Doomsday Sheriff_Day 1_A Post-Apocalyptic Zombie Adventure

by Michael James Ploof

  Chapter 5

  Alan Jones

  Ten minutes later, they stopped in front of the radio station. Max left the motor running, just in case things went south, and got out of the Bronco with his shotgun leading the way. The station was situated on the top of a hill outside of town. WHOR 92.7 consisted of a squat building with a red-and-white antenna rising behind it, and an Airstream trailer parked on the left side farthest from the driveway. An old Ford truck, presumably Alan’s, was parked in front of the Airstream, and four other vehicles took up the driveway as well. There were two other broken down pickups, the kind you find in your friendly neighborhood redneck’s yard. And a chicken coop was situated off to the left of the trailer.

  Max surveyed the surrounding forest, checking the snow for tracks as Stefan went around searching the cars. There was no sign of a horde of zombies having passed through, but there were tracks leading from the cars to the front door of the station. Max made his way toward the front door, his gun aimed at the ground.

  “Mr. Jones! You in?”

  The door burst open, and a squat, sweaty man with a balding head whirled out, sweeping a rifle left and right.

  “Whoa,” said Max, holding up his free hand. “Heard your call on the radio.”

  “You law?” said Alan Jones. He wore blue jeans, army boots, and a Grateful Dead t-shirt that probably fit him ten years ago. His bulbous belly gave him that pregnant male look. “I said, you law?” Alan reiterated with narrowing eyes.

  “What gave it away?” said Max. He was, after all, wearing his uniform.

  Alan glanced over at Stefan in his blood-spattered medieval gear. “What’s with the armor?”

  Stefan spread his arms wide, “Uh, zombies!”

  “How many you got inside?” Max asked.

  “A few locals, and a bunch of hungover hockey players from out of town.”

  “Had any trouble yet?”

  Alan glanced around at the surrounding tree line. “Aside from my neighbor trying to kill me? No.”

  “Got any guns?” said Stefan, resting his sword over his shoulder.

  “Do bears have balls?” said Alan.

  “Not the females.”

  “Don’t worry about me. I’m prepared.”

  “Good man,” said Max. “Mind if we come in?”

  Alan stepped aside and held the door open, offering them both a nod. The inside of the radio station consisted of a large main room full of MREs stacked in crates to the ceiling, along with hundreds of gallons of milk jugs full of water lining the wall to the right. The place looked like a survival shop storage room. In the back right corner was the booth where Alan Jones made all the magic happen, and huddled in a tiny sitting area littered with more gear and a half dozen loveseats and sofas were the survivors.

  “I thought you had some kind of bomb shelter,” said Stefan.

  Alan ignored him and engaged the many deadbolts before peering out a peephole in the door.

  “What do you make of all this, Alan?” said Max.

  Alan rocked back on his heels, taking on an expert air. “Realistically? It’s probably aliens. Either that or our own government trying to thin the herd. Could be the Russians.”

  “Why not some random space germ that flew in on the meteors?” said Max.

  “Space germ?” said Alan, rolling his eyes.

  “What, that’s crazier than aliens?”

  “All I know is that the people of this town are under some kind of mind control.”

  “Mind control?” said Stefan. “It’s zombies, man.”

  “What do you think this is, a movie? Zombies aren’t real.”

  “And what do you call those things running around town?” said Stefan.

  “Screamers,” said Alan. “Zombies are dead people risen from the grave. These people aren’t dead, and they don’t get back up when you kill them. Don’t believe me? Go ask my neighbor.”

  “Alright,” said Max. “So, you think that everyone’s mind has been taken over? Does that mean they can be recovered?”

  “Sure, you know any scientists?”

  “I saw my old high school science teacher, but he looked busy eating someone,” said Stefan.

  “Our best bet,” said Alan, “is to just hole up here and wait for more survivors.”

  “Agreed,” said Max. “This is as good a home base as any. You got more room in the trailer?”

  “It’s full of supplies,” said Alan, shaking his head.

  “Where do you sleep?” said Stefan.

