Darkest Days: A Southern Zombie Tale

by Layton, James J.

  Enraged by his weakness, he rushed forward and kicked the girl in the head. Her tiny body tumbled over and Rick began stomping on her fragile face. Her skinny wrists flailed until the structural integrity of her skull gave way. When he finally stopped, he only saw a mess of pulp and fragments of bone. He suddenly felt tired of shopping. The entire thrill seemed to drain away as he carefully placed his foot down in between puddles of various bodily fluids. Vomit or blood, he did not want either on his shoes when he got back in his truck. Almost in a daze, he wrapped his fingers around the handle of the buggy and pushed forward, hearing cans clang together as the weight shifted. At the registers, he half-heartedly shoved his items into white plastic bags printed with the Shop and Save logo. Three bags per hand, he emptied the cart in two trips to his vehicle. Creatures from nearby streets appeared around the corners of the building and across the parking lot, converging on the new meat.

  “Too slow, fuckers.” He taunted. His overactive mind flashed the image of killing the five year old causing a chill to creep up his back. That little girl’s skull caving in under his foot made him shudder. The sensation of his foot meeting resistance and that resistance suddenly disappearing made him feel queasy. He opened the door to his truck and waited to turn the key. “Snap out of it.” A cold voice exploded forward. “This is your survival mechanism speaking. You know what happens to pussies who cry over doing what’s necessary? They become zombie chow! So you’re going to hit that fucking gas pedal now!”

  On the way out of the parking lot, he missed a walking corpse. The voice with the no-nonsense tone chastised him for it. “What are you thinking? Every one of those things is a potential killer! Hit the next one! Take a few out on the way!”

  Rick responded out loud. “Yes, sir.” He pulled the wheel sharply to the right and plowed into a strolling cadaver. “Why don’t I drive to Tuscaloosa?” He asked the voice.

  “So, you’d just let a little twerpy piece of shit like Martin shame you? He knocked you out! How big are the guys you block against? Two-fifty? And you let that tubby faggot knock you out?” Rick’s eyes burned with hate and his cheeks reddened with shame. That voice belonged to one mean bastard. He hated that voice more than he hated Martin. He knew that he could drive through anything waiting on the outskirts of town and reach safety, but that damn voice would not let him. The asshole in his head kept goading him by calling him a coward and a sissy. Even with the satisfaction of staying alive, he did not think that he could live with that voice. With mocking laughter ringing in between his ears, he turned the truck down Temple Avenue and headed for the church.

  ***

  The priest sat in one of the third floor offices writing down the day’s happenings, in the event that someone would arrive and pick up the pieces. Maybe some anthropologist in some far-flung future would find a miraculously preserved sheet of paper with Father O’Brien’s distinctive cursive on it. He knew that the odds of this particular sheet on the third floor of building in the middle of what became a war zone were close to astronomical. He wrote anyway as a form of catharsis.

  Day one ended horrifically. The creatures endlessly clawed at the obstructed entrance. The inhabitants of the First Baptist Church attempted sleeping in shifts but the constant scratching of nails on wood and the hiss of wordless mouths allowed fitful sleep at best. Once or twice, Stephanie woke up screaming. Martin alternated between extreme openness and complete withdrawal. Eric seemed changed after the boy’s father and sister passed on. The doctor seems to have shut off all the parts of his brain that spurred emotion. Oddly, the boy seems to have recovered quickly besides a mistrust of many of us. After a few hours of sleep, he demanded to be taught marksmanship. The image of an emotionally distraught ten-year old with a rifle comforted no one, but Bryant volunteered to give him lessons in the morning. Speaking of the lovers, the adolescent couple slept and sleep still. They are the only ones managing to rest. They have strength together that they would lack otherwise. I envy them and pity them as well. Their love could be a very short one. Now for the author, I am tired and old. I personally believe that we are all dead. The answers the others ask for lead us nowhere. While I don’t publicly voice my belief, I am starting to feel as though God has quit forgiving us.

