The Road to Hell Is Paved With Zombies

by Cedric Nye

  Finally, he came to the edge of the woods within sight of the hotel where he had been staying when the Zombie Apocalypse first began.

  Jango, thinking about the Zombie Apocalypse and all the ramifications of said Apocalypse, also remembered the giant dog and the albino bitch. “Shit!” he exclaimed suddenly as he remembered being bitten by first the dog, then the albino bitch. He quickly transferred his fighting stick to his left hand, and reached up with his right hand to check the place the dog had bitten him. His left shoulder was completely healed!

  “How long was I out?” he questioned aloud, not really expecting an answer.

  He skirted around the hotel, staying just inside the tree line, eyes roving, searching, and trying to spot any threats. As far as he could see, there were no threats. There was no movement at all.

  “It sure is quiet,” he said to himself, smiling like a loon, “Almost too quiet,” he added as he suppressed a giggle.

  Jango was a staunch realist, and he was honest enough with himself to know that his mental processes were not in the “normal” range. He had built a system of stops and chains around his psyche to protect himself and the world around him. He knew exactly what he was capable of when he flipped out.

  He had decided a long time ago, when he was a child being beaten by his father, that he would NEVER be an abuser or a bully. His childhood had taught him who he did NOT want to be, and books had taught him who he wanted to be.

  He had fashioned a crude code of behavior for himself, based on fictional characters from books, such as, Tarzan, The Phantom, King Arthur, Robin Hood, Conan, and many more. His almost pathological need to defend any animal or person who was being hurt had put a lot of bad people into hospitals. Jango, though, had never regretted a single assault. In his mind, he could justify almost anything where abusers of any kind were concerned. He pulled away from his thoughts, and finished eyeing the area for any signs of danger.

  With the area apparently clear of threats, he slowly made his way to the hotel parking lot, silently wishing that he still had his pistol.

  As he edged around the corner of the hotel, he realized that the place looked even worse than when he had left it!

  The end of the building that housed the hotel office had burned to the ground, and all the zombies that he had killed were even more rotten and foul than before. He surveyed the still-gooey mess coating the parking lot, and suddenly smiled with the memory of his rampage. “Good times,” he sighed, “Good times.”

  Jango spotted his car, and was stunned to see that it was completely torn to pieces and strewn all over the lot like so much garbage.

  “Whew,” he whistled, trying to picture how his car could have been destroyed so completely.

  Jango shook himself out of his reverie. “Gurgle, gurgle, gooshloop!” his stomach growled and gurgled to let him know that he needed to eat. “Yeah, food, water, weapons. Yeah, yeah,” he mumbled aloud as he walked away from the hotel, and headed toward downtown Prescott.

  As Highway 89 became S. Montezuma Street, he noticed that there were no signs of any living creatures, human or otherwise, in or around any of the buildings and houses. “What the fuck?” Jango asked. The town looked like a scene from “The Omega Man.”

  He kept walking until he got to the Yavapai County Courthouse, a big, blocky structure made entirely of grey stone blocks. The lovely landscaping around the Courthouse looked the same as it had when he had seen it three weeks ago on his way in to town. Giant trees, and lush, green grass, but not a bird in sight. The ever-present bird-song had completely vanished.

  Jango got a sudden chill, his hackles raised, and with the reflexes of an abuse survivor, he threw himself to the right, took ukemi, and came up in a fighting stance. Nothing. He looked around, shrugged his shoulders, and headed toward the grocery store on Gurley Street.

  “SchheeeHawwwww-EEEEEEEEE!” A zombie wearing a black and white uniform, with a white chef’s hat perched on its head rushed at Jango with unearthly speed.

  “I fucking knew it was too quiet,” he whispered to himself as he snapped his stick up into a two-handed grip; stick parallel to the ground, about level with his chin. He set his feet in something between a boxer’s stance, and a knife-fighter’s stance, left foot leading, knees slightly bent.

