With ten more to go, the chainsaw suddenly stopped.
“Oh, no,” Billy John said, fiddling with the saw, trying to start it again to no avail.
The zombies moaned as they climbed over the bodies of the fallen to get at the fresh meal Billy John presented. He heard them and gave up on getting the saw running, instead he used it to clobber them over the head. One by one, he killed them all, or so he thought.
He hadn’t been counting when he’d killed them, and one of the zombies had been silent in its attack. It leapt onto Billy John’s back when he turned to go to the church, biting into the side of his neck, barely breaking the skin.
“Ow!” Billy John exclaimed and turned violently, throwing the monster off of his back; it tried to hold its grip and ripped the diamond emblem Grace had made, pulling it from Billy John’s bibs.
Billy John saw the evil minion rip off his insignia and became enraged. He was hurt because it was a special present from Grace and scared because he thought it was what gave him his super power.
“You evil z . . . z . . . zombie!” he screamed. “I won’t let you d . . . d . . . defeat me!” He stepped forward, grabbed the zombie’s throat with both hands, and squeezed until its head exploded off in a wet fountain of blood. “Take th . . . th . . . that!”
Breathing heavily, he stared at the bodies around him, not even thinking of them as humans. They, in his mind, were just evil doers in a comic book, and he was the star superhero. From the amount he’d vanquished, he was doing his job well.
Turning, he headed to the church and pounded on the door. “Grace!” he hollered. “It’s Super Billy John, h . . . h . . . here to rescue you so we can save the d . . . d . . . day together!”
It took a couple of moments, but the door was finally answered by an elderly woman with a group of small children cowering together behind her; they all gasped in horror when they saw the blood-covered Billy John. The woman tried to slam the door.
He thrust out his hand, preventing her from closing the door. “It’s o . . . o . . . okay, ma’am. I’ve handled the evil z . . . z . . . zombies and they won’t hurt you anymore.”
“Billy John?” the woman asked, trying to get a better look at the face of the blood-covered man in front of her. “Is that really you?”
“Y . . . y . . . yes, ma’am,” he said, grinning. “I’m here to r . . . r . . . rescue Grace.”
Grace, who’d been at the back of the crowd, came forward. “Here I am!” she cried and hugged Billy John’s leg, not even caring about the blood. “I wanna go home.”
“O . . . o . . . okay!” Billy John said, rubbing her small back with his large hand. “You c . . . c . . . can be my sidekick on the way b . . . b . . . back home.” He looked at the woman. “Do you need us t . . . t . . . to help you get these children h . . . h . . . home safe? It’s Super Billy John’s job t . . . t . . . to take care of citizens.”
The woman smiled. “No, I’ll be fine. I think you’ve taken care of most of the danger. I’ll see to their safety. Go on now, and get Grace home safe.”
He nodded and they left. Neither of them spoke much on the way back to the McCoy farm; he was content to be the hero and she was content to be the rescued sidekick.
By the time they reached the farm Teresa had their car loaded down with all the supplies and clothes they would need for the trip to her sister’s house in an even more remote area. She screamed when she saw the blood all over her daughter, but calmed down a bit when Grace stood on Billy John’s leg and waved energetically.
“Billy John saved me,” she squealed as Teresa helped her down and gave her a big hug. “I got to be a sidekick, Mommy. A real, live sidekick! Can you believe it?”
“Oh, sweetie,” she said past a lump in her throat, “that’s great.” She looked up at Billy John. “Thank you. Thank you for bringing my baby home safe.”
“All in a d . . . d . . . day’s work, ma’am,” he said, and giggled. He shut off the engine, stood, and stepped off the tractor, but couldn’t support his own weight; he fell heavily to the ground.
“Are you okay, Billy John?” Teresa asked.
“I f . . . f . . . feel weird,” he said, closing his eyes.
“Grace, get in the car,” Teresa said sternly, watching Billy John.
