Darkest Days: A Southern Zombie Tale

by Layton, James J.

  David Creed

  Cara buried her face in the sheets and let the letter fall to the floor. This time she did not try to stop the flood. Few people really ever make the distinction between crying and weeping. Of course, the people who never have had occasion to compare the two acts lead blessed lives.

  Bryant bent down to pick up the fallen note, keeping the struggling monstrosity in his line of sight. He stood back up and silently read as Cara’s sobs filled the room. When he was done, he carefully folded the letter and slipped it into his pocket. The lover watched, with renewed heartbreak, the tragic girl in front of him. “Both parents in one day” he thought. “And a murder-suicide no less.” The thought was not intended to be callous. Bryant had just gone numb earlier in the evening. His mind functioned but his emotions had fluctuated in strength. The only emotion that he had any certainty of was the love he felt for Cara.

  The object of his affection grabbed the sheets bracing herself. She attempted to confront the undead corpse of her father. One glance destroyed her composure. The snarling face barely resembled anything human, much less a beloved family member. She knew that they would have to destroy it, but no matter how little it looked like Dad, she couldn’t imagine shooting it.

  When she spoke to Bryant, her voice quivered. “I’m going to leave the room. Will you . . .?” She could not bring herself to even say the words.

  Bryant nodded in understanding. Cara briefly smiled to herself. He understood her too well, almost a mind reader at times. She stood and stuck the pistol into the waistband of her jeans, pausing to wipe her eyes with the back of her hand. She sniffled and mouthed the words “Goodbye, Dad”. The hanging beast replied only with more primitive, guttural noises and flailing arms. She brushed the hair from her eyes and walked through the door, disappearing in the shadows outside.

  Bryant waited until Cara pulled the door closed behind her and then he drew his pistol. He stepped closer, trying to ensure that it would only take one shot. He aimed at the thrashing head and the creature did something that surprised him. It stopped and looked intently at the barrel of the gun for a brief second and then continued its fight against the rope.

  In the hall, Cara leaned back against the wall and closed her eyes; head tilted back as if she were looking at the ceiling. After a moment that stretched on into infinity, a loud crack of a discharging bullet ceased the struggling shell that was her father. Her muscles tensed then relaxed, knowing that any suffering he felt was now over.

  ***

  The pair of lovers walked out the front door and paused looking at the truck. Neither took the first step onto the concrete path to the street. Cara instigated a brisk pace that Bryant followed. When she reached the truck, she turned to face him. The words came out as a confession. “I made some kind of equanimity with my mother and things had started to change between us. I never did with my Dad.”

  Bryant reached over and squeezed her shoulder. She turned her moist eyes up at his and asked him a simple question. Her tone was not accusatory, just curious. “Why did you shoot him?”

  Bryant seemed taken aback, but recovered with such a simple answer that Cara had no idea how to respond. “You asked me to.” After a brief silence, he felt obligated to add, “Besides, it was the only way to give him peace.” No defensiveness entered his voice.

  Cara let out a sound that could be interpreted as a laugh or a cry. Then she raised her hand to her mouth and bit down on her index finger to stifle the terrible noise.

  Bryant gave her a questioning look. Suddenly, he did feel defensive. His sincere explanation received a reply of laughter (which was totally inappropriate) or more crying (which vicariously hurt him by causing her pain).

  “I’m sorry, I just don’t know how to handle this.” She fought the urge to scream, to lash out, to expel her emotion through some physical manifestation, but she did not. She just reached out and held Bryant’s hand.

  He assumed this was his cue to begin soothing her. “I know how it can hurt. I lost my father many years ago, albeit under more normal circumstances. The confusion that you feel is natural.” His mind raced through a million other comforting things to say, but none of them rang true, none of them seemed suitable. Eventually, he opened his mouth and the words that came out held such honesty, he could not keep them contained any longer. “I just don’t want to see you in pain because it feels like I’m dying when I know you’re hurting.”

