named…
Damn, Juan thought, taking another long swig of warm beer, he couldn’t remember her name. Still, when he closed his eyes he could see her. Sandy-brown hair in curly ringlets that bounced around her shoulders. Brown eyes that were always squinting with just a hint of laughter in them. Her breasts were perfect and round and swayed with the natural movement of her walk. Her laugh…
An eerie, hair-raising moan.
Nope. That was definitely not it. Juan opened his eyes. He scanned the beach. There! Up in some thick growth of trees that almost hid from view the wooden stairs leading down to the actual beach area from what was probably the gravel parking lot if he was where he believed himself to be, a zombie was struggling to free itself from some vines.
Juan decided to watch this scene play out. Would others come? Would they notice him? And, if so, would they wade out or make any effort to reach him?
It was a woman. She was at least fifty with graying hair. She wore bib overalls and a tee-shirt. A large, dark stain marred most of her left side indicating where she’d been bitten. She hissed, moaned, and snarled as she…it…fought to get free. Finally, after several minutes of twisting, pulling, and clawing, it came free, and stumbled backwards down the wooden stairs. Thus far, nothing came to investigate.
Juan looked west and tried to gauge the amount of sunlight he had left. Easily a couple of hours. If his mental calendar was right, it should be late April or early May. There was a U-pick farm nearby, again, all dependent on his ability to approximate his location.
The zombie was struggling to get to its feet. It appeared to have damaged one leg in a way that compromised stability. Still, no others arrived to join this seemingly lone wanderer. Juan got up and climbed the ladder to the bridge for the best possible view. There was no movement to be seen.
Grabbing his trusty baseball bat and a webbed belt with a Baretta in a leather holster and two spare magazines, he went to the aft end of the boat. It was times like these that he disliked being completely alone. He would be leaving everything unprotected. And, while he had the keys…that didn’t ensure that his boat would be safe. Tossing two naval-issue seabags that he’d found in his travels into the inflatable yellow raft, and then easing that into the water, Juan was soon paddling to shore.
It didn’t take long for the pathetically entangled zombie to notice him. Its thrashing about intensified, and there was a considerable amount of gurgling, moaning, and hissing. While Juan beached the small rubber craft, pulled it well up above where the tide line ended, and shouldered his gear, the thing continued to struggle. Any moment, he expected hordes of those things to come spilling from the trees and bushes…but still nothing. With very little effort, he ended the zombie’s struggles with a few swings of his bat.
Climbing the stairs slowly, trying his best not to make a sound, Juan peered into the large, open gravel lot that had once been filled with cars belonging to the frequenters of this nude beach. Two blue and green portable toilets lay tipped over off to the right. A brown sign with white, hand-painted writing still stood just to the left of the stairs informing readers that this was a “clothing optional” recreational beach.
A two-lane blacktop road acted as a border between the parking lot and a large, barbed wire fenced-in field across the way. A faded billboard advertised a seasonal U-pick farm with a list of what sorts of fresh produce to expect by season. Right now he could see the ground littered with watermelons and cantalopes!
He stood at the top of the stairs for what seemed like hours. There was no sound. No movement. Nothing but a gentle breeze that carried the smell of the river tinged with a mouth-watering scent that had to be coming from the farm and its mixture of melons, berries, and corn. Where had these smells been those other times he’d been out this way? Everything was just so…different. The river actually smelled…cleaner?
Remaining alert and cautious, Juan crossed the empty parking lot, wincing at the sound of gravel crunching under his feet. Reaching the road, his mind flashed back to his childhood. Look both ways before crossing the street. All clear. Hurrying across, he jumped over the yard-wide, foot-deep ditch and took in the view of fresh, unpackaged, unprocessed food. His mouth already watered at the prospect.
The neat rows ran straight before him up a gradual slope. At the top, a white, two-story farmhouse sat overlooking the whole thing. Something about that view tickled the back of Juan’s mind. There was a long front porch and, from where he stood, he was on the left side of the house. A weathered barn was a stone’s throw from the back door with one door open, revealing the blackness within.
As he ducked between two strands of barbed wire, an unfamiliar noise carried on the warm summer air. It took a few moments for him to identify it. By the time he had, he was completely through and on the other side of the fence as the source of the sound was now in sight and bearing down on him.
A dog!
His mind whizzed though several thoughts in only a couple of seconds. Were there dog-zombies? This one was running. A dog could come in handy. This dog looked like he wanted to play more than take a bite out of somebody.
Juan knew a lot of people who were freaked out by dogs. Especially big ones like the one coming his way. Juan was not one of those people. He knelt down and patted at his knee as the floppy-eared Rottweiller bounded over a row of watermelon vines to gain the row he’d been about to walk up. The black and brown beast plowed into Juan and began eagerly snuffling and licking.
“Easy…,” Juan glanced down the length of the dog’s body, “girl.” He laughed and, as eagerly, began patting the large flat head and scratching behind the ears. Eventually he made his way back up to his feet. It took him until then to realize he’d been laughing long and loud.
