The End of the Road: Z is for Zombie Book 8 (Z is for Zombie: Book)

by catt dahman

  At least Robert didn’t have to shoot her.

  One sidewalk looked as if it had been the scene of a small battle. A

  blood-stained baseball bat and a broken handled rake were surrounded by dark,

  dried blood on the concrete.

  A small pile of something greyish pink rotted on the grass and looked as if they might be intestines, but he had never seen intestines and wasn’t positive. A few

  feet away was a blue car which had crashed into a huge maple tree, its doors on

  the driver’s side both thrown open. Trash littered the ground. Robert took the

  baseball bat.

  While he slept, a war was fought right outside his house.

  A dozen yards down from Robert on the opposite side, two houses still smoldered, both partially burned against a hazy, blighted looking sky. Dirty grey clouds rumbled sickly. He wondered why the sky looked so strange and why there were so much smoke and haze in the air but didn’t come up with a theory. Far away, bigger

  fires were sending soot and smoke into the sky.

  Without a lot of thought, Robert walked away from the clouds and burning houses and towards a small park where people in the neighborhood walked dogs beneath the large shade trees. It wasn’t really a park, but the emerald grass was

  soft, and children played there while mothers sat on blankets, watching. Mainly it

  was a lot the Home Owners’ Association hadn’t built on or sold yet.

  Surprisingly, people were there, sitting on the grass, as if it were just an ordinary day; their eyes looked shell-shocked and worn out. The insanity of seeing people

  sitting on the grass almost made him laugh, but they would have figured him

  for a nut, so he suppressed the tickling humor.

  “Friend or foe?”

  Robert was stunned to be addressed. “Friend.” He wondered if he should be

  carrying the rifle in more of a ready position, but it was too late, and these people looked friendly enough. He didn’t know if people were dangerous even if they didn’t have Red, but figured they were even more dangerous now than before the Red.

  He introduced himself and briefly traded stories with an older black man named Wheeler who was still well built and who had intelligent eyes and a piercing stare.A young woman Bella with dark, haunted, purple-shadowed eyes and long hair and an older woman Lucy Ann, with granny glasses and a sweet smile, patted the blanket next to her and invited Robert to sit down.

  “You look a little peaked,” Lucy Ann told Robert.

  “You’re just in time to hear me tell Cory to pull his pants up again,” Wheeler said, “if he gets to runnin’, he’s going to trip and fall with those pants hanging down that low.”

  “Meh…you just hatin’ ‘cause you don’t have fancy drawers like me,” said the

  young man, grinning.

  “Assuming I wear ‘drawers’ at all.” Wheeler mimicked him, making everyone laugh.

  Robert laughed this time, glad that it was allowed.

  Kevin was quiet and shared that he barely made it out of his apartment alive, having to club his life-partner to death as he was chased; it was a painful story, but everyone nodded and patted him again as he sniffled, remembering. Robert could

  tell that everyone was trying to be supportive.

  Everyone listened and patted him as well when he told what he went through. Although he cried some, it was a relief to share the story and to have someone tell

  him that he understood and meant it.

  “I was sitting there eating some soup, that bad stuff that you add hot water to, not planning anything fancy since he was sick. I was watching the news and…well…

  I knew this was real, but I kept thinking that at any second there would be dues ex machine, and the military would roll in and kill the monsters, and we’d all be saved

  by some super cool remedy. Isn’t that silly of me?”

  “No. We all thought that,” Lucy Ann said.

  It was horrible, but when he went into the coma, I just wanted that to be the

  end of him…pass on…and I’d take him out and bury him and then…figure out what

  next, but that didn’t happen. He got up and came after me. If there hadn’t been a

  mess of books, I would have been…you know…eaten. God, that’s hard to say.”

  Wheeler nodded and said, “I know.”

  “I had a bat…I played softball…anyway…I can’t describe it, but I just hit him

  when he came after me again. When he stopped moving, I walked out,” Kevin said, “that’s what I saw and did. The end. That’s my version of What I Did in The Zombie Apocalypse.”

