by Tim Meyer
Ben backed away from Rose, tiptoed around the corpse of his elderly neighbor. Oh, Christ, Ben thought. She ate him. She fucking ate him.
Ben crept into the hallway, mindfully sidestepping the broken door. Slowly, Rose followed him, taking baby steps. She walked like an infant learning how to put one foot in front of the other. Once Ben was through the doorway and on the porch, he immediately felt safer. But that feeling was soon erased when he heard more inhuman chatter behind him. He turned and saw Jackson Harlan, the three-hundred pound bus driver from across the street, stumbling into the middle of the road. He looked the same as Rose. Ben watched in horror as the residents of Densberry Avenue came out of hiding. Each of them moved similarly—slow and awkward, as if they had just exited the bar after last call. Some of them groaned, making unintelligible noises, and some of them said nothing. There were maybe a hundred of them flooding their yards, ungracefully making their way toward the street. Most of them were covered in blood. Their clothes were stained, so were their faces. And they were—
Heading his way.
Ben stood on the Yoland's porch, watching a flock of zombies scuffle toward him.
The term “zombie” entered his brain the instant he saw them occupy Densberry Avenue. Ben suddenly remembered the brief conversation he had with Jake the day before the flu left him bedridden. High on bath salts, a man went crazy while riding the bus and started eating his fellow passengers. Bath salts my ass, Ben thought. He'd seen enough horror flicks in his time to know what a zombie was, and these people—they were fucking zombies.
He forgot about the news reports. The past week was hazy. He was barely awake for most of it, and the hours he spent conscious weren't wasted on television; they were spent with his nose in a book or with a pen and paper, jotting down notes about the next Great American novel he always dreamed about writing, but always lacked the time and motivation.
The world went to shit last week and he missed every moment of it.
Just as he was wondering how much of the zombie apocalypse had been televised, a snarling sound caused him to spin around. Rose Yoland was there, maybe four feet from him, grunting and dragging her feet toward him. Saliva flew from her open mouth. Ben took a step backward to avoid contact with her and her bodily fluids. Unfortunately for Ben, he miscalculated where he was on the porch. When he placed his foot on the stairs, he lost his balance. He landed hard on the wooden steps, rolled across the walkway and onto the lawn. He felt air vacate his lungs. Moaning, he crawled away from Rose, who awkwardly began to descend the stairs. Her uncoordinated body caused her to lose balance, and she too tumbled. She landed an arm's length away from Ben. Immediately, she crawled after him, snarling like a rabid dog.
Ben saw the sea of zombies heading in his direction. They had multiplied since the last time he glanced at the street. Just as he realized how fucked he was, Rose reached forward, grabbing his foot. He tried kicking free, but the dead woman's grip was something unnatural. He kicked again, more furiously. His foot finally broke away from her clutches. His shoe came off, but it didn't concern him. Scrambling to his feet, Ben got ready to run. He sprinted toward his backyard without looking back.
Zombies, holy-fucking-shit zombies, he thought, as he bounded the steps of his deck, holding his ribs, trying to regain his breath. Ben wasn't a doctor—far, far from it—but he had experienced cracked ribs before.
He entered the back door, immediately locking it behind him.
Outside, the dead horde swarmed 19 Densberry Avenue.
Ben paced around his living room, grabbing the sides of his head, muttering the same three words over and over again: “Holy-fucking-shit.” Air slowly crawled back into his lungs and he was momentarily thankful. He was going to need a lot of it, especially if he planned on running from the throng of dead Red Riverians eagerly awaiting his exit.
He continued pacing in circles, his mind wandering in and out of negative thoughts. He wrestled with the realization that the world had virtually ended, that there would be no more electric or cable bills. No more credit card payments. No car loan payment. No mortgage. No lawyer fees. No child support?
Keep it together, he thought. You need to get out of this.