  “Right here. It’s not the Ritz, but it’s safe. And I own it clear. Except for the taxes, of course, goddamn Nazis.”

  “You got any coffee, Alan? I’ve got a hell of a hangover.”

  Alan glanced at him sideways. “You drinking on the job last night?”

  “No, I was off duty. But yeah, I tied one on. I’ll drink instant if you got it, or whatever you got handy. I’m going to go talk to the kids, see what they know.”

  “They’re all hungover as shit as well. Partied it up last night it seems. Them friggin’ out-of-towners are always coming here and—”

  “You said they were hungover as well?” said Max.

  “Yeah, what about it?”

  Max didn’t answer and walked over to the group to introduced himself.

  “Oh, thank God!” said one of the girls. She was tall and blonde, and by the puffiness of her eyes, she appeared to have been crying all morning. Probably all night as well. She ran to Max and grabbed his jacket. “You’ve got to get me home. My parents are going to be worried sick. What the hell is happening? Why are people eating one another? Where are—”

  “Calm down, sweetheart. Take a deep breath,” said Max, prying her off him. “How many of you got drunk last night, show of hands.”

  They all raised their hands, and Max nodded grimly.

  “What you thinking, boss?” said Stefan.

  Max ignored him and glanced at Alan. “How ‘bout you?”

  “I might have had a few,” he said, looking curious. “Like the elf said. What you thinking?”

  “I’m a human knight of Vhalencia,” said Stefan. “You see any pointy ears?”

  “Sorry,” said Alan. “I just thought that elves were gay.”

  Stefan scowled, but then laughed. “Oh I get it. You wanna fuck me, so you think I’m gay.”

  “Can you two pay attention?” said Max, arms wide.

  “Sorry, Max. What you got?” said Stefan.

  Everyone looked to him like he was the wizard on the hill.

  “I your guess was right, Stefan. I think that whatever it is that is controlling everyone’s minds, or turning them into screamers, doesn’t like alcohol.”

  Stefan scratched his head. “So, they’re like Mormon aliens?”

  “What? No. Say it’s a space bug, or biological warfare. I think that being drunk somehow kept us safe from being infected.”

  “That makes sense, given that we all drank last night,” said Alan.

  “Yeah,” said Max, rolling his eyes. “That’s why I said it.”

  He looked to Stefan and could see that his wheels were turning. “Does that mean…we can cure everyone by getting them drunk?”

  Max shrugged. “Only one way to find out. Hey, Alan. Got any liquor?”

  “Why? You intend on bottle-feeding a screamer? Good luck!”

  “No, I plan on getting my wife drunk and seeing what happens.”

  “Your wife?”

  Max nodded. “She’s a screamer, or a zombie, or whatever. She’s in the back of my truck.”

  Alan’s eyes nearly burst out of his head. He rushed to the door and hurried to unlock the arsenal of deadbolts. “You brought a live screamer to my property?”

  “She’s handcuffed and muzzled. Don’t worry about it.”

  He followed Alan out the door and they both froze. The back window of the Bronco was smashed, and there was no Piper inside. Max ran to the truck and followed the tracks with his eyes down the driveway.

/>   “Shit!”

  Chapter 6

  The Hunt for Piper Voorhees

  “Alright, change of plan,” said Max. “Stefan and I are going to hunt down my wife and try to get her drunk. You all sit tight until I get back. If it works, well, then we’re going to have to find a hell of a lot more liquor.”

  “And if it don’t work?” said Alan.

  Max ignored the question. “You got that bottle?”

  Alan nodded and trudged off back to the station.

  Two minutes later, they were driving down the driveway, following Piper’s tracks. She must have cut herself on the window glass, because a drop of blood marked the way every five or six feet.

  She was still bleeding, and that was a good thing—because the dead don’t bleed.

  “Piper couldn’t have gotten far,” said Stefan.

  “I don’t know, by the distance between tracks, it looks like she was booking it.”

  They followed the tracks down to the road, but it had begun to drizzle, and the road ate up all signs of Piper. Max glanced left and right down County Route 86. Both directions led to a quick turn, and Piper could be around either.

