Ground Zero: A Zombie Apocalypse

by Nicholas Ryan

  They drove past the front of the diner warily. Samantha’s eyes darted anxiously in all directions. Cutter stared through the glass windows.

  The diner was gloomy – and deserted.

  He could see about a dozen tables, and twice as many chairs, strewn around the room, upended or laying on their side. Against the far wall he could make out the shape of a high serving counter. A cash register was lying open. The floor was littered with napkins and cutlery. There was blood on the bottom of the diner’s door. Nothing moved.

  Samantha reached the far end of the parking lot and pulled the car into a tight three-point turn. They cruised back the way they had come.

  “Stop.” Cutter said when the car was near the glass door. “Wait here – and keep the motor running.”

  Before Samantha could protest, he flung himself out of the Honda and crouched, poised. He reached slowly for the door and pulled it wide open. The stench washed over him like a wave: the familiar sickly reek of death, mingled with the greasy smell of fried food and coffee. Cutter used a chair to keep the door wedged open and stepped past spattered blood that lay slick and congealing on the tiled floor.

  He stood inside the diner for long seconds. The place felt abandoned. He saw a stand of packaged snack food to his left and he snatched up bags of potato chips. The sound was loud in the eerie silence and he swung the gun in an arc towards an open door behind the serving counter.

  There was a wide hole in the wall next to the doorway and beyond he could see the shiny steel edges of commercial cooking equipment.

  Cutter stomped his foot loudly on the floor. Nothing moved. No sound. He scraped a chair across the tiles. The sound was jarringly loud. He let it fall to the ground and the noise echoed around the empty walls.

  He waited. Nothing.

  Finally he allowed himself a long slow breath. He turned to Samantha, sitting fraught with panic in the waiting car. He raised his thumb and edged backwards out through the door until he felt the fender of the Honda brush against his leg. Without taking his eyes off the empty diner he called quietly over his shoulder.

  “It’s empty,” he said. “Park the car up between a couple of the others. Reverse it into a space so the nose is out. We’re going to spend the night here.”

  He heard Samantha sigh, and then the sound of the car revving. Samantha swung the Honda into a parking space and Cutter edged back into the middle of the concrete lot to meet her as she came running to him. “What about the bag?” she asked. Cutter nodded. He handed his Glock to Samantha and fetched the bag from the car. He hefted it over his shoulder, took his gun back and waited until Samantha had drawn the other Glock from her jeans. “And the revolver?”

  “I left it,” Cutter said. “And I left the car unlocked. Just in case we need to get away quickly.”

  Samantha shook her head. “What?” she sounded appalled. “It might get stolen. Then what will we do?”

  “There are plenty of other cars here,” he said. “If anyone comes in the night and they’re looking for a car to steal, a little Honda hatchback won’t be their first choice. And it’s worth the risk for us to be able to escape quickly.”

  Side-by-side, with the pistols drawn, they edged back towards the diner. Around them night was falling fast. The warmth of the sun had gone, leaving the air chill. Samantha shivered.

  Cutter went though the door, moved the chair aside and held it open with his back until Samantha went into the diner ahead of him. He let the door close and locked it.

  “What’s beyond that door?”

  “Kitchen,” Cutter said. “I don’t know what else.”

  They went cautiously around the counter. Cutter stole a glance through the doorway and ducked back. His grip on the gun tightened. He took a deep breath and stepped into the opening.

  There was a man’s arm on the floor. It had been hacked off from the rest of the body and lay mangled in a pool of blood. The limb was stiff and pale, and there was a bloody knife still gripped within the fingers. There was a gold watch around the wrist. Cutter followed the frenzied patterns of blood with his eyes and found the other arm lying on a stainless steel bench. The torso of the body was slumped behind a deep-frying vat on the far side of the kitchen. It was awash with blood – more blood than Cutter imagined a body could contain. He gagged and turned away. Then saw the body’s head in a sink. It looked to Cutter as though the head had been severed, and then ripped from the torso. The mouth hung agape, the jaw slack. The skin was pale, the eyes wide and staring. It was the head of a middle-aged man. Cutter glanced over his shoulder at Samantha. She was edging through the kitchen door, her eyes enormous. “Don’t come in here,” Cutter warned. “Watch the entrance while I check out what’s behind this last door.”

