ZOMBIE BOOKS

by Gnarly, Bart

  The only thing that keeps you alive in the wild is being bigger and scarier and fiercer and more vicious.

  Either you were a lion or you were everyone else, and the man knew he was a lion. He had made it this long, hadn’t he? He was the King of Cheney, and what he found next made the King very happy indeed.

  Parked across the street was his Jeep.

  The man scanned the scene for Steven, hoping that his gut was wrong. How could he have abandoned him? How could Steven think he could ever get away from his family by traveling such a short distance? It didn’t make sense.

  The Jeep was parked in front of the old mill, and the man was a little jealous of the idea. It was a fortress when you looked at it right. High walls. The few windows on the ground level had been boarded up.

  But by whom?

  How long had Steven been planning on leaving? How long would it have taken him to prepare this place? And where is he now? Why wasn’t the Jeep hidden? Nothing seemed right to the man, but it was about to get a few shades clearer.

  Out of a side door strolled a young man, shouldering a backpack and holding what looked like a dogcatcher’s pole. The young man got into the Jeep, fired it up as though it had always been his, and tore off down the road.

  “Who are you supposed to be?”

  ◊◊◊

  The zombies never stop. They always come. One after the next, in and endless stream of used-to-be humanity. Things that were kids, women, men. Deadies that were once intelligent, productive members of society.

  “Except for you, of course,” I say to the pair of arms and torso dragging itself toward the tires of the Jeep. “You look like you wasted your life. I mean, seriously, a Boston tour shirt from eighty-eight? You know music stopped sucking and got better at some point, right? And holy shit, is that a mullet?”

  The crawler kept at me, Lieutenant Dan style, crying out in an ashen voice and snapping his teeth at me.

  “Don’t be mad at the truth, man. It’s not my fault you never went beyond classic hits.” I looped one of his hands and dragged him in front of the Jeep. “Let’s see if you pop, shall we?” Before he could move very far, I fired up the Jeep and rolled one big off-road tire over the grey mass. He squealed in that way only undead people can, and then went silent as his chest, neck, and head flattened under the weight of the tire.

  “Aww,” I moan in a comically disappointed tone, “You didn’t make a pop. Clearly you’re broken. Probably from all of those hard rockin’ nights, huh?” I backed up while singing the chorus to ‘More Than a Feeling.’ His chest made a satisfying smacking noise, like a mouth full of honey or a dog eating peanut butter, and I threw my hands up and cheered.

  Down the block I spotted another shuffler. This time it was an old woman in a long cotton dress covered in tiny flowers. I clicked the transmission into drive and sang, “I see my Marianne walkin’ away!” and tore off after her.

  If I was going to keep the streets safe, I might as well enjoy myself in the process, right?

  A few hours later I pulled up to the mill and nearly passed-out.

  The entire building was on fire.

  Fully involved. No recovering.

  My food.

  My water.

  My supplies.

  My fuel.

  All of it was disintegrating before my waking eyes.

  How?

  When?

  Wha…?

  I searched the streets for answers, as though a kindly old man would be standing there and explain the whole thing. What I found was a note, taped to a light post standing on the sidewalk before the mill. It read:

  You took Steven.

  You killed my family.

  You stole my food.

  You stole my Jeep.

  I have taken your home.

  Kyle

  My first thought was fear. How did he know my name? But of course the answer came just as quickly. Steven, apparently that was the guy I fed to my collection, he had lied. Kyle wasn’t dead. It would appear that he was very much alive and very pissed at me.

  I knew it was bait.

  I knew he wanted me to come find him.

  And I knew I would love taking him apart.

  Here comes the law.

  CHAPTER 11

  A Man’s Castle: Part 2

  The King of Cheney

  Everything I owned was in the Jeep.

  I had two bottles of water and a package of dry ramen noodles. I had my catchpole, a knife, a pistol, and ten rounds of ammunition. I had the clothes on my back and a sweatshirt in the back seat. The Jeep didn’t have a top, and I had no tent. It was late summer and the nights still were not too bad, but it would be snowing soon and I needed shelter. Last, I had a quarter tank of fuel and three sticks of gum.

