Waiting to Die ~ A Zombie Novel

by Cochran, Richard M.

  Slamming hard against the windshield, Bill is knocked unconscious as the glass spider-webs from the force of the impact. Droplets of blood form at a gash on his forehead, trickling downward across his scalp and onto the roof of the ambulance.

  A growing mass of bodies hover around the wreck and encroach upon the still idling ambulance. They begin to crouch down through broken glass once the vehicle has settled. Deep, resounding moans drown out the sound of the engine as it knocks and finally stalls out.

  Bill awakens to the smell of gasoline leaking into the cargo compartment. He glances around through blurry eyes at the mayhem that surrounds him. All that he can see through the spider web of broken glass are dozens of unsteady legs, drawing nearer.

  He can feel something touch his arm. A small hand pokes up through the debris of medical equipment and grazes him. The child’s face shows fear as she looks at him questioningly.

  “Are you hurt?” he asks the girl.

  “I don’t think so,” she replies.

  “We’ve got to get out of here.” He motions toward the passenger side window at a small space between the vehicle and the outer wall of the hospital. “Do you think you can squeeze through?”

  “I’ll try,” the girl says as she dislodges herself from the mound of medical gear stacked on top of her.

  “You’ve got to get the rest of the way out and run away as fast as you can. Don’t stop for anything,” he instructs her.

  “But what about you?” she asks.

  Bill looks down at his leg, wedged between the ground and the collapsed roof of the vehicle, “I’m not going anywhere.” The dead reach through the driver’s window and clasp at Bill’s shirt with bloody hands. “Hurry, you have to get out!” his voice is filled with panic.

  The girl whimpers, “I can’t leave you.”

  “Go now!” he screams as a morbid mouth twists in over through the broken out window and rips a scrap of flesh from his neck.

  He thinks of his son and his wife. Their images play in his mind and keep the pain away. He grits his teeth and prays for Billy to be all right, prays that somehow his wife was able to get him to safety.

  The child cries out in horror and turns, scurrying off through the crevice between the ambulance and the wall. She scrambles on hands and knees through the thick grass, and emerges at the front of the vehicle before getting to her feet.

  “Run!” Bill screams again.

  The girl hears his yelping cries as she runs along the driveway and into the parking lot. Panting, she keeps up her pace as she passes a crowd of the undead that have completely engulfed a wrecked car wrapped around a light pole. She can see them pulling someone apart inside; body parts, undistinguishable from one another are removed through a broken out window as the dead fight over the scraps.

  Her stomach lurches and she turns away. The nauseous feeling begins to fade as she runs toward a cropping of trees alongside a park across from the hospital. She glances behind her to see the massacre underway.

  Someone shouts, “Little girl, wait!” But Sarah keeps running across the street, too afraid to stop.

  Shambling corpses are everywhere, sifting through the remains of wreckage as the hospital burns in the background. She can hear people screaming for help, pleading for their lives as she hides in the underbrush at the edge of the park, quivering and sobbing from fear. She watches as a car passes, veering through wreckage. The car slows for a moment and the woman who is driving searches along the street, scanning the bushes where Sarah is concealed.

  As she steadies herself, she remembers her sister; she remembers how to get to her house from here. It is only a few blocks away, across the park and through the housing tract. She gets to her feet and begins to run again. Her heart is racing as her surgical gown whips behind her, creating tiny white flags at the ties that hold it together.

  She narrows the gap, taking strides through panic. She is driven in fear, released into the nightmare. The sounds of tearing flesh and the screams of the weak fill her ears. She runs faster as the tears come, streaming along her face. Not much further now.

  ·4

  In a dark corner of the basement, Billy curls up, keeping his back tight against the wall. The pounding from upstairs gets louder as he cries out for help. He pulls the laundry table closer just in case the man and his mother manage to get through the door at the top of the stairs. Their hands scrape against the frame and the knob rattles as they try to get through.

