by Wimer, Kevin
Chris stood there with the butane canister in one hand and his rifle in the other. He smiled while looking at the sight below him. It was going to be a glorious sight to behold once he was done. The parking lot would be filled with chunks of meat and flesh—body parts scattered all over the place. Chris drew his arm back as if he was about to throw a football downfield—the game winning touchdown in the last seconds of the fourth quarter. He released the canister as his arm moved forward. He watched it sail through the air and then to the ground. It bounced a handful of times before settling into a roll. It rolled towards the car—catching the attention of a few walkers. Chris brought his rifle up and into his shoulder and pulled the trigger. The bullet hit the canister and sailed through it—skipping across the blacktop surface. He fired another shot and was damn near knocked on his ass when he felt the concussion from the tank exploding into a giant fireball. The sound of that explosion echoed for miles as bloody bits and piece of human flesh rained down around the parking lot. It was a sickening sound that reminded him of heavy raindrops hitting the pavement.
Chris hobbled back to the edge of the building to have a look at what remained of the walkers. He noticed that some of them were still alive while others were engulfed in flames—burning like a roman candle. The ones that were still alive were missing their legs. The bastards were still hungry as they tried crawling away from the burning wreckage that had once been a car. Chris started to raise his rifle up and fire but stopped himself from doing so. He wouldn’t waste the ammo. The walkers had been reduced to crawlers and he thought that they wouldn’t be able to do much harm—easier to kill. He watched as the franticly crawled across the blacktop of the parking lot—leaving a trail of blood and guts behind them. The smell of burning flesh filled the air. It was sickening. The ones that could walk were flapping their arms as if to try and put themselves out. It was almost as if they were alive and not dead. He knew that wasn’t the case. The walkers had no heartbeat. The virus that infected them had stopped their heart from beating long ago. It was the lust for both blood and brains that kept them alive and moving forward. Its was drove them to be the murdering creatures that they are.
Chris tucked his noise into the crook his arm and coughed while chocking on the smoke and smell of burning flesh. It was a godawful smell and one he wouldn’t soon forget. He looked at the cloud of black and grey smoke as it began to fill the sky. If the sound of the explosion didn’t bring more walkers than the billowing cloud of smoke would soon bring the living to investigate. He stood there with his nose in the crook of his arm and wondered who he feared the most. The dead or the living. His eyes began to water as his coughing and chocking spell began to pick up. He pulled his shirt up and over nose and took a quick shallow breath. The living was who he feared the most. The dead were after one thing. Brains. The living was after everything they could get, and they would do anything to survive. Chris gritted his teeth as the pain of his ankle brought him out thought. He would worry about whatever came next—the dead or the living—later. He knew right now he had to get off his ankle and deal with the injure before it became much worse. His body was telling him that he needed to get some rest in order to be able to leave this place. It wasn’t safe to stay here for very long. One or two nights. Maybe. He knew that if he stayed longer than that he was pressing his luck.
Chris turned and limped across the roof to retrieve his backpack. The hissing moans of the undead were starting to slowly fade away. The crackling of their burning flesh had replaced their angry moans of hunger. Chris leaned over and picked up his pack and then dropped it through the hatch. He took one last look at the undead and then at the field he had come across earlier in the day. He shook his head and cursed the field—cursed himself for being out here alone. He knew it was better being here alone than being with Deacon and his murderous group of survivors. He wasn’t a cold-blooded killer—at least not yet. He was sure that his body and mind and spirit would one day get there but right now it wasn’t. Right now, Chris still had his humanity and he was clinging to it for all that it was worth. He lowed himself through the hatch and onto the ladder. It was slow going but he had finally made it down the ladder and into the stockroom. His ankle screamed with pain and it had damn near given out on him about midway down the ladder. He took a breath as he leaned against the wall—shifting his weight off his ankle. The fiery hot wave of pain was starting to make him sick—maybe it was the handful of painkillers he had taken on an empty stomach.