  And nothing else.

  He had burned all of my supplies to the ground.

  The other Kyle.

  I knew where to find him, and I knew he was expecting me. At this point, any move I made would be walking into his hands.

  There’s no way he would be waiting inside. He’ll be perched to the side, waiting for me to come along. When I showed myself, poking my head at the ranch house, he would sweep in from behind and take me out.

  I knew it was his plan.

  I knew it, because it is exactly what I would have done.

  I roared into the night sky, under the flickering orange glow of the mill.

  My home.

  The fire rolled on unchecked. Part of me feared the fire spreading and burning the whole town down.

  Part of me hoped it did.

  The world should know how I feel. The world should know that I had lost everything in the fray. The world should care.

  So burn it all! Burn it all to the ground! Tear up the roots of the earth and cast aside all cares! It’s the end!

  “To hell with it all!” I cried. “Take it all, you son of a bitch! Take it all!” I reached down over and over and again and again I threw whatever my hand found. Rocks, wood, and other debris went hurtling from my hand into the fire. “Take it all!” I screamed, not sure who I was talking to any more.

  Finally, after several minutes of my fit, I sat down upon the curb and pressed my hands to my eyes.

  Everything I had left was in that building, and nothing would survive this.

  At this point, I figured I had three options.

  One: I could fall back and regroup. I could find a new home, gather some provisions, prepare myself and then go after this asshole properly once I was ready.

  It took no time at all to realize I didn’t have the patience for that.

  Two: I could just end it now. I’ve got ten bullets and only need one.

  That wasn’t really ever an option. I don’t think I have it in me to pull the trigger on myself when there was still a way through.

  Three: Storm his castle. Charge at him and take his home from him. I did it to his crew. There were three of them. He’s only one guy. I could do it.

  But he would be ready for me, wouldn’t he? He hopes I’m coming. Why else would he leave bait? That’s all the note was, in actuality, just a lure.

  If I go, he has me right where he wants me.

  “Sir?”

  The voice makes my head whip to the right and my pistol is out before I know what’s happening. Hands shoot into the air as I level the barrel of my pistol on the man who has appeared at my side.

  “Don’t shoot!” he cries.

  “Who are you?” I bark, pressing myself to a standing position. “What are you doing here?”

  The man is older, maybe in his fifties or sixties, and his hands shake as he reaches them to the night sky. His beard is mostly grey, but his head is still crowned with thick black hair. He’s chubby, and he looks like he has lost a great deal of weight in a short period of time. His blue jeans and a thick canvas jacket suggest a retired blue collar worker, though his eyes look too soft for that.

  “Please,” he says in a shaky voice. “Please don’t shoot. I’m
Jeff. You kill zombies, right?”

  I roll my head slightly to one side and keep the gun pointed at him.

  “Well,” he continued, “of course you do. I mean, we’ve been watching you for a while now. Killing zombies, that is. You see… Shoot. Could you not point that at me?”

  I look down at the gun and back at the man.

  “Guns really make me nervous,” he shares. “Keep it out if you like, but can we just…” He pats the air in a motion that pleads with me to lower my weapon. I point the gun at the ground beneath his feet and he lets out a shuddering sigh. “That’s… whew… That’s better. Thank you.”

  “What do you mean you’ve been watching me?” I ask, trying to stay on topic.

  “Well… Just that we keep an eye out for you. My grandkids call you the Lawman.”

  “Your grandkids?”

  “Yeah,” he continues, getting more animated. “Nicholas and Bonnie. She’s eight and he’s eleven. They sit around every day waiting to see you go by. Diane…she’s my wife… thinks you’re nuts, but the kids and I love it. You see,” he said, pointing up the block, “we only live about half a mile up the street, and you seem to go that way a lot.”

