Silence of the Apoc_Tales From The Zombie Apocalypse

by Martin Wilsey

  “Buddy, I owe you, big time.”

  Jim offers a glance; shrugs.

  “No problem.”

  “How’d you make it?” Bill asks, staring out the windshield and into the night—vision lost beyond the reach of the light.

  “The Sheriff,” Jim offers. “She let a bunch of us hole up at her place.”

  “So that was you,” Bill says with a chuckle.

  “Yeah,” says Jim.

  “So where are they now?”

  Jim shakes his head, offering Bill a sidelong glance. “They didn’t…” he trails off.

  “Oh,” Bill says quietly.

  The two are quiet for several moments on the short journey it takes to reach the edge of town. As they reach the REDFIELD CITY LIMIT sign, Jim slows to a stop. He looks at Bill.

  “So,” he says, “where to?”

  Bill looks at him, shrugs, and says, “Anywhere but here.”

  Jim nods and starts to put the truck back into drive when Bill adds, “But I’m driving.”

  ***

  Bill crests a rise in the road and slows the truck to a stop. Down below is the small coastal town of Port Romero. The city limit/welcome sign they passed showed the population at around two thousand, but from the dark and deserted appearance of the town, it looks as if it was recently thinned down to about zero. Bill shuts off the low beams, then the engine, and sits looking down at the small, dark town.

  “What do you think?” he says, not looking at Jim as he speaks.

  Jim yawns. “Your call, buddy,” he says with a shrug. “How many shells you down to?”

  Bill looks down at the seat next to him, picks up a bandolier. He runs it through his fingers, sees that only half of the ammo loops hold shells.

  “The twelve-gauge is full, and there are another dozen shells here.” He sighs, bringing one hand up to rub the back of his aching neck. “I guess we need to go down—if only to look for supplies and ammunition.”

  “Yeah,” Jim agrees, though not really wanting to contend with zombies in the dark. It had, in fact, become one of the rules of thumb that daytime zombies were much easier to see—and evade. They’d tried to tell this to some of the other survivors they’d met along the way—though those were few and far between—but usually, they wouldn’t listen. For some reason, most of the people they’d met seemed to think that the cover of darkness would work in their favor.

  At first, it meant absolutely nothing, and more often than not the zombies would attack so swiftly, and so violently, that if you did see them racing from the shadows, it was when they were already upon you—and therefore too late to stand much chance of escape. Both Jim and Bill had seen it—more than once. The worst was when a man—some wannabe soldier of fortune—insisted on keeping his family—a wife and daughter—right by his side while he ran into a small convenience store to loot any remaining supplies he could find. Bill had offered that either he or Jim could hang back and watch out for them while the other two went in for the supplies. But the man had instantly had the wrong idea about the strangers. Understandable, yes, but his mistrust ultimately ended up getting his family killed, devoured by the living dead right in front of him.

  He’d then blamed Bill and Jim, saying that if they hadn’t shown up, it never would’ve happened. Jim had been content to let the man lay blame wherever he wanted—or needed—if it would get him through. But Bill threw the man’s own mistrust right back in his face, pointing out the truth of what had transpired and blaming the man for dragging them into town with him when it was obvious that they were both terrified. Bill had done his best to allay any fear the man had, even falsely claiming that he and Jim were “partners,” but it hadn’t worked. And the only reason Bill and Jim had gone into that particular town with the family was because of the wife and daughter. Bill had seen their fear and wanted to help out, if only for their sake.

  When the man had pointed his AR at Bill and threatened to kill him, Jim hadn’t hesitated in returning the favor, pointing both barrels of a sawn-off double-barrel shotgun that he’d picked up in a corner bar two towns over from Redfield at the man and aiming them right at his head. When the man had swung the narrow barrel of his rifle in Jim’s direction, Bill had raised his shotgun and fired once, blowing nearly a dozen small holes into the man’s chest. He’d flown backward several feet, and had only twitched a time or two before going totally still. By that time more zombies had made their way in from the outskirts of town, and Bill and Jim had had to leave without gaining much—except an AR, which was now mounted behind the seat of the truck along with Bill’s shotgun.

