As he spoke, his normally professional voice changed pitch as the seriousness of what he relayed made itself apparent. “The police department has declared 911 currently out of order.” He swallowed. The notes he had jotted down seemed too absurd, but it was legitimate. “Also, if you believe in home protection, the guaranteed way to put one of the attackers down is to shoot them in the head. I will repeat that. Shoot them in the head; shots to the body seem to have no effect.”
Jeremy, a college student only working in the booth for extra money, wanted to cry. He knew why 911 was off the hook, but he wouldn’t say it on the air. The caller had merely stated the truth: The surviving officers were trapped inside the station along with civilians who had gone there seeking sanctuary. Now, the firepower of an entire police station couldn’t combat the horde waiting outside. They were all royally fucked.
In the next room, Eric Wagner poured hydrogen peroxide onto the bite in Randy’s shoulder. He tried to utilize his good bedside manner, but was having trouble. A speaker above him broadcasted Jeremy’s voice and depressing message. Eric tried to ignore it and concentrate on the trucker. “So, you look like a man who can take care of himself. I’ve seen a lot of people with not even half the survival instinct as you.”
“Man,” He responded in a thick Southern drawl, his tone full of modesty. “It’s luck. I’ve got three bullets and a wrecked diesel. The girl that I tried to help is dead, and I’m dying.”
“Hey,” The M.D. argued. “I’m a doctor. You might have trouble using that arm, but you’re not going to die.” Eric smiled reassuringly.
The DJ walked in. “I just recorded that message and programmed it for twelve hours.” He looked down at Randy. “How’s our buddy?”
The wounded man gave a good-natured chuckle. “In constant pain, you S.O.B.”
“I’ve got some news.” Jeremy, the voice of WLDX sensed ears picking up. “It’s not spectacular but it may be useful. Those things are afraid of fire.”
Eric looked up from the bandaging. “How do you know?”
The DJ avoided the trucker’s eyes. “Well, the truck is burning.”
Randy hung his head at the sound of these words.
Jeremy continued. “As soon as the flames started, they high-tailed it away. They looked scared as piss.” He unexpectedly laughed. “You know, I keep saying ‘those things’ but they are people, right?”
Eric shook his head. “I have no clue. I mean, I’ve seen them eat the people that they kill.” The doctor frankly stated. “Why would someone suddenly turn into a cannibal?”
“Cannibals?” Jeremy looked disgusted. “I haven’t seen them attack each other. I mean, how do they know who’s with them and who’s against them? I haven’t seen any of them stop and ask ‘Excuse me, are you a cannibal too? Jolly good! I won’t eat you, then’.”
Eric thought a moment. “Actually, you have a point. They don’t even look right. You can tell them apart from regular people at about two hundred yards. They’re something different.” He did not know if he should say what he thought next. He worried about the effect it would have on his patient. In the end though, he could not contain it. “I saw a regular man come into the emergency room and turn into one of them.”
Instead of looking worried, Randy nodded. “The girl I was tryin’ to save was bleeding but normal. Then she attacked me.”
“Maybe it’s a virus. You know, like rabies?” The young disc jockey hypothesized. “Either of you ever read Cujo?”
Randy shook his head in the negative. His eyes betrayed his worry. “You don’t really think it’s a virus do you?”
Eric reassured him that there was no proof of that.
The trucker thought for a moment and spoke again. “That girl had bled to the point that she shouldn’t have had the strength to attack me.”
Eric added his own story. “The guy I saw was pronounced dead. I checked for a pulse and everything. The next time I saw him, he was killing some of the hospital staff.” The doctor felt a lump in his throat. He hadn’t particularly liked anyone there, but surely had not wished them dead.
Randy asked, “I saw some of them missing limbs and still walking around. How could they survive that? Shouldn’t they bleed to death pretty fast?”
Eric spoke up. “On a battlefield, soldiers have survived a pretty good length of time with little to no medical treatment after limbs have been severed. It’s not unheard of.” He cautiously stated.