Ben grabbed his suitcase, ran to the cabinet where he kept some snacks. He only packed a few, hoping to stop somewhere on his way to Pittsburgh. He didn't know how bad it was out there, but he was prepared to go a few days without food if he needed to. He might not have a choice. He headed to the front door. Scratching and moaning sounds stopped him from going anywhere near it. Fuck. They probably had the whole place surrounded. He heard pounding on the windows. It was only a matter of time before they would break in. He saw shadows moving behind the curtains. Lots of shadows.
The roof. It was his only chance. Ben raced down the hallway, locating the attic stairs. He unfolded them, climbed quickly, and ascended into darkness. He almost tried pulling the chain on the light, but then remembered there was no electricity. Dumbass, he thought to himself. He cursed himself for not bringing a flashlight, probably one of the most important things he could have packed in his survival trunk. He debated whether or not to run back down the stairs and grab one out of the junk drawer, but the sound of shattered glass quickly determined that going back was not an option—unless he wanted to end up the living dead's breakfast.
The inarticulate vocalizations of the zombies quickly filled the living room. Ben reached for his Smart-Phone. Even though it was useless for making calls, it proved resourceful in other ways. He selected the flashlight application and the tiny light on the back of the phone illuminated the attic. You lucky bastard, he thought, as he ducked trusses, rolling over pink tufts of insulation. He continued until he got to the far end of the attic, where a fan blocked him from getting to the roof. It was roughly the size of a manhole cover, and Ben felt he could squeeze through it, if only the blades weren't there.
Ben started removing the metal grate that covered the fan. To his surprise, it popped out easily. Trying to stay calm, he closed his eyes, blocking out the noises coming from the rooms below. Then he thought he heard lumber behind him creak. He quickly spun, shining the light toward the stairs. There was no one there. His heartbeat slowly resumed its normal rhythm.
He turned his attention back to the fan, which he tried removing. It was screwed in and there was no screwdriver handy. Ben started to debate whether or not he had met a dead end. He also wondered if the zombies knew how to climb stairs. If they couldn't, maybe they'd eventually abandon the house and decide to look for food elsewhere.
Ben started kicking the fan blades, hoping to break, or at least bend two of them back far enough so he could slide through. There was another grate separating the fan from freedom, but it was made of old, rotted wood. It looked flimsy and easy to break. He continued kicking the fan blades. The metal was thin and cheap, curved with each stomp.
Noises. Close. Behind him.
He stopped kicking, rotating toward his point of entry. He saw the top of a head peeking out of the empty square in the attic floor.
“Shit,” Ben muttered, turning back to his only way out. After the two blades were completely bent back, he realized that in order for him to squeeze through, he was going to have to do a third. He didn't waste any time. He kicked the third blade back, granting him passage to the roof. He lay down, slid himself underneath the fan. He started punching the wood grate, the only thing standing between him and fresh air. The wood cracked, splintering with each attack. In less than a minute, the grate popped off and Ben finally had unobstructed access to the roof.
The morning sun peaked above the horizon, a faint orange glow filling his eyes.
Something grabbed his foot. He turned his makeshift flashlight on the lower half of his body, seeing his new shoe was being gnawed on by Teddy Rowland, a forty-year old computer nerd from three blocks over. Teddy's head was split open down the middle, but he didn't seem to mind. From the looks of the wound, it happened days ago. Black blood congealed on his
face, his mouth leaking dark fluids onto Ben's shoe. Ben lashed out, kicking Teddy in the face, sending him stumbling into his dead friends.
Ben didn't have time reach for his suitcase. He pulled himself through the tiny passageway, landing on the asphalt-shingled roof. He jumped to his feet, ignoring the pain in his ribs. He hesitated, wanting to reach back inside and grab his belongings, but the hole in the siding quickly filled up with zombies.
Never looking back, he run to the edge of the roof. He peered down at the driveway, his eyes honing in on his Sonata. The area was surprisingly clear of walking corpses.
“Here goes nothing,” he muttered, jumping into the big bush. Some of the branches penetrated his skin, but he didn't care. Adrenaline helped numb the pain. He rushed to the car as quickly as possible, key in hand. A few stragglers who were slow getting to the party turned their attention toward Ben. They changed directions and headed after him, stumbling along leisurely. In the distance, down the block, more dead came into view.