  Max turned right, figuring that if she wasn’t around the next few bends, they could turn around and hurry to check the other way. He checked his side of the road, telling Stefan to do the same. The town of Lake Placid was nestled in the northern section of the Adirondack Mountains. Pines, oak, and birch ruled the forest, and if Piper stumbled into that wildness, she might never come out. Worry began to snake its way into Max’s heart. He hadn’t really registered what was going on. How could he? It wasn’t every day that you woke up to a zombie apocalypse, or whatever the hell this was. All he knew was that he was either dreaming, tripping balls, or actually living in this nightmare reality.

  But hey, Donald Trump was president, so he was getting used to things being surreal.

  “You know,” said Stefan. “I’ve always suspected that we’re probably living in some kind of matrix, or we’re like an alien kid’s human ant farm. Shit, maybe we’re just characters in a game.”

  “Or a book,” said Max, offering Stefan a dubious glance. “Keep your eyes on the woods, Panama Red.”

  “You shouldn’t reference movies, it shows your age.”

  “So do my sagging balls,” said Max. “There!”

  He slammed on the brakes and leapt out of the Bronco. He had seen a flash of color in the forest, and he raced across the road and into the woods with Stefan clanking behind him in his armor.

  “Watch the truck!” Max yelled back.

  Years of chasing injured deer through the woods had taught him how to do so without breaking a leg on the rock-infested and root-strewn forest floor, and Max nimbly maneuvered through the pines. He didn’t see the shock of color again, and after a few minutes, he thought that perhaps he had imagined it.

  Max stopped beside a boulder to catch his breath and spun a circle, desperately seeking out his wife. “Piper!” he yelled at the top of his lungs. He hadn’t seen any tracks, but he could have sworn that he saw someone running through the woods.

  “Take a breath, Max. Use your head.”

  He made a wide circle, but still he didn’t come across any tracks. A wider circle proved fruitless as well, and he made his way back to the truck. Stefan was waiting beside the ride like a sentinel knight.

  “Nothing, huh?”

  “No,” said Max. “But Buckland Road should split through her path if she kept on north. Let’s see if we can find the trail there.”

  Stefan had turned on the radio in Max’s absence, and as they turned left onto Buckland Road, Alan Jones raged on through the speakers.

  “…I’m no scientist, but I’ve got a theory. According to my sources, who are very high up on the local law enforcement chain, alcohol may be the reason there are survivors. I know I tied one on last night. How about you?”

  “He’s totally stealing your glory,” said Stefan.

  “Let him have it. I just hope the theory’s right. But in a way, I don’t.”

  “Why not?”

  Max glanced at him. “What are the odds any little kids were drunk last night?”

  Stefan slunk deeper into his seat. “Shit.”

  “I once saw a movie about a world without any children, Stefan. It sucked.”

  “The movie?”

  “The world that came of it.”

  “Ah. Yeah. That would suck.”

  “Children are the future,” said Max, thinking about his own unborn child. “Children are hope, and without hope…”

  “There’s nothing for humanity to live for,” said Stefan.

  Max saw a track in the snow and stopped the Bronco. He followed its course as it crossed the road, and he looked out Stefan’s window. There was nothing but marshland there, with skeletal gray trees long dead and branchless sticking out of the ice. But the ice was thick; it was all thick this time of year.

  “I’m going out again. You know the drill,” said Max.

  “If you come back as a zombie…you want me to put one in your forehead?” said Stefan, looking worried.

  “Hell no, man. Try and get me drunk and see if it’s a cure. If not, then yeah, put me down.”

  Stefan nodded solemnly. Was it because he knew that Max was a dead man in a few months no matter what? Max certainly hadn’t forgotten, though the recent drama had been a good distraction.

  He pulled up his hood against the cold wind and started across the ice. Piper’s tracks zigzagged across the ice, and her left foot was dragging a bit. But there was no more blood, which was a good sign. The injury from the window glass must have been superficial.