  Now, sitting in the darkened cab of the truck and looking down on Port Romero, Bill hands Jim the bandolier and tells him he can take first watch. Jim agrees, checks the sawed-off to see that it is loaded, and then settles into the passenger seat. While Bill tries to relax enough to nod off, Jim stares out the window, down to the town below and beyond, to the rhythmic ocean waves in the distance, sparkling with half-moonlight. He doesn’t expect any seaweed-laden zombies to come up from the beach but does his level best to stay awake and keep watch all the same. It was how they’d managed to stay alive so far, after all—watching each other’s backs.

  It isn’t long before Bill is softly snoring, and Jim feels his eyelids growing weighty with exhaustion. He watches as the waves in the distance slowly roll in and then back out—in and out; in and out; in and out.

  In no time Jim too has succumbed and sits leaning against the passenger-side door, face mashed against the window and snoring softly as he catches up on much-needed slumber.

  ***

  “Jim, wake up.

  “Jim—wake the hell up!”

  Jim stirs sits up to find Bill shaking his shoulder. Immediately he realizes that he fell asleep while on watch. “Shit,” he groans sullenly.

  “Look, man,” Bill says.

  “What?”

  “Look, man.”

  “What, man; what is it?”

  “Look,” he says once more, “out there.”

  Jim blinks, eyes still itchy from sleep, and sees that Bill is pointing out the windshield. With a yawn, he looks to see what at, blinks, rubs at his eyes with the heels of his hands, and sees exactly what.

  The sun has just begun to rise somewhere behind them, so it isn’t exactly dark, but it isn’t light yet either. And to the west, above the small port town, is a thin streak of smoke, attached like a tail to a burning point of light in the sky.

  “Is that a… flare?” Jim asks, with a croak.

  Bill nods. “A flare,” he says thickly. “There’s someone down there, Jim.”

  “Shit,” says Jim. “Where do you think they’re holed up?”

  Bill shakes his head. “I don’t know. But it’s light out.” He looks at Jim, “Time to get to work.”

  ***

  Bill lets the truck coast into town, not really needing to give it any gas since the road in is pretty much downhill all the way. Immediately, by the low light of dawn, they see that there are no zombies to greet them. Lightly applying the brakes, Bill comes to a full stop. Both men scan the area, looking for any signs of life—or un-life—while the truck idles.

  “Well,” Jim says, “either it didn’t get this far…”

  “Or everyone here is already dead, or worse.” Bill finishes.

  He gives the truck a little gas and begins to creep along. On either side of the street are small businesses; a burger joint, a souvenir shop, a bait shop, et cetera. There are no signs of life within or around any of them so far as Bill can tell. When he comes to a cross-street, he again slows to a full stop. He looks both ways; still no signs of anyone or anything.

  Jim too looks first one way then the other, then asks, “Which way?”

  Bill leans forward to peek up through the windshield and can still see part of the fading, remnant trail belonging to the signal flare. “Wherever that was sent up from,” he says.

  Again he accelerates, getting the truck into motion and moving a
long at about two miles per hour. After about a block, as they get nearer the beach, Bill realizes something.

  “You hear that?”

  Jim looks at Bill, listens, and then shakes his head slightly.

  “I don’t hear anything.”

  Bill nods. “Exactly,” he says. “No seagulls.”

  Indeed, they can hear the sound of the surf and nothing else.

  “Let’s just keep going,” Jim says. “Someone had to send that flare up.”

  “Yeah,” Bill says, “but why?”

  Taking a right, Bill gives the truck a little more gas. After passing a small post office and a couple of beachside homes, he comes to another cross street, this one leading toward the town’s city hall one way, and down to the boardwalk in the other.

  “What do you say, wanna pop in on the Mayor?” Jim asks with a sly smirk.

  “I was thinking more of a day at the beach,” Bill says, turning onto the street that leads that way.

