Chapter 9
Karen sat Indian style with her charges on the hard wooden floor of the closet, doing her best to keep her “big girl panties” on and not panic at the sounds of the invaders banging around and most likely destroying her home, well, more so than the children had done already. She cringed as she heard the crash of glass breaking on the kitchen or quite possibly the living room floor; it was hard to tell in the small space with the drone of sobbing children.
“Shhh, shhh, shhh, shhh,” Karen tried her best to soothe the children packed into the confines of the dark closet like sardines in a can. She had wished that she had told Kyle to put a new light bulb in the ceiling fixture, this one having blown out several weeks ago. Chances are she probably had, and it just slipped his mind. She frowned at the fact that the replacement bulbs were all the way on the other side of the house, inside of the laundry room cabinet, not that it would do her much good even if she had one. With her short stature and no ladder, there was no way in hell she could even attempt to replace the bulb, unless she climbed up a shelving unit and risked falling on top of the kids.
She reached up and grabbed the windup lantern that she had been using earlier, off a nearby shelf. The shelf contained nonperishable food, water, candles and other useful items that had been put there specifically for this type of emergency. Thank you, emergency preparedness workshop, she thought to herself, remembering the state-mandated training courses she had to take in order to keep her business running. Funny, she never actually thought they would come into any practical real-world use. Normally, she absolutely despised taking the time to even go to such things; it was usually eight or so hours stuck in some smelly school gymnasium with an instructor that was just as excited to be there as she was.
Karen located the recessed crank on the lantern just as the light started to dim and blink out. She snapped it open, and began to spin the charging handle, it made a whirring sound as it spun up. She cringed at the noise the machine made as she cranked it, hoping that it wasn’t nearly as loud as it seemed to be inside of the closet’s confines. She cranked the handle for what seemed like an eternity, cranking so much that her wrists began to ache from the effort. She flipped the switch, and six bright LED lights flooded the room, illuminating the tear-streaked faces of her surrogate children. “It’s going to be okay, guys. Don’t worry, you’re safe in here.” She hoped. At that moment, a loud crash shook the wall with such violence it caused tiny cracks to appear within the drywall behind racks of clothing.
Sophie, a seven-year-old girl with pigtails, let out an ear-piercing scream as drywall rained down from above, and pelted her in her small head. The other children started crying with renewed vigor.
“I wanna go home,” cried one.
“I want my momma,” cried another.
“I know, I know. Quiet now, quiet please,” Karen said with futility, panic beginning to enter her voice. It had already been too late, Karen knew. Whoever it was on the other side of that wall definitely heard the commotion. The sound of footsteps pounded through the home, causing the floors to shudder under their urgent pace. Karen heard the weak hollow outer door to the bathroom creak and splinter as it exploded open, then something slammed into the closet door hard, causing the entire room to shake. Fists pounded frantically on the reinforced closet door, even above the children’s cries and screams.
Karen could hear the figure outside snarling like some kind of rabid animal. She backed up away from the door instinctively moving the children behind her. She watched in fear as the frame surrounding the heavy reinforced door buckled and began to crack under their would-be attacker’s abuse.
Quickly, Karen rushed over to the far wall of the closet and began throwing boxes of books and old video tapes and other assorted junk in front of the door, trying to build some kind of barricade. She reached up and slid aside a row of her husband’s clothing. Reaching behind his detritus, she located a length of rope that was drilled into the wall and pulled. A false drywall panel dropped away with a thud, revealing a large safe located behind it. Karen tapped the panel located next to the safe’s handle, and a digital screen powered to life, basking the room in a dull blue glow. Karen typed in her personal ID that her husband had set up for her. He used a number he knew she would not forget—their anniversary date. She keyed the number in and pressed her thumb to the glass panel. A LED light flashed green, indicating that her thumbprint and code key matched in the system, and the door popped open.
Karen grabbed the closest weapon she could find; in this case, it was a Mossberg 500 tactical special purpose twenty-gauge shotgun. She opened the breach and reached for a box of rounds. She had no idea what rounds did what; she just reached for the closest shotgun ammunition she could find. She fumbled with the cartridges, trying to control the shaking of her hands, loaded in six shells, and pumped the weapon feeding in a round. She hadn’t had much experience with any of the weapons, but her husband had shown her that much, even against her protests. At the moment, she was glad he had.
The door continued to shudder and crack, raining bits of dried paint and wood to the floor. The kids shifted terrified, wide-eyed glances back and forth between the door and the newly acquired shotgun that she now held in her quaking hands.
“Bang, bang, bang!” sounded around the closet, the noise all encompassing. Karen’s heart pounded, threatening to rip out of her chest. Her vision narrowed and blurred around the edges, her pulse roared in her ears. She had to fight back her anxiety to prevent herself from passing out.
“Breathe,” she told herself. “You have to protect these children.” The word protect became the new mantra in her mind.
