LEFT ALIVE (Zombie series Box Set): Books 1-6 of the Post-apocalyptic zombie action and adventure series

by Laszlo,Jeremy

  Chapter Eighteen

  Everything that I am screams at me to run. I need to run and get away from these men. They’re killers and there’s no knowing what they want with me. They’re still too far off for me to see them and I can’t tell how many there are, I just know that there are multiple. I gather up my pack and sling it across my back before following the fallen tree in a crouch. My stomach is tearing apart my insides and my ribs seem to have joined forces with it, clawing at my body in gut-wrenching, agonizing stabs. It hurts to crouch and to sneak, but I have to keep moving. I can’t let them find me and they’re already so close. They’re practically on top of me.

  I slip behind a tree and inch around it until they are to my back. I peek around the tree and see the flashlight between the trunks of the dead trees. I cringe at the thought of what they might do to me when they find me. Sneaking seems to be a foolish tactic since there is a trail of footprints in the ankle-high dust drifts throughout the forest. They’re going to catch me. I know it. I have to keep moving. If I make a run for it, I’m in as much trouble as I was with the Zombies back in Bellbrook. They’ll catch me. There is no way that I’m going to outrun a pack of trackers. Not only that, but they probably have a gun. They probably have a gun and they probably know how to use it by now. I suppose that everyone with a gun at this point has a clue how to use it, or they wouldn’t be alive to carry it. I look around. There’s no way for me to outrun them. But I have to keep moving.

  Or do I?

  The question bursts into flames in the darkness of my mind, echoing and poisoning all other thoughts until it’s the only thing I can think about. I look at the thick drifts of dust and ash that reach all the way up to my knees against some of the trees. Everywhere is at least an inch of dust between the long, triangular drifts. Quickly I drop my pack and unzip it, looking for my hammer, but instead, my fingers find the hacksaw. I grip the handle and pull it out. No time, this will have to do. I place it next to my knife on the ground before pulling out a bottle of water and dumping it out all over my head. I feel the warm water running down my hair, face, shoulders, and chest before I screw on the cap, listening as the voices echo through the trees. Before I zip up the bag, I plunge my face into a drift of ash and dust. It burns, but it’s necessary. The majority of it is dust and I’m grateful that I don’t make lye and burn my face off. I make sure I’m coated in the dust before burying my pack.

  Grabbing handfuls of dust and ash, I spread it out over my footprints in the forest, hiding my trail ten feet back. I then cover the new trail I’ve made until I find my hiding position. Picking up my hacksaw and my knife, I begin digging, burrowing my way into one of the higher drifts near a large, thick trunk. I pile myself in dust and ash until I’m completely covered. I can barely hear the world behind me and I sit completely still, lying on my back in the drift. I’m far away enough from my original path that I think I’m safe, unless one of the trackers just happens to step on me.

  Suddenly, I can hear movement beyond me, footsteps across the hard, parched ground I’m lying on. Barely confident in my camouflage, I try not to move. I try to remain completely motionless as they approach. In the time it took me to bury myself, they had to be just fifty yards away. I pray to whatever cursed god exists that I’m not discovered. Another footstep draws closer and I hear something loud smack one of the dead trees.

  “Quiet,” a muffled voice hisses.

  “Why? He’s gone,” a second voice snaps. “We’ve lost him—again!”

  “Yeah, well you don’t need to keep making so much noise,” the first voice argues quietly. “It’s making a shit ton of noise that probably alerted him that we were coming anyway. Don’t you know shit about hunting?”

  “Yeah, I know you suck at tracking.”

  “Fuck you.”

  “Fuck you, Cal. Where the hell he at?”

  “Hell if I know,” Cal answers. “It’s like he disappeared.”

  “Again?” the second voice complains.

  “Hey, I found him again,” Cal answers close by. “He’s smart, this one.”

  “Then we should have just gone after the girl.”

  “Fuck that, she had a bow. She would have shot us a mile off,” Cal counters.