  When the zombie was about six or seven feet away, Jango’s entire body moved blur-fast as he unfolded into a stick-punch. He stepped forward a little bit with his right foot, his right hip twisted forward; his powerful abdominal muscles drove his thick right shoulder toward the zombie, and his steel-muscled right arm shot forward like a piston as he snapped the heavy stick out in a one-handed strike. The end of his stick connected with the zombie’s right temple with a loud “CRAACKK!” The results were impressive. The zombie’s head gave way like a cardboard box under a moving car; its skull crumpled as the zombie’s upper-half stopped like it had hit a brick-wall. The creature’s feet flew up in the air as its momentum was spent.

  Jango looked dispassionately at the zombie, and mentally catalogued the damage he had done. The zombie’s skull was crushed in. His stick had sunken into the thing’s head nearly all the way to its nose. He grunted in satisfaction, and started doing a lunatic’s version of an Irish River-Dance around the newly re-killed creature. Finally, for the first time in his life, he felt good about himself.

  Then, as swiftly as he had begun his insane jig, he stopped moving, and looked at the zombie’s still, lifeless form. Jango sighed, a deep and melancholy sound, and fell to his knees beside the unmoving corpse.

  He was many things: violent, paranoid, untrusting of people, and capable of horrific violence with no conscience or regret. However, he was much more than just a madman.

  He compulsively supported the under-dogs of the world, was fiercely protective of animals, women, and children. He was also something that most people would never be able to guess. He was a lover of all the things in the world worth loving.

  He looked at the zombie, and realized that this was once a man. Someone’s friend, son, brother, he had been a part of the world, and he had probably been loved. His eyes were wet as he methodically began checking the corpse for identification.

  Jango muttered to the un-hearing body. “I am sorry this happened to you, dude, but if it’s between you eating me, and me living another day, it’s no choice at all.”

  He finally found a wallet, and removed the man’s driver’s license from the clear plastic holder within. “John Davies, huh, I won’t forget you, man, not ever.”

  Chapter 8:

  Shotguns, Pistols, and Rifles…Oh My!

  “Glergle-gurg-sploop,” Jango’s stomach protested its emptiness out-loud again.Jango muttered to his stomach, “Yeah. Yeah, just hold your horses.”

  As he walked away from the courthouse, Jango tried to remember where he had seen a grocery store. He couldn’t remember exactly, but he thought it might have been a Fried’s Food Store, and that it might be west. He was honest enough with himself to know he was really only guessing as to the direction of the store, but he was also mentally ill enough to just not care. He would make a choice based on what he thought was right at any given moment, and with the stone-crazy resolve that only fanatics and lunatics usually possess, he would stay that course until he decided otherwise, or until he died.

  As he walked back out onto Montezuma Street, Jango looked around at the crowded structures and abandoned vehicles. His heart lightened a little bit as he realized that it wasn’t just good and decent people who had died, and become shambling corpses. No, the Zompoc disease had taken the twists, the abusers, the rapists and freaks as well!

  “Whooo-hoooo,” he shouted at the empty sky. Even though he believed the whole world was out to get him, he tried to stay positive and find the good in any bad situation.

  Jango immediately shut-up and looked all around to make sure his outburst hadn’t drawn any unwanted attention. In his mind, any attention was unwanted, so he clammed up, and kept walking.

 
He suddenly stopped in mid-stride as he spotted a welcome sight … G&J Gun House! A huge warehouse style building that was renowned for having the largest inventory of firearms in the entire state of Arizona, and in Arizona, that was a bold statement! Jango broke into a trot, and then a run, joy pumping through his veins at his discovery.

  In his exuberance, he didn’t notice the crowd of zombies on his left that were milling around aimlessly in the loading bay of the local feed store. There were at least fifty zombies, meandering around in ragged circles and bumping into each other.

  Almost as one, the hungry undead horde turned their milky eyes toward Jango, and sniffed at the air as he ran past them. Then, almost as one, the zombies let loose their soul freezing hunting-cry, “Ghhhreeeeeeee-Daaaaaahhhheeeee-Aaaaaaaeeeee,” and charged toward him.

