“Caleb! Daisy!? What-?”
Followed by a scream, and then she appeared- Lisa, staggering backward into the parlor, her hand torn, and dripping with blood as she was joined a moment later by Henson, rushing to see to her. Andy was on his feet, and the front door was ripped open to expose Marty as he returned from watch to take in the sight. Everyone was soon on their feet, and Clint brought up his gun, a revolver, staring at the dining room.
“What is it? How many are there?” he demanded. “I got it.”
He started to rush off, and Henson caught his arm.
“NO!”
But Clint had wheeled around, and his eyes were hard. He shoved Henson off, but the forlorn, panicking father was quick to grab the lamp near him, to bash Clint on the head. He tumbled to the floor, and the wild-eyed Henson stared down as Abbie had receded toward the stairs. Austin was on his feet, and he leveled his rifle on Henson.
“You son of a bitch…” Austin uttered.
“No, wait!” Andy said, trying to diffuse the matter before it got too far out of hand.
But the shot from Austin’s rifle struck Andy, rather than Henson, and the marine doubled over as Marty used his own pistol to down Austin from across the room. Abbie screamed, but then began to tremble before running up the stairs. She hurled herself into the bathroom, and locked the door, closing her eyes and putting her hands over her ears as she heard another scream. Clumping steps passed the bathroom door, and she slid down to the floor, beginning to cry.
Lisa had fallen back to a chair, still clutching her wounded hand when David began to scream, attacked from the rear. He stumbled back into the dining room, and the darkness, obviously fighting against something, but the worst part was, he could feel his heart- his old, kind heart- give out as he fought, and he gasped for breath.
Marty was still with Andy as the marine held a piece of cloth over the wound, and he shook his head as he looked up at Marty.
“You’ll have to clean it up, man,” Andy gasped. “You may be the only one left when the others get here.”
“Bullshit,” Marty countered. “We’ll both be waiting for ‘em with cold beers and smiles.”
Andy smiled, but the blood behind his lips put dread in Marty’s mind. It was just then that Marty noticed Clint had recovered, and he began to lift Andy. Wilma had returned, but there was someone with her, and Marty ignored them as he tried to get Andy to his feet, which he did with a dreadful groan from Andy. Clint, scowling, watched as Henson approached his wife, and he lifted the revolver.
It was suddenly very surreal to Marty, how quickly the situation had become such chaos, but as Clint fired one shot, then another, and another into Henson, and then his shrieking wife, the ranger was falling back toward the door. Clint had become completely unhinged, and he fired a shot into Wilma, and then wheeled about, firing one in the direction of Marty and Andy. Marty had winced, but heard a second shot strike the doorframe near him, and he drug Andy outside.
In the cool night air, Marty looked around, and then started for the barn with Andy, stumbling along as they went. There was only the sound of some moaning, and then Clint’s screams as he realized that both Pete, and Wilma, were closing in to grasp him, their mouths already working to bite. Soon enough, they had, but Marty did not stop dragging Andy away.
“We’re just gonna, wait in the barn,” Marty grunted. “It will be as safe there as anywhere else out here.”
It was only then that he had noticed, he was wet, and he realized that he’d been hit in the neck, and he was bleeding, badly. He did not notice that Wilma, and then Austin, and then Henson, were emerging from the house. Soon enough, Marty and Andy had reached the barn, but were too weak to get very far inside before they had collapsed to the floor of it. Marty, checked over Andy, who shook his head, and he gave a grim look to his friend.
But before they could utter any sentiments or goodbyes, both looked back to note that shadows had appeared in the doorway of the barn, and a grunt from one of the figures let them know that their journey had ended, and it would not include safety, or their friends. Marty began to fumble for his pistol, realizing only too late that he had dropped it in the house. But at the last moment, as Henson’s slack face had appeared to them, it erupted with a roar, and he tumbled away.
Clint was there, carrying David’s Franchi Spas-12 shotgun, and he leveled it and took off the top half of the head of Austin, but then doubled over in pain, and the shotgun fell to the barn floor, out of his grasp. It was too late, and soon, Lisa’s staggering form had appeared as well, and the ghouls were pawing at Marty and Andy, who were too weak to fight.
