Life of the Dead (Book 1): Hell on Earth

by Tony Urban

  Ramey passed the two fallen zombies. One had a hole in its cheek. The other a bullet wound in its chest and another through its left eye. Stan’s silver pistol glinted in the sunlight a yard from where the lumberjack zombie was making him its lunch. Ramey had lost her appetite.

  “Oh, Stan,” she said as the zombie took an extra-large bite that ripped out the trucker’s Adam’s apple.

  The zombie glanced back at her but didn’t leave his meal. Ramey knelt down and picked up the gun. She could still feel Stan’s warmth on the grip.

  She’d never fired a revolver before but she’d seen it happen often enough on TV and she pulled back the hammer. She was only four yards from the zombie but took her time and aimed for the back of its head. She shot the gun, and the recoil was so strong and unexpected that the revolver flew out of her hands and clattered to the ground behind her. In front of her, the zombie dropped on top of Stan and didn’t move.

  She picked up the gun again and started for the truck when the world went out of focus and she lost all the strength in her legs. She fell straight down on her behind and sat there in a fog.

  Wim had the windows rolled down as he drove so the fifth shot came through loud and clear. That one was close. He estimated within a mile and sure enough, he soon came upon carnage on the roadway.

  Four dead bodies laid on the gray asphalt. Nearby sat what his Mama had always called a redneck pickup truck. Not far away a girl who looked to be around 20 sat Indian-style in the road.

  When Wim stopped the Bronco and climbed out, he saw she was holding a revolver in her lap with the barrel aimed at her face. She stared at the gun like a snake that had been hypnotized by a flute and she didn’t react to Wim’s presence until he spoke.

  “You all right, Miss?”

  Ramey snapped out of her daze and looked toward him. Wim saw she wasn’t twenty-something. She might be close, but she still had the look of a high school girl, not a college adult. Not that he’d ever been to college himself. Her alabaster skin was almost void of color which made her deep, chocolate colored eyes stand out. Her pale, pink lips had a perfect Cupid’s bow and she opened her mouth, but didn’t say anything.

  “Are you okay?”

  Ramey blinked a few times, then looked back down at the gun.

  “Why don’t you give me that, Miss?”

  Ramey’s pretty eyes darkened with mistrust. “I think I’ll hold on to it.”

  Wim took a step toward her. She pulled the gun closer to herself, but the barrel was still pointed in, not out, so he wasn’t overly concerned.

  “An empty revolver isn’t of much use, but you do whatever you please.”

  Ramey looked into the barrel, squinted. “How do you know it’s empty?”

  “I heard four gunshots back at my farm. Heard another while driving.” He pointed toward the gun. “My eyes aren’t quite what they used to be, but that there looks like a Ruger Blackhawk and they only hold five rounds.”

  She looked again at the gun. “Maybe I reloaded. Maybe I put in another bullet for myself.”

  Wim saw her eyes were ringed red. “Maybe you did. That would be a shame though.” He took slow, small steps toward her as he talked.

  “Why?”

  “‘cause up until 10 minutes ago I was thinking I was the only person left alive in the world. Now I know there’s two of us. I’d hate to see that go back to one again.”

  Ramey wiped her eyes. “I killed my mom yesterday.” Her face looked more alert than he’d seen so far. “Well, she killed herself. Then I killed her again.”

  Wim, who had loved his mother more than himself, more than anyone, couldn’t imagine anything so horrible. He squatted down in front of the girl and saw she was on the verge of being beautiful. Probably would be already if the shell shock was gone.

  “I’m real sorry to hear that.”

  Ramey nodded. “Thanks. Have you killed anyone?”

  Wim’s eyes broke free from her questioning gaze. “Yep.” He didn’t elaborate and she didn’t ask. “I have plenty of ammunition if you want.”

  Ramey handed over the revolver. “Okay.”

  Behind her, Wim spied a dead man in the road push another dead man off itself. The one moving had its throat ripped out and Wim could see the exposed and partially eaten trachea. Its mouth gaped open.