  By the time he reached the other side of the marshland, angry gray clouds had filled the sky. He reached for his cell phone to check the weather, but then remembered that it didn’t work. He knew there was supposed to be snow tonight—there was snow just about every day in the Adirondacks. As he surveyed the sky, he noticed smoke for the first time, hovering above the trees. His eyes had been on the tracks, which looked to be headed in the direction of the distant fire.

  Max hustled through the snow, hoping to catch up to Piper before she reached the survivors. He doubted the zombies had started the campfire, but the image of them all standing around the hearth made him laugh to himself.

  The snow became thick on the other side of the marsh, where the wind piled it against the trees. It was much easier to follow Piper, however, for she had marched through the high bank already, which helped Max gain some time. The tracks led him to the southern base of a hill, and up top, the smoke was billowing out of a chimney.

  A shot suddenly rang out, followed by a man’s scream. Max huffed up the hill and found a small cabin with the front door wide open. He saw Piper lying on the floor just inside and rushed to her aid. A man was standing over her, aiming a gun at her chest.

  “Wait!” Max yelled, and the man’s pistol swung up in his direction. He leapt to the side, anticipating that the frightened man would shoot.

  He was right.

  Two shots rang out, and a bullet grazed his calf as he flung himself into the pile of snow left by the plow.

  “Hold your fire!” Max told him, aiming his gun at the doorway. “I’m the sheriff, and that’s my wife. Hold your fire, dammit!”

  The man gave a startled cry, and the sound of a heavy metal object hitting the floor found Max’s ears. He leapt up from the snow bank and charged into the house. Piper stood over the man as he crawled toward his dropped gun. Her hands were still handcuffed behind her back, and Max wondered how the hell she had disarmed the man.

  “Piper, no!” Max tackled her to the floor and put a knee in her back.

  The man reached the gun and spun around on his ass and aimed it at Piper.

  “Do it and you’re dead,” said Max.

  The man rose to his feet, keeping the gun trained on Piper. “What the hell is going on here?”

  “I followed my wife to your cabin, that’s all.
But I’ve got her now. Put down your weapon.”

  Piper growled and hissed as she tried to free herself. A quick glance showed Max no blood on the floor, and he wondered if the scared man had missed.

  “Why the hell you keeping her alive? And why is she wearing that hockey mask?”

  “Because I love her and want to help her, and so that she won’t bite anyone,” said Max evenly. “Now drop the gun.”

  “You first,” said the man. He was average height, late thirties, and had an athletic build, but a face only a mother could love. His spikey shock of black hair was matted and greasy, and his rat-like face had a long scar running from chin to right ear. Heavily curved eyebrows gave him a sinister look, and the eyes that hid beneath the large brow were dark and darting.

  A banging noise sounded somewhere in the cabin, and the man blanched, fidgeting uneasily with his pistol and shifting his feet. There was another bang, and Max felt it in the floor this time—the sound was coming from the basement.

  “Just take your zombie wife and get the hell off my property.”

  “What’s your name, soldier?”

  The man shifted again, beady eyes moving to the floor repeatedly. “None of your goddamned business.”

  “My name’s Max. I did three tours in Iraq. Desert Storm. How about you?”

  “Afghanistan.”

  “Looks like you came back with a few souvenirs, Private…”

  “Captain Perry,” said the man with a hint of disdain.

  “You got a first name?”

  “Not for the law,” said the captain.

  The sound didn’t return, but both men’s minds were on it. Max decided it best to get Piper out of there. It was probably just—

  The muffled cry of a little girl silenced Max, and his eyes went to Perry’s.

  “My daughter,” said the man. “All this zombie shit’s got her petrified.”

  “That’s understandable. You can tell her it’s alright.” Max pulled Piper to her feet and threw her over his shoulder.

  Perry lowered his gun and called out, “It’s alright, baby, everything’s gonna be okay.”

  Max offered him a nod, waiting at the threshold for the reply. Another muffled scream came from the basement. He figured that if she was in some kind of safe room, her voice might sound like that, but it sounded a lot like her mouth was gagged.