Mick, meanwhile, was at the side of the road. He had already had the moment, and let it pass, when he had kicked the bumper furiously as he watched smoke pouring from the engine, and knew almost nothing about how to fix it. Once he had calmed himself, he went to the truck, and checked his map. With a disgruntled expression, he eyed his things, and then sighed with resignation.
“Looks like I’m walking,” he said, and began to gather his things.
He knew that he could get to the farm just after dawn if he kept on the rest of the night, and that was a good thing. He could hardly wait to be there, to see the others, enjoy some moonshine, and kick back until Jake and Jon got there. Walking in the night didn’t bother him, and there were fewer and fewer cars, the longer he had been on the road. With all his things gathered, he started along the highway that would take him to the farm.
Elsewhere on the road, Mike had stopped to pull over so that Ash could throw up at the side of the road; the situation, the drugs, the alcohol leaving her body in the least pleasant ways possible. When she had gotten back into the car, she looked over at him, her ruined makeup and quivering face a pathetic sight for him. He smiled, though, and he mussed her hair.
“You’re gonna be fine, kid,” he said. “Harper’s Grove is just north of Chattanooga, and once we get Dana, we can get to some place even more safe.”
“You really think so?” Ash asked, her voice thick.
“I do, because I love you girls like you were my own, and I owe it to my sister to keep you safe,” he said to her. “Now, you just settle back in and get some more sleep, and I’ll get us to Harper’s Grove. I got a buddy I called from that last place we stopped, and he’s got a few others- we’re gonna get rid of your dad once and for all.”
“Love you, Uncle Mike,” Ash said, leaning against the seat. She was tired and emotionally spent, and had already closed her eyes when the car started forward again.
The rest of the night was spent with Jake, Jon and Mick each hurrying as fast as they could to reach the dark farm, which had grown deadly silent. Uncle Mike raced along as well, but could feel that the need for coffee was something he’d underestimated, and he put the window down as he drove, glad to feel the cool air on his face, but knowing it was going to get tougher to stay awake the longer the night wore on.
Ash dreamt of the reunion with her sister, but the visions continued to be invaded by faces she would rather never have seen again. Marco’s smile, Clyde’s piggish face, and even flashes of things that had happened in Birmingham sped past her. Mike had looked over twice at his niece as she twisted and groaned in her sleep.
“Gonna take some time,” he noted to himself. “She’ll be fine once all that shit’s out of her system.”
His tail lights sped off up the road, disappearing into the gloom.
CHAPTER ELEVEN- HOMECOMING
He was exhausted, but the half crumpled old mailbox at the start of the driveway that read “ANDERSON” was as welcome a sight as he’d seen since setting out. Holding the big assault rifle with the grenade launcher under the barrel, he felt as though he was weighed down by a thousand pounds, and it made him look forward to the comforts of the farm even more. And so with nothing else to do but get there, he started up the driveway.
It was about a quarter mile driveway, but he was feeling more energized at the thought of jibes from Marty and Andy, a
nd the hug of Mrs. Anderson, and so it went quickly. But as he neared the bend, he could hear the sound of shuffling steps on gravel, and he paused, unslinging the rifle and looking around. There was no one immediately visible, and so he continued on to the bend, so he could finally see the old place.
But before he could even reach the farm, he froze in his tracks as it came toward him. It was growling, and gurgling, and he had no idea it had been a woman named Lisa just the night before. He could only see that it was gray, and bloody, and that something had ripped its jaw loose, which hung by viscera onto its chest. The eyes were milky and dead, and blood-stained hands reached out at him as he stood still, and watched it come.
The rifle rose, and he stared down the sights of it at the hideous thing coming at him. In another instant, the rifle went off with an echoing shot, and before the empty brass casing had even struck the driveway, the head of the ghastly thing snapped back. A splatter burst out from it, and the zombie flew back, landing on the ground as Mick lowered the rifle, and regarded the farm. The silent farm. He felt a twinge in his stomach, and then continued forward.