  I flush at the realization. I do go that way often. In fact, most outings start going south on First and then branch off. The reason’s simple.

  It’s the opposite direction from my parent’s house, and where they were murdered. I avoid South Murphy Rd at every opportunity. There’s enough death in the world. Why rub it in?

  “Wait,” I interrupt. “Your whole family watches for me?”

  “Well,” the man says, looking coy, “yeah. You’re kind of the local celebrity.”

  “Huh?”

  “The Patterson’s keep us posted when you hunt in their neighborhood, and Mr. Ma watches the window more than the kids do.”

  “Mr. Ma?”

  “His wife died in the first wave. He came to live with us after.”

  “And the Patterson’s?”

  “They live off Union and Summit, down by the college. White house. Red door. Great neighborhood. Well… Used to be, anyway.”

  I hold me head and try to imagine a world where this conversation makes sense.

  “Well, listen… Uhh…”

  “Jeff,” he reminds me.

  “Yeah,” I say with a nod, “Jeff. Listen, I don’t know why you’re here, but this really isn’t a good time for me. Unless you have a pile of food, water, and some clothes you won’t be needing…”

  “But that’s just it!” he blurts. “That’s why I’m here. You see, we saw the mill go up, and figured you’d be needing a new place to live.”

  “Excuse me?” I asked, hardly able to believe what I was hearing. “You… You want me to come live with you?”

  “You can’t stay in the street,” he replied with a laugh, then made a serious expression. “Speaking of,” he said, looking around nervously, “shouldn’t we be going about now?”

  “Oh, right” I said in a joking tone. “Yeah, the whole world full of the murderous undead things. Yeah, we should probably be going.”

  I stand and get into the Jeep. “You walk here?”

  “No other choice. Car got stolen before the zombies ever even showed up.”

  I smile and shake my head. “Hop in,” I say.

  ◊◊◊

  I scoop peas with my spoon under five pairs of watchful eyes.

  The kids stare with a reverential glow in their faces. The tired, wrinkled, ancient man to my right is Mr. Ma. Across from me is Diane, Jeff’s daughter. She’s in her late thirties and is the mother of both kids. And then there’s Jeff at the head of the table, smiling like he just brought home the President for dinner.

  The meal is measly. One can of peas that tastes like it’s been open all day. Saltines. Water. I don’t fail to notice that my portion is greater than everyone else’s.

  With each small bite I take, the group silently studies me and my every movement.

  My teeth click against the spoon and the noise is like a gong in my head, the room is so quiet.

  “Again,” Diane says, “I want to apologize for not being able to offer you more. Food is getting pretty scarce nowadays.”

  “Really,” I say for the fourth time, “it’s great. This is great.” To make my point I take another bite of peas but bobble the spoon and drop some on the floor.

  “I got it!” Nicholas calls. Without another word, he dives to the ground and picks each pea off the floor. Jeff and Diane smile as the boy emerges with the green treasures and sets them back on my plate. “There you go!” the boy says with pride.

  “Than… Thank you,” I spit out, trying not to think about how dirty this floor must be. At the mill, I had food to waste. And yet these people, living just down the street, have clearly been starving.

  The little girl eyes me and my plate. She has a sallow look to her that gives the appearance of one who was running out of happiness. It’s a haunting look that gives me chills and makes me want to cry.

  “Do you…” I begin, not sure how to say what I’m feeling. I push the plate across the table to her and nod. “Would you finish this, please?”

  She looks at me as though I were insane.

  “It’s just, well… I had a lot to eat for lunch and I don’t want to be a pig.”

  “Sir, you really don’t have to…” Jeff starts but I wave him off.

  “I insist,” I say, and nod to the little girl. She looks to her mother and Diane smiles at her. Nicholas makes a small whine but before anyone can say anything, Bonnie pushes half of the gift onto his plate.

  The sight kills me.

  “You guys…” I begin, but Jeff interrupts me.

  “After we eat,” he says, “then we’ll talk.”

