Neither Seen nor Heard
A Zombie Complex Short Story
by Alexander Pain
copyright 2019
This short story is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living, dead, or undead, or to actual events is purely coincidental.
This short story is set in the same neighborhood as my full length novel and contains no spoilers. If you enjoyed this short story, you’ll love—
Zombie Complex: The Battle for Chattahoochee Run.
“Why are all the homeless people out in your front yard Greatpa?” little Emily asked her great-grandfather.
“Get away from that window,” great-grandfather Hastings snapped, “you go sit on the couch!”
With tears welling up in her eyes, the four-year old girl quit peeking through the blinds and returned to join her young siblings and cousins on the living room couch. Her great-grandfather ambled over to the front picture window and took a peek through the curtains himself. Running his hands through his thin gray hair, he turned almost as white as the “homeless” out in the front yard. He wondered how the child could think homeless were in the yard.
The homeless didn’t usually trail several feet of intestines and gore behind themselves. It reminded him of a time long ago when--he shook his head to stop the memory--he just hoped that little Emily didn’t start bawling. If she did, there would be trouble. When you see a man’s intestines, there usually isn’t time for bawling he thought. There wasn’t time back in Vietnam and there sure wasn’t time now. Hastings let his hand rest on his fanny pack for a moment before turning away from the window.
He had told his adult children, his grand children, and his great-grandchildren that it was for his medicines, but it actually contained an old .32-caliber Colt revolver. It was barely sufficient for home defense according to the experts, but the experts didn’t have old man Hastings’ arthritis.
“Those people aren’t homeless, Emily,” he turned and warned all the children in a low voice. “I’ve told you before that they are monsters! We have to be very careful and very quiet!”
Behind him, a loud thud boomed from the front door. Everyone jumped and the children screamed. Thud! The door shook again. Then there was a desperate scratching at the door. Hastings slowly made his way over to the coffee table in the center of the living room and picked up the thick Sunday edition of the Atlanta Journal-Constitution. He folded it over with his left hand, turned his back to the kids, and retrieved the old revolver from the fanny pack with his right. Draping the paper over the revolver to conceal it from the children, he returned to the door and looked through the peephole. Sure enough, the monster was still out there and still scratching. Hastings quietly unlocked the deadbolt and door lock. Then, he opened the stout front door just a crack.
As the monster turned, the old man fired two shots to the creature’s chest. The shots had no effect. The monster was already a dead man. But, the old man instinctively placed the third shot right between his eyes. The dead man dropped right there on the front porch--even deader if there was such a thing. The old man made a mental note that the shots to the chest had no effect. Then he quickly shut and locked the door. He paused to re-holster the antique in his fanny pack holder and checked to make sure that the blackened Sunday newspaper wasn’t actually burning. Then, he turned back to the great-grandchildren.
"Once upon a time, people said that well-mannered children should be seen but not heard. That was just advice for parents back when I grew up. But, it is all different now kids,” he continued. “Today, you really cannot be seen and you really must not be heard. If they hear you, they will come to see you. If they see you, they will catch you. If they catch you, they will bite you. If they bite you, you will die and become a monster just like them. If you don’t want to be a monster, you have to be very, very, quiet."
It was a scary story old man Hastings thought he had told the grandchildren three times since their parents went out to scavenge supplies. He had actually told them the story nine times. Now, he looked at each young face to make sure they understood. Emily was still ready to cry. Her older sister, six-year-old Taylor, was paying full attention without much real comprehension. Their three cousins weren’t doing much better. Eight-year-old Ethan Junior looked terrified. Ten-year-old Andrew was acting like a brave know it all and telling the others to listen. The twelve-year-old video game veteran, Ryan, was ready to earn the monster hunting merit badge. The great-grandfather took no pride in the children's fear. He didn't tell them the story for fun. He told them the story because he wanted them to live. It wasn't just a scary bedtime story. It was a true and terrible story.
The children depended on him for survival, but at age 80, Hastings found that stories were about the best he could do to keep them safe. Now, he also depended on the quickness and agility of the children. When the dead started their rampage, Hastings own adult children and grandchildren had packed up their broods and everyone had come to grandpa's house. It made sense. Over the years, Grandpa had accumulated the most military experience, the most guns, the most tools, and the most food in storage. Grandpa Hastings hadn't set out to be a survivalist. He was just an old man with a modest ranch-style home that had a car port and a detached garage full of useful crap.
Everything a person could need in this new world was somewhere out in the backyard garage under something. He had power tools, hand tools, woodworking tools, garden tools, and jars upon jars of pickles and preserves that Betsy had prepared over the years. In the bedroom safe, he had hunting rifles and shotguns. His collection included a smattering of handguns including a real nice Colt .45. The old man’s arsenal of rifles included an original World War 2 M1 carbine and an M1A rifle that reminded him of the old Army M-14 rifles he trained with so many years ago.