He started the car with only one thing on his mind.
I'm coming, bud, he thought. I'm coming for you. I promised, didn't I?
Ben Ackerman had no intentions of being an absent father.
CHAPTER THREE
“What are you talking about?” Ross asked. He peered at Ben dubiously.
“I'm talking about getting out of here, before something really bad happens,” Ben told him.
“Haven't you been listening, fucktard?” Jason spat. “Those fucking savages are going to come back any minute. And when they do, they are going to kill us. Probably torture us, too.” His head craned toward little Emily, who remained quiet throughout the arguing. “Sexually, perhaps.”
“Hey now—”
“Why don't you shut up,” Josh told the kid, who looked no older than himself. “No need to freak everyone out more than they already are.”
“Oh, yeah, tough guy? What if I don't? Huh?”
“Then I'll have to make you.”
Jason lunged forward, pressing his face against the kennel. “You're lucky this cage is here, or I'd kick your fucking ass, man!”
“Sit down, clown,” Josh chuckled.
“I've had enough of your mouth, you shit-nose little punk—” Ross started.
“Oh, yeah?” Jason turned toward Ross, grinding his teeth together. “What are you going to do about it, old man?”
Ross rose to his feet. “Old man? I'll show you old—”
Before anyone could tell them to relax, Jason lashed out, socking Ross in the jaw. Everyone gasped collectively when his fist rocked Ross's head backwards. He stumbled but kept his balance. Landry stood up, looking like he wanted to step in and take his father's place in what had become a steel-cage match. Ross shoved him aside gently. Jason wound his fist and took another swing, a wildly-inaccurate haymaker that Ross sidestepped easily. He jabbed the kid in the ribs, deflating his lungs. Jason stumbled sideways. Ross caught him with a hook across the chin. The energetic, rat-faced punk went down hard, spitting bloody mucus onto the concrete floor.
A gunshot sounded, causing everyone's shoulders to buck. Hearts skipped. Ringing in their ears left them temporarily deaf to other sounds. They hadn't heard their three husky hosts enter the basement over their own outbursts.
The Three Little Pigs, Josh thought.
“Well, well,” Otis said, chewing tobacco as he spoke. He spit a long stream of brown liquid into truck driver's cage, missing his feet by inches. The splatter touched his boots. “What we got hur?”
“Looky like we got ourselves a little alt-cation, Otis,” Cooter said.
“Hey, you... nagger.” Otis stared directly at Ross. “Yeah, I'm talkin' to you, boy. Get your monkey ass over der. You can't be goan round beatin' up erry white boy you see, sheet.”
Floyd, the third and widest little piggy, rushed over and unlocked the cage. Cooter strolled inside and grabbed Jason by his neck, dragging him out. His knees and elbows scraped against the concrete as he cried out, but Cooter didn't seem to care. In fact, Cooter laughed, hacked a giant wad of snot and spat on his face. “Dumb sombitch,” he sneered.
Otis and Floyd approached Ross, who backed himself into the corner of his cage. Landry tried to reach his father's side, but Floyd collected him against his chest with his flabby arms. Landry screamed, tried to kick himself free. The big boy's clutches were like a black hole, absorbing Landry with little effort. Ross instinctively reached out for his son, but Otis took the stock of his shotgun and jammed it into his face. Ross immediately saw stars and fell to the floor. He felt something warm trickle down his upper lip, into his mouth. He tasted copper.
“Looks like someone bought themselves a ticket to the game,” Otis whispered to Ross, who struggled to keep conscious.
“What game?”
Smirking ominously, Otis waved his finger. “Ya'll find out soon enough.” He nodded to Floyd, who immediately let go of Landry. They exited the cage, Floyd locking it behind them.
Otis turned to Cooter. “Bring that sumbitch.” Otis and Floyd trotted up the stairs and Cooter followed, dragging Jason behind him like a sack of Christmas presents.
The prisoners listened to the kid scream his way to the top before wet slapping sounds silenced him forever.