  Her back turned, Ramey saw none of this. That’s for the best, Wim thought.

  The zombie noticed them and ran.

  “Why don’t you go over to my Bronco and get a box of .45 shells. They’re in the back seat. It’ll be a yellow box and they’re marked.”

  Wim reached out, and she took his hand and let him help her to her feet. She was light as a feather and bounced a little when he pulled her up and that made her smirk. He didn’t see that because he looked past her, to the zombie who used to be Stan the truck driver.

  Ramey moved by Wim on her way to his Bronco and as soon as she was one step past him, he raised the Ruger and fired a round into the zombie’s head. The bullet caught him on the right side of his forehead and a small burst of blood shot out like water from a drinking fountain.

  Ramey spun around in time to see Stan hit the ground. She looked from her former companion to Wim. “I thought you said it was empty.”

  Wim half-smiled. It felt good to smile. He couldn’t remember the last time he had done so. “That might have been a fib.”

  “I’m gonna have to keep my eye on you.” Ramey, to his surprise, smiled back. Fire had returned to her eyes and, along with it, some color to her face. “What’s your name, anyway?”

  “My name’s Wim.”

  “What kind of name’s ‘Wim’?”

  “Actually, it’s William. But when I was little, I tended to mumble.”

  “You still do.”

  Wim could feel his cheeks heat up as a blush spread across them. “Anyway, when I told people my name, it came out more like ‘Wim’. It stuck.”

  “Well, it’s nice to meet you, Wim. I’m Ramey. Do you live around here?”

  Wim nodded. “About eight miles back that way.”

  “I’ll follow you?”

  “I like that plan.”

  40

  It was dark when Aben came to and he was pleased to discover that he hadn’t bled to death during his unintentional siesta. Part of him wondered though if maybe he had died and didn’t realize it. Do zombies know they’re dead?

  He looked at what used to be Dolan and his stomach flip flopped. He had no desire to take a bite and that convinced him he wasn’t a zombie. He climbed to his feet, careful not to disturb his destroyed hand and tucked the dead policeman’s pistol into the waistband of his pants.

  Aben vacated the police station and, as he stepped out into the night, the first thing he saw was a zombie stumbling up the street. It was an older woman, clad in a floral print housecoat that hung halfway between her knees and ankles. Her was hair rolled up in blue curlers.

  More zombies filled the town. Some of them grouped together like packs of feral dogs while others went the lone wolf route. Aben was careful to avoid all of them and he took out the pistol just to be safe.

  The more he moved, the more his hand ached. It was a throbbing fire that burned the whole way up his arm. He risked a glance at the bloody, mangled mess and knew it was only a matter of time before infection set in. If the situation in this town was an indication, a trip to the hospital was not an option.

  Aben never believed much in fate, but when he saw a faded awning reading “Clark’s Hardware, Tools & More” he took it as an omen.

  He used the grip of the pistol to knock out a pane of glass on the door to the shop. He scanned his surroundings to make sure none of the zombies heard, then reached through and opened the door, and moved inside.

  After browsing the store for a few minutes Aben had gathered together a series of items he thought might be of use. A first aid kit, a table vice, a Bernzomatic gas torch and a reciprocating saw. Thank God for battery powered tools. Tinkering with the
equipment kept his mind off what he was about to do, at least to some extent, but before long everything was ready to go and it was time to focus.

  Aben started off by using the vice to secure his ruined hand to the checkout counter. He tightened it down as hard as he could stand, then tried moving his arm. It didn’t budge and he was content that it would stay in place.

  He loaded the reciprocating saw with a dual purpose blade, one suited for cutting both wood and metal. They didn’t make blades meant for cutting through bone, at least not ones you could buy in the corner tool shop, but if this six-inch yellow blade could cut through steel, he didn’t think his ulna and radius would put up too much of a fight. He had the torch close by and could only hope he didn’t pass out before he could use it.