Chris pushed himself off the wall and rushed into the bathroom and began heaving. He threw up until he could throw up no more. The taste of vomit still clung to his mouth as he sat there on the bathroom floor with his head leaning against the wall. The room had been spinning as he heaved his guts up. He was thankful that it had finally stopped. The feeling of wanting to throw up had also passed. His stomach hurt and his ribcage felt as if someone had worked him over. His eyes were closed as an image from the movie Rocky entered his mind. It was were Rocky had gone into a meat locker to do his workout routine—punching slabs of beef as they hung from their meat hooks. Chris’s body felt like one of those slabs of beef and world was his meat hook. His throat burned from the acid that had been in his stomach. Get up. You can’t die here. Not like this. The voice inside his head barked. Chris lifted himself onto his hands and knees. He took a breath and held it as he lifted himself off the floor and onto his feet. The pain in his ankle instantly shot through his body. He moaned out a slew of curse words and then hobbled to the sink. He turned the water on and put his mouth down to it and began lapping at it like a thirsty dog before cupping his hands and gulping it in.
Chris stood at the sink for what felt like hours. He had only been back on his feet for a few minutes. His legs felt weak and wobbly and his body shaky. Not all of it was from the pain and having of thrown up. He needed to get something to eat and then he needed to lie down and rest. He hobbled out of the bathroom and then out of the small makeshift bedroom and across the stockroom floor. Chris pushed the swinging doors open and entered the convenience area of the gas station. He took one painful step and then stopped and had a look at everything. It was as how he had found it. The body of the walker he had killed was still lying in the middle of the hallway. He took a breath and let it out with a heavy sigh knowing that Carl Yassa lifeless body was still in the bathroom down the hall. He touched his breast pocket and felt the note. He had to find Brandy. He had to get the note to her so that she would know what happened to her father. It was his mission. Chris limped down the aisles as he began looking for something to eat. He wanted something that wouldn’t make him sick. He found a box of saltine crackers and a jar of peanut butter. He would eat a few bites of saltines to see if his stomach could handle it. He would then move on to the peanut butter and then on to some of the other foods that were stacked on the shelves. It was a junk food paradise.
Chris sat on the edge of the cot with a handful of crackers and a cold Coke. He sipped the coke and then took a bite of crackers while looking at the room he now found himself in. He wondered if this had been the man’s home. Maybe it was just a temporary place the man stayed while working late at night. He took another bite of crackers while staring at the posters that hung on the walls. Some of them were of classic cars while others were of women dressed in little to nothing at all. He took another sip of Coke and then stuffed another cracker laced with peanut butter into his mouth. His stomach rumbled but not with sickness. It rumbled from hunger. Chris had not eaten since early yesterday morning. His ankle still throbbed with pain and he knew he needed to prop it up and take his boot off. It was going to be painful pulling off his boot. His ankle was swollen, and the boot was now tight. He reached into his pocket and pulled out the bottles of painkillers. He opened them up and this time he took the recommended dosage of both medications. He tossed them into his mouth and took a drink of water and washed them down. He hoped that they would not only relieve the pain but take the swelling down as well.
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nbsp; Chris leaned over and began unlacing his boot. He could feel instant relief as the unlaced boot allowed his swollen ankle to expand. He gently pulled the boot off and looked at his ankle. It wasn’t bruised so he took that as a good sign. He slowly and gently moved it around. It was stiff and hurt like a son of a bitch and felt a bit mushy. It isn’t broken. Chris thought as he looked at his foot and ankle while moving it in a slowly circle. Give it a day or two and let the swelling go down. If it still feels and looks this way, then it isn’t a sprain. He took a breath and let it out with a heavy sigh. If it was broken, he was as good as dead. It wasn’t like he could head to the emergency room and have it looked at. Doctors were rarity in today’s world. Hospitals had been a hot bed of activity during the outbreak. It had been ground zero. He was sure the percentage of living doctors that could deal with major trauma was rather low. He was sure most doctors were dead or in hiding and not speaking up to help anyone. He couldn’t blame them. He wouldn’t blame anyone for letting their fears override their sense of duty. It was easy to give up and just go with the flow of what life was now throwing at you. Chris was thankful that he wasn’t built that way. He was thankful that his sense of right and wrong remained. His moral compass was still intact—for how long was a question that still remained.