CHAPTER FOUR
TWO DAYS AGO...
Despite his mother's plea to always park in the street, Josh parked in the empty driveway. He exhaled, killing the engine simultaneously. Josh didn't want to be there and he did very little to hide it. It wasn't that he hated visiting her, and it wasn't even the fact that he sometimes had to explain things to her over and over again; it was the fact that Josh would rather spend his free time doing other things. Such as riding around doing nothing, smoking cigarettes, smoking weed, finding girls to hook up with, hooking up with them, going to bars, getting drunk, occasionally—but not frequently—starting fights, playing sports, playing sports video games, and doing his best to be an all-around douchebag to everyone he meets. Recently, pill-popping made its way to the top of the list.
As he knocked on his mother's front door, he surveyed the adult community around him. It was peaceful. More than peaceful. There wasn't a single person out and about. He assumed old people in this kind of community didn't get out very much.
Meridith Emberson, however, was not an old person. She was only fifty-nine. They accepted residents over the age of fifty-five, although most were much older than that. The award-winning staff was the reason Meridith decided to check into Pine Coast Village a few years early.
Meridith loved Pine Coast Village. She also loved when her only child came to visit. Unfortunately, she always forgot when he was coming, which made her even more excited when she opened the front door and saw him standing there, glassy-eyed and gawking at the neighborhood homes dreamily.
“Joshy!” she cried out, giving her son a powerful hug.
“Hey, ma,” he said, squeezing her gently.
“It's been too long.”
“It's only been three weeks.” It had actually been longer than that, closer to a month and a half, but she didn't remember those kinds of things. It was cruel how he sometimes used her sickness to skate around visiting her. What she doesn't remember, won't hurt her. He repeated the same thing while he slipped a few twenties out her pocketbook whenever she ran to the bathroom during his visits. She always found a few bills missing, swearing she had visited the ATM earlier that day. In the end, she'd deduce that she hadn't gone at all.
“Well... I can never see too much of my Joshy,” she said. “Come inside.” She patted him on the back as he entered the house.
As she was about to close the door, she spotted her next-door neighbor, Russ Lowery, taking his daily walk. He was stumbling over himself, came close to falling down several times. Meridith smiled, thinking the old coot had a bit too much to drink. She reminded herself that she didn't want to be outside when Wanda Lowery caught up to him. She had met Wanda several times over the last four years and she was no joy to b
e around.
Meridith Emberson shut the door. She was going to lock it, but thought about offering her son a cup of coffee instead. In fact, she forgot to shut the door all together, leaving it slightly ajar with enough room for mosquitoes and other summer insects to get in.
Unfortunately for Meridith Emberson, bugs weren't the only thing out there wanting to get in.
“How have you been feeling?” Josh asked.
“Fine,” she replied. She set two fresh cups of coffee down on the table, one for each of them. She sat down, sighing simultaneously with the creaking of old wooden chairs. “I have good days and I have bad ones. Mostly bad ones. The goddamn medication they have me on doesn't seem to want to work. They rave about this shit like it's a miracle drug—well, the only miracle it gives me are bad dreams and awful headaches in the morning.”
Josh grabbed the small bottle off the kitchen table and read the label: APEDESIAM.
“Never heard of it,” Josh admitted.
“Have you been living under a rock?” she asked. She slid a cigarette out of her pack of Misty's and lit one up. Her son joined her, sparking a full-flavored Marlboro. “This stuff was all over the news. The cure for Alzheimer's. Yeah, well, some days I wouldn't be able to remember my name if it weren't on every envelope that comes in the mail.”
“Sounds bogus.” Josh took a long drag and exhaled.
“What about you, honey? You keeping out of trouble? Got any future daughter-in-laws for me?”
He shook his head, laughing. “Na. Not really. Don't have the time.”
“What do you have time for?”
That was the question, wasn't it? He had time to buy drugs and plenty of time to do them. He had time to go to work, although, lately, he had burned through his sick time faster than hemp at Woodstock. Late-night security gigs wasn't exactly a premier career choice, but it paid his rent and supported his drug habit.