The sound of banging echoed down the hall and reached the trio’s ears. Jeremy looked around nervously and asked, “Hey doc, you want to go see how that barricade is holding up?” He tilted his head using the motion to point in the general direction of the sound. Eric nodded and followed him out of the room.
In the hallway leading to the front door, the young man spun around to face the doctor. “Don’t bullshit, is he going to make it?”
The suddenness caught Eric off guard. For a moment his mouth fumbled with the words. “I. . . um. . .well. . .” He looked down at the floor as if he had found something interesting on his shoe. He rarely had to give such news since moving to the small town of Fayette. As always, he found his voice, although quiet. “I doubt it.” His voice, a whisper, barely rose above the noise of the ravenous ghouls entreating entry.
Jeremy spoke quickly, not wasting time. “Then I suggest that we take his gun. If he hallucinates or something, he could kill one of us. Plus, if it is a virus then he is infected.”
Eric stroked his chin in a clichéd pensive gesture. “Your infection idea. . .” He trailed off momentarily, but his voice returned stronger. “It has some merit to it, but this guy wouldn’t put up much of a fight in his condition.”
Jeremy felt a flush of anger at the doctor’s denial, but did not show it in his voice. “That’s what you both said about the ones that attacked you guys.”
Eric caught the lack of humor in the younger man’s face. “Good point,” he conceded before looking back down the hall toward the room where the trucker slowly died. “Do you think he knows that we’re talking about him?”
Jeremy shrugged. “How should I know? He’s probably just thinking that he shouldn’t have picked up a hitchhiker.” He gave a hollow laugh.
***
Randy felt light-headed. His shoulder itched. The pads of his fingers did not feel much as his right hand pulled at the bandages. His mouth felt dry, parched like cracked soil. He was thirsty, very thirsty. “I need water.” He thought he was shouting but his failing voice came out in a hoarse conversational tone. “Please.” He added, in a pathetic plea.
He could hear distant voices mutter phrases like “glasses?” and “a fridge in the other room”. All he could think was about was a cold drink of water. “No ice cubes” and “gun off the table” drifted by his ears.
The light changed; he could tell even through closed lids. His eyes lazily slid open and saw the wavering shapes of two men looking down at him. Something hard and cold touched his lips. Liquid splashed over his upper lip and ran down his chin. His skin felt hot and each drop cut a contrasting cool trail over his burning epidermis.
“More” he croaked out.
“Most of it went down your shirt, my man.” The youngest one quipped.
Eric observed the patient for a moment and motioned back to the sound booth. “I’ll stay with him. You report a new message. Tell them that the attackers are eating their victims.”
Jeremy met his eyes. “Jesus Christ! That’ll scare the shit out of people!”
Eric calmly stated, “They need to be scared.” Jeremy did not hear him as he left the room.
Randy snatched at the doctor’s hand but missed. “Doc, I don’t want them to eat me.” His eyes widened in a childlike fear. “Bury me, or cremate me.” He quickly added the second option as if it had just occurred to him. “Just don’t let them eat me.” His wandering hand found its way back to the wound on his shoulder.
“Quit touching it. You’re going to get if infected.” Eric chastised
the trucker.
“What?” Randy’s eyes rolled around scanning for doctor Wagner. He couldn’t bring anything into focus.
Eric pulled Randy’s hand from the red crater torn into him. The patient had wedged his fingers into the wound and scratched. Fresh blood poured out as he worked his fingers back and forth in the torn, tender flesh. The movement was accompanied by a squishing sound that disgusted Eric.
“Stop that! You’re making it worse!” He snapped while trying to replace the bandages that were hanging loosely off the trucker’s frame. The man kept on as if he were not conscious of clawing at his own bleeding flesh. “It’s useless!” Eric cried, exasperated. He walked into the next room and left Randy to his poking and prodding. Moments later, the trucker slumped down and his hand fell away from the wound.
The man in the booth removed his oversized black headphones. “New message up. How’s our friend?” He curiously asked.