  DeVon was the final member of the group, and Wheeler told her she should

  put on long pants, a long-sleeved shirt, and tennis shoes or boots as soon as she

  could; her short-shorts, halter, and sandals were not going to protect her. She lit a

  cigarette and rolled her eyes but didn’t seem offended. She was the type to haunt

  bars, waiting to be picked up by a nice guy, who never came around.

  “Now, you mind me, little Miss DeVon,” he said as he urged her.

  She was too small and seemed too fragile beneath her skimpy clothing, but

  her eyes were bright and intelligent. Whatever she did in her former life was not

  her true calling. She was born to outwit the enemy.

  “Well, we have seven now, if you join us,” Lucy Ann told Robert. “That’s a lucky number. You will join us, right?”

  “I haven’t given it any thought what I should do; I guess I could.”

  “Great. It’s settled. We’re the Survivors Club.”

  Robert hauled out his bag. “I packed this on a silly whim, but I think at least

  some of you will get a kick out of it.” He drew out each item and set it on the blanket. There were limes and a paring knife.

  Next, he withdrew a bottle of bloody Mary mix. Lucy Ann chuckled, and

  Kevin whispered a cheer. “I wish we had ice…but….” He pulled plastic glasses out.

  “Hell, no. We need ice.” Corey jumped up. He motioned Kevin and Bella to

  help them, and they got up, eyes twinkling. It was dangerous, and they might have

  to run if caught. They were just in a house (yes, they looted supplies, but the world

  was done and over with), and it was clear of danger with the electricity and the final groans of life. He had a pistol, and Bella had a bat. Kevin decided to carry a lead

  pipe; he liked to remain stealthy.

  Robert noticed that Kevin’s pale face had taken on color, and he looked really alive again. When Robert met Wheeler’s eyes, he caught a quick wink of approval.

  The reason for living at this moment was a fine bloody Mary.

  Robert watched as Wheeler shook his head, silently amused at the young people, but the trio was off and back in a few minutes. Kevin carried a big plastic doubled bag full of ice cubes, and Bella had a pillowcase full of something else. They already obtained what food they wanted and other necessary things from the house. Robert learned a great deal as he watched everyone.

  It was another cause for laughter at the lengths people would go in order to

  have a good bloody Mary, and they shared a chuckle at themselves. Kevin took the glasses from Cory after they were full of tinkling ice and added a thick wedge of

  lime, which he squeezed; he handed the glasses to DeVon, and she filled each three-fourths full of mix.

  “My mouth is watering,” she said, “the lime smells wonderful.”

  Robert doused each glass with vodka, handed the glasses to Lucy Ann who

  added the seasoned salt at the top, and then handed each plastic glass to Wheeler.

  He carefully stirred each drink before handing it to Bella who lined them up on a flat spot.

  “Are you twenty-one?” asked Wheeler as he raised his eyebrows to Bella.

  “Very funny, old man.” She
chuckled a little.

  Wheeler handed Lucy Anne her drink sans alcohol as she requested. “To the seven survivors.” He said as he raised his glass. They nodded and were about to

  take a drink, but then together they seemed to think about how Cory ran to get ice

  and how that might be the last ice they ever had and laughed.

  Wheeler dunked a cube and licked his finger. “To us. Thank you for this ice and those who ran to get it, and thank you, Robert for this treat today when we were feeling down and low. And thank you for being here with me, friends.”

  It was the best bloody Mary that Robert ever tasted: cold, tangy, and spicy;

  It was drink that made them relax.

  Cory still choked up a little at Wheeler’s words.