  Jango didn’t even look in the direction the cry came from. He simply poured on the speed, legs churning like the pistons on a steam engine, body leaned forward to balance his weight, stick blurring as his arms pumped madly, headed for the entrance of G&J.

  He leapt over the four steps that lead up to the entrance of the gun store, and crashed through the partially opened steel door, then slammed it shut with his back. He drove his body hard against the door in anticipation of the moaning goobers that had been hot on his heels. Jango held the door shut with the weight of his body, and shot the deadbolt, effectively turning the building into a vault.

  He leaned against the heavy steel door, panting and trembling from fatigue, hunger, and fear when the zombies suddenly slammed into the door. The thumps, though, were muted, as were their moans and screams. The sounds and impacts seemed like they were far away, or under water.

  Jango slid slowly to the thinly carpeted floor, utterly exhausted, hungry, and depressed. He felt wetness on his face, and realized he was crying. He swiped his hands at the tears as if they were his enemies, and stood back up. He squared his shoulders, and picked up his stick from where it had fallen on the floor.

  He looked around the vast room, lit only by an emergency lighting system that gave the place an almost romantic feel. Almost. The place didn’t look looted, pillaged, or even mildly disarrayed. It looked like the employees had just gone out for a moment and would be right back.

  Cautiously, he approached the gun case that lined three sides of the room. He took his time, and watched for any signs of movement. He crept closer to the guns and the security that they promised him. That was one of the important truths of Jango; all he really wanted was safety, solace, and peace. He didn’t know it, but that was what all of his efforts really boiled down to, a desire to feel safe.

  He had spent most of his life avoiding people, so the new world he found himself plunged into did not really change his outlook or affect his life in any big way. Jango had ALWAYS believed that every human was out to get him, and that it was up to him to protect himself. The Zombie Apocalypse just turned his paranoid delusions into facts.

  There were hundreds of long-guns, rifles and shotguns, adorning the walls behind the hand-gun-filled glass cases. He glanced at them as he approached. Making his way right up to the case, he looked inside at the bounty that fate had provided for him.

  “Wheewwwww,” he whistled appreciatively. Luck, or maybe the fickle-finger of fate had drawn him to the case reserved for Ruger handguns, which just happened to be Jango’s personal favorites. He based his regard for Ruger handguns solely on the KP 89 he had owned. Solid, heavy, reliable, and made from stainless steel and aircraft aluminum; they were made to last!

  Jango raised his stick up over his shoulder, and then brought it down on the glass in a sharp, chopping motion, using mostly his wrist. The glass exploded as if it had been hit by a wrecking ball, and he smiled.

  “One KP 89, in sweet, sweet nine,” he sang as he reached into the broken, glass-littered case for his prize.

  All business, now, he stripped the semiautomatic pistol and inspected each part in the dim light. After a few minutes of inspection, he walked over to the wall that held miscellaneous gun cleaning supplies, and pulled a cleaning kit from the rack.

  He whistled softly while he slowly cleaned and oiled the weapon, first removing the factory grease, then putting a light coating of oil on every moving part of his new gun.

  Jango then began to search for more magazines. The pistol had come from the factory with two ten-round magazines in the case, but he felt the need for more.

  “There!” he exclaimed jubilantly as he spotted a wall rack loaded with magazines and clips to fit just about any firearm on the planet. He swiftly looked through the rack, finally finding the fifteen-round magazines he wanted. He took all eight of them , and went behind the counter to find ammunition.

  He found the ammunition he wanted, Golden Sabre hollow point rounds with a very high muzzle velocity. He first unpackaged, and then methodically loaded all eight of the high capacity magazines as well as the two ten round magazines that had come with the pistol. When he finished, Jango gently, almost lovingly, seated a high-capacity magazine in the hollow grip of the pistol, and pulled back the slide to chamber a round.

  “Gerglooooop-glerploop,” his stomach complained again. “All right, all right,” he muttered to his complaining stomach as he grabbed a shoulder holster for his prize and a backpack for the other gear he would need, and went toward the rear of the store in search of food.