  He fastened the beam over the basement door and kept as quiet as he could. Stumbling back, he held to the railing as he watched it bulge and moan from stress. The memory of what he’d seen still rose to the surface. The look on the man’s face… He saw him smash his mother to the floor with a loud howl and…

  He can’t let those memories back in. The stretching sneer, the blank, staring eyes… it was more than his young mind could process. The strips of bloody meat looped across his face as Billy’s mother screamed in pain and terror with a voice he had never heard before.

  If only his father had come home from work, he might have been able to stop the man from coming in. He might have been able to save them both. They could have gotten away.

  But now they thrash against the door together; this evil, bloody thing and his mother. They scrape and claw as they howl out in ragged voices trying to pound their way through. He hopes the door will hold. He won’t know what to do if it doesn’t.

  Through the slit of a window above, he can hear others. Their voices are as broken and scraping as the people upstairs. They scream and run, throwing shadows through the window in long, thin lines that curve on the basement floor and across to the far wall. Like the tales from a diorama, the images tell stories of chasing, of catching, and of feeding on those who are caught. Every scene is complete with sound, with shouts of pain and pleas for help. Every image is a nightmare; every sound is an assault.

  The window is the only way out, but he can’t bring himself to escape. With the screams and shouts and fearsome moans that rip through the streets beyond, he can’t manage to get up the nerve to move. He trembles as he pulls the table closer with a dry scrape, hoping that it will block them if they should get through.

  There is gunfire, rapid and loud. He can see men in military uniforms pass by, shouting orders and taking aim at the crazy people. Crazy people, that’s all that is out there now. Everyone has gone crazy. Some of them shoot while others chase and kill and eat those that they catch. Every new image is more terrifying than the last and Billy curls up tightly as he tries to sob away pain.

  He can’t get himself to move even when he needs to relieve himself. He cries and waits for the warmth to soak his pants and run along the floor to the drain that takes it away in the center of the basement. He watches the yellow trickle from his pant leg into a tiny stream and shudders as it flows away.

  His mother and the man have gone quiet. The door is silent and the clawing subsides. Outside has become calm too. If he listens carefully, he can hear the birds calling from somewhere far off. Their tiny voices assure him that it is safe. He whimpers softly as he stands, careful not to move the table and make the sound again.

  He climbs up onto the table and watches his step as he peeks through the window on his tiptoes. Tufts of grass block most of what he’s able to see, but beyond, through a dead patch, he can make out the Robertson’s house. He can see the smoke rising and flames licking at the windows. There are bodies in the streets, too many to count. Every one of them is covered in blood and torn clothing. Tiny flecks of light litter the street, gleaming gold in the sun. Peppered along the road, shell casings refract in the sunlight like loose change thrown to the fallen; a simple offering to the massacre that ensued.

  Brittle flakes of paint crack as he unfastens the latch and stares out past the lawn, letting his gaze rest on the bodies that lay in the street. His neighbors are there, lying still on the asphalt like children sleeping after play. He pushes the window outward as slowly as he can, careful not to
let the hinges squeak. There’s a noise upstairs, the clatter of something being dropped to the floor. He pushes himself up and squeezes through the opening and finally kicks free.

  He lays on the grass for a moment, afraid to move. The stale smell of aging, sun blistered meat hangs in the air, garnished with sulfur and damp earth. He pushes himself up to his knees and opens his eyes wide with shock. Kicking, he scoots along the lawn and away from the body of an old woman wearing a stained nightgown. A single hole dots her forehead between two smoke white eyes. She glares upward as if searching for some elusive answer.

  Firm against the house, Billy gasps in small breathes. He clenches wads of grass in his hand and presses firmly into the lawn with the heels of his shoes as he backs away to the side of the house. His mouth is drawn open, but no sound emerges. No voice can escape. In his terror, he recognizes the woman. She’s his neighbor, Mrs. Ericson. She lives three doors down in the little pink house surrounded by rose bushes. She’s still staring at the sky in questioning reserve as Billy whimpers her name.