  Chapter 4

  A Portrait of a Zombie’s Life

  When interest rates were down, middleclass America was able to purchase better homes in classier neighborhoods. In the middle of this area, stood a home, bricked to the gills and roomy for a family of five. A concrete walkway wound to the driveway amid what once was an emerald lawn but was now a long, brown, crisp lawn of over-grown grass that, over the years, burned away twice. A flowerbed was now a tumbling mass of crossbred roses in shades of red that looked a little diseased and never fully bloomed; weeds almost covered the roses. Paint on the wooden eaves was chipped away to leave a weathered grey, pocked by bits of yellowish-white. Ruined by weeds, tree roots, and weather, a walkway and a drive were cracked; a huge pine tree fell across one section, leaving needles and limbs to rot away over the years.

  A lone zombie shambled down the street, stumbling over sections of asphalt, broken and missing. At times, it had to stagger back to its feet after falling, and it detoured around a blue car that crashed into a maple tree long ago; a creature almost tripped over car doors that long ago rusted away at the hinges and then fell to the ground.

  The gender of the creature wasn’t easily determined since ten years before its hair, parts of the scalp, intestines, and private parts were torn away when it was attacked at the beginnings of the infectious outbreak. That outbreak turned people into bloodthirsty ghouls once they awakened from a coma to infect others with bites and scratches. Eyes, once bright blue, were filmed over with white cataracts and rolled wildly as if looking for live food. Its mouth was ready to moan loudly if it saw food; thus, it could call others like it to attack prey and have a better success of spreading the infection. It had a nightmare of a mouth long ago ripped and its lips chewed. Teeth were broken over the years and decayed without care; they were jagged, black and brown stumps but could still provide a strong bite force and chew flesh to the bone. One arm ended at the elbow where it was torn away while this victim fought back at the claws and teeth of unmerciful attackers. The other arm was intact, but the fingers were chewed away during the fray to leave a stumpy palm that looked like a ragged paw. Sometimes it chewed on its own flesh. Clothing was torn away or rotted off its body, along with most of the soft flesh of the torso. Yellowed ribs showed on one side; a few were broken from falls over the years. Pencil thin, the legs still moved the walking corpse forwards on the road, but the bare feet were worn away from weather and from walking on the asphalt and concrete.

  Since its toes were gone, the creature shambled and lurched with little balance. Old feces and dried, maroon blood caked its legs and feet, and when it ate again, it would add to the build-up of bodily fluids and the stench surrounding it. It wasn’t so much hungry, as it was driven to eat. If allowed, it would eat until its stomach burst. It wasn’t desirous of sexual release; stirs of basic instinct would make it at least try to mate if given the chance and physical ability.

  When it passed the house, it turned briefly to the side to look at the ones who were inside and behind the thick window glass that was still unbroken. They were dead, their eyes blank but hungry, and they provided only a split second’s distraction for the monster walking by.

  In the home, one of the family members was a Red, commonly called by this nickname after contracting the Red virus or Diamond Flux, vomiting, going into a coma, and then awaking as a flesh-eater. Having been in the house, he was still in the remnants of pajamas that were stained by body fluids from ten years back; however, he last ate ten years before when he awoke to his new needs. He bit his wife as she checked on him, despite her being warned by radio and television reports to avoid those who had the infection and to lock them away. Ignoring what was broadcast, the wife, like so many others who cared for ill loved ones, changed linens and held water glasses to fevered lips.

  She flew the deathbed and ran to the bathroom in horror where she disinfected her arm, shivered at the damage done to her skin: shreds of skin hung from the wound as it gushed crimson from an oval-shaped bite. She shrieked; the sound echoed off the walls as the hydrogen peroxide stung.

  Using the entire roll, she wound gauze around her arm and then stuck pads on top and used the entire roll of medical tape to stop the bleeding. Swallowing three pain relievers, she tried to think what to do and then ran out of the room as one of the children cried out.

  Her daughter screamed from the nursery, and the woman ran there, fear clenching her chest. Her husband, a kind and loving man, was bent over the crib, gulping and lapping wetly at meat while the six-year-old cried and begged him to stop. It wasn’t meat. Not the regular kind from a grocery store or killed in the woods. It was the baby.