  There are two of them. I don’t like the odds, but it’s better than a whole pack of them. Their voices are heading south and I’m feeling a touch of hope inside of me. I realize now what I need to do. I can’t have them following me or just wandering around in the same territory as I’m passing through. They’re going to keep hunting, keep tracking, until they find me and kill me. They need to be stopped, once and for all. I hear them going on about how they should have killed the girl that saved me. I hear them talk about the things they’d have done to her if they got their hands on her. It’s enough to make the most hardened man blush. It makes me blush and feel nauseous inside. I hate them. I hate them more than they’ll ever know. I turn my head and feel the sand and ash run off my face.

  Slowly I push myself up, letting the ash and dust cascade off of me in rivulets of gray. Pulling my knife and hacksaw from the dust, I stand on my feet, feeling the burning fire in my ribs and stumbling against the knot that has become my constricting stomach. There is pain everywhere in my abdomen, but it won’t stop me. Not from this. I follow them, quietly. Slowly.

  There’s no rush for me. I can see them now, clearly in the moonlight, walking with their long shadows leading up to them like a black road. They don’t try to be subtle about their presence anymore. They’re loud, one of them smacking every tree he passes. I catch a good glimpse of them for a moment. One of them is tall and burly, the kind of man that I haven’t seen for a very long time. The other one is lean, the same height as the other. I gauge them both at six feet tall, about my height. They’re both well fed, and I can see machetes in their hands. That’s enough to make me stop, to give me pause before I remember that I’m not unarmed and that I have the upper hand on them. They’re wearing good equipment, the kind that one scavenges from the corpses of those who are strong. These men have killed for their attire.

  They’re cannibals, the original Zombies that I encountered. They’re just like the three men who murdered the Kid back in Sterling Heights. I wondered if they’d beaten a teenager until he was nothing more than a heap of bone and mangled flesh before dragging him off and feeding on him. Yes, I can see it now. As they turn, ignorant to my presence, their faces are still full. One of them is baby-faced. Who shaves these days? I think about Jason’s fiancée. I think about how she had shaved legs and how strange that had seemed and how much more unnatural this seems now. I don’t like these two. I don’t like them all the way down to their very cores. They need to be killed. They need to be removed from this already wretched world. If I’m a monster, then I can only imagine what they are.

  “God, I need something,” the lean one complains. “We should have gone after the woman. A man has needs, Cal.”

  The big one, Cal, is down on one knee, looking at the earth. “You can fuck him in the ass when we find him,” Cal says ponderously, almost as if he’s contemplating the earth. “It’s this way. He’s gone this way.” I don’t know who they’re following, but they’re on the wrong trail.

  “I want a woman,” the Second snaps as they continue heading south. “I need a nice—“

  “Shut up,” Cal growls, pushing the Second into a tree and pinning him there, leaning close with his machete drawn and ready to bring across the Second’s throat. “We all got needs. But if we want to survive, then we need meat. Once we get him, we’ll cut him up and have ourselves a meal before going back for the bitch. She ain’t going nowhere. Hear me? So shut the fuck up.”

  “Christ, Cal, lay off.” The Second worms free after Cal gives him one more shove. The Second is nothing more than a teenager, which makes me hate him even more. How does he know Cal? How did these two come together? No, it’s best not to think of them as humans. I creep closer and hide behind a large tree. I keep my eyes on them, wa
tching them for any signs of a gun. From what I can gather, they only have the machetes. That’s enough to give me a little more courage. I creep closer. “These don’t look like footprints to me.” The Second drops down on his knee in front of Cal.

  I advance quietly. Thankfully, they’re noisy enough that they don’t hear me coming. Cal clears his throat and spits a thick ball of mucus against one of the burned tree trunks. I remain still, afraid that he might backtrack a little. I grip my hacksaw and knife, ready to do whatever is needed if he turns back this way. The Second begins smacking the tree nearest him with his machete.

  “You’re going to make it dull,” Cal chides.

  “I got a stone,” the Second retorts.