  The phone rang in an unexpected burst of shrill jingles. Completely dumbfounded, Father O’Brien did not pick up the receiver though his hand was by it. On the second ring, his shock eroded and he lifted the phone to his ear, tentatively greeting “Hello.”

  The static-filled reply rushed out in a panic. “I’ve got food and ammo. I can be there in twenty minutes if you’ll open the door and let me in. I have food enough for a few weeks. Oh God. . .” A gunshot sounded through the phone and into the priest’s ear. “Just say yes or I’m a dead man!”

  Father O’Brien wanted to alert the others, but the immediacy of the situation was obvious. He quickly responded with assurances and promises of cooperation. “Yes. In twenty minutes, we’ll be expecting you.” He heard the slam of someone hanging up in a hurry on the other end. He had no way of knowing that the fear-filled voice called from a secure room on the second floor of a business in downtown only a few blocks away.

  The Father knocked on the office door that Bryant and Cara had made into a bedroom and called through the wood. “Wake up. Get dressed. Everyone needs to meet downstairs immediately. He hopped down the flight of steps to convey the wonderful news to the rest of the party. Bounding into the sanctuary, Martin tossed and turned making it a wonder that he was still asleep. The thin blanket covering him had become tangled around his kicking feet. The priest shifted his gaze to Stephanie who had been awake for hours. She thumbed through a hymnal, looking tired. She looked up at Father O’Brien and shrugged. “I guess you heard me wake up a few times.” The truth was that the priest had heard every one of her screams as she regained consciousness, convinced that some chauvinistic male had been holding her down.

  The old man cleared his throat and commanded everyone to rise. Eric looked haggard and begged for the luxury of more sleep. The priest responded curtly. “Get up. Lives are at stake, namely ours.” A statement such as he made grabbed everyone’s attention. Martin sat up, blinking the sleep out of his eyes and groggily asking what was going on. Eric listened for the holy man’s next words but was only told to wait.

  “Our young couple is on their way down and we need to find Tommy.” As the priest spoke, the child appeared in the stairwell behind him.

  Tommy asked in a resigned whisper, “What’s happening?”

  Bryant and Cara stepped into the doorway behind the boy and repeated his request. “What is this about?”

  The old man rubbed his hand together, eyes gleaming in a way none of them had previously seen. “Now that we are all together, if anyone has taken stock of our food situation, you all know that we will have to survive on a handful of snack cakes and a jar of peanuts.” Grimly, everyone nodded. “A survivor called and said that he had food for several weeks and more bullets. We have about fifteen minutes to get ready for him.” He mapped out his strategy for them. “We’ll post one person on the roof as a lookout. When we receive a signal, we’ll clear the door. One person will be designated as a runner to help bring in the supplies. The rest of us will provide cover.”

  Everyone cautiously looked at each other, knowing that someone had to volunteer for the dangerous job. Making several trips back and forth to a vehicle outside the walls of their haven did not appeal to anyone. Soon, the conversation began. The process of elimination started with a seemingly innocent comment from the priest.

  “I’m too old. I can’t move fast enough.” A hint of disappointment seeped into his voice. Truthfully, he wanted to help, to be part of the solution. Fighting evil in a spiritual realm grew tiring when one never saw the tangible results of the toils. However, fighting flesh and blood evil struck him as more glamorous.

  Cara spoke up. “Tommy can’t go. There will be boxes of ammo that are too heavy for him.”


  Eric looked up with bloodshot eyes. “I’m the doctor. If you lose me while hauling in groceries, who’ll keep you healthy or administer first aid?” He rubbed his temples and peered over at Bryant. “Besides, Bryant’s the best shot with the rifle. So, he needs to be covering who ever does it. Also, we need strong guys to move and restack the furniture.” He motioned at the pile of debris blocking the door.

  Exasperated, Stephanie cried out. “Well, at this rate, who will be able to go?”

  Cara stood before them with a fierce gaze. Her voice left little room for argument. “Bryant has the most experience with guns. He can get on the third floor or roof and be the lookout and pick off any approaching zombies. Martin and Eric can move the furniture with Father O’Brien and Stephanie. I’ll make the run.”

  Bryant jumped away from the wall he had been leaning against. “No!”

