by Ray Wallace
Don't slow down. It's not like there's any traffic these days.
As you pass through the intersection, Nolan's car slams into the side of your truck. It's one hell of a wreck, the kind that people don't walk away from.
And you don't.
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Before you can talk yourself out of it, you run down the middle of street directly toward the pack of zombies.
Just keep moving. Don't give them a chance to get their hands on you.
Approaching the front line of zombies, you slow to a jog.
I can do this, you tell yourself, trying to make yourself believe it. I have to do this.
And then you're moving through the gaps between them, dodging out of the way of grasping hands and sudden, uncoordinated lunges. It's maybe twenty-five feet to the far side of the pack, not far at all under normal circumstances. But these are far from normal circumstances. At the moment, the open stretch of road beyond the last zombie seems miles away.
A hand brushes your arm but does little to slow you down. Twisting your body to avoid a female zombie dressed in the remnants of a filthy bathrobe, you reach the middle of the pack.
"Stop, damn it!" shouts the guy with the shotgun from behind you.
Yeah, as if...
Even if you wanted to - which you don't - stopping at this point would be a catastrophically bad idea.
You dart forward between a pair of zombies - the one to the left missing half an arm; the one to the right short an ear and half a nose.
And then the shotgun booms.
A zombie just ahead of you topples to the ground as searing pain rips through the back of your right leg, causing you to stumble and pitch headlong onto the pavement. Using your hands to break your fall, you still manage to come down hard on your shoulder. Crying out, you grab your leg where the pellets hit you. All the while, you're well aware of the fact that you need to get up and you need to do it quickly or things are going to get a whole worse. And so you push yourself up to your hands and knees. Then, as you try to stand -
Fingers wrap themselves around each of your arms as the zombies, moaning and growling, close in around you. Trying to fight them off, you thrash about with every ounce of strength in your body, manage to push a few of them back in the process. But there are just too many of them. The biting begins. Soon the moaning and the growling and the agony of it all encompass the whole of your world.
"I told you to stop," you hear the man with the shotgun shouting. "Why didn't you listen?"
Obviously, you had your reasons but right about now you're wishing you'd done as he said. Because whatever the guy had in mind for you couldn't have been any worse than this. Could it?
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Without breaking stride, you duck through an opening in the hedges lining the front of the nearest yard. A cement walkway cuts through the grass to the front door of the house. Figuring you're better off staying out of sight, you decide to look for another way in. And so, using the hedges as cover, you hurry across the yard toward the side of the house. Once there, you hear the guy with the shotgun calling out from the street:
"Where are you?!"
I hope he doesn't really expect an answer.
You keep moving, convinced all the while the rustling of the grass against your legs is going to give you away. Stopping at one of the windows along the side of the house, you try to lift it but find that it won't budge. So you continue on to the back yard where you find a screened-in pool area butted up against the rear of the house. Luckily, someone left the screen door unlocked. It opens with a squealing of hinges, preternaturally loud in the surrounding silence. Inside, you press your hand against the door so it doesn't slam shut behind you.
The pool is a mess, to say the least. It's covered in a thick layer of algae and a human-shaped lump out near the center causes you to shudder as you walk by. A diving board and a half-deflated volleyball lying on the deck serve as testaments to happier times. After approaching the sliding glass door leading into the house, you grab the handle and give it a pull, hoping no one locked it at some point.
The door slides open.
Entering the house, you're greeted by the buzzing of flies and the thick, foul odor of something gone to rot. Despite the smell, you close the door, not wanting to give your position away.
The room in which you find yourself contains a couch and a couple of comfy looking chairs, a coffee table with magazines strewn across its surface, and an entertainment center filled with stereo components and a flat panel TV. To your left, you see an archway leading into another room, presumably the kitchen. The buzzing sound seems to originate in that direction.
Rotting garbage?
You can only hope. Not that you're in any hurry to find out. To your right, near the entertainment center, you see the beginning of a hallway leading back to where the bedrooms are located.
The entrance to the attic could be back there too.
Hoping this is the case, you approach the dimly lit hallway, aware of a muffled shouting from outside the house as you do so.
Doesn't sound like he plans on giving up anytime soon.
In the hallway, you discover a total of four open doorways, two to either side of the corridor. And there, above your head...
You reach up and grab the short length of rope hanging there then give it a pull. A small, rectangular doorway set into the ceiling swings downward, a collapsible ladder attached to it, just like the one back at your house. After using it to climb into the attic, you manage to pull the ladder up behind you and close the door.
Looking around, you find yourself in another A-frame attic, this one hot and stuffy and filled with a variety of vague shapes. At one end of the long room, wan lighting enters through a small, square window. A hand crank allows you to open the window enough to let in some fresh air. As your eyes adjust to the gloom, you realize most of the shapes are actually boxes of differing sizes, presumably filled with the belongings of the family who once lived here.
Through the opening in the window comes a now all-too-familiar voice: "I know you're around here somewhere! You couldn't have gone far!"