Chris sat both of his boots to the side of the bed. It felt good having them off. He couldn’t remember the last time he had had them off. The way his feet smelled it had been a long time. He turned and reached for one of the pillows on the bed. He rolled it up and placed it at the foot of the bed. He leaned back and placed his foot across the pillow and then laid his head on the other one. He stared up at the ceiling above him as the wind outside began to howl. It was an unsettling sound. It was the kind of sound that horror movies were made of. He took a breath as droplets of rain began to hit the roof above him. He shivered as he wrapped a blanked around him—thankful to be indoors and not out there in the weather. He looked at the skylight and could see that it was starting to get dark—darker than just the storm clouds that filled the sky. He blinked his eyes and felt them becoming heavy with sleep. He could only guess the time. He hadn’t had a working watch in months and doubt he would ever have one again—time no longer mattered. Chris yawned as he pulled the letter from his pocket and read it twice more before closing his eyes and letting sleep overtake him.
CHAPTER 4
Chris awoke with a start. He was covered in sweat and breathing heavy. The blanket he had placed over him felt like a new layer of skin as it clung to him. He quickly sat up and looked around the darkened room and wondered where he was. He couldn’t see anything but the light of the moon shining through the skylights above him. It took a moment for the fog of his brain to clear and for him to remember that he had taken refuge in an old gas station. It took even less time for the aching feeling of his ankle to remind him that he had been injured. Chris took a handful of deep breaths to try and steady his nerves. He had been dreaming—dreaming the nightmarish nightmares from the night of the outbreak. He had been reliving the Hell of that while trapped in a deep sleep. It was something Chris hadn’t done in quite some time. Dreamt. He couldn’t remember the last time his mind had entered reem sleep—maybe it was six months ago. Maybe it was a bit longer than that. It was the kind of sleep one need in order for the body to get the required rest that it needed. It had been quite some time since Chris had gotten that kind of sleep. His heart thudded in the center of his chest as it raced to beat the band. It was like he had gone for a jog and ended up running for his life—just like he had done the night of the outbreak. Chris had been running for his life. He had been running ever since.
Chris shivered with a chill. It wasn’t the kind of chill of being cold. It was the kind of chill one had from being scared out of their mind. He hadn’t admitted to himself just how scared he had been since the outbreak. He had been an officer of the law. The kind of man that carried himself with not only distinction but without fear. He did a job that came with certain unknown risk each day he left his apartment. Chris never had a guarantee that he would live to see another day when he left home to go and work his shift. He had patrolled the streets and had done his job without fear. The thought of dying while on the job lingering in the back of his mind but he always thought that it wouldn’t be him, it would be someone else. Chris had attended funerals of fallen patrolmen—officers killed in the line of duty. The sound of their family crying still haunted him. He pushed those thoughts from his mind as he rolled onto his side and reached out and fumbled to find his backpack. Chris found it and then found a flashlight he kept in one of the main pockets of his pack.
Chris held his breath as he pushed the button on the flashlight—fearing that he wasn’t alone in the darkness. Images of the undead flashed through his mind as the beam of light came on and cut through the pitch blackness and reviled the room that he had taken refuge in. His heart fluttered as he took a breath and let it out with a sigh of relief. He was relieved to not only find himself alone but that he was still in the same spot he had fallen asleep in just hours before. He let the light of his flashlight play across the room. He looked at the posters that hung on the walls—mostly classic cars with a few of them showing half naked women on them. Chris slowly moved the light from one wall to the other as he began looking for a light switch. It was something he hadn’t done earlier. He hoped the place still had electricity. He noticed the switch was on the wall next to the entrance door. He also noticed the bathroom was just a few feet away. His bladder felt full and the urge to urinate motivated him to set up.