  Chapter 9:

  Lawless

  Jango glanced up at the wall full of long guns again as he went behind the counter, and through the door marked “Employees Only.” He found himself in a large, labyrinthine area full of moveable partitions, cardboard boxes, steel cages full of firearms, and offices.

  Hunger sent him in search of anything resembling an employee’s lounge, or a break room. His luck held as he swiftly found a grey door marked with a red and white peeling plastic placard that proclaimed the room to be “The Employee Lounge and Cafeteria.” “Bingo,” he said as he slowly pushed the door open.

  The cafeteria was more brightly lit than the rest of the facility had been, and he could see that the place was empty of any life…OR un-life.

  The cafeteria was about thirty feet by thirty feet, with a long, steel counter-top that had a cash register at one end of it, and various clear plastic boxes, bubbles, and screens to house the food that used to be on display. Opposite the counter was a long row of various vending machines that offered a wide range of barely edible foods and drinks.

  He dismissed the vending machines and turned to check behind the food counter for whatever might still be good to eat. He stepped around the cash register, and went through a door marked “Kitchen”.

  Jango quickly found his way to a pantry that was fully stocked with enough dry goods and survival food to feed the whole town of Prescott! “YES!” he cried at the top of his lungs as he started doing “the robot” while making off-key techno-beat noises with his smiling mouth.

  “Bwahht, bomp-bomp, wheet, whaant, boom-boom,” he sang as he robot-walked into the pantry, sat down on a large drum of soy protein isolate, then started gorging on beef-jerky and drinking apple-juice from a one-gallon can. After several minutes of non-stop gorging, he belched, and sighed contentedly. He then began methodically packing jerked beef into his large digi-cam patterned backpack.

  Jango amused himself for a few minutes by pretending that he couldn’t find his backpack due to its pixelated green and tan “camouflage” coloring. “Where the hell is my ruck-sack,” he yelled in a parody of an old man’s voice, alternating between waving one fist over his head and giggling maniacally.

  After a while, Jango stopped giggling, and hiccoughed. The hiccough seemed to knock something loose. He suddenly stood up, and decided that he needed to find a toilet right away! Just thinking about using a toilet made him think about one of his favorite movies, “Zombieland,” and the dangers of using a toilet during a zombie out-break. He flat out refused to die on a toilet.

  He strapped his backpack on, shifted his stick to his lef
t hand, and, just to be safe, drew the pistol from its holster under his left arm before cautiously going to look for the toilet.

  The lavatory was easy to find, given the fact that it was placed in close proximity to the cafeteria. He considered that to be sound reasoning, “Cause eating and shitting is what humans do best!” he said in the voice of a weird cartoon tiger he had recently seen in a commercial on TV.

  Jango walked past the door marked “women’s room”, looked at the men’s room door for a moment, and then nudged the door open with the striking end of his stick. He kept his pistol at waist level, pointed forward, and close to his body. He had always cringed when he watched movies and television shows where the cops ran around with their pistols held out in front of them. It had always grated on his nerves when the actors would let their handguns lead around a blind corner. Like the fucking pistol could spot danger. He firmly believed in keeping control of any weapon in his hands, and he just as firmly believed in keeping his weapon in his own hands.

  He had to suppress the urge to call out hello as he pushed all the way into the large and well-appointed restroom. He glanced around in the dim emergency lighting

  There were three sinks, a long mirror on his right, and four toilet-stalls on his left. Jango dropped to his knees and peeked under the stall doors to see if there were any surprises waiting for him in there. He immediately spotted a pair of butter colored leather loafers that had legs attached to them. The pants were bunched around a pair of fat ankles as though someone were in there having a bowel movement. He felt his heart start beating its tune of madness to come. His chest constricted as he felt himself start to nut-up, but he pushed it back. He took several deep breaths, letting his belly expand with each breath, calming, calming.

  He couldn’t decide what to do, until a gurgling exhalation of flatulence and a gut cramp made his decision for him.