  ***

  They come to the place where the street dead-ends, giving way to a boardwalk and then a beach. Bill puts the truck in park and shuts the engine off. Jim watches him quietly as he takes the twelve-gauge from the two-gun mount fixed to the back glass. He then cautiously opens the door and steps down out of it, shotgun in hand. With a low sigh Jim sets the sawed-off down in the center seat and takes the AR from the mount, and then he too opens his door—quietly—and exits the vehicle. He slings the AR over his shoulder and grips it at the ready as he rounds the front end of the truck.

  “Split up or stay together?” he asks Bill.

  They move quietly toward the sandy boardwalk and Bill has a quick glance in either direction.

  “Split up,” he says. “But be careful.”

  Jim starts to take leave and Bill adds, “Like you said; someone sent that flare up—and likely for us to see.”

  “Maybe they just need help,” Jim says.

  “Maybe,” Bill offers back. “And maybe it’s a trap.”

  With a nod Jim goes on, walking northward up the boardwalk, toward what looks like some kind of amusement area with carnival-style games and small shops.

  Bill starts moving south, the sound of sand scraping on wood under his booted feet the only accompaniment to the sound of the not-so-distant surf. Soon he is off the boardwalk and into a narrow alley, and as he walks, he focuses on every shadowed nook and cranny, not wanting to be blindsided by either skulking zombie or ill-intending foes of the living variety, both of which he’s dealt with since the start.

  ***

  There had been a desolate stretch of road outside of Grimes, Arizona, and some of the surviving locals had put up a roadblock comprised of junk cars and loosely mortared together bricks. When Bill had stopped the truck, they had appeared—several men and a few women, all armed. Bill had instantly put the truck in reverse, and as soon as he’d given it gas, the people had raised their guns. One of them had called out for Bill to stop, firing a warning shot from his rifle, but there was no way. He’d backed up a good fifty feet before turning the wheel hard and spinning the truck around. Immediately they’d heard the gunfire, as well as the sound of bullets peppering the back of the truck. One had even come through the back window and lodged in the dashboard. Bill had driven at high speed for several miles before he was sure that no one had followed. He’d then had to backtrack another forty or so miles before finding an alternate route that completely avoided Grimes.

  After that they’d moved up through Nevada, skirting the California/Nevada border for a few hundred miles. Just before crossing over to the West Coast they stopped in a very small, mostly desert town with a former population of—according to the sign they’d passed—ABOUT 245, called Three Oxen.

  There they hadn’t had the misfortune of running into post-apocalyptic “road-pirates,” but they’d begun to notice something about the couple hundred or so zombies that roamed the half-dozen streets that made up Three Oxen.

  No longer were the things fast-moving and vicious; not as they had been initially, anyhow. They still managed to tear apart anything they could get their bony, decaying hands on with all the ferocity of any starving wild animal. But they had gotten noticeably slower; moving like people walking with plaster casts on both legs, where once they seemed as lithe and limber as athletes. And they seemed to be less and less capable of scenting, hearing, or outright spotting their prey. They’d gotten easier to sneak up on, and therefore easier to kill—though it was still best from a distance.

  When Bill had stopped outside the small gas station in Three Oxen they’d seen the zombies coming in plenty of time to react.

  Bill had started the gas pumping and locked it so it would fill on its own. He and Jim then, using themselves as bait, had led the rickety zombies away, toward a small building marked with a sign reading GENERAL STORE. There they were stopped briefly by the locked door but soon remedied the situation with a nearby stone the size of a baseball. Jim had thrown it, sending it easily through the glass door, and had quickly cleared away all the jagged edges with the barrel of his shotgun. The two had then ducked inside—not opening the door but climbing through the newly-made portal—and began to gather what few supplies they could carry before the zombies had started trickling in.

