The Tale of Tom Zombie (Book 3): Zombie Resurrection
Page 5
“Let’s go!” Jemma called to Holly. “These buildings are all connected and there’s a fire escape at the other end of the block. Once we get back down to the street we’ve got to head west.”
“Why west?”
Jemma pointed to the east. “Because it gets us away from them.”
Upon reaching ground level Jemma turned to face Holly. It was the first time Holly had seen her face this close up. The red, cracked and peeling skin around Jemma’s mouth and forehead was a stark contrast to the Goth paleness of her complexion. Her lips were beginning to erode on one side and it reminded Holly of the severity of her father’s face the last time she saw him.
Jemma raised her eyebrows in quizzical anticipation, then asked, “Well…, where’s your car?”
“Oh, I don’t have a car. I took a cab.”
“Bugger. Well, I doubt we’ll find any of those around now.” Jemma hefted her suitcase from her right hand to her left. “We’d best get walking. Maybe there’ll be a car headed out of town that we can hitch a ride in.”
“Yeah. Let’s keep a lookout,” Holly said, her eyes darting around. “If the suburbs are next to be evacuated, then we need to get my mom.” Jemma rolled her eyes at the prospect, not agreeing nor disagreeing.
The two began walking toward the setting sun. Jemma hefted her suitcase to her other hand again as they trudged along. “See those two people a few blocks ahead of us? All we have to do is follow them.”
“Well, maybe we can catch up to them,” Holly suggested. “You know… travel as a group.”
No sooner had the words left Holly’s mouth did a figure appear behind the couple ahead of them. By the time the man and woman were aware of any presence, the staggering creature had wrapped its arms around the man, plunged its teeth into the upper part of his trapezius muscle, and tore away a chunk of meat. The woman screamed and was frozen in place from fear. A regrettable condition, as she would soon learn.
“Quick. In here.” Jemma whispered to Holly. “We’ve got to get off the street.” The two entered Macy’s department store through a door marked with the emblem of an eight point star set in a square, indicating the city of Chicago’s pedway system; a network of tunnels, ground-level concourses and bridges connecting skyscrapers, retail stores, hotels and train stations. They would be off the street and still meander their way westward to the end of the business district.
The pedway was relatively deserted, yet they could hear echoing voices of others fleeing the city. Hurry up. We’ve got to keep moving. Don’t look back. Jemma commented under her breath that those people should keep quiet or else they might attract zombies, when suddenly Holly’s cell phone rang, reverberating it’s melodious chimes off of the shop windows and cement storefronts lining the pedway.
Jemma glared at Holly to silence that damned thing. She silenced it by answering it. It was her mother calling. The Humvees had made it out to the suburbs with their broadcast, and she was looking for Holly so they could make their way out of town. Paula Dexter’s cousin in Rockford had a panic room and a bunker added to their basement, and if Paula and Holly could get that far they could have a chance. Cousin Sherry’s husband Ken had been a doomsday prepper for decades, and quite the joke of the family because of it, but Ken bet no one was laughing now.
Paula was mortified to learn that her daughter was so far from home, and proceeded to scold her with a parental blend of worry and anger. Jemma spotted a slow moving shadow emerging from one of the shops they’d just passed. As she feared, the ringing cell phone had summoned what they were trying to avoid, and Jemma looked to Holly who was still immersed in her phone call. Not wasting any time, Jemma slung her suitcase at the feet of the zombie now stepping into the pedway. It toppled over and Jemma grabbed for one of the slender, heavy trash bins outside the shop doorway. It was too heavy for her to move, but she thought she could at least knock it over onto the creature that was struggling to get up.
Holly turned her back, indifferent to the commotion Jemma was causing, content to endure her mother’s tirade a bit longer, as was the customary dance between mother and daughter. When she saw an opportunity to get a word in, Holly told her mother to not wait for her, but that she would make it to Rockford any way she could.
Jemma pushed her back against the trash bin, using her legs to give her the leveraging she needed to upend the bin, but it didn’t want to budge. The flailing, disheveled zombie store clerk on the ground was struggling to get up, like a turtle flipped on its back. Jemma was startled by something at her side. Holly had positioned herself shoulder to shoulder with Jemma, and together they shoved over the bin with a thud, and the sound of a cracking skull beneath it. The two girls didn’t dare look at what they’d done. Jemma just snatched up her suitcase and the two made their way as quickly as they could out of the business district.
“Thanks for the help back there,” Jemma said. “Your dad said I reminded him of you. I’m starting to understand why.” Holly smiled with self-satisfaction.
Part 7
Air Force Captain, Jef Barber, skirted the chaotic scene at the quay on his growling Russian made M-72 sidecar motorcycle, a well-kept relic of WWII, still useful and agile over the Icelandic terrain. Jef surveyed the area a few times and was about to go back to the base, his curiosity satisfied, when he noticed something—someone—moving on the dock.
The figure was on its belly attempting to crawl onto the dock, the lower half of its body dangling over the edge, feet still on the dock ladder. Jef raised his M-16 rifle, which was slung across his back, and looked through its scope. He saw a face that bore the all too familiar results of a government delusional enough to think it could play god. Just another creeper. The entire island was filthy with them. In the span of five days, Iceland’s population of over 320,000 reduced to a meager fraction left living, the rest living dead or dead dead.
Jef shifted the nub of a cigar clenched between his teeth, the ends of his handlebar mustache twitching as he did, and scoped the scene again. The crawling dead-head was trying to raise itself, looking more like it was trying to do a push up with zero upper body strength. Jef peeled away from the scope to take in the entire panoramic view with his naked eyes. Finally, he lined up the scope once more, bit down on his cigar, and fired.
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