The Book of a Few

by Rodgers, Austen

  Even with the few added minutes of run-time, gunfire was still present by the time I had reached the first town road. I judged it would be better to go where I needed to go and stay out of whatever was going on. Getting caught in the crossfire of a situation that I didn’t know the details of didn’t sound too pleasant. As best I could, I guessed at the locations of the sounds and planned on finding a way to avoid them.

  First things first: I felt the need to reach my mother’s home. With all of the chaos, checking in with the family was something I couldn’t put on hold. I weaved myself a few blocks into town, safely, and felt that the speed of the gunfire had slowed. Nearly a block away from my destination, a man appeared from an enclosed patio of a wood-sided home. He burst from the door with a grunt and a gasp, startling me. In his arms he had small child, and I immediately realized that something was wrong. The child’s limbs and head dangled and bounced wildly and unrestrained as the man moved down the steps. His face was rugged, like everyone’s, but with panicked, darting eyes.

  I asked him what was going on, noticing a gun in his hand. Either he was ignoring me, or was just too stunned to notice me. The man rushed to a car parked on the side of the road and reached into his pockets to grab his keys. After dropping his keys, the man groaned loudly and put the girl down with her back resting against the car. I now noticed the girl’s face. Blood ran down her cheek and neck. A large gash bled from her temple area and there were numerous scratches across her face, but her neck had taken the most damage. I could see from ten feet away that a piece of flesh was missing. The hole created a trail of blood down the front of her white t-shirt, and changed the tips of her blonde hair to red.

  He picked up his keys and flipped through them witlessly. Groaning came from the little girl’s mouth, and the assumed father stopped for a moment and looked down at the girl by his feet. In just a short second, her eyes snapped open and she lurched forward toward the man with her mouth open and arms outstretched to wrap around his leg. She tore into his uncovered leg, biting him with enough strength to spill blood. He dropped his keys, yelling, and grabbed the back of her head by the hair. He pulled her away from himself and shouted for her to stop, calling her by name.

  His pleas fell on deaf ears. She chomped at the air, struggling to get closer to his leg. Abigail began convulsing and pulling at his arms, trying to get free enough to draw more blood. Unexpectedly, the man began beating the child’s head against the car with his full force, causing dents to form in the door. I don’t know how long he continued to bash her head, but somewhere in there, I swear I heard sobbing. I wasn’t sure if it was the little girl or her father crying, but the man dropped down to his knees in front of the girl. Then I noticed the severity of his wound; she’d gotten him good, and he would need medical attention before too long.

  I stood there, dazed, for what felt like a long time. But I collected myself when I remembered my family and instantly felt heart-crushing paranoia. I wasn’t sure at the time what I had just witnessed, but that answer could wait. I turned my back to the lone father and began running to my mother’s, which at this point was close by. Thinking back, that was a seemingly appropriate introduction for the infection in general. That experience gave me a good first taste of what was to come.

  My mother’s front door was left open, and surrounded by the shattered glass of its window. I ran in, yelling out in hope for a response. Nothing. I sprinted and screamed through the kitchen and up the stairs to the second level, but the only response I received was visual. In the far room down the hall, my mother’s room, they lay dead. My sister, who was only six, was more than three feet away from her own arm. My brothers were strewn across the floor like a puzzle, and my mother thrown in a corner with blood and teeth marks where her nose should have been.

  I dropped to my knees and felt crushing pain like a black hole had just opened in my chest. I fought as hard as I could and turned the sadness to anger. Then anger to rage and I pulled at the hair on my head and I cried out for God and I cried out for my own death instead. I waited. And I waited. My fists unclenched, and I looked up from the floor.

  I went to each of their bodies and shut their eyes. I was sad, yet calm. Systematically, one by one, like a soulless machine with no other thought than this one task. I felt that, despite all this, I still had something that I needed to do, and time was of the essence.

  I left the bodies where they were and sprinted to Miranda’s home with my shotgun on my shoulder. When I reached her home, I just ran in. I suppose you could say that it was a good thing, but I couldn’t find anyone. There were no bodies—thank God—but it did look like they left in a hurry and didn’t care to leave a note. Most importantly to me, Miranda may not have even come back from her college yet.

  With my investigation as far as I could take it, I figured it would be a good idea to wait for her to come back. But then I thought how I should bury my mother and siblings as they deserved. That would be all right, I decided. The bodies of my family would rest on the property they died on, and I could watch the road from my mother’s yard and await Miranda’s return.

  I left, yet again, for my family’s home. I went inside and began dragging the bodies out of the house, and placed them in the yard. In the garage, I grabbed a shovel and began digging. I didn’t have much time to dig each of them a proper six-feet-under grave, but I would at least give them something.

  For half an hour, I didn’t hear a single gunshot. The only curious noise was a set of tires squealing. But beyond that, the town was silent. I’m not sure how long it took, but I dug my family two graves, one of which ended up frustrating me because it became slightly elliptical without me realizing. I didn’t have time to fix it, so I left it as it was.