Eric shook his head. “Dying.” He looked over his shoulder at the large man spread out on an ugly seventies couch. “He looks asleep or passed out.”
“Or dead.” The DJ added.
“I’ll check.” Eric turned and walked back to the office that he had just left. Above him, the radio pumped out Jeremy’s new PSA, which was accurate but, in Eric’s opinion, a little bit dramatic. He glanced back through the window at the DJ flashing him an exaggerated grin and a thumbs up.
Eric entered the room and knelt beside the still body. He began searching for vital signs beginning with the rising and falling of his chest. Disappointingly, he did not see even swallow breathing. “These attackers appear to be in some sort of trance.” The speaker pronounced as Eric shined a flashlight into Randy’s staring eyes. No pupil dilation. “They appear unresponsive to pain.” Eric slapped him lightly on the face. Nothing. Eric hung his head for a moment while checking for a pulse. He felt nothing except fading warmth.
The emergency room doctor looked into the DJ booth. The red “On Air” light above the door cast a small red glow that made everything look menacing. The jockey looked through the glass at the doctor returning his sorrowful expression. Eric’s mouth formed the shapes necessary to convey “He’s dead.”
The young man’s face fell but he never stopped looking through the glass at the doctor. As if he moved in slow motion, Jeremy’s face rearranged itself into a look of shock and fear. His eyes widened and his mouth fell open. Any listeners still living heard him cry out “Behind you!”
Eric spun around to see what used to be Randy slam into him. The back of the doctor’s head hit the glass with a thump and he saw stars. Glazed eyes looked through him and yellow teeth snapped with animalistic fury inches away from his face. Despite the pain radiating through the back of his head like tendrils flailing from a central point, Eric had enough strength to stop the closing of those precious few inches. It required every muscle strained to the point of making his arms tremble to prevent the recently deceased from ripping out his jugular.
Jeremy sprinted between rooms armed with a flimsy wooden chair, which like most of the decor had not been popular for decades. He swung the piece of furniture, hitting Randy squarely in the back. Unlike in the movies he had grown up with, the chair did not break. It did succeed in knocking Randy’s corpse into Eric, but not expecting the sudden push forward, the creature only head butted the doctor.
Eric felt another blast of pain, this time from his forehead. He felt sure that he was dead, but again no teeth descended on him. Mindlessly, the resurrected Randy spun to attack the boy with long hair. The young man jumped back, trying to create some distance between him and the monster. While the beast was distracted, Eric groped for anything he could find. His hand dipped into a large glass ashtray, feeling soot coat his fingertips. As the doctor lifted the two pound piece of tempered glass above his head, he saw (over the shoulder of the trucker) Jeremy, like a lion tamer fending the creature off with a small wooden chair.
Eric prayed to the God that he had stopped believing in eons ago and brought the ashtray smashing down. Not paying attention to how he gripped it, he had unconsciously turned the tray sideways and the corner sunk into the skull. Both men watched the body fall to the floor with a half exposed ashtray protruding from its head. Randy fell to one side and the ashtray began to fill with blood from inside the fractured skull.
Eric’s hands shook violently. His chest heaved as he muttered over and over, “He was dead. He was dead.” He looked pleadingly at the other person standing across the gulf that the dead body created. “I swear to you, he was dead.”
***
Bryant and Cara sped down yet another back road as the radio spat out another pre-recorded warning about random attacks. Bryant had heard it through for the third time in a row and felt no reason to avoid interrupting it. “We’re going to my mother’s house. We’ll bring her with us to your parents.” His voice contained the determination that excluded all argument.
When they had left the trailer, the number of pursuers had grown to approximately twenty. Now, none could be seen but neither of the adolescents felt confident that the shadows held no surprises.