  Cara anticipated his objection and was ready to counter. “Cut the theatrics. You know it has to be me. The Father and Eric are right. Also, Stephanie can’t go, she’s in a fragile state of mind right now. We’ve all lost people we love, but she has suffered that as well as violation by a sick bastard.”

  Bryant threw his hands up in the air. “Alright, you win. Go out there and die over groceries. I’m washing my hands of this.”

  Cara turned on him with a sudden viciousness that no one expected. “I’m not your possession, so don’t treat me like one! We will starve to death if I don’t do this. Do you really think that we can walk to the store whenever we run out of bread? I’m sorry if my efforts hurt your masculine ego, but it has to stop! If I don’t take my share of risks, what good am I?” The rage dissipated in a series of whimpers as she fought back tears. She knew that he wanted to protect her out of a deep love and she could forgive that.

  Bryant stepped forward and embraced her, burying his face in her hair. The tears that he was trying to hide rapidly absorbed into her brown locks. His hands slid over her back creating friction that warmed her chilled skin. He whispered into her ear in the softest voice manageable. “I’m sorry that I’m not strong enough to risk losing you.”

  He abruptly broke their hug and turned away. His voice was choked and he sniffled in the middle of his next sentence. “Let’s get into our positions.” Without facing any of them, he grabbed his rifle and walked toward the stairwell.

  Cara watched him go and felt remorse for the hell she put him through to establish her independence. In that way, she thought that she might take after her mother. Her heart filled with a mixture of melancholy and pleasure. Something of her family still survived within her.

  ***

  The hungry creatures covered the doors on the bottom floor on three sides of the building. The front of the church did not fare any better. The staircase allowed limited access to the door, but the streets below were still choked with standing bodies milling around. How could Rick do it? He looked through the windshield at the horde. Flooring the gas and plowing through bodies would only take him so far. The deceased would slow the truck down and eventually start rocking it until it flipped. Suddenly an idea came to him.

  During his late night drive, he had stopped for gas and happened to swipe a two-liter bottle. After pouring the cola out onto the ground, he had filled it with gasoline in order to not make as many dangerous stops. This plastic container full of combustible liquid formed the center of his plan. He parked the truck several blocks down from the congregating masses and stepped out to survey the cars parked at skewed angles. The young man’s beady eyes swept over the landscape watching for the cursed beasts to move toward him. As of yet, none of them noticed.

  Rick placed his hand on the cooled hood of an inert Dodge Neon. “It’s pointed in the wrong direction, but that might not matter.” The gears of his brain turned, replaying the way the events should transpire. He needed to access the interior of the vehicle but feared that the noise would attract his countless enemies. Knowing that time was scarce, he reached back and slammed his elbow into the passenger window sending shards of glass tinkling down into the vinyl seats. Glancing around for approaching monsters, his fingers nimbly waded through a minefield of broken glass, trying to find the door lock. His finger hooked the small protruding plastic lock, sliding it to the side. Quickly swinging the door open, he reached over and looked at the gas gauge. The fluorescent orange needle rested on a large block-lettered E.

  “Well, that’s only a minor setback.” Rick lowered the lever controlling the gear and placed the car in neutral. His steady, but rushed hands popped the lock on the driver’s side and he exited the vehicle, quickly running around to the newly opened door. One hand gripped the steering wheel and the other braced itself against the formed plastic covering the interior of the frame. His plan to push the vehicle into the street was proceeding smoothly. He gave thanks to the designers that changed the car’s body from metal to mostly fiberglass as his muscles flexed under his shirt. The strain wasn’t too bad but having to move it a great distance would probably break him physically and mentally.

  Slowly adjusting the wheel as he pushed, he managed to line it up in front of his truck even though the car was facing the wrong way.

  Letting go, he glanced around seeing slow-moving pursuers walking toward him. Rick knew that he had to move faster but had so much to do. He sprinted back to the truck and grabbed his bottle of gasoline. Quickly, he unscrewed the plastic cap and started dousing the Neon. Pulling out his cigarette lighter, he frantically flicked his thumb against the metal gear, sending a small orange and blue flame waving in the wind. Luckily, he had splurged on a good, windproof lighter. Losing all the dramatic flair of an action hero, he frantically flung it at the odorous automobile. In a flash of luminescence and a rush of heat, the car became a slowly rolling torch.