  The baby hadn’t screamed but mercifully died quickly from the bite to its little throat. The father swallowed the tender flesh but turned away from the little body since the baby was dead and living food made noises behind him. There was no thought process. The prions in his head maneuvered him to spread the infection by biting and eating living victims, which he identified by the noises they made, movement, and scent.

  The man could not control his actions but was driven; he had no memory of his family, no feelings except for a kind of hunger, and nothing intelligent left in his head besides a kind of hive instinct to organize the ghouls.

  The woman grabbed her other child, screaming at the sight of her baby, and tried to drag the child away, but her youngest, a three-year-old, toddled in with a giggle, not understanding what was happening, but finding the noise as interesting as the cartoons he watched.

  She sacrificed two fingers to her husband’s greedy mouth before she could break away and get both children into her arms and into the bathroom.

  Unfortunately, the infection changed her in less than four hours; the fever confused her brain. She opened the lock on the door, and the children’s father and she waited just outside the door where he periodically hammered at the wood, attacking the two children and eating large parts of them before they died.

  Chapter 5

  I Don’t Hate You. I Am Pissed

  But that happened ten years before, and now they were, as a family, together, inside the house, doomed to stare out the window at the world beyond.

  Occasionally, another zombie would shuffle by in the yard or on the road, and they would watch with little interest, pushed by the hive instinct to join, despite the inability to do so.

  In the beginning, people drove by in a few vehicles, some fast, speeding-away-to a hoped-for safety, and some slow, looking-for-survivors. Looters went through the homes, but there were so many empty and safe houses to enter that that particular

  house was neglected; in time, the place was assumed to be picked over since all,

  but the one, were emptied.

  Houses like this one, still inhabited by the ghouls, were of interest to those looking carefully since they were undisturbed in the past ten years.

  Adam led the horses to the backyard to tie them; they had plenty of grass to

  eat. He kicked in the back door, not worried about noise since the zombies had

  seen them and were moaning.

  Using an iron pipe, he dispatched the father, slamming the pipe into the man’s head, cursing the corpse. Brains, a little gooey and grey,
ran out of the skull as Adam bashed at the head until it was like jelly.

  Beside him, Hannah used a sword to slash at the mother’s neck until the

  head popped off raggedly, rolling to a corner. While the body went still, the woman’s teeth clacked as she hissed at Hannah.

  Hannah ignored her, letting Adam finish off the head with his pipe while Hannah went on to the next threat. It seemed Adam had a desire for violence against the infected.

  Clenching her jaw, Hannah watched as Adam split the six-year-old child’s

  skull and then spun to hit the next one, lopping off the head of the toddler, and

  pinning it through the eye socket until it quit moving. “Gimme more…come on,

  I want more,” Adam said.

  Rarely nauseated, Hannah vomited after she stepped back and watched Adam destroy the head of the baby lying in the crib, weakly wriggling like a slug in salt.

  He was in such a frenzy that it sickened her to watch his excitement at having another to kill. She was glad he left the room.

  “Oh, hell no,” Adam yelled. He began swinging his pipe violently, and Hannah wished she hadn’t looked in the other bedroom. Three small babies lay with smashed heads, but before Adam ruined their skulls, the little things squirmed on the filthy carpet. They were zombie babies.

  It wasn’t the first time they had seen this, but this never got easy. The woman gave birth as if one could call it that after being impregnated by her deadish husband.Some of the zombies did this.

  Seeing pregnant zombies was always a sickening event, but luckily, when they gave birth, it was to grey fetuses that had no abilities but just wiggled wherever they were dropped. The new species weren’t able to reproduce their kind, which could be

  a serious danger; they were just useless, albeit infected, little creatures.

  Adam claimed this was the psychological horror that the infection provided; Hannah didn’t disagree.

  With the house cleared, Adam took out the little stove from his pack and brewed some tea he looted, making the tea very strong. The bottles of water, soda, and