  Aben squeezed down the trigger of the saw with his right hand, just to get a feel of it. It jerked like a son of a bitch but it had enough weight that he felt gravity would work in his favor. He rested the blade about an inch above the cut on his wrist. He wondered if he should count to three, got to one, then went to town.

  The pain as the saw cut through the layer of skin coating his arm wasn’t as bad as he’d expected. It was fast and reminded him a little of a time he’d skinned his knee down to the bone playing wiffle ball in a church parking lot. But that only lasted two seconds. Then he was on to the hard part.

  When the blade hit the white bone his entire body shook. He worried that his arm would be jerked free from the vice and pressed down even harder. He felt the scorching heat as the friction turned the blade red hot. The pain he’d felt when his hand was degloved was a pinprick compared to the saw ripping through his radius. There was a moment of relieve as the bone gave way, but the radius was next. Why didn’t I get drunk?

  About half way through the smell hit him. It was like burning hair combined with a sirloin steak cooked too long on a charcoal grill. He held his breath as he kept cutting. His good hand had gone numb from holding onto the vibrating saw and he needed to finish while he could still hang on to it.

  At last he felt the radius bone splinter and break and with the hard material out of the way the blade ripped through the remaining flesh in seconds. The saw tumbled from Aben’s hand and crashed against the floor.

  Even though he’d kept the belt tourniquet in place, blood rushed from the site of the amputation. He grabbed the Bernzomatic. What an appropriate name. It sounded like something Ron Popeil would sell in a late night infomercial.

  “Buy the Bernzomatic and you can do your own at home amputations!”

  He pressed the button and blue flamed roared from the nozzle. Aben gritted his teeth so hard he thought they might shatter as he held the fire to the bloody stump of his wrist and cauterized the wound. After ten seconds of fire, he turned it off and set the torch on the counter.

  Aben was proud of himself for not passing out again. He expected to lose consciousness half way through the cutting part and then bleed to death with his arm trapped in a vise. Then he’d come back as a zombie and spend eternity stuck to the table and unable to move more than a foot in either direction. That would suck even if he was dead.

  He looked down at the black flesh of his arm, pleased with the results. He’d seen field amputations in Iraq that weren’t much better. Aben dumped an entire bottle of peroxide over the wound, then wrapped it in gauze. He finished it up by securing the white gauze to his arm with duct tape. He was a man, after all.

  Aben deposited various first aid supplies into a canvas bag which he then slung over his shoulder. He took an 8-pound hammer maul in his remaining hand and headed into the night.

  41

  Bolivar and Peduto fled south, out of the city. They caught I95 but by the time they got to Crum Lynne a multi-vehicle pileup blocked the road making it impassible. They abandoned the Smart car and made their way on foot.

  Peduto made several attempts to contact Sawyer via the radio to no avail. Neither of them said anything about that. Peduto then tried other bands, but the radios had gone silent. They were unsure whether that was intentional or a sign that things had taken a terrible turn.

  Outside the Chester Prison they ran up on a group of zombies eating a policeman and when the zombies saw them three of the creatures ditched the cop buffet and gave chase. Peduto shot two of them and they lost the third after cutting through a park.

  By this point Peduto wheezed and struggled to keep up. They came across an abandoned Saab with the engine still running. A severed and chewed upon arm rested on the seat but the car had over half a tank of gas and the situation didn’t allow them to be choosy.

  They caught highway 13 where they drove as fast as they could. Only a handful of cars moved on the road, but plenty of abandoned vehicles littered the highway. Jorge noticed some of them contained undead passengers fighting to get out. Apparently, in death, fine motor skills like the type needed to open car door handles disappeared.

  Random zombies roamed about and a few of the fast ones gave chase to them as they passed by but they soon lost interest when the Saab sped away. Jorge drove while Peduto rested. Her breaths were thick, and she kept clearing her throat of phlegm. Neither of them acknowledged that either.

  Just before noon they hit the section of 13 where it aligned with Interstate 495 and ran parallel to the Delaware River. South of Philly, there were a few more cars in motion and when they got to 495, it had an almost normal amount of traffic moving in both directions. They hadn’t seen any zombies in miles.