“No,” Grace said, and pulled away from her mother. She knelt down beside Billy John and cupped his large, blood streaked face between her hands. “Are you sick?”
He nodded. “I think the evil villain has poisoned me and I’ll soon be one of the zombies,” he said as tears filled his eyes and his breathing became shallow.
“But you can’t turn to the dark side,” she whined. “Who will be my hero? I can’t be a sidekick without a hero!”
He gasped, blinking up at her little, sad face. “You’ll have to be the h . . . h . . . hero now. You’ll have to save the d . . . d . . . day . . . .” His head fell to the side and he shuddered as the last breath he would ever take left his huge, muscular body.
“No!” Grace screamed, shaking him. “I don’t know how to save the day! You have to stay! I love you! You’re my bestest friend!”
Teresa hurriedly pried her daughter off the corpse of the man who’d saved her and wrestled her into the car. She jogged around and climbed into the driver’s seat, still wiping away tears that refused to stop falling. Throwing the car into reverse, she made sure she ran over Billy John’s head; she cringed at the crunching noise his skull made as it gave way under the weight of the vehicle, but knew she’d done the right thing.
As they drove away, Teresa knew one thing to be true in a world now full of more uncertainties than ever. Billy John really was a superhero and he’d saved her day . . . he’d saved her daughter.
About the story from Rebecca Besser:
“Heroic Dreams first appeared in the Superheroes VS Zombies anthology in 2011, from Living Dead Press. This was the rural version of the mental challenged main character dealing with the zombie apocalypse while he tried to protect the ones he loved.
I hope you enjoyed both versions!”
A DAY IN THE NEW WORLD
By Courtney Rene
Stardate, 3211
Just kidding, it’s June 13, 2023. It’s day two hundred fortyish of the new world. There isn’t a concrete day as to when the world fell apart thanks to a small virus, but it was about eight months ago. The world is not what it once was. In fact, it’s a shell of what it once was. No power. No homes. No processed or fast food. Civilization is gone. Nowhere is safe. Nowhere is home.
How did I survive when over seventy-five percent of the population didn’t? Intelligence? No. Luck? Maybe. I would guess, though, that the reality is because I’m a coward. The world is never going to be the same. The world is never going to be safe again. So I run from it. Every day, every chance I get, because I’m a coward.
I look up from my journal at the sound of a twig breaking and the rustling of leaves. I silently set it down on the rock where I sit and slowly, stand up to look around. My movements don’t make any sound. I’m smart about sound in the small forest and, actually, anywhere I go. Noise is an enemy as much as the rest of the world.
I hear movement heading in my direction. The handmade bow slides off my shoulder in a smooth and practiced motion, and an arrow at the other side pulls free of the little leather pouch where I keep them. I made the bow from a piece of red oak. I tried to use bamboo, but in this area of Ohio there isn’t all that much bamboo to work with; it took a bit of trial and error to get a good solid, workable bow. The arrows were easier to make. There are more birch trees around to work and learn with. How did I, a simple city girl know how to do this? Duh, I went to the library. You don’t need electricity to use a library or to read a book. Even though the world is a wreck and there’s no such thing as civilization anymore, there are still libraries with all the information you could want or need, hence, the bow and arrows.
I notched the arrow and drew back. I wait to see what’s coming. I wait until I
can see its eyes. I don’t have long. The dragging, limping creature comes into view as expected, about one hundred yards ahead through the dense berry bushes. The long, thorned branches tear at his already ragged clothes as he pushes through.
He was once a middle-aged man, probably decent looking with a good job and…yes, he has a ring, so he had a wife or has a wife. Semantics of wedded law in the new world; I’m not sure how that works. If you die and then come back as a zombie, are you still married?
It doesn’t really matter to me anyway. I just take note, almost out of curiosity, the same as I notice he’s pasty grey with drooping skin and yellow, dead eyes. The drool that swings back and forth at his chin is white and foamy. A few months ago that would have made me gag and, most likely, vomit. Not now. I’m used to that now. I’m even used to the smell of death and decay that’s always carried on the wind. There’s no break or evading of the stench. It’s in the dead that stay dead and it hangs on the dead that come back. Some come back, some don’t.