  “Billy…” There’s a faraway voice, rasping and cold.

  The child looks around, but can’t see anyone.

  “Billy…” The voice is stronger as if building the nerve to be heard. “Here, in the bushes.”

  He turns his head slowly, afraid of what he’ll find. After a moment, he gains courage and parts the branches to the bush. A face appears, cut badly across the cheek. The gash extends around the man’s mouth and down toward his neck. Through the cuts, Billy can tell who it is, he can recognize the eyes, and he can almost mouth the man’s name.

  Gary coughs small splatters of blood and wheezes through the rasp. “You have to get out of here,” he says, pushing the words out. “You have to run. You can’t stop until…” His eyes roll to the back of his head and his eyelids flutter. “Get somewhere safe,” his breath reveals.

  The boy jumps to his feet and staggers away from his father’s friend. He had just seen the man a couple of days ago, bright, cheery, and full of life at the barbeque his father held for his mother’s birthday. All of that is gone. What lies in the bushes is a pale reflection, a husk of something that once was.

  The sting hits his eyes and the tears begin to well. He turns to run, leaping over bodies as he comes to the side of the street. His heart races, pummeling through knots of fear that shudder in his chest. The bodies are everywhere and they all wear the same face, the same silent reserve. There are so many that Billy can’t register their numbers. But he knows they are dead, he knows what that face looks like.

  The summer before, Billy saw a man crash into a parked car out in front of his house. His parents had told him the man was drunk, that he passed out with his foot on the gas pedal. He hadn’t been wearing his seatbelt and when he crashed, his body flew through the front windshield. Billy’s father tried to give the man CPR, but he was already gone; his body too badly injured to bring him back. The man lay on the street until the police arrived. They put a white sheet over his body and took him away when the ambulance arrived.

  Billy’s father went to work early that night at the hospital. He blamed himself for not being able to help the man. He said he should have been able to do more.

  Face up at the edge of the sidewalk, his friend is laying there, tiny holes with black edges grace is chest. A single indentation rests in the child’s forehead between blank, staring eyes. Billy looks at his friend and mouths his name, but the word is lost in the dry afternoon air. As he turns around in place, he can see the others, take in their numbers. People he’s known his whole life; neighbors and friends are lying dead in the street. Bullet holes riddle their bodies. Blank stares grace their faces.

  His lips tighten as the tears come again. Through the blur in his eyes, he walks away through the death. A helicopter flies low overhead and whizzes off through the sky. A gunshot can be heard in the distance.

  He cries for his father.

  “Daddy,” he says through the lump in his throat. “Daddy,” he repeats with a trembling voice and walks in circles, confused and alone.

  The helicopter returns, diving down in a wide arch and points toward Billy. The child stands there, unable to move. The whooping of the blades thump out as it descends, knocking out vibrations in the boy’s chest. He stares at the chopper as it tilts and redirects itself into a sideways descent.

  Billy can see the gun glistening as it aims toward him. A soldier guides the weapon, pivoting it as he begins to fire. The child’s mouth hangs in fright as he begins to run. Bullets devour the asphalt behind him, breaking loose large chunks of road in their wake.

  Closer now, the soldier aims, spraying fire from the barrel of the gun, peppering the lawn Billy escapes to. Inches from his heels, Billy can feel the dirt and rock that is blown up from where the bullets hit the ground. He dives and skids under a length of bushes against the Anderson’s house. He scurries on his hands and knees, feeling the dead leaves crunch beneath his palms. He stands and flees along the side of the house that leads into the backyard and backs up against the inside wall.

  The chopper flies low and winds around. An elm tree blocks the view from the helicopter that hovers in the air some fifty feet away. The blades are thundering, slapping out as they wait for the child to reappear. Only the tail is visible from behind the tree, making the branches bend from the wind it stirs, sending leaves scurrying into the air as it shifts and adjust to get a better view of the side of the house.