He gave a cursory examination and found no signs of injury…or a collar. He took a good look around. Still nothing stumbling his way.
“Let’s go check out that house.” Juan shouldered the bat and began walking up the slightly overgrown row. He was halfway up to the house with a large watermelon under one arm and the dog a few paces ahead, when suddenly the dog froze, snarled, and crouched…ready to spring. A scream shattered the stillness.
***
Maximillian Schivone ducked under the outstretched arms of the monster that now stood between him and the exit of the home he’d just searched unsuccessfully for food. This one had followed him from his secret hideout, the tree house in back of the Gilmore residence.
Max had been sure that the coast was clear when he climbed down. This one had been on the Gilmore’s front porch and must have arrived during the night. It had scared him with a moan that announced its presence as he’d come up the side of the house and cut across the front yard. It had been the first zombie—that’s what Max’s dad said they were and Max’s dad would know because he was a famous writer—that he’d seen in almost a week.
Remembering his dad made Max’s throat seem to close up just a bit. Kevin Schivone had written lots of stories. Some of those stories had even been made into movies. But, since he was only eleven, Max hadn’t been allowed to read or watch any of them. His dad said they were too scary.
Five days ago, Kevin Schivone slipped away in the night. For a few hours, he’d watched his son sleep. He hefted the pistol in his hand, considering his possibilities. In the end, he’d been a coward. Weak. He reasoned that he’d taught Max enough to survive. Maybe somebody would find him, take him in. He’d left a note and the gun. The note said simply: “Dad loves you. Always.”
Kevin Schivone slunk away in the darkness, the bite on his arm throbbing. In his best attempt to keep his son from falling victim to what was burning the life away from inside, he staggered away until he eventually collapsed—less than two blocks away from where Max lay sleeping.
He absent-mindedly patted the bulge where the pistol was stuffed in the pouch of his hoodie. Max wouldn’t use the gun on one zombie. His dad had explained how the noise only invited more trouble. He had a big spiked club, but he didn’t think he could actually use it the way he’d seen his dad use it. No, Max just wanted to see the monster up close before he ran away. Up until today, he hadn’t really been all that close to one.
It finally emerged from the darkened doorway and onto the porch. It was a policeman! Only, he looked really bad. Dark and twisted things hung out of where his stomach should be. The entire bottom half of his shirt was ripped to shreds. The part that remained appeared all hard and dark from dried blood. His skin was a greenish-grey like moldy bread, and the eyes looked wrong…they were all milky with dark squiggly lines. Suddenly, Max didn’t feel too good. It didn’t help that the smell from the policeman-zombie seemed to fill his mouth as well as his nose.
Looking around, Max chose his escape route. He would lead the monster away and around the corner, then sneak back and try another house. He ran, but his legs felt weak. Of course, he could still easily outrun that thing, but he wasn’t feeling very good and suddenly wanted nothing more than to be in the tree- house.
It was only a rock the size of a large gumball, but it was enough to cause Max to turn his ankle and fall. His head bounced off the asphalt and everything flashed a bright white. When his vision cleared, Max had only a moment to scream. The policeman-zombie was on him and had Max’s hand already going to its mouth. It bit, and Max screamed again. Only, this scream was much different. It still held all the fear, but now it had the added amplitude of pain. Agony.
Max pulled away and kicked with his feet. He rolled over and came up to his knees. His hand was missing the pinky and ring finger, and now blood poured from the jagged stubs. He could see bone and knew that was bad. Still, he would run. He had to. He had to get away from the monster.
Max ran and cried. He could barely see through the tears, he was scared and only wanted to be back in his tree-house. Blood continued to pour, and Max began to feel a little sick, as well as dizzy. He saw a couple of shadowy and blurry figures coming out from behind bushes or from open doors.
He looked around at the houses. None of them were the Gilmore house. Where was he? A wave of dizziness made Max sway a bit. He tried to run, but his little legs didn’t seem to want to cooperate.
When had he sat down? Max tried to stand, but something wasn’t right. He could still run faster than the zombies, and he would in just a moment.
Max closed his eyes. They flickered open once, and for a moment he thought he saw his dad.
***
Jenifer wrapped her arms around the trunk of the palm tree. She wondered if she might actually lift off the ground and flutter like a flag as the wind continued to howl and blow relentlessly. The storm had been raging for hours. Its destructive force had not been the blessing she’d hoped. Instead, the barricades had failed. The undead were everywhere and chaos was the new ruler.
She’d heard plenty of gunfire a few hours ago, but now all she could hear was the roar of the unnamed hurricane that seemed intent on eliminating the island and relegating Atlantis to the same demise as its mystical namesake.
Once more, Jenifer tried to move forward, if nothing else, then to at least have a new tree to cling to. Never in her life had she experienced such a force of nature. Tentatively she let go with one hand as she inched forward. The dark outline of the next tree was almost within her grasp. Just a little bit more.
Success!
Hauling herself forward, she shook her arms out. Her muscles were sore from the constant effort it took to not be blown away. Also, she imagined that the meager rations she’d been surviving on did her no favors.