  Rick laughed in sinister delight. “Now comes the fun part.” He jumped into the truck and eased onto the gas. He had to be careful. It would not do to get the bumper hung up on part of the car. The two fronts of the vehicles touched like a kiss between a large hulking man and a waif, the menacing front grill pressing against the petite fiberglass bumper. The slight contact accelerated the flaming car and, encouraged, Rick nudged it harder. The car took the second and even third rams with very little increase in speed, but the fourth sent the mobile pyrotechnics rolling backwards at the congested streets at close to thirty miles an hour. He let off the gas hearing the RPMs slide down to an acceptable level and surveyed his work.

  The primal fear of fire - an instinctual response - rose in waves sending the gathered horde retreating, though not far enough to cease being a threat. The first creatures to notice the fire tried to move, but the close quarters prevented them from escaping too far. As more of the demons became aware, the street thinned enough for Rick to make his move.

  His tires let out a hellish scream and his nose caught a brief wisp of smoke and burned rubber as he let off the brake. Building up speed like a steam engine, he had to slam on the pedal, grinding the brake shoes down as the truck went into a slide. When he came to a stop, he looked straight ahead at the dual staircase of the church and thought about his perfect maneuver.

  To Rick’s surprise, the doors exploded open and the new girl from school came running out. He did not have the time to wonder; he just grabbed his shotgun and a box of shells and ran. He bounded up the steps just as she stepped off onto the ground. Behind him, he heard a shriek but did not slow down.

  Cara thought it would be a piece of cake until reaching the bottom step and touching the sidewalk. She screamed as a walker seemed to spontaneously generate in front of her. As the cold hands stretched for her, the monster’s cranium exploded into red rain. She looked up briefly and saw her guardian angel with a rifle protruding from the lip of the roof. Randomly grabbing the handles of bags, she turned and fled back upstairs. Her thighs burned with exertion and she deposited the supplies at the top only to make another trip. As she ran down a second time, she was filled with the urge to halt and run back into the safety of the church
when she spotted the army of flesh eaters shambling forward. She felt a steel rod replace her weak back-bone and continued on. The closest one to her jerked as a bullet splattered through its shoulder. A second shot followed, dropping the corpse. Rick followed behind, straining to carry several bags at once. His feet moved in short, quick steps as his balance shifted with the extra weight held close to his torso.

  Cara grabbed the second set of bags. Lifting them and feeling the strain of canned goods, she suddenly worried that they were too tightly packed. If the bottom of the bag ripped in a quick unzipping motion, she would be unable to stop and save the cans as they rolled in various directions on the asphalt. Luckily, her fears did not materialize. Another shot sounded, causing her to jump, but still the stretching plastic held.

  Cara heard the newest arrival growl into her ear. “Hurry, they’re already at the truck!”

  Despite her better sense, she glanced back and saw the flood enveloping his still-idling vehicle. She snapped her head back to the front and continued her flight to safety. At the top of the stairs, her pumping legs carried her with so much speed that she could not stop running. The hard slaps of her footfalls became more spaced out as she slowed down enough to drop the bags and turn around. Rick plunged inside with his arms wrapped around boxes of ammunition in a death grip. The doors slammed shut behind him and the dead below mounted the stairs. Feverish sets of hands piled heavy item and large wooden beams across the front door. Just when everyone felt secured once again, Stephanie screamed.

  Everything happened quickly after that. The exact order of events was confused by everyone present. However, everyone agreed that Rick and Martin went for their weapons almost immediately. Rick pointed the shotgun at the chubby boy who had bested him earlier. Martin stared back with a pistol in hand. The open sight danced around Rick’s torso, just waiting for the moment that it hovered over his heart. The survivors watched in horror as the newest arrival threatened to kill one of their brethren. Outside, a new sound started up - bodies entreating entry by throwing themselves against the door.