  Billy doesn’t dare move. He stands still, trembling and shaking, pressing tightly against the siding. The dry paste in his mouth keeps him from screaming. He holds still as the warmth runs along his leg again. He shivers from the feeling, praying the soldiers will just go away.

  As quickly as it had arrived, the chopper flies off, taking to the air and back from where it came. The child convulses in sobs, his lips tremble in fright as the helicopter veers out of sight; the deafening slap of the blades receding into the distance like a storm.

  His fingers course along the rough siding and he stares out in shock, almost not believing what had just happened. He can still feel the sting against his face from the wind that had battered it. He makes his way into the backyard to hide from the soldiers and the people. He wants to curl up into a ball and hug himself until it all goes away.

  Billy hides behind a storage shed. He’s too frightened to move, afraid the soldiers will return. He can hear screaming from the street and explosions in the distance. From behind him, there comes a scraping sound of nails being dragged across wood. He shudders and turns slowly to see a face poking through a gap in the fence from the adjoining yard.

  The corpse howls when Billy faces it. The child stands and backs away as the corpse thrashes against the fence, knocking a strip of wood away from the supports. A scratched and bruised arm reaches out and claws as the creature starts to squeeze itself through.

  Milky eyes glare from the opening and fixate on the child. A large portion of its neck is torn open and smears of blood grace its shirt. A deafening scream escapes the ghoul’s mouth, snapping Billy back into reality.

  He backs away and turns to run, but his path is blocked by two more creatures approaching from the side of the house. The dead call to him through bending moans that seem to come from their very core. The child turns again and crosses the yard to a long planter that extends from each side of the fence line. He pulls himself up onto the planter and jumps up, snagging the top of the fence that leads to the alley behind the house. The dead are quick to follow, struggling with the wall as they try to clutch onto the child.

  With a whimper, Billy kicks out behind him and uses the force of his flailing feet to connect with one of the corpses. His foot slams hard against the creature, giving him enough push to scale the rest of the way over the fence.

  He lands hard on the concrete, knocking the wind from his lungs. The dead are slamming against the fence as Billy gets to his feet and starts to sprint, ignoring the pain in his back and chest.

&n
bsp; As twilight approaches, Billy runs. His legs cramp as he flees along the road. From behind, the dead take chase and howl out, calling others to the hunt. Bullet riddled bodies swarm out from everywhere as he sprints through his neighborhood and passes the park that is across from the hospital where his father works.

  He glances back at the horde that follows, breathing heavy and ready to fall. He hears squealing tires and the rev of an engine. A black blur swerves along the street, coming straight for him.

  ·5

  The sign in the front of the hospital reads: Our Lady of Grace, but the screaming and bloodshed is anything but. Scarlet veers through car wrecks and around the mayhem. There is a child running from an overturned ambulance that lies against the front of the hospital.

  She slows the car and waits for the child to near. The girl’s hairless head darts from one direction to the next as her hospital gown flaps behind her. The look of fear and terror that graces her face reminds Scarlet of photographs she has seen of third world disasters. The panic the child wears is much too real, too close to home.

  “Little girl, wait!” Scarlet yells, trying to grab her attention.

  The girl looks back for a split second and runs down into the ditch at the other side of the road and vanishes into the underbrush.

  Scarlet stops the car and tries to scan the foliage for any sign of the child. She checks around the trees and as far along the ditch as she can see, but the girl is gone.

  “What are you doing?” Greg asks with concern in his voice. “Don’t stop, they’re coming.”

  From the hospital grounds, a mob of bodies converge, spotting the car and stumble toward it. Stiff bodies mount the roadway, collecting and quickening their pace.

  “Go!” Greg shouts.

  Scarlet turns her attention from the ditch to the growing mass of bodies and back again, unsure of what to do. “There …” she begins, pointing to where the child disappeared.