Chris started to hang his legs out over the edge of the bed when he remembered his ankle had been injured. He propped himself up on one arm and shined the light onto his ankle. It was still a bit swollen. Chris slowly moved his ankle and foot in a semi-circle—it was still a bit stiff and sore but maybe not as bad as it had been a few hours before. The medication had helped relieve some of the inflammation and having it propped up on the pillow had helped the swelling to go down. He knew the true test of just how bad his ankle was would be when he stood and began to walk on it. He couldn’t wait much longer. His eyeballs felt like they were beginning to float. He knew if he didn’t get to the bathroom soon and take a piss, he would urinate all over himself. He pushed himself up onto his elbows and then swung his legs out over the bed as he sat up. His ankle barked a bit with pain, but it was nothing like it had been. It was more manageable of a pain right now.
Chris took a breath and held it as he forced himself to his feet. He kept his wait on one foot and barely touched the floor with the other one as he hobbled to get his balance. Once Chris was steady on his feet, he shined the light in front of him as he cautiously took a step forward—winching as he put the full wait of his body on his injured ankle.
“Damn that hurts,” Chris mumbled to himself through gritted teeth, “It’s going to take a bit more than rubbing some dirt on it to get back in the game coach.”
Chris shook his head as he limped towards the bathroom. The voice of his old football coach echoed through his mind—a haunting memory that no longer existed and a time that no longer mattered. He was sure the old fart was dead or had died long before the outbreak. The man was a cantankerous old bastard. Chris looked towards the entrance of the room and thought about walking over to the light switch that was on the wall next to the door but decided against it. It was a few extra steps that he didn’t need to take right now. Steps that were painful enough to take just to get to the bathroom. He knew he couldn’t walk much further without pissing himself. The urge to empty his bladder and the pain that accompanied that urge was far too much. Chris stepped into the bathroom and began looking for the light switch. It was behind the bathroom door. He thought it was an odd place to have a light switch but then thought the bathroom was more than likely added years after the building had been built. He was sure the bathroom didn’t meet building codes—built without a permit. He flipped the switch as the light overhead flickered to life. He
blinked his eyes as he slowly turned around and came face to face with the mirror over the sink. He stared into it as the face of a stranger stared back at him. It had been a few months since Chris had seen himself. Those few months hadn’t been kind to him. He placed a hand to his face and felt the scraggly beard. He couldn’t remember the last time he had shaved. Maybe the day before the outbreak. Maybe the day of.
“Damn if you aren’t a sight for sore eyes.”
Chris turned from the mirror and the image of himself and hobbled over to the commode. He unzipped his pants and began pissing—sighing as he stood there relieving himself. His body felt a bit weak. His stomach rumbled with hunger. He hadn’t eaten much—a few crackers and some peanut butter and a cold Coke. He thought about the shelves lined with food. It was mostly junk food, but it was better than nothing at all. He longed for the days of catching breakfast at one of the many fast food joints that dotted the city’s landscape. Harrisonburg was full of chain restaurant’s and a few local gems. He missed the local joints and wished he had eaten at them a bit more. His favorite local hamburger joint had been Jess’s. The burgers were mouthwatering. He thought about Jess’s until his stomach roared with hunger.
Chris moved back to the mirror. He turned his face from side to side while looking at himself. He needed to shave, and he needed a haircut. Chris opened the medicine cabinet and found a razor and some shaving cream. He opened a draw on the sinks cabinet and rummaged around until he found some scissors. He trimmed his beard until it was short enough to shave with a razor. He then moved on to trimming his hair the best that he could. It didn’t look like a professional haircut, but it looked a sight better than what it had just moments before. Chris lathered his face with shaving cream and set about shaving. He looked in the mirror at himself and then at the shower stall behind him. The last time he had bathed with running water had been just before the first snow fall of winter and then it had been in a creek with flowing cold water. He guessed that it had been about three months ago. His daily bathing ritual had been a pan full of water—something he had heard referred to as a whore’s bath. Once I’m done shaving, I should take a long hot shower. Running the razor across his face as he thought about taking shower. Find me a bar of fresh soap and stay in there until I’m shriveled up and look like a prune. It was a thought he couldn’t wait to put into action. He would first get a bite to eat and take some painkillers when his stomach was full and then take a nice long hot shower.