  It was a steel door without a lock, hanging ajar between two commercial refrigerators. Cutter smelt spoiling food as he stepped closer. The door was narrow. Cutter set the heavy bag at his feet and held the pistol ready. He flung it open.

  It was dark inside. There was no light. He fumbled for the lighter in his jeans and flicked it on.

  It was some kind of a storage room. He could smell onions and dirt. He held the lighter high overhead and stepped into the room. It was only small – maybe fifteen feet square. There were shelves stocked with boxes of rotting fruit and vegetables along one wall. Cutter went quickly back out into the blood-spattered kitchen.

  “In here,” he urged Samantha.

  He led her into the storage room and dragged the bag in behind them. He lit a candle and pulled the door closed.

  Samantha took the candle and held it high over her head. She glanced quickly at the surroundings and then back to Cutter. She shook her head. “There’s no lock?”

  “No.”

  She stared at him in appalled silence for long moments. “And you want to spend the night here?”

  Cutter nodded.

  “In a room without a lock on the door?”

  Cutter nodded again. “It’s not perfect,” he conceded. “But we either sleep in here, or in the car.”

  “But there’s no lock!” Samantha said again, her voice edged with rising hysteria.

  “I know,” Cutter grabbed her shoulders. “So we have to be quiet. Stealth and secrecy are going to keep us safe.”

  * * *

  Cutter filled a plastic shopping bag with snack food and warm soft drinks and came quietly back to the storage room. Samantha was sitting cross-legged on the dirty floor, hunched and miserable. She barely looked up as Cutter began sorting through the supplies.

  “It’s dark out now,” he said. “I checked the lock on the door and set a couple of chairs against it.”

  Samantha raised her eyes. “Do you think the chairs are going to stop the undead from breaking in?”

  “No,” Cutter said. “But the noise will at least give us some warning.”

  Samantha grunted. Cutter reached for the candle and set it down between them. He held up a bag of chips. “Chicken flavor, or barbeque?”

  Samantha said nothing. Cutter handed her one of the packets and a can of Coke. The can was warm.

  “Eat while you can,” Cutter said. “You never know when we’ll get the chance again.”

  She looked up at him. “And what about sleep?”

  Cutter nodded. “You can sleep tonight,” he said. “I’ll stand guard at the door.”

  “You don’t trust me to pull my share of guard duty?”

  Cutter shook his head. “It’s not that,” he said. “You need to sleep because you’re driving. I can sleep tomorrow in the car until we reach Eden Gardens.”

  Samantha lapsed into moody silence. Now the terror of escaping the city was just a lingering nightmare, she felt the full crushing weight of sad despondency as her memories drifted back to her father.

  Cutter sat in the corner and let her be. There was nothing he could say – and he had his own dead family to grieve.

  * * *

  Cutter heard a harsh sound, and his nerves ripped and jangled in a
larm. It was the sound of the diner’s glass door being forced. He sat up, pressed his ear against the door of the storage room, and listened for long seconds with the sound of his breathing and the sudden thump of his heart drowning out the detail.

  He went to where Samantha lay and shook her awake urgently. Her eyes flew alert in an instant.

  Cutter put his finger to his lips. “Someone is breaking in to the diner,” he whispered.

  Samantha reached for her Glock and Cutter went back to the door.

  The sounds were louder now, harsh scraping noises. Cutter imagined the door being wedged open and the chairs he had used as a barricade being forced aside. He felt the press of Samantha’s warm thigh against his own and he turned to her, their faces just inches apart.

  “Stay here,” he said. “I’m going out to take a look.”

  He heard the sharp intake of her breath, and then he pushed the storage room door silently open and crept into the dark kitchen.

  But it wasn’t entirely dark.