  We all sit in silence, watching the brother and sister slowly pick at this measly portion. When they finish, Diane tells Nicholas and Bonnie to go play, and suddenly the adults now own the table.

  “Are you comfortable?” Mr. Ma asks.

  “Yeah,” I reply, “but… You guys have lived here the whole time?”

  “Yep,” Jeff answers. “Diane and the kids were living here when the invasion began. Mr. Ma came after the first wave.”

  “But, how?” I press, dumbfounded. “How could you have been here for so long and no one knew?”

  “Oh lots of people know we’re here,” Diane answers. “The Jenkins’. The Patterson’s. Bob and Carol down by your mill. There’s lots of us.”

  My mind swims with the revelation. Jeff goes on to tell me that there are more than forty residents in Cheney who are still alive and hiding in homes around town.

  “And they are all rooting for you,” Jeff gushes. “We don’t even know your name,” he adds with a laugh.

  “Kyle,” I say. “Kyle Moore.”

  “Nice to meet you, Kyle,” Jeff says.

  “So,” Diane cuts in, “what happened at the mill?”

  I can feel my face tense and my hands make fists involuntarily. “Oh,” I say in a voice that is more playful than I really feel, “I pissed off the wrong guy.”

  ◊◊◊

  There’s nothing in the ranch house. No food. No supplies. It’s a cage and no more. The front room is empty. The rest of the rooms are boarded up. The remains of Michael, Kurt, and Dave are all curled up along the new section of fence. Pieces had to be pulled from other areas of the border, but it was more for show than purpose. Twisted between the limbs and torsos of the bodies of his friends are boards and pipes and bags and parts. The sight is ghastly.

  Fitting. They’re still guarding the perimeter.

  Nice dedication, boys.

  Kyle sits in his perch, silently waiting and watching the road. He’ll come. He knows it. His prey can’t stay away. A coward would run, but a killer? No. A killer will return, and Kyle is more than hopeful.

  What’s the point of being a lion if you never get to prove it?

  So he sits.

  And waits.

  All
night if needs be.

  He’ll come eventually, and Kyle will be ready.

  He’s the King of Cheney, and he will not give up his throne to anyone.

  ◊◊◊

  The children are in bed but the adults are still up and talking.

  “I just don’t get it,” Diane presses. “What did you do? He didn’t just get mad and set fire to the mill. So? What’d you do?”

  I look at my hands and bounce a knee anxiously. I had purposely been avoiding any details, but she just won’t let it go. “He and his… group… they attacked a family. More than one actually. And they uhh… They killed a lot of people. They raped a woman I knew. So…”

  “So?” she continued.

  “So I found out where they lived, and I wiped them out. Or so I thought.”

  “You killed them?” Diane clarified. She didn’t sound reproving. She didn’t sound mad. She just sounded like she wanted to understand.

  “Yeah,” I sighed. “Three of them at their home, and one at the mill.”

  “But you didn’t get them all,” Jeff pointed out.

  “No,” I agreed. “As it turns out, I neglected the most dangerous one. And he uhh… He found out. And then he burned down my home.”

  “And you think that’s all?” Mr. Ma asked. “You think he’s done.”

  I gave the three of them a look that spoke loudly enough.

  “So what are you planning to do?” Jeff asked.

  “Well,” I said, and wiped my hand across my mouth. “I think I’ll go pay him a visit tomorrow.”

  “You think he’s waiting for you?” Jeff guessed.

  “Definitely.”

  “Then, why?” Diane questions in an exasperated tone. “Why go?”

  “Either I go to him, or he comes back to me,” I point out. “But we are going to have to meet eventually.”

  “You don’t even know what he looks like,” she continues.

  “It’s a guy. He’ll look pissed. And he’ll be trying to kill me.” I chuckle darkly. “He shouldn’t be that hard to identify.”

  “It’s just… There must be another way,” Jeff says.

  “Killing and killing and killing,” Mr. Ma sighs. “And when does it end?”

  The other two look to me as though the question was specifically for me.