I don’t waste time thinking about the right or wrong of what I’m doing. There’s no law in the world now. There’s no right and wrong. It’s all about what you’re strong enough to do or take or kill or steal. I take aim and I let the arrow fly. I’m good and my arrow flies swift and true right through the forehead of the zombie heading my way.
The flower burst at the back of his head of brown, almost black, gunk that was once blood, tells me I’m safe once more. If left alone and not dispatched, he would have hunted me. And, if he caught me, he would have eaten me alive in a wasted effort to sate his un-ending, un-filling hunger for living flesh. That’s what the dead do. That’s all they do. They hunt for food off the dwindling numbers of the living.
I pack up my journal and the remains of my lunch, and renew my never ceasing trek across what was once the United State of America. Now it’s just an empty decaying land like the rest of the world. I walked over to the now entirely dead man, put my foot on his chest as I grab my arrow, and yank it out of his head. I wipe the goo on the remains of his clothing and stuff it back into the pouch at my back. I can make more arrows if I need to, but it’s a lot easier to just collect the used ones if I can.
I’m not going anywhere in particular. I’m surviving. I don’t stay in one area for long. It’s best to keep moving. It’s safer to keep moving. I don’t get attached to any place.
I come upon the two men by accident – living men. Which to my way of thinking are more dangerous than the undead. I learned that one the hard way when the world first went topsy-turvy and I have the scars to prove it, both physical and emotional. I will not make the mistake of trusting anyone again. Not with my safety or with anything. I can take care of myself.
I step into a small clearing and almost fall on top of them as they were apparently taking a midday nap. I back away quickly, but not quickly enough. They’re up on their feet and pointing guns in my direction before I can get out of sight or even think to run. They’re that fast.
We stand staring at one another for a good two minutes. There’s an older man – indicated by grey in his beard and hair. The skin around his eyes holds deep lines of sadness and hate. He’s of a stocky build and looks strong, able, and dangerous. The other is younger, maybe a few years older than my nineteen. He has sandy blond hair on his head and his face; the beard covers most of his features, but his eyes are dark, deep blue, and intense. He’s wide, muscular, fit, and strong – he’ll be someone to contend with. If the necessity arises, I’ll be in trouble. There’ll be no fighting him. I’m strong and fit, but in the end I’m still a small girl. Weight and strength beat determination every time in the new world. If he gets his hands on me, he’ll win.
I stand waiting to see which direction they’ll go. There’s always the chance that they’re the protect-and-serve type. The moment the younger one smiles, I know they’re not the protecting type. They’re the taking type and my body runs cold with fear. He blows a kiss at me and says, “Hey, baby girl.”
We all move at the same time. I swing up my bow and draw back an arrow almost in one motion. They crouch as if prepared to hunt, and we all wait, still and silent, for someone to make the next move.
“You won’t shoot us, darling,” the older man says.
“Wanna bet?” I level my arrow dead on his face and stare him down.
The young man draws my attention when he says, “You won’t kill us. We’re living. The living needs to stick together.” When I don’t respond or lower my arrow, he says, “You ever kill the living before? It’s not the same as killing the dead.”
I don’t answer him. The truth of the matter is that I’ve killed – the dead and the living. I’ve killed something or someone every single day for the last eight months. I know how to kill and do it with precision. I don’t put much thought behind it. I kill to survive just like all the rest of world.
When I don’t flinch, move, or even indicate I hear them, the younger man turns to the other and says, “Dad.”
That’s when I hear the slow slogging through leaves and debris directly behind me. I have to make a decision. Face the threat before me in the form of the living, who could be more dangerous than the dead, or turn and fight the threat behind me – the threat that I don’t know and can’t see. Although by the sound of the movement it’s the dead, I may be wrong.