  Cara sprang forward wrapping her arms around him. Deep wracking sobs ripped through her. Bryant stroked her hair as he’d seen men do in movies, but he really did not know what to do. He was unsure of himself as a boyfriend (having never been with a mutually interested girl); he was unsure of his nerve (shaking at the prospect of having to face more creatures). For the next few minutes, he just held her for his own comfort as well as hers.

  ***

  Eric sat beside the young man behind the console. He swallowed, afraid to utter the question that currently plagued him. “Any good news?” He hopefully asked.

  The DJ had just returned the phone to the cradle and understood the subtext of the question he was just asked. The bizarre situation that the two survivors suddenly found themselves in wore on the nerves. Any negative news could potentially plunge them into a reckless despair that could kill them both. Luckily, the call just so happened to be hopeful.

  Jeremy turned to the doctor, keeping his tone of voice grave. “There are survivors in the First Baptist Church downtown. I’m thinking of abandoning this place to go there. There aren’t many of them, but they’ve fortified the windows and doors. I think some of the survivors from the police station managed to make it there.”

  Eric searched his face for traces of belief. For some reason, he did not think Jeremy was excited about the prospect of joining up with other survivors. “Do you really think that we can make it that far? I mean we’ve only got one gun and a few bullets.”

  Jeremy seemed to think a moment, then his face brightened considerably. “Sure, they’re afraid of fire. We have a shed behind the station with a whole bunch of crap in it. I know there is a gas can for the lawnmower. We’ll make torches to get to the car.”

  “What’ll we make the torches out of?” Eric prodded around the mechanics of his plan.

  “Table legs, parts of a desk, the upholstery from that couch in there.” He motioned to the office.

  Eric continued testing for flaws. “We can’t keep a lit torch in the car. How will we make it from the car to the church?”

  “Are you trying to stump me?” Jeremy looked at him accusingly.

  “I just want to make sure I don’t end up dead because I poked my head out the door with a half-thought out plan.” Eric explained in a condescending tone.

  “We’ll have the people inside the church to help us get in.” He quickly added, “Plus, we’ll use the gun.” He smiled in a reassuring fashion. “Would it calm you down if I told you I’ve done this before?”

  Eric incredulously looked at him and the DJ laughed. “If you don’t have a sense of humor about it, it’s pretty fucking overwhelming.”

  Eric paused a moment to ponder. “Well, I know it was a joke, but do you think this has ever happened before?”

  “Surely not. We would’ve heard about it. How (in the age of cell phones, internet, and every other electronic device) could something like this be kept hidden?”

  “Government cover-up.” Eric quickly said it, but he felt trepidation at the response. His mind quickly seized the idea and raced to rationalize it as the DJ groaned. “No, really, an experimental virus that the government was developing for a bio-weapon . . .”“That’s beyond ridiculous. That’s re-God-damn-diculous.” He paused three times to let each syllable sink in. He flicked strands of his long hair from his eyes and continued. “Why don’t you say that cutting down the rainforest unleashed bacteria which we aren’t resistant to?”

  Eric added, “No, no, no. Maybe, it’s aliens shooting beams at Earth or something.” The doctor notic
ed that both men were laughing. The sensation felt good. Oxygen filled their still living lungs, and for a brief moment, they felt relief.

  Still laughing, though not as hard, Jeremy spoke. “We’re going to die, aren’t we?” Some of the levity left him which each word he spoke.

  Eric immediately sobered up. “I think we can make it if they are really, really afraid of fire.”

  Jeremy stood up and walked toward the door leading into the hall. “Well, let’s meet our destinies.”

  ***

  Mark Willis, under the care of Martin Davis, hobbled down the catwalk of Fayette County High School. Brother Mark limped not because of an injured leg, but due to exhaustion and blood loss. He could simply do nothing but drag his feet in a vague impression of walking. Martin provided support taking a share of the man’s weight onto his shoulders, while Rick strutted (unhindered) several yards ahead, swinging a loaded shotgun and singing the chorus to a country song.