“BANG, BANG, BANG!” The door was beginning to come loose. “BANG, BANG, BANG!” The door came crashing in, the hinges finally succumbing to the onslaught, the metal shearing clean off the door frame. The door fell in and landed propped against the far wall of the closet. For Karen, time seemed to stand completely still; she could hear the sounds of the children breathing heavy and sobbing. She stared at the door, expecting something to emerge through the portal; nothing happened. One of the children tugged on Karen’s pant legs.
“Mrs. Karen,” he whispered softly.
She glanced momentarily down Richie’s reddened tear-soaked face.
He gazed up at her with bloodshot blue eyes and freckled cheeks and was about to tell her he had to pee, of all things.
Suddenly, a growl escaped from beyond the door; and like a feral dog, a figure came bursting through the opening, slamming straight into her before she could even react. The shotgun clattered to the floor as she was knocked back into the children. The kids were scattered back into each other and the shelving units that lined the wall, sending canned food and other assorted odds and ends raining down, pelting everyone like falling meteors.
A can struck Karen in the shoulder, but she had no time for the pain to register as the snarling man’s fingers dug into her sides and the back of her neck. Pinned down to the floor, she kept his snapping jaws at bay with her right hand while she groped blindly around the floor with her left, searching for the shotgun or anything, for that matter, in which to defend herself and the children.
Thick saliva dripped from the sweaty feral man’s yellowed teeth and landed on her cheek as she let out a scream. His jaws moved closer, her strength beginning to ebb away. At that moment, something struck the man in the forehead, a can of tomato soup bounced off the man, seeming to stun him for a moment, his attention briefly shifted away from Karen, and he looked directly at the children. Karen glanced upward behind her and noticed Richie, little Richie, holding the shotgun—pointing it right in the face of the attacker.
“G-g –g-get off her,” he stammered weakly, his chubby little form shaking from head to toe.
The man growled at him and shifted his attention back to Karen, not caring or even knowing what the weapon was that was pointed in his direction.
Karen pushed up at the monster with all her might using what se
emed to be the last of her strength. “Richie!” she shouted over at the boy. “Use the gun, Richie!”
The little boy backed away, shaking his head frantically. “I-I-can’t,” he stuttered.
“Yes, you can! Just point and shoot just like you do with your toys,” she pleaded with the boy, in desperation, grunting with exertion, wanting anything to get this asshole off her.
The boy pointed the Mossberg and held it away from him; he squeezed his eyes shut and looked away. He pulled the trigger; the recoil of the powerful weapon sent the boy sprawling to the floor, knocking the other children over like bowling pins.
In the same instant, a large high-velocity Remington slugger round struck the beast directly in the forehead, obliterating and shearing most of his head completely from his shoulders, spraying the far wall of the closet in dark viscous blood and brain matter.
Karen pushed the dead man off her and slid out from underneath. Completely stunned by everything that had just transpired; she barely noticed her arms covered in bright red and orange gore.
She approached Richie lying on his back, still clutching the shotgun in his tiny hands. Karen reached out for the boy and he shrank away from her in wide-eyed horror. She looked down at her blood-slick hands and tank top that was anything but white anymore and decided to just liberate the firearm from the boy’s trembling hands.
“Richie,” she said soothingly, “I know that was hard for you to do, but I need you to be a big boy and understand that it had to be done…if not,” Karen let the comment hang in the air, not knowing exactly what to say. I mean, how does one explain to a child that killing a man was necessary?
Richie nodded in silent understanding and wiped snot and tears away from his childish face.
“I-I-didn’t want him to hurt you, Mrs. Karen,” the boy sobbed.
“I know, honey,” she replied. “Thank you Richie, you saved my life.” She smiled weakly, tears welling up in her eyes.
Karen took in a deep breath and stood. She motioned to the other children to help Richie to his feet, not wanting to touch him with her grotesque hands. “Okay guys, we have to see about getting out of here.” She didn’t wait for them to reply. She scanned the area of the closet and found some quilted bed comforters tucked into a shelf that lay just within her reach. She chose an old one that she used as her time-of-the-month blanket and draped it over the now-dead man’s body lying half in the closet entryway.
She carefully peered around the edge of the shattered door frame, listening intently for sounds of any other intruders; all was silent, save for the whimpering of her daycare charges. She carefully and gingerly stepped over the still form of the dead man on the floor. Blood from the horrific wound beginning to seep through the thick pale green flower-patterned comforter. Gore coated the walls and door frame and hung in wet chunks of matted hair and skin; Karen forced down her revulsion.
She managed to step out of the breach into the bathroom proper and nervously looked around, searching for any other possible threats.
The children peeked with their small faces out of the opening and watched her move silently around the bathroom.