The seconds tick by and the guy's voice trails away toward the back of the house. You hear the distinctive sound of the screen door slamming shut. Then, less than a minute later, you can just make out the words as the man says from one of the rooms below, "God, it stinks in here."
You stay perfectly still, not wanting one of the boards beneath you to creak and give your position away.
"Come out, come out, wherever you are!"
It sounds like he's made his way into the hallway directly below you.
"Now if I was looking for a good place to hide..."
He knows.
Holding your breath, you wait for the sound of the trapdoor being lowered. Instead, you hear something else entirely:
An explosion of glass.
"What the hell?!" comes the voice from below.
An awful, inhuman scream reverberates up through the floor.
Berserker.
The shotgun booms. Again. More glass breaks. And there's more screaming - not all of it of the undead variety. You hear growling now. Moaning. Both sounds increase in volume and you can picture an ever growing number of zombies entering the house.
The agony-filled shrieks of the lone living person down there go on for maybe another minute or so before cutting off rather abruptly. And then you hear nothing but the low, contented moaning of the zombies and the intermittent, unmistakable cry of the maniacal berserker.
Realizing you'll not be going anywhere anytime soon, you sit on the floor and try to get comfortable. You can only hope the zombies will move on once they've finished their feast.
And if they don't?
You shake your head, trying to dislodge the negative thought.
They will. It's not like they'd have any reason to stick around.
Either way, you know there's not much you can do about it at the mome
nt. You'll just have to wait and see...
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You hide between two cars parked near the side of the road, taking in long, deep breaths as you listen for any sounds of the man's approach. It turns out you don't have to wait very long.
"Now where did you disappear to?"
His footsteps draw closer... closer...
When he steps into view, you rush him. He's not a particularly large fellow and with the element of surprise on your side you manage to take him down fairly easily. Crashing to the sidewalk, he loses his grip on the shotgun which goes tumbling and clattering away. Not wanting to waste your advantage, you push yourself off of him and go after the weapon.
Get it! Hurry!
A moment later, you grab the gun and aim it at the man as he climbs to his feet.
"Don't even think for one second I won't use this," you tell him in as calm and intimidating a voice as you can muster.
He raises his hands and backs up a step. "Okay, just take it easy."
You motion with the gun. "Empty your pockets."
He lowers his hands and turns the front pockets of his pants inside out. Three shotgun shells fall to the pavement.
"Any more where those came from?"
He shakes his head. "No. I swear."
The wide look of fear in his eyes leads you to believe he's telling the truth.
"All right, then," you tell him. "Go on and get out of here."
Without hesitation, he turns around and takes off running. Within seconds, he disappears around the nearest street corner. And just like that, he's gone.
After checking to make sure both barrels of the shotgun are loaded - they are - you walk over and pick up the discarded ammo, stick it in one of your pockets. Then you keep walking, away from the group of zombies toward the intersection through which you were recently chased. You head south, putting more distance between you and the wrecked SUV that brought you here. Along the way, you hear the unmistakable screech of a berserker from a few blocks over. The sound causes you to quicken your step even though, with the gun in your hands, you feel less fearful of encountering one of the crazed zombies.
Always best to avoid a confrontation altogether.
You pass through another four way stop then onward to an intersection with a dormant traffic light hanging over it. The neighborhood through which you've been traveling exits onto a highway running east and west. You follow it westbound, using the sidewalk next to a half-full drainage ditch cut into the ground alongside the road. Looking up, you see only a few white, fluffy clouds obscuring an otherwise clear blue sky. Considering the fact that the day is rapidly heating up, you wouldn't mind a little more cloud cover. There's a good chance the temperature will climb well past ninety degrees by mid-afternoon. Hopefully, you'll have another working car by then, one with AC.
For the next ten minutes or so, you continue down the road, moving past various businesses including a tire shop, three different restaurants, a hair stylist, and a convenience store. It's easy to imagine people walking in and out of the buildings, some hurrying, others talking and laughing, the way they would have in the days before the Outbreak. Now, a small group of zombies wanders around in front of the convenience store - enough of a deterrent to keep you from checking the place for supplies. The few cars you've checked along the way have turned out to be useless for a variety of reasons: no keys, flat tires, and shattered windshields among them.
Maybe fifty feet behind you, a trio of zombies follows. Slow as they're moving, though, they pose no real threat. The drainage ditch has disappeared and the sidewalk has moved a bit closer to the road. While walking past a strip mall with a deli in it, you imagine how good it would be to walk inside and order something to eat.
And then a wholly unexpected sound intrudes upon your musings.
Behind you, a yellow car comes into view. A taxi cab, you realize as it draws nearer.
The driver has to have seen you by now.
No point in trying to hide.
As the cab approaches, you stand next to the side of the road, shotgun held waist high across your body. You want whoever's inside the vehicle to clearly see the weapon in your hands but, at the same time, don't want to come off as overly threatening.