  I was finishing up the last hole that would allow me enough depth to get a thick layer of dirt over the deceased when movement caught the corner of my eye. I saw a man walking around in the yard next to ours. A strange feeling of uncertainty and the need for caution came over me. I watched him for this moment, walking about. He was looking around, surveying the area it seemed, and froze in place once he noticed me.

  Suddenly, he bolted toward me. While nearly tripping twice over his own khaki pants that had sunk below his hips, he rapidly tore across both yards and, in the span of a few seconds, was upon me. Surprised and not knowing what else to do, I held my shovel up to hold him back if he were to tackle me. The look in his eyes and the animal-like grunts from his mouth led me to believe that this man had lost his mind. In a knee-deep hole, I braced for his weight.

  He fell onto me with his arms outstretched to grab me. He pushed me to the ground flat on my back with my knees bent and feet still in the hole. I managed to keep him off me for the most part, and just after I hit the ground, I pushed with all my strength and rolled him off me. I knew I needed to stand up as soon as possible and not get under him again. Despite the amount of exertion from moving the dirt and pushing this man off me, I pulled myself out of the hole.

  My mind raced; I didn’t know what to do. The aggression and savagery in his face, and his seemingly horrible motor skills, sparked a thought in my head and the question thereafter escaped my lips:

  “Is this a zombie?”

  The man couldn’t seem to decide what to do. One second, he would be pushing up with his arms to try to stand, and the next, he would be reaching out to grab me and fall back on his stomach. Each time, I took a few quick steps back, and he would try again.

  In these few moments, I noticed more details about the man. He had large scratch marks all down his neck that, at one point, had drawn blood. Small bits of flesh were missing all along one of his arms and his eyes were beyond bloodshot. Dried and crusted blood was present on his upper lip as if he’d had a bloody nose lately, too.

  “Hey, stop,” I said as I back-stepped away from him again.

  The man didn’t.

  “Sir, please stop this. I’m warning you.”

  Nothing, absolutely nothing changed. My words we
nt unheeded, and the man showed no signs of stopping his assault.

  When I found peace and a feeling of assurance that what I was about to do was all right, I ended him. With the shovel still in hand, I clubbed the back of his head. The first few blows seemed to have no effect on him other than smashing his face into the dirt. By the time he stopped moving, I had already struck him at least ten or more times and the back of his skull had broken inward.

  When all was said and done, I double-checked to make sure he was gone, and dragged him out to the ditch.

  As I was pulling him back, I said aloud, “For a zombie, you don’t really smell.”

  It was true; he didn’t. There was no rotting flesh and flies, guts hanging from his torso, or broken bones other than his skull. He looked like a regular guy who just got attacked by a raccoon. Bat shit crazy, yes, but if he hadn’t rushed me and I hadn’t seen what I’d already seen, I wouldn’t have even thought of the walking dead.

  I proceeded to finish what I had started, burying my family, after pulling the man away from the graves I tended to. While I was dragging corpses from the house, thoughts of my family flooded in and I noticed the emotional barriers thinning. I could feel a lump forming in my throat and a returning pain in my chest. I ignored it as best as I could, but by the time I was done, I had started sobbing.

  Enough about all the heartache and sadness. I’ll tell you what I did after, because that matters more. With a plan in my head, I returned to my apartment and grabbed my only other rifle, the Type 53. It’s an old gun, made in 1955, but the caliber is good for longer-range shots that could kill a bear. On the muzzle, it also has a sleek folding bayonet. I figured this would be a good choice considering, with this gun, I would have long- and close-range defensive capabilities.

  I grabbed what was left of my food and my car keys and left. I did not see a single other person while driving my car and passing home after home. I stopped at Miranda’s, and nothing had changed. There were no signs of anyone entering the house. Her car was not parked in the driveway, and I became determined not to lose her, too. I looked down to see I had a quarter tank left and decided to press my luck. I headed toward Hawkeye Community College, the last place I knew she was headed to.

  By the time I left, the sun was already under the horizon and the only thing separating the sheet of darkness was the occasional streetlight. The highway drive only took ten minutes. I might have been going thirty over the legal speed limit, yet it still gave me plenty of time to fret and worry about Miranda. That panic did make the time go by slowly.

  Upon my arrival, the parking lot was lit. In this dim illumination, I managed to spot Miranda’s car from a distance. I also became aware of a very disarrayed pack of zombies. They weaved their own paths through the numerous cars like they were lost. In the short time I had, I speculated anywhere from five to ten were out in the parking lot, and there had to be more inside. On the positive side, most of the infected were off to one side of the parking lot, leaving a set of doors to one of the campus buildings somewhat unguarded.

  I leaned forward in my seat, trying to plan a way inside the building but lost concentration and jumped when a zombie crashed itself into my driver’s side window. It was a woman, and she had cracked the glass trying to get to me. I drove off as slowly as possible, but fast enough to get away from the woman. I had figured that firing a weapon would attract another one, but it didn’t matter when a few other heads popped up from behind parked vehicles and turned my way. I decided to try to rush in and out in that split moment, which was stupid because I found myself speeding up toward the building, adding a couple more of the damned ghouls to my getaway.