Karen quietly motioned for them to stay where they were, and then held her finger to her lips. “Shhh.” She walked over to the edge of the bathroom and gazed out into the bedroom beyond. Upon seeing no immediate danger, she pulled off her gore-covered shirt; thankfully, her bra and blue jeans had seemingly been spared. She stepped over to the sink and turned on the faucet, and positioned it to nuclear hot. She proceeded to scrub her hands and arms, with thick viscous layers of soap and bubbles until her skin was red and raw. She watched as the strange-looking blackish red and orange blood went swirling around the drain in spidery tendrils. She wasn’t a doctor, not by a long shot, but she knew something had been very wrong with that man, and the first thing she needed to do was disinfect. She finished with her extremities and started working on her hair and face, squeezing her eyes shut like a vice trying to prevent any of the possibly infectious bodily fluids from entering her bloodstream. She had no clue as to what it was that ailed the man, but it was bad.
Karen stepped quickly and lightly into the bedroom. Standing in front of her large mahogany dresser, she slid the drawer out, grunting as she did so. These old dressers tended to last forever but sucked in functionality; she would have Kyle grease the wheels later when he got home.
Her thoughts drifted to her husband for a moment, wondering what he was going to think about all that had transpired this day in the Walker homestead. She would call him once she had the children safe and contacted the police. She shook her head at the thought of how traumatic this was going to be to these children and how much time this was going to consume over the course of the next few days. She wondered exactly how this was going to affect her business. She wracked a quiet sob that hitched in her throat and stifled a tear. Her thoughts went back to the children still cowering in the back of the closet. She selected a gray and white camouflage tank top, slid her arms and then her head into it, and pulled it down to her waist. She grabbed a hair tie out of a small ornate treasure box on top of the stained mahogany dresser, and pulled her still-wet reddish-brown hair back and let it tumble to the nape of her neck, feeling the moisture from her hair run down her spine, causing her to shudder involuntarily with a slight chill.
She took a moment to compose herself, taking a long deep breath and blowing it out slowly. It did nothing to calm the nerves that were seemingly on fire throughout every continuous cell in her meek body. It was then in the stillness of that moment she could hear the faint sounds of rushing cars; a siren blared in the distance muffled by the thin walls of the double-wide trailer she and her husband resided in. She could swear she heard the sounds of screams. Acid rose in the pit of her stomach, a strange sensation brewing within her core; tingling began in her extremities as waves of panic started to overtake her.
She turned around from the dresser and faced the window. Curtains allowed only a meager amount of illumination to enter into the dim room. Slowly, she crossed the room, stepping around the bed. Leaning over a potted elephant ear plant, she drew the curtains across and stared out into the street.
She watched in confusion as people of all ages seemed to be running every which way. Cars raced back and forth in front of her home. She watched in horror as a red sedan barreled into an elderly woman and spun off the road, striking a fire hydrant, sending water cascading into the streets. A group of people went sprinting toward the scene; Karen thought for a moment that they were bystanders coming to the aid of the crash victims, until she noticed a group of them fall onto the ruined old woman, who now lay in the center of the road.
Another group snatched a bleary-eyed wisp of a man who clung bleeding to his steering wheel in defiance, as the horde of men and women drug him from the window, kicking and screaming. Karen’s stomach lurched as she saw the figures begin to tear into the poor man’s flesh. Ripping off bacon-sized strips of meat and opening a floodgate of blood. Several of the cannibals reared their heads back in unison and let out triumphant roars.
Karen let the curtain fall, her hand covering her mouth, in shock. “My God,” she gasped. Karen slowly backed away from the window and the offending scene of carnage that lay beyond. What the hell was going on? she thought. Was this just happening here, everywhere? Was Kyle okay? “What the hell is going on?” she repeated to herself aloud this time. She heard the kids in the other room getting restless, picking up on her sense of panic, she assumed. “What am I going to do?” she whispered.
Quickly, she stepped into the bathroom, and walked around to the closet. They needed supplies, something to help them sustain and ride, whatever the hell this was, out. Second, they need a plan of escape, and last but not least, they needed a place to escape to. Some place much, much stronger than a double-wide Fleetwood.
She peered at the legs of the man that lay in her closet. He had gotten in easily enough, she thought. She walked over to the entryway, gritted her teeth
, grasped the corpse by the legs, and dragged him out into the bathroom. The kids shrieked as she did so, probably thinking the mean man was getting ready to stand back up and come and get them. She deposited the body next to a large whirlpool bathtub that resided in the corner of the bathroom.
She put on her best fake smile and stepped into the closet to address her charges. “Okay, boys and girls”—she clasped her hands together—“remember the fire drills that we’ve had to do sometimes?” wishing now that she’d actually practiced them like she was supposed to.
Some of the children nodded fearfully.
“Okay, good” She smiled wanly again. “I’m going to round us up some things to take with us, and then we’re going to run to the van and go somewhere safer,” she explained, wondering just exactly where safer would be. There was the drugstore on the corner of her development, which was their designated storm shelter in the event of a hurricane or tornado, those were extremely rare in their area, but with today’s funky weather patterns, you just never knew.
Dead Pulse Rising: A Zombie Novel Page 9