The repetitious message overriding the country music broke in mid-sentence. The DJ was obviously speaking live from the station. “Sorry about that folks. We were just attacked. Luckily, we both survived. The other person with me is a medical doctor who has encountered several of these things tonight. After witnessing two people who have been bitten by these maniacs go on to attack others, he has a shocking announcement. As incredible as this seems, the dead are coming back to life. I can’t believe I am saying this.” He muttered in-between well enunciated statements. “This doctor has been present at multiple deaths and every time the deceased has become reanimated and attacked someone else just minutes later. I myself just witnessed it.” His voice contained urgency and belief that would be hard for anyone to fake. “Now, I’ve been taking phone calls all night and the reports are all saying wounds to the head kill them. Shoot it in the brain or crush its skull. It sounds grisly but they will kill you if you don’t.”
When Bryant’s and Cara’s eyes met, neither one could decipher the other’s feelings; honestly, neither knew how to feel themselves. Fear was in their eyes but nervous laughs exited their mouths. Finally, Cara broke the emotional standoff. “I can’t believe I just heard that. If feels like that Orson Wells prank about aliens landing.”
Bryant turned his nervous eyes back to the dusty road in front. “But we’ve seen them. We’ve killed some of them.” He looked at her again, begging her to reason. “I don’t know whether they have come back from the dead like an EC comics’ villain, but the radio was right about the head. I shot one several times in the body but it didn’t die until I put a bullet in its brain.”
Cara shuddered at the thought of her boyfriend pulling the trigger, causing someone’s head to explode like a ripe melon. She shook off the image of her lover as a killer and turned toward the thoughts of her family. Her mother, her father, would they be safe? Would Dad have enough sense to blow away the messed-up looking people banging on the door? Would he know to aim for the head even though the body is a much easier target? How would they react to Bryant’s mom? Then realizing that he was probably worried about his mother in the same way Cara was now, she reached out and squeezed his shoulder. “Your mom is fine.” She couldn’t know for sure, but felt that she had to say it. Her lover did not respond.
Prone to introspection, Cara replayed the events of the night in her head. First, they had come across a car wreck with no bodies. Second, they entered a house with signs of a struggle and again, no bodies. She had looked into the vacant eyes of her attackers. She had watched their bones break , take blasts from a pistol, all without registering any pain. She had heard the radio claim that people were eating other people. They attacked with only hands and teeth, like animals. In her mind, facts started locking together.
A chill ran the length of her back and she physically shook it off. “How horrible a death t
hat would be!” She accidentally spoke out loud.
Bryant responded. “What was that?” he asked as if he had not heard her.
“Being eaten.” She tried to stress her fear of that particular fate. “Eaten alive by those things, clawed and groped while chunks of flesh are ripped out one bite at a time.”
“Don’t think about it!” He snapped, his own terror causing him to lose control. “It won’t happen to us.” He gained his composure and followed up in a calmer tone of voice.
“But if it does. . .” She tried to speak.
“It won’t.” He quickly shot back.
Her voice increased in volume trying to overpower his interjection. “But if it does, will you shoot me before they get us?” Her tone and mannerisms frightened him because it was obvious that she meant it.
“Jesus! What morbid fucking thoughts!” He felt sick at the thought of hurting her. Just trying to visualize it turned his stomach and made him taste bile.
“Just say yes.” She commanded.
Bryant could not say it. He licked his dry lips and tried but his heart fluttered, panged, did everything to stop his acceptance. He closed his eyes in the shame of compromise. “I’ll think about it.”
***
Brother Mark Willis headed for the only place he could think of . . . the First Baptist Church. It was an imposing building for a town of five thousand. At four stories tall, it loomed over all other churches in the county. It was a square structure composed mainly of dark brick and stained glass. Unfortunately, in order to reach it, one had to brave the most populated parts of town.
Mark had not heard the WLDX broadcast, since he only listened to the Christian station out of Tuscaloosa. Despite that, somehow he knew to avoid crowds; he knew that he needed a safe place, a comfort zone. He muttered prayers of forgiveness while contemporary Christian singers praised the Lord through his stereo. When he reached the town, it indeed looked like the apocalypse. His eyes widened as he crossed the excavated railroad tracks that once helped Fayette thrive.
Darkest Days: A Southern Zombie Tale Page 13