What had been hope for a sort of homecoming was now a feeling of dread as he moved closer to the house, his rifle still at the ready. Soon enough, as he drew closer to the house, he spied something he had been expecting, and a sigh of relief escaped him. There was David, just inside the screen door, and his right hand came up, touching the screen as Mick jogged forward, and raised his own hand back in acknowledgement.
“David!” Mick called. “Thank god, when I saw that one, I thought…”
He paused, and the screen door was pushed open.
“Have any of the others shown up?” Mick asked, and looked around the farm as David continued toward him. “Jake? Or Jon?”
Mick turned back to David, only then freezing when he realized, David was dreadfully pale, and walking with awkward steps. There was a darkness around his mouth and eyes, and Mick’s teeth clenched, and his own eyes narrowed. He suddenly felt his hands on the rifle again, and with a nervous rattle to his breath, he looked up at David.
But it was then that there was a snarl, and Mick’s wide eyes turned left as the grasping form of another zombie came for him. It had been Clint, though again, with the amount of gore and the misshapen features of it, he could hardly tell. Still, David came closer, and Mick swiftly brought the stock of the rifle around, striking Clint under the chin with a cracking sound. The zombie fell on its back, and Mick was quick to lower the rifle on it.
The gun went off in a spray of rounds that ripped through what had been Clint, one of them finally spiraling through his head and rendering him silent and dead. Mick was quick to shift his focus from the fallen one to David, who was now within twenty feet, and still coming. Mick slowly, painfully raised the rifle and looked out at David. The first round ripped through the ghoulish old thing. Mick raised his sights, and found it too difficult to watch as he squeezed the trigger. His eyes were closed, but the shot hit home, and David spun from the impact.
Tumbling to the ground in a heap, blood draining from him, Mick regarded that nearly all of David’s back had been chewed away, and he felt sick. Looking no more, he ran from the house to a nearby grain bin to regain his composure. As he stood with his back to it, gasping for breath, he heard the sound of something falling from within the barn, and his gaze shifted to it, wondering what hell awaited him there.
But on the chance it was living, breathing people, Mick started for the barn, and moved at a slow pace, keeping quiet. As he neared it, he could see stains of dark, brownish red on the ground, and he felt the terror climb up in him again. A twisted, unrecognizable piece of fabric lay on the ground, soaked with mud and blood, and Mick kept the rifle at the read with his right hand, while lifting the fabric with his right. They were fatigues, and Mick immediately felt a panic as he let go of them to continue forward more quickly.
Rounding to where he entered the large opening of the barn’s sliding doors, he pulled up short, and at once, the rifle fell from his grasp and struck the ground. He could barely breathe, and he pulled the black watch cap from his head, and let it go as well. He stepped over the dead zombie laying in his way, regarding instead what lay on the ground before him.
Two enormous bloody patches were scattered on the ground, with bones, and clothing, and viscera strewn about. He could make out ribs, and at least one skull, and… fatigues. He cried out, bounding across the floor to the nearest of the muddy, bloody piles, looking it over in terror, and gasping as he did so. He yanked off his gloves, examining the still-steaming pile of parts, and his jaw quivered as he reached down.
His fingers sunk into the warm, gory pile, reaching through bones and sinew as he dug around in it for a frantic moment. Presently, he drew his hand back, and with it came a blood-caked chain, with a pair of dog tags clutched in his palm. He smeared some of the gore from them, and could read, finally, “PASCOM, MARTIN J”, and a mournful groan escaped him.
“God… damn it…” he uttered, choking back the nausea and grief.
But then there was a thump, and a shuffle, and his face tightened.
He looked up, and from across the barn, he could see a shadowy figure moving toward him. A pistol lay near the other puddle of gore, and Mick picked up the Beretta M-9, which was half covered in mud as he held it. Soon enough, he could tell it had been Wilma Anderson, and her mouth hung open as she moaned, headed for him. Without hesitation, he lifted the pistol and squeezed the trigger, which sent off a round that struck her in the chest. He fired twice more, which opened two more wounds on her. Firing again until the weapon was empty, the last shot had struck her in the forehead, and she crumbled.