  Martin did not want to think about the terrible ideas that came into his head, but could not force them into submission. Maybe they shouldn’t follow Rick. After all, his lackadaisical treatment of a dangerous weapon did not present the image of responsibility. Two people trusted their lives to this singing fool. “Should you be making so much noise?” Martin felt shocked at his own initiative. Passivity came to him naturally in most circumstances, but suddenly he was thinking differently. He thought that the end of the world might do that to people. Lost in his own thoughts, he had forgotten that he had asked Rick a question until the idiot responded.

  “Hey, I’ve got a gun, so does everybody else. Those things are slow anyway. If there were fifty, we could shoot a few and outrun the rest.” He stated with inflated bravado. He stopped walking in front of the door and pulled on the handle while simultaneously pushing down on a metal latch with his thumb. Nothing moved. “They locked it.” He looked around to make sure no one else was coming. “We’ll have to break in.” Before his companions could protest, he started walking away.

  Martin shook his head in disappointment and led the wounded preacher to the cafeteria windows where Rick peered in. At eight feet tall, the windows made one wall of the room. Martin spoke again, finding strength in the sound of his voice, the voice of reason. “Why are we doing this?”

  “The hospital is where the first reports came from. So obviously, it’s not safe, but the school nurse had some medical supplies here.” Rick looked at him as if he were an annoying child. He then shoved the butt of his gun through the enormous windowpane with one sharp motion. The unmistakable sound of breaking glass assaulted Martin’s ears, making him wince.

  Rick kicked the remaining shards from the frame and stepped into the darkness. Martin watched the shadows envelop his athletic “friend” before proceeding. He urged the preacher on with the promise of health care and they, too, stepped across the threshold into the blackness.

  The trio stood alone in the empty cafeteria and let their eyes adjust. Rows of tables manifested themselves after the survivors spent a few seconds in the dark. All three pairs of eyes scanned for movement and found that they were truly alone. The three men turned to the left out of the cafeteria. Ahead of them, parallel hallways extended outward from the lunchroom. Rows of tan lockers ran perpendicular to the hallways forming connections between the two. Further down, classroom doors lined the halls like sentries. At the end of each long passage, a fire exit with a small square window granted a narrow view of the outside world. At night however, a shaft of moonlight pierced the glass making the shadows surrounding it that much darker.

  The trio entered the closest hallway, knowing that the nurse’s office could be accessed from either side. Mark leaned against the door-frame, breathing heavily. Martin felt his chest tighten at a faint noise and suddenly all eyes peered down the corridor. A swaying shape dipped in and out of the small shaft of luminescence. With every shuffling step the body disappeared and reappeared as a silhouette against the moonlight.

  Rick cocked his pump-action shotgun. “If you’re alive, speak now or you won’t be for long!” His voice echoed off the cement walls and tile floor. Nothing answered his request except the steady sound of dragging feet. “Have it your way.” He stepped back into an attack posture. He gritted his teeth and prepared to squeeze the trigger.

  A growl erupted from the shadowy row of lockers to his right. Rick’s eyes widened as he tried to turn the gun on the closer threat, but the undead beast gripped the barrel with both hands. The athlete, despite his exercise and training, couldn’t slip the gun from the cold, curled fingers. His biceps flexed as he pulled the weapon toward him. Rasping, gagging sounds drove Martin and Brother Mark back into the lunchroom. The pair helplessly watched Rick flail around in a grotesque dance with a pale, scrawny corpse.

  “Help Me! The other one is getting closer!” Rick fell to the ground and the gun discharged. The angle of the barrel sent the pellets into the grappling monster’s stomach. The dead hands momentarily slackened and Rick tilted the gun further up. The sound of a sliding pump echoed over the scuffling of the two combatants and the human pulled the trigger again. The shot blew the top of the head off sending blood, brains, and fragments of skull into the ceiling tile.