When I see the two men swivel their guns from my person to somewhere behind me, I pivot on my feet, and swing my bow to aim at the first thing I see. There are five zombies limping not ten feet away from us. I shoot one arrow at the closest of the five, a woman – young and once beautiful. Even in her decay I can see it. Before my first arrow hits on target, I’m already aiming a second and letting it fly. Two gun shots whiz past my head.
My arrow takes down another, and two more go down with the bullets. The last one, I think we all hit. My arrow hits just off center of his forehead, but small holes form in his cheek and then in his chin almost simultaneously, indicating the bullets found home as well. As soon as the last of the zombie threats are down and dead for good, I swing back around, another arrow set, aimed, and at the ready.
“Well, that was fun,” the dad says. “Now, where were we?”
Fun? Not by my way of thinking. “You know shooting off your stupid guns is going to bring every zombie in a square mile, right?”
The younger man says “So? We aren’t afraid of a fight.”
“That’s not the point,” I say all the while knowing even as I do, they’ll never get it. They enjoy the hunt and the fight. It turns them on, whereas, I simply want to survive.
“Why don’t you put down your little arrow and we can get to know one another?” the dad says.
“No,” I say. No explanation. No nice words to placate their feelings. Just, no, period.
“We don’t want to have to hurt you, darling,” the son says.
I turn my attention to the son for a moment and see his face. There’s gleeful excitement for the coming struggle. He knows the same as I do, that he’ll win.
It’s a different world, a different day. I make my decision with a small almost unperceived shrug of one shoulder. Without thought or remorse, I turn my attention to the dad, aim and let the arrow shoot forward. As expected, it hits him in the eye and he falls to the ground. There’s no struggle. There’s no noise other than the soft sound of the wind against the arrow and the hit of the tip as it crushes through his face, and then the final poof of dust as he drops to the dirt.
“Dad!”
I don’t give the younger one time to react. I notch another arrow, aim, and let it go, in the span of only a few seconds. He falls to the ground, with his gun still in his hand. My decision, although brutal, is sound. I would rather die than be taken, raped, and made a slave. I would rather kill than be ripped from my soul one day at a time, one abuse at a time. I would kill again and again, before letting the world take me.
I swing my bow over my shoulder. Meticulously pull all five of my arrows from the now s
ilent and dead at my feet. I clean each one, before stashing them away on my back. I leave the guns where they are. The dead don’t need them and don’t use them. I’m content with my bow and arrows. I’m good with them.
I don’t give a second glance at the mess I leave behind. I continue forward on my journey of the day. This is my life. This is all I have left. Day in and day out, kill or be killed, kill or be destroyed. Dead or alive, I’ll kill. As I’d written in my journal just a few hours before, I’m a coward and it’s the only way I know how to survive.
On silent feet, and with my attention stark and true, I again head to the next town. Tomorrow will be June 14th. The day will be the same as it was today. I’ll kill as necessary, anything and everything. Yes, I’ll still be alone and I’ll still be a coward, but I’ll survive.
About the story from Courtney Rene:
“Being a huge fan of the zombie craze, I wonder what I would do in the event it actually happened. Would I die in the first onslaught? Would I survive the first wave, only to die of dysentery a month later? I like to think I would be strong and capable like the girl in this story, but maybe not as cold. Hope you enjoyed the moment in her life. I wonder what the next day will bring?”
TO WALK THE HALLS
By Rebecca Besser
Cameron Gather lay on a narrow bed in a little room off the main emergency room ward at Saint Helen’s Hospital, absently rubbing her bulging stomach, waiting for the doctor to examine her. She stared up at the ceiling, breathing slowly like they’d taught her to in her birthing classes; focusing on the florescent bulb – which was blinking slightly – kept her mind off of the fact that she was in labor a month early. Fear raged in her mind every time she heard a sound outside the closed door and her concentration slipped. It had already been a long night and she was tired, and she knew there was more stress to come.
Zombies Inside Page 12