  “Pull over for a few minutes,” Peduto said and Bolivar eased the car onto the berm.

  She stepped out of the vehicle and stretched out the aches. She walked around the rear and took a seat atop the gray trunk as she looked north toward the city in the distance. Bolivar joined her.

  At 11:58 jets roared overhead, and they weren’t the kind carrying passengers into Philadelphia International. They were warplanes, A-10 Thunderbolts, and they were headed to the city.

  Precisely at noon the smoke came into view. Black masses of it billowed into the air in a way that reminded Bolivar of the footage of wildfires in California he saw on the news almost every year. Only there was nothing natural about this. The city of Philadelphia was burning and whoever had still been alive when the fire rained down was incinerated.

  He felt empty inside as the realization swept over him. He’d seen horrible, unbelievable things the last few days, but part of him still believed it could be reversed. But there was no coming back from this. Nothing could ever be the same again. He felt like he had a front row seat to the end of the world.

  “I’m sorry,” Peduto said.

  Bolivar noticed she was staring at him, not at the city. It was only then he realized his cheeks were wet with tears. He wiped them away with the back of his hand.

  “It doesn’t seem real, does it? None of this,” he said.

  She didn’t respond. Instead she slid off the trunk and got back into the car. Bolivar followed, and they drove on.

  42

  Wim built a fire in the stone pit outside his home and cooked them supper. Canned meat and veggies combined into a makeshift stew. The flames, and the smell, reminded him more than a little of burning the bodies of his acquaintances and neighbors in town, but constant chatter from Ramey helped take his mind off that part.

  The girl was a talker that was for sure. He thought it seemed her natural demeanor but her rapid pace and sky high inflection made him believe at least some of it was nerves.

  She had an edge to her, one he suspected hadn’t built up over just one day. But there were fleeting moments, like when she told him about getting an uncontrollable fit of laughter during her junior high Christmas pageant, and her father laughing along in the audience, where he could see the shell wasn’t too thick.

  He got most of her life story over the course of an afternoon and evening. She left out the part about Bobby Mack, but didn’t hold back on the rest. Ramey was candid about her mother’s life and death and had just started on the subject of her father
. The wistfulness she used when speaking about him made the man seem almost heroic. Wim wondered how a man who could walk out on his family during a crisis was worthy of such admiration, but he listened and didn’t judge, at least not out loud.

  “He always thought I’d grow up to be a scientist like him, or maybe even a doctor. But even when he was around, I didn’t want that life. Cooped up in a lab all the time, surrounded by all that sickness.”

  She shivered. The sun had set and only the orange embers of the fire illuminated them. “Your log is closer to the fire than mine,” Ramey said and she used that as an excuse to sidle up next to him.

  Her thigh brushed against his and he almost scooted away. She was 18 and an adult, or so she said, but all her talk of high school drama had made the years between them feel like a chasm. Nevertheless, as she leaned into him and rubbed her hands over her upper arms for warmth, he decided that sharing body heat was normal enough.

  “I think it broke his heart when I wouldn’t go with him. And I probably wanted to hurt him, at least a little. Because I thought if he saw I wasn’t leaving, maybe he’d stay too. Stay for me. But he didn’t.” She fell silent for a little while but that was okay, Wim didn’t mind and she never stayed quiet for long.

  “I have to try to find my dad. I know it’s ridiculous. And I know he’s probably as dead as everyone else, but I need to know for sure.”

  Wim stared into the rust-colored coals and pondered this. He did think it was ridiculous. Ridiculous and needlessly dangerous, but who was he to crush whatever little hope she still had left?

  “I understand. I do believe it’s safer here though. I’ve pretty near cleared the area of zombies. It wouldn’t be a bad place to wait things out for a while. At least until we see what happens.”

  “I know.” She reached over and placed her small, soft hand atop his thick, calloused palm. “And I won’t ask you to leave here. But I have to know. I have to go on.”