  “Don’t come bitching to me when it’s all chipped.”

  I peek around the tree and see their backs to me. Cal lingers back a little while the Second starts wandering ahead further. I’m certain that Cal is on to me, which is all the more reason to get to him first. There’s no trees between us now and I’m just inches away from him. Cautiously, I peek out from around the side of the tree, my heart pounding and my hands sweaty. Just enough to see him with my left eye, I see that he’s not moving. He’s just standing there with his back to me watching as the Second wanders ahead a few feet. Suddenly, he sheaths his machete and raises his left hand to his mouth and begins to cough. Now is my time. I move quickly and silently, like a viper through the ash until I’m right on top of him. When I’m close enough I extend my right arm and slam the hacksaw into the side of his neck, digging the teeth of the hacksaw deep into the flesh and ligaments of his neck before ripping it back towards me, spinning Cal around as I saw his neck in half. His cough is a sputtered gurgle and a fountain of blood begins spurting and pouring out of his neck, spattering my gray face as his eyes widen and his words fail him. He’s dead and he knows it. There’s muscle and gore hanging from my crimson hacksaw and as Cal drops to the ash with a heavy thud, the Second is too busy hacking at one of the dead trees to even hear.

  “I can’t wait until we get the drop on her.”

  I drop the hacksaw on Cal’s twitching body and reach down, wrapping my muddy fingers around the wrapped handle of the machete. It’s warm from Cal’s big, sweaty, meaty hands. I pull it from its sheath and start walking toward the Second. Cal is dead behind me, but his foot is still kicking—still twitching against the sudden mutilation. I’m closing quickly on the Second as he keeps hacking at the tree. “I’m going to pull out my cock,” he grabs his groin and starts mimicking humping. “And I’m going to—“

  The Second screams as he turns around and jumps at the sight of me. He drops his machete instantly as I stand before him, the corpse of Cal in the distance behind me. His eyes dart from Cal to me and then back to Cal. His eyes almost immediately start to well with tears and I notice that he’s pissing himself. I hold Cal’s machete out, the blade scraping against the Second’s neck. He’s quivering in terror and I have to admit, I’m relishing and savoring this moment.

  “What’s your name?” I ask.

  “Denny,” he answers.

  “Hi, Denny,” I hiss. Pushing the machete closer against his throat, I want to make sure he doesn’t get any funny ideas. “I almost took your friend back there’s head off with a hacksaw and you didn’t even hear a thing. You’re a dense motherfucker, Denny.”

  “Yeah?” Denny’s lips are trembling.

  “Yes,” I answer. “Drop your pack, Denny.”

  He worms his way out of his pack and it drops into the dust with a large plume roiling up around it. I don’t like Denny. I don’t like him one bit, but I don’t think I’m going to kill Denny. Denny doesn’t seem to have a useful thought in his head. The word that I think rings most true with this worthless piece of shit in front of me is goon. I don’t think Denny is going to survive without Cal. I don’t think I need to kill Denny.

  “Take off your clothes, Denny,” I say to him.

  “What?” Denny chirps.

  I press the machete against his throat. Before I can repeat myself, Denny is ripping off his belt and throws it into the drift where it sinks and vanishes. I watch until Denny is standing in front of me stark naked. The teenager I’m looking at has been eating well since the collapse. I don’t like what I’m seeing. Has he really been eating people this entire time?

  “Go hug that tree right there, Denny,” I order.

  “Why do you keep saying my name?” he asks, not moving.

  “So I remember what to carve on your tombstone if you don’t do what I fucking tell you!” I realize that I’m shouting the last part of the sentence and Denny is recoiling in terror. He walks toward the tree and wraps his arms around it. I follow him, poking him in the back with Cal’s machete to remind him that I’m there. “If you make any movements, I’ll cut your hand off,” I warn him as I walk around to the other side of the tree. Slipping the rope over my head, I begin wrapping it around his hands until it’s nice and tight, impossible for him to wriggle out of. “Sit down, flat on your ass,” I tell him, and the boy does it. I take the rest of the rope and wrap it around his feet, looping them together with the bound hands. There’s no way that Denny is ever getting out of this.