Something was moving towards her! It was far too dark to discern what, but a large shape was tumbling her way. It was Adaire! Rather, what was left of him. Now he was one of them. She didn’t need to see his eyes to know that.
She watched as the living dead version of Adaire struggled to stand, only to be blown over again. The stupid thing had no concept of futility. It just kept attempting to stand and failing. It would sprawl windward and then repeat the same tactic with the same results.
The thing faded into the darkness and Jenifer felt the tears well up in her eyes. She knew she should be relieved, but all she felt was cheated.
A little while later she’d managed to move forward three more trees. Then the wind began to slack. The storm was beginning to abate. She began to make out shapes a little easier.
Dawn was breaking.
***
Travis Reynolds stood on the gravel-strewn roof of the county jail. On all sides, those stinking, rotting meat-bags stood pressed against each other. In some spots they were a couple hundred deep. Some of the faces staring up at him were familiar.
Three days ago, those things forced their way into the lobby of Clackamas County Jail. They simply pressed the myriad of obstacles aside over time, and now stood just outside the metal door that led to the jail proper.
Yesterday, they breached a rear entrance. That coward Tracy Miller thought he could run for it. He foolishly believed that he could make it to the white transport van parked less than twenty feet from the narrow concrete stairs that the door opened out onto. He’d been wrong. There hadn’t been enough left of Tracy for him to come back as one of those things. But, others had come in during the night. It was Gary Messer’s scream that woke Travis. He’d heard that scream before...the night this all began. He couldn’t remember the name of the kid on that janitorial work crew, but he remembered the scream.
Travis had fought his way to the roof. He managed to escape without a scratch. However, up on the roof…he had nothing. Of course that hadn’t changed much compared to what he had down in the jail. They’d been down to the last scraps of food in the place. And it was all that spic’s fault.
That weak punk had taken off shortly after the purging of the freaks began. They’d done the world a favor by feeding every stinking sex offender to those damned zombies. Hell, Travis thought, if society ever did recover…it would owe him. When Juan Hoya took off, it was Tracy who suggested that maybe Juan ran because he had something to hide.
“Lotsa them damn Mexicans are in the joint because they think it’s okay to fuck thirteen-year-olds,” Gary chimed in on the discussion.
“Yeah.” Tracy’d nodded, thrilled that he was being listened to by the men in charge. “They sneak into this country and bring their bass-ackward ways of life with ‘em.”
Travis sent a team in pursuit of Juan. Only half returned. And on their heels, it seemed that most of the zombie population of Oregon City followed. There would be no more supply runs. No more trips to known meth labs in the area to score the quality crystal just laying around waiting to be scooped.
Nobody else had made it. At least not up to the roof. Perhaps there were folks holed up down below. But, they wouldn’t last long either. Not without food or water. Yes, Travis was safe from the zombies. They couldn’t climb the metal rungs bolted to the wall. Only, what good was it to be safe? He was going to die. Thirst and hunger were already beginning to inflict their own brand of torture. And it was clear that these damn things weren’t leaving.
“Fuck it.” Travis stood on the lip and looked down into the sea of disfigured, torn, discolored, open-mouthed faces below. There was no way he would exist like that. He’d seen enough to know that if they got on you thick enough, there wasn’t anything left to come back.
Travis Reynolds wasn’t some weak-ass, punk-bitch. Travis Reynolds was a warrior. He’d go out like one. “Fuck alla ya!” he screamed down at the writhing mass. “And fuck you, Juan Hoya!”
Travis Reynolds dove head-first into the waiting and outstretched arms below. Instantly, hands grabbed, clawed, and tore. Teeth clamped and ripped.
Travis screamed.
15
Geeks versus myth
“It’s me,” Ruth’s voice whispered.
Kevin felt instantly relieved…and embarrassed. He must’ve looked like a complete idiot. Also, hadn’t he just shrieked like a little girl? That had to have taken him down a few notches in Ruth’s eyes.
“I didn’t mean to startle you,” Ruth apologized. “I just wanted to tell you that my mom is thinking of taking off tomorrow when Mike and Darrin leave on their little mission.”
“Oh?” Kevin stood up dusting himself off. “So you came to say farewell?”
“No,” Ruth glanced over her shoulder towards the glow of the RV that her mom and sisters were in, “I want you to talk them out of it.”
Kevin scratched his head. He certainly didn’t want Ruth to leave, but he didn’t have a clue how to deal with this unfolding situation. He’d never been much with people skills. Truth be told, that was what had led him to all the survivalist courses and outings. He was on his own and didn’t need or have to talk to anybody. He knew he came across as an asshole to most people. But really, he just had a very weak filter when it came to saying things outloud.
“Gee, Ruth…” Kevin stammered a bit. Great, he thought, try a little harder to sound like Opie Taylor or The Beav. “I’m not much for diplomacy. I don’t know what I’d say.”
“Maybe you could—” Ruth stopped suddenly, cocking her head to the side. “Do you hear something?”
Kevin listened intently. It took a moment for him to realize that there was a low growl of an engine…or engines. It was getting closer.