  The smallish opening in the door had made a nice bottleneck, and Bill and Jim had taken turns braining the zombies with things they’d found nearby: a shiny new shovel for Jim at first, and a heavy table leg for Bill, broken off from a nearby display table. And when Jim had snapped the head off the shovel while dispatching one of the walking corpses, he’d gone to using the remainder of the handle as a stave, stabbing at the zombies with the pointed end, and puncturing more than a few desiccated eye-sockets. When the bodies started to pile up, preventing any more zombies from coming in through the store’s front door, the two had found the back way out (relieved to find there was one) and sneaked quietly away from the horde that remained at the front of the building.

  The entire remainder of the undead populace of Three Oxen were gathered there, one great mass of walking death. It was easy enough for the two men to half-sprint quietly over to the truck, pull the gas nozzle from the truck, replace the gas cap, and get in. The zombies heard when it started up, but were in no shape to even begin to reach it before the truck rolled out of town in a cloud of dust.

  ***

  Now Bill comes to a low gate looking onto a small patio. Across from the gate is the sliding glass door to a small apartment, standing open about two inches. He considers calling out—quietly—but decides against it; no need to tempt fate. Instead, he reaches down over the top of the gate, quietly works the latch that keeps it shut, and cautiously lets himself into the patio area. Shouldering the shotgun, he moves toward the door. Inside is nothing but darkness, and still there is no sound except the surf. Inching closer, he uses the barrel of the shotgun to try and work the door open a bit further—at least enough to peek in.

  It sticks at first; there’s no telling how long it has been that way. Then, with just a bit of force, it gives, sliding open another couple inches. Almost instantly there is a fetid stench that seems to wash over Bill. He takes a step back, covering his nose and mouth with one hand. Coughing, he rethinks whether or not he wants to put his head inside.

  ***

  Jim walks the boardwalk listening to the sound of sand scuffing under his feet. He carries the AR shouldered loosely—as he’s seen others do, though he has no actual training or personal skill with the weapon—and searches from place to place with a wary eye. The shops and attractions seem to be long-deserted, and most look as if they had been abandoned all at once. All have been well-looted. Food has been left out to rot, games seemingly dropped in mid-play. There are various ball and ring games; a booth with dozens of mini fishbowls, all of which now contain nothing more than tiny dried-out fish corpses.

  I wonder if they came back, Jim thinks.

  He reaches a snack booth and sees that there is still a meager selection of ch
ips on a rack. With a gay chuckle, he glances around, sees no lingering threat, then hops over the booth’s counter and lets the AR hang at his side as he grabs a snack-size bag, tears it open, and starts munching.

  ***

  Bill takes a few deep, cleansing breaths before shouldering the shotgun once more and moving toward the sliding door. As he nears, the scent hits him again, though not quite so bad. It’s still too dark inside to see anything, so he cautiously lets the shotgun’s barrel lead the way. When he reaches the door, he peers in, into shadow, and tries not to gag. There is no one in sight, but the stench of something that’s been dead awhile is strong in the stale air. He listens, half-expecting to hear the shambling gait of the walking dead at any moment. When he still hears nothing but the surf down by the beach, he forces himself to push the door open enough to squeeze through, using an elbow to slide the stubborn portal along with its runner. Once he’s sure there’s enough of a space to leave in a hurry if need be, he enters.

  It takes several moments for his eyes to start to adjust to the dimness, though it’s only little lighter outside yet. Reluctantly, he lowers the shotgun, fetching his pocket flashlight. He clicks it on and takes in what is around him, seeing then just what it is that causes the horrendous stench of death to permeate the apartment. Against the wall farthest from the sliding door is a couch, and on it sits what seems to have once been a woman and two young children. The mother sits between the children, one arm wrapped around the shoulders of either. In a reclining chair that sits just off to one side of the couch, angled to face both the door and television that sits against the near wall, sits the presumed father. And gripped loosely in his right hand is a compact revolver, the kind lots of guys buy strictly for “home defense” purposes. Bill takes a few tentative steps, getting close enough to see now that there is a bullet-hole at the temple of each member of the family—including the father. He turns away. He isn’t sure how long they’ve been sitting, but the skin of each has had time to start to decay pretty severely, and there are maggots, not only at the head wound of each person but at the various splits and lesions in the skin of each body.