  The other creature trotted up and loomed over Rick as the first, newly deceased attacker collapsed to the ground. A hiss escaped the cracked lips as the talon-like fingers reached for him. Rick retorted with a fear-filled scream and a quick “shick-shuck” of another shell ready to fire. The primal yell reached a fevered pitch and the weapon roared to life again. The shot obliterated the beast’s face, leaving it a bloody crater.

  Rick crawled backward from the inanimate bodies, panting and kicking his legs free of the dead weight of lifeless corpses. He looked back at the two cowards, his eyes wide and wild. As he spoke his lips curled back over the teeth in a snarl. “You fucking shits! You almost got me killed!”

  Martin could visualize the events that were about to transpire. Rick would slowly rise and determinedly walk over to him. He would bring his fist back and break Martin’s nose with a fierce punch. No, that wouldn’t be enough for him. Rick would stand up and lift the shotgun, turning the instrument of salvation into one of destruction. His mouth would form a hard, tight line and he would fire. It wouldn’t really matter who he hit because both had refused to help. Rick had fought for his life and the pair of turncoats had just watched him, spectators of a man’s brutal death.

  Rick’s movement during his slow recovery interrupted Martin’s rambling imagination. The reality was that the athlete stood up, gave one last look at the people that had so disappointed him, and walked further into the darkened hallway.

  ***

  Eric Wagner looked like a totally different man than he had earlier that morning. The white coat had long since been discarded. His tie was lost in one of the life or death scuffles. His dress shirt sported brownish-red stains. His face was drained of color except for bright pink patches on his cheeks from exertion as he peeked in-between boards covering the windows. His eyes darted around nervously. Those things were everywhere.

  The backdoor leading outside loomed in front of Jeremy as he watched Eric back away from the window. The young boy smiled. “I’ll flip a coin. The winner gets to stay in here. The loser gets the unenviable job of taking the gun and running to the shed.”

  Eric let out a nervous laugh. His untimely death could be decided by a random guess and a coin toss. His fingers twitched nervously as he tried to steel himself against the fear. “So, let’s recap.” He found himself talking only to stall the inevitable. “The winner guards the door to prevent them from getting into the station. The loser takes the pistol, runs about twenty yards through carnivorous living dead to a shed and comes back with a can of highly combustible liquid. Anything else?”

  “Nope. That’s the plan.” The DJ pulled out a gleaming silver coin. “Heads or tails?” Then he expertly flipped the quarter so that it alternated flashes of an eagle and General Washington’s pr
ofile.

  Eric knew he had a fifty-fifty chance, as the coin seemed to somersault in slow motion. Every action seemed to last forever as if they were struggling to move through syrup. His lips tried to form a word but his mouth had gone dry. He choked out “tails” and closed his eyes, knowing that his fate rested in a flipping piece of metal about to land in the palm of a boy ten years his junior.

  The young man caught the coin and gave a nervous cough. “Guess what buddy, you’re it.” The DJ handed the pistol to the M.D. “Good luck.” His face was no longer jovial. He understood the consequences of the doctor leaving. If Eric did die out there, the gun would be lost. Jeremy would be trapped inside without weapons of any sort.

  Eric opened his eyes to see the butt of the handgun extended toward him. Hesitantly, his shaking fingers wrapped around the cold metal. It had more weight than he had expected. He examined it closely and his dry, constricted throat only allowed one choked interrogatory. “How many shots?”

  “Three.” The disc jockey avoided his eyes by staring intently at a spot by his foot. Jeremy felt relief and guilt vying for emotional dominance. The next thing the doctor said caused guilt to gain the upper hand.

  “I guess I’ll see you in a few.” Eric’s good-natured farewell pitifully attempted to cover his near panic. A shiver ran through his body like an electric charge when he imagined a set of dead teeth biting into his flesh the same way a hungry animal would - no hesitation.

  The DJ stepped back allowing the ill-fated doctor a wide berth, as if Eric had something contagious and he might catch it. Without occasion or ceremony, only a deep breath, Eric Wagner (barely over thirty) rushed out into certain death. Jeremy waited with his hand on the doorknob, ready at a moment’s notice to shut the door should his champion perish.