  “You’re not going to leave me like this.” Denny begins to laugh, his eyes filled with frantic, mad panic. I spit in his face, something I never imagined myself ever doing, but there’s something incredibly satisfying about shutting him up that way.

  I retrace my steps back to Cal. I can hear Denny shouting something at me, pleading, begging, cursing, and damning me all in an incoherent string of run-on sentences. I find a flashlight in Cal’s pocket, a nice tactical truncheon of a flashlight. There’s a lighter in his pocket that I scavenge and a few bullets to a gun that Cal doesn’t have on him. Somewhere along the way, he must have lost his weapon. I find a flask full of bourbon, of course. There’s nothing else of any real value on him, a ton of cigarettes and a few maps that are marked with some sort of key that I don’t understand. I toss the maps aside. I have my own and I’m not heading into Cincinnati or back to Dayton.

  I grab his pack and take it back to where Denny dropped his own. I toss it next to Denny’s and backtrack all the way to where my pack is buried. I resurrect it from the ash and carry it back to where the other two packs are. Denny is screaming at the top of his lungs. Grabbing his underwear, I roll it up and stuff it in Denny’s mouth before kicking him hard in the kidney. My lungs are burning from the ash and the pain in my ribs as I begin sorting through the trash in their packs. There are bundles of cloth wrapped up around dried strips of meat that might pass as jerky. I know what the meat is and I instantly throw it out into the ash drifts. They have a few bottles of water, but most of the stuff they carry is meaningless. I take what I can, but I can’t say that I’m much better off from where I was half an hour ago in the supply department.

  I empty out Cal’s bag and stock it with everything I have or decide to carry of value. I pick up the hacksaw once more, certain that if it came in handy this time, it’ll be useful again. As I start walking, I hear Denny grunting at me. I turn and look at him. He’s crying, big, fat crocodile tears. I have their machetes strapped to my leg and have switched out my old worn boots for Denny’s. He’s about one size too large, but I sliced one of Cal’s socks in half and stuffed the two halves down in the toes so that they feel as snug as possible. Before leaving, I pile all of the things I don’t need on top of Cal and squirt a little jet of lighter fluid onto the cloth and dead man. Pulling out Cal’s lighter, I catch one of Denny’s socks on fire and toss it onto him, watching the whoosh of flame consume the pile of clothes. My stomach twists at the smell of roasting meat.

  “Good luck, Denny.” I head south, his muffled screams chasing after me.

  Chapter Nineteen

  On the sign for the First Church of God in Blanchester there is a tarp tied to it with red writing scrawled upon it, warning whoever is approaching the town that everyone is gone. It warns of marauders nearby. I assu
me that it is these marauders that are also the ones responsible for burning the First Church of God to the ground. The blackened corners are all that stick up out of the ground, along with two blackened teeth where the door frame was. I look at the sign and wonder if this isn’t the work of a community banding together to try and discourage those traveling to keep their distance. I stand at the entrance to the town, looking at the cluster of businesses and houses. This town is maybe five blocks long, nothing more than that. This is one of the few places worth stopping and looting.

  My new goal is to head south from here until I reach the Ohio River. There isn’t much between me and my destination, but it’s enough to keep me safe and well out of the reach of marauders coming from Cincinnati. I try not to think about what happened in the forest back with Denny and Cal. There’s nothing I want to dwell on back there. I push the thoughts of Cal dying and Denny’s muffled screams from my mind as I take a few steps forward, entering the town to see what there is to salvage.

  The town is entirely vacant, from what I can tell. I call out a few times, saying that I come in peace. “I’m just passing through,” I shout to the emptiness. “I don’t want any trouble. Please let me know if you’re inside any of the homes and I will not disturb you. If I hear nothing, I’m going to try to find some food. Do we understand one another?”