Hurling aside the Beretta, Mick was quick to snatch up a nearby shovel, and with wide eyes, began to beat down on the corpse of Wilma. Sometime later, he was standing over her, panting as he still clutched the shovel, splattered with blood as he looked down. Finally, his hands aching, he let go of the shovel, and fell back to where he was near the bloody messes that had been people. He regarded the one he had not searched, and went to it, his right hand grasping around in it for several seconds before, just below the peeled skull, he could feel more dog tags. He closed his eyes.
“Not Jake…” he whispered silently as a prayer before bringing up the second set of tags to scrape off the mud and blood.
Though not Jake’s name, it gave him very little relief to read “BROGAN, ANDREW R.”, and he felt a sting in his eyes as he held the tags. He scooted back away from the bodies of his friends, sitting quietly against a wall with both pairs of tags in his hand. A further search of the farm would tell him if Jake or Jon had met the same fate, but first he would take care of Marty and Andy.
He stared down at the two patches of death, and shook his head, noting again the ruined zombie of Henson, and he smiled.
“At least you took one with you,” he said, then noticed the Spas-12 on the ground. “Who would have thought the pampered air force pilot would be about to bury the tough guys- the ranger and the marine.”
He grew a bit more angry, and he kicked at the ground, scattering rocks and dirt from the floor of the barn.
“You two assholes were supposed to be the ones good at this shit!” he cried at them, and then his voice became broken. “Not me… not some jack off who spent the whole war above it all…”
He returned to the shovel, and in a short while, had begun to gather what was left of his friends to bury.
The hiss from under the hood was an ominous sign that the car was done for, and inside it, Ash pushed herself back from the dashboard with a grunt. There was a slight knot on her forehead, and she was trying to regain her senses. When she did, she looked in panic over at Uncle Mike, and could see that he was struggling to move back as well, fighting with a deflated air bag as his face bled, and he labored to breathe. He turned his head to her.
“Sorry, kiddo,” he grunted. “Shouldn’t have been going so fast, I guess.”
He had been speed
ing along, and had been startled to find a small pileup of cars at an intersection just over a hill. Screeching to stop, but slamming full into them, the Mercedes had crushed one of the vehicles, but was now itself a wreck, and Mike gave Ash a nod. She was looking around, and noticed that her window was completely shattered.
“Take my gun, go on,” he said. Her head shook vigorously.
“No!” she cried at him. “I hate those things!”
“All right, all right, but you gotta go on ahead,” he said. “First place you come to, get help.”
“No, you have to come with me!” she howled.
“I ain’t going nowhere!” he hissed in pain. “I think both my legs are busted, and my chest hurts like hell, now you go on and get me some help.”
She had started to climb out the window, and soon was outside the car. She could sense that there was someone else near them, but didn’t care who it was. She made it to Mike’s window, and leaned in, noting a wound on the side of his head. He looked up at her and smiled.
“I was wrong, I think my legs may be ok, but I don’t think I can get out of here without some help,” he said. “Now you go on, up this road, and head for the first place you find, and then come back and get me. I’ll be all right until you get back.”
“You’d better be,” she whined. He smiled.
“I love ya, kid,” he said.
“I love you, Uncle Mike,” she said back, and then ran off up the road.
As she ran, her lungs were burning, and it was certain that pure adrenaline was keeping her going. The road seemed to go on forever with farm fields or forests along its edge, until at last, at the top of one more slight hill, she spied a mailbox, and ran to it. Her breath heaving, she paused at the mailbox, and then looked up the driveway. It was only another moment before she set out at a run again, up the driveway to the Anderson farm.
The quarter mile of driveway seemed to fly by as she ran, and would have begun calling out for help had she not been struggling for breath. At the top of the driveway, she skidded to a halt, feeling almost as though she would have a heart attack, but unable to look away from the ruined, bloody pile of the zombie that had been Lisa. She edged slowly around it, noting that there was a house just ahead.
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