The cab slows down and stops in front of you, the tinted windows effectively obscuring your view of anything inside the car. The slow, heavy kick drum and booming bass of a hip hop track drops in volume just as the window starts to slide down, revealing a young man with a shaved head and a lopsided grin on his face. He wears a white tank top over his lanky frame, looks at you through a pair of shades as dark as the cab's windows. A tiny gold hoop dangles from his left ear.
"You look like someone who could use a ride," says the driver, staring at you from behind those black lenses.
"And you would be..."
"Name's Reginald." He reaches though the open window and gives the outside of the driver side door a solid thump with his hand. "And this is my cab."
You stand there trying to figure out what to make of all this.
A cab? Here? Now?
"Wherever you need to go, I can get you there," Reginald tells you, that grin never leaving his face.
CLICK HERE if you decline the offer after deciding it sounds too good to be true.
CLICK HERE if, on the other hand, you tell yourself you shouldn't pass up an opportunity like this no matter how strange it might seem.
As promised, Jillian wakes you up. And she has more questions for you:
"How may fingers am I holding up this time?..."
"Do you remember my name?..."
"Who was the President when the Outbreak happened?..."
The next time you wake up, you're alone.
The room is dark so you reach for the lamp, press the switch and let your eyes adjust to the sudden illumination. Sitting up, you swing your legs over the side of the bed then take a moment to study your surroundings.
The room in which you find yourself looks like an ordinary bedroom sparsely furnished with the bed where you've been sleeping, the nightstand with the lamp on it, and a dresser. Through a lone window with half-drawn curtains, you see that night has fallen. As to what the exact time may be, you have no way of knowing.
After getting to your feet, you stand there, unmoving, waiting for a dizzy spell to pass. When it does, you try to figure out how you're going to get out of this place - wherever and whatever this place might be - and continue your journey to the spaceport.
You find your shoes on the floor next to the bed. As you pull them on, you hear voices from somewhere outside the room, drawing nearer, interrupting your thoughts. When they get close enough, the following words become discernible:
"...my patient. And I assure you I've done everything I can."
The door opens and Jillian steps through. Her eyes go wide for a moment, obviously surprised to see you up and about. A young man follows her into the room. Hair cut close to the scalp, he wears a handgun holstered at his hip and a sleeveless shirt that shows off his muscular arms.
"You shouldn't be out of bed," says Jillian, stopping a few feet in front of you. "You've undergone a - "
"What time is it?" you ask,
She blinks. "Excuse me?"
"The time."
"Quarter to ten," says the young man, a southern drawl evident in his voice.
"I have to go," you say.
"I'm afraid I can't let - " Jillian begins.
"Am I a prisoner here?"
She looks taken aback. "A prisoner? No. Of course not."
"Good to know because I've got somewhere I need to be."
She raises an eyebrow.
"The spaceport," says the young man. He smiles at the expression that crosses your face.
"We've heard the broadcast," says Jillian.
"And?" you prompt her.
"You'll never make it," the guy answers instead. "All of Tampa's crawling with zombies. It's a bad scene."
"This is Johnny, by the way," Ji
llian tells you. "My son."
He nods his head in greeting.
"How do you know what it's like there?" you ask.
"Went there a week back," he tells you. "Me and three others. Only two of us returned."
"It's not worth risking your life over." This from Jillian. "We've carved out a pretty good existence for ourselves here. You're more than welcome to stay if you want."
A little while later, Jillian leads the way, flashlight in hand, out of the second story apartment where you've been recuperating. You and Johnny follow her toward the elevator at the end of the hallway. She presses the up button and maybe ten seconds later you hear a ding! as the door slides open.
"Generator powers it," she informs you as the three of you enter the car.
During the ascent, you watch as the red numerals over the door change with each passing floor: 3... 4... 5... 6... At the tenth floor, the ride ends and the door opens once again.
"One more floor to go," says Jillian. Then she heads for the gray metal door that opens into the building's emergency stairwell.
You feel tired just thinking about climbing those stairs.
"Here," says Johnny, guiding your hand to his shoulder and putting an arm around your waist. "Okay, let's go."
And so you make your way up the stairs, Johnny doing his best to help out. Even with his assistance, you're breathing heavily by the time you reach the top where you find yourself before another plain metal door. When he lets go of you, tiny dots swim back and forth in front of your eyes while you stand there, taking in deep breaths. After half a minute or so passes, Jillian asks if you're okay.
"Yeah," you tell her. "Never better."
She opens the door and steps through.
"After you," says Johnny.
Beyond the doorway lies the building's rooftop where you find the largest gathering of people you've seen since... Well, since before the Outbreak occurred, that's for sure. You start to count them, give up at fifteen, figure the number has to be closer to twice that many. They sit in chairs or stand in small groups, drinks in hand, talking and laughing and acting as though the end of the world never really happened after all. A low wall, maybe three feet high, borders the rooftop, battery powered lamps sitting every ten feet or so along its length. Voices mingle into an indecipherable din and the expressions on the faces of those around you convey a general feeling of happiness or, at the very least, contentedness.