  Cutter crept to the server window and slowly raised his head. There was ambient light coming into the diner from a slice of moon in the sky, and out in the parking lot a car’s headlights were shining in through the full-length windows, filling the front of the diner with weird bright halos of light and strobes of movement and shadow.

  Cutter saw two men. One was holding a crowbar. The other was holding a length of chain that was wrapped around the neck of a tall young woman. The woman’s head was bowed and her hair hung down over her face. She was shaking and sobbing.

  The man tugged on the chain, like it was a leash. He dragged the young woman across the room to a table. The girl went whimpering and cowered. The man slapped the side of her face with his open hand and her head snapped back.

  “Move your ass, bitch,” the guy growled. “This is happening, one way or another. It’s up to you how it goes down.”

  The other guy laughed. He reached out for the girl’s face and cupped her chin in his hand. “Not bad,” he appraised her, holding her face to the light. She was tall and slim, with long red hair. The man’s fingers slid down to the woman’s throat and then continued lower. “You’re our property now, bitch,” the man’s voice sounded like gravel in a cement mixer. “We own you. It’s the new law of the land. We take what we want, and you put out when we tell you. You’re ours to use until we find someone prettier. Until then you earn our protection by spreading your legs when we tell you. Got it?”

  She was wearing a stained, dirty blouse and a dark skirt. The man’s slid his hand down inside the open shirt collar. He felt the heavy weight of her breast through the fabric of her bra and squeezed hard.

  The girl tried to recoil from the man’s touch, whimpering in pain. She lashed out with her fist and struck the man on the side of the head. He laughed, but it was a nasty, vicious sound. “Seems like this one needs some training, Jed.”

  The guy holding the chain tugged hard and the leash bit into the tender skin of the girl’s neck. She screamed out in pain and dropped to her knees. One of the men slapped the woman’s face again and Cutter heard her begin to cry.

  The men hoisted the girl up onto the table, spreading her out flat on her back. One of them forced her skirt up around her waist and spread her legs wide. The delicate fabric of the girl’s panties was ripped away.

  She struggled. The other man was standing over her, pinning her wrists. Her blouse was ripped open and her bra forced aside so that the soft pale flesh of her breasts swayed in the light as she struggled in impotent terror. The man lowered his head to the girl’s writhing body and she screamed out in revulsion as his mouth covered hers.

  Cutter braced the Glock on the sill of the serving window and took careful aim at the dark shape of the man standing between the woman’s spread legs.

  And then paused.

  What could he hope to achieve?

  What would he be risking?

  For long seconds Cutter hesitated. Gunshots would bring any undead from miles around. And if he missed – and if the men had guns – the chances were that he would be killed. And then what would happen to Samantha? Would she suffer the same fate as the woman they were about to rape? Was he right to get involved in this?

  The woman screamed again. The guy between her legs was unbuckling his jeans and forcing the girl’s knees up against her chest. His face was a dark wicked mask of malice.

  Cutter fired.

  The sound of the bullet was enormous in the silence. It struck the man in the neck and he staggered. His expression registered a split second of utter disbelief, and then he crashed to the floor, gurgling and gasping in pain.

  The guy who had the girl pinned down froze, and then whipped round in fear. He dropped to his knees and dragged at a nearby table for protection. Cutter saw the girl scramble to her feet, clinging at the shreds of her clothing. She stood, bewildered, in the middle of the floor, and her face was a pale white blob of terror and confusion.

  The guy behind the table raised his head and looked towards the darkened kitchen where Cutter waited. Cutter fired again. The bullet went wide. The man ducked back down behind the table.

  Cutter fired again, and this time the bullet was close enough to fill the guy with panic. He leaped to his feet and made a dash for the diner door. Cutter fired – not aiming for a specific point – merely aiming at the moving dark mass of the man’s body as he reached the glass door and slowed to wrench it open. Cutter heard the bullet slap into the man’s body: a meaty thump of impact. The man groaned and seemed to arch his back as though he had been bent backwards by some invisible force. His hand slid from the door and he spun around.