  At this point, I started to panic and considered turning back. But I was too far in and possibly too close to Miranda to give up. I knew I should have parked a safe distance away and went in by foot a little quieter. And to make things worse, I made another rash decision and slammed on the accelerator to buy myself time to get out of the car once I reached the doors. Of course this attracted the infected from the far side of the parking lot. Dare I say, all of them?

  I pulled up onto the curb and grabbed my gun and my backpack that was stuffed with all the essentials. I will say this: at least I was smart enough to realize that I might not make it back to my car. Slamming the car door shut, I looked around for a brief second to see the dead closing in. Without a moment to lose, I bolted up the steps to the door, pulled it open, and got inside.

  Only a few steps beyond the threshold, I heard the infected behind me run into the door I’d just passed through. I quickly spun around to look. On the other side of the frosted glass doors, the dead were relentlessly pounding and pushing, trying to get in. I quietly laughed. I had just then realized, which was funny at the time, that zombies can’t pull doors open.

  I stood there, smiling at their stupidity for a moment or two, then came to realize my own. Hands bashed through the glass and within seconds arms and upper bodies pushed through. They quickly broke their way in, determined to get at me. The crazed people pressed themselves and one another into the broken glass. The woman in the front of the mob almost gave an expression of horror as she was shoved onto a piece of glass that impaled her throat at an angle. Blood poured from under her chin, coating the glass as she howled. I thought of myself as a fool; I was going to get myself killed if I wasted more time. I turned and headed further into the college’s halls.

  Most classroom doors were locked, and looking inside didn’t reveal any signs of life. Not a single soul could be found, dead or alive. I was astonished at the lack of flesh eaters inside. The silence and lack of activity seemed eerie, like something just had to be right around the corner when I didn’t expect it. I started feeling that the more time I spent in here, the more likely I was going to die. It wouldn’t be long before the dead that followed me would be completely through the glass doors and inside the building searching for me, if they hadn’t already.

  Within a few minutes and another dozen rooms checked, I decided to make my way to the cafeteria. I followed signs down the unfamiliar corridors and began to hear some disturbing sounds. Being no stranger to horror entertainment, I immediately felt that I might have heard this noise before. Sounds of mumbling, and I’m not sure how else to describe it other than squishy noises came from the cafeteria just down the hall.

  Staying crouched, I snuck up behind a set of padded chairs tucked under a table just along the outer edge of the circular cafeteria. By peeking over them, my suspicions were confirmed. Amid tables, chairs, and books scattered across the floor, seven infected rested their knees in a puddle of blood. Even with all the gruesome things you may have seen on television, absolutely nothing could’ve prepared me for what I witnessed. Intestines were pulled from the stomachs of two young girls and were strewn out around them. Their bodies, completely ravaged, left little evidence that they were once beautiful people.

  Maybe this is all history to you, and you’re reading this some hundreds of years past my time and you have yet to experience death firsthand. But believe me when I say death has a power stronger than its smell. While it does have the most rancid and putrid odor, it has an unbelievable ability to sink into your chest and kill your soul if you let it. Take yourself and change every single mentality you have to one of ruthlessness and selfishness. It can make you fight harder than you ever have before to satisfy your primal instinct to survive and turn off the switch inside you that signifies that you value human life. It lets you know that this is a serious and intense world you live in. If you aren’t careful, if you screw up at the wrong time, it’s over.

  As I went to cover my mouth, I gagged as a sourness rose from my stomach. Before I could even try to keep it in, I upchucked on my arm and hand. My heart froze, and noises of the dead feeding just across the room stopped. I shook as much as I could off my arm and looked up to see an infected. It saw me, too.

  My heart pounded as I pointed my rifle up, pulling the trigger before I even had it up to my shoulder. I
t fired with such volume my ears deafened and the sound of the shot echoed throughout the building. My target twisted to the side as it fell, suggesting I had maybe only shot its hip. Not being fully prepared to shoot, the gun jumped out of my hand and hit the floor. It was time to get out.

  I grabbed my gun from the floor, stepped over the infected I had just brought down, and dashed down another passageway. More of them gave chase directly behind me. While cycling the bolt, I reminded myself I only had four shots left, and there were six more of the monsters. Despite my sprint, they kept pace with me. I ran down any hall I thought there might be an exit. But unfortunately, I hit a dead end. I turned and tried to open a classroom door. The first was locked, but as the threat of personal butchery came closer, the second opened.

  Of course, though, in my standard way, I left the door to the room open. If I had closed it, I might have had time to catch my breath at the least. With the diseased less than twenty feet behind me and little time to think, I ran up to the window and bashed it with the butt of the gun. I climbed my way out of the building, creating gashes in my hands, arms, and legs.

  Running around the building, I found my car alone and undisturbed. I looked back to see that the glass doors of the building were completely shattered. The infected had likely followed me inside and were currently searching for the source of the gunshot.