  Harsh glaring light lit one side of the man’s face. He was a brute: a big solid guy with a long dark beard and greasy hair. His face was contorted in pain. He was wearing some kind of a bulky dark jacket. Cutter fired one last time and the bullet struck the man in the face and killed him instantly.

  For long seconds nothing happened. The silence came crashing down again like an anvil. Cutter kept the gun aimed and waited. He heard soft gurgling sounds coming from the body of the first man he had shot. The woman stood trembling and sobbing. Cutter could hear the soft clink of the chain around her neck.

  Finally he came from the kitchen into the diner and went straight to where the man was slumped inside the door. Cutter kicked at the body with his foot. It didn’t move. He went to where the other man lay. Cutter’s bullet had torn into the man’s neck. Warm wet blood gushed and pulsed out across the polished floor. The man had his hands clamped around his throat, trying to stem the flow. His eyes were wide and staring, fixed on the ceiling. Cutter let the man bleed out.

  He went to the girl like he was approaching a startled forest animal. She was shaking feverishly, clutching at the shreds of her clothes. She backed away from him and her eyes were edged with madness and panic.

  “It’s okay,” Cutter said softly. He reached out his hand for her. The young woman took a deep shuddering breath and then looked up into Cutter’s eyes.

  Cutter froze. He felt a sudden slide of disbelief. Shock jumped down his nerves and strung them tight. The girl’s mouth fell open in dismay and recognition.

  It was Jillian. It was the young woman who had offered her body to Hos in the bookstore basement in exchange for his protection.

  Cutter gaped, and felt a sudden ghostly chill run up the length of his spine.

  “Jillian?”

  The young woman stared at him, and slowly the frenzy in her eyes dissolved. She nodded and Cutter saw the realization of recognition and relief pass across her eyes.

  “Where is Glenda?”

  Jillian looked down at the man who was slowly dying on the floor at her feet. “He shot her. She’s dead.”

  Cutter recoiled. “And the other woman who made it to the Forester. What happened to her?”

  “Dead,” Jillian sighed. “They were waiting for us on the highway,” she said softly. “They had motorcycles. They said we had to pay a toll t
o go any further…” her voice broke off for a moment and then came back steadier and calmer. “Glenda tried to shoot our way through. They killed her.” As she explained, slowly Jillian dropped her arms to her side. Her breasts were full and perfectly rounded. She saw Cutter’s gaze flick involuntarily down and she did nothing to cover herself. “They killed the other woman too.”

  “But not you?”

  Jillian shook her head but didn’t explain further. Cutter stared into her eyes. Something changed there, a challenge perhaps, or a flicker of resentment. He wasn’t sure. She tilted her head and slanted her eyes so that her look was almost one of invitation and offering. “They brought me here – to one of the houses past the turnoff, but one of their bikes broke down on the way, so they found a station wagon,” she turned her head towards the door, to indicate the headlights still shining through the plate glass windows. “When it got dark they brought me here for food – and for their fun, I guess.”

  The straps of her bra were broken. Matter-of-factly Jillian slipped the lingerie off her shoulders and tossed it aside. Her blouse hung open and she fastened the two bottom buttons slowly and deliberately, leaving a long deep V of bare flesh and cleavage. Then she scraped the hair back from her face until it hung back down over her shoulders. She stared at Cutter.

  “You left us.”

  Cutter shook his head. “I took you as far as I could,” he said simply.

  “And then you left us. Why?”

  Cutter thought for long seconds, trying to find the words to explain. Finally he sighed and said simply:

  “Redemption.”

  At that moment, Samantha suddenly appeared in the kitchen doorway. She had the Glock in her hand and she came into the diner warily on silent footsteps. Jillian raised an eyebrow and glared at Cutter.

  “Is she yours?”

  Cutter frowned. He genuinely had not understood the question. Samantha spoke from the shadows. “I don’t belong to anybody,” she said.

  She stepped into the light and lowered the pistol.