Up until a decade back, he had enjoyed shooting that rifle in casual competitions out at the gun club. He even had reloading equipment out in the garage. He didn’t know if the stuff was any good, but he had gun powder, primers, and lots of other supplies. Most importantly, his library included books that detailed the types and quantities of powders and the best bullets to use when reloading ammunition.
Nowadays, his eyes weren’t what they used to be, his shoulder wasn’t what it used to be, his wrists weren’t what they used to be, and he could never remember which pills he had taken on any given morning. Plus, with Atlanta traffic being crazy, he would have wanted one of his sons or grandsons to come by and make the long drive out to the club. It had been years since he had visited the range. Of course, the old man didn't need to engage in any manly recreations to prove his manhood now. He was just known as Major Bill down at the Veterans' Hall and that was enough.
“Greatpa,” little Emily asked. “When are my mommy and daddy coming back?”
“That’s a good question, sweetie. I hope they come back soon.”
“Yeah,” Taylor piped up. “I’m hungry. I don’t want any more jam, or jelly, or pickles.”
“Don’t worry,” Andrew said authoritatively, “when my parents get back they’ll bring all the food we need.”
His adult children and grandchildren had thought they could dash out and get some groceries at the store with the rest of the crazies. They thought the great grand children would be safe with grandpa because he was once in the Army. That was three days ago. They hadn’t come back and Bill was worried. He tried not to show it around the young ones. He told them the gunshots that rang out day and night were just fireworks. He wondered a
nd worried about what happened to his kids. Now, food supplies were getting critical too. He had five hungry great-grandchildren to feed and old pickles weren’t going to cut it. They couldn’t wait for the pecans to fall or for the butterbeans to come in either. At some point, they were going to have to leave the house and forage for some real food.
Bill was glad that the van still ran. It had once been his pride and joy. He and his late wife, Betty, had been everywhere in it. If he had to, he could pack up the whole brood and go get groceries. Of course, with the streets filled with the dead, the old man wasn’t sure where exactly to go. Over the past few days, they had heard plenty of gunshots, screams, and even a huge fireworks show. Since they lived on a popular cut through street, Bill occasionally saw a car or two drive through the neighborhood. But, they were always driving way too fast. Bill didn’t drive that way anymore. He didn’t do anything fast. Even before the monsters came, Bill planned out his excursions. He tried to go to his usual destinations a little off peak. He tried to hit the drugstore, the grocery store, and the hardware store when everyone was still at work, before it rained, and when there was plenty of daylight so he could see.
“You kids wait here and stay away from the windows,” Bill commanded as he started his way back towards his bedroom. “We’re going on a little trip.”
“Are you going to get your guns, Greatpa?” Andrew asked.
“You know I can shoot,” Ryan added. “Remember when we went to the gun club last summer?”
“But Mom doesn’t like guns,” Andrew added. “She told us never to touch them.”
It was true. The three boys’ mother, Anita, did not like guns at all. How she ended married into the Hastings family the old man would never fathom. He wished she had taken a gun when she went foraging, but he figured his grandson, Ethan, had taken more than enough for the two of them. He paused for a moment and wondered where they were.
“Yeah, yeah,” the old man replied as he left the living room. “We’ll see. You better be careful what you wish for Ryan.”
When he got back to the master bedroom, old man Hastings sat on his bed. This was a difficult decision. With their sharp young eyes, Andrew and Ryan were both great shots. They did great with the .22 rifles and the M1 carbine. But, Ryan had complained for two days about the M1A beating his shoulder up and Anita had bitched about it for months. It had been nearly fifty years since Hastings had shot anybody, but he still remembered it like it vividly. It wasn’t something a man could ever forget. Hastings had a chance to shoot someone last year when a couple of little “meth head” druggies had busted into his garage. But, he chose to let them run off with his weed whacker and hedge trimmer instead. It was worth it to not have another bad memory. But, Hastings reckoned that the old world was gone now. In this new world full of walking death, the kids would have to survive. If they were going to survive, Hastings knew they were going to see some serious crap.
After a few minutes of reflection, Hastings realized there was nothing he could do but get on with it. He opened up the walk-in closet, grabbed the safe combination out of his pair of never-used wing-tips on the top shelf, and went to work opening the safe. He had just gone through it a few days ago to get his own adult children set up with firearms and now he needed to retrieve some more for himself and for Ryan.
Now, the old man muttered to himself, “32 Right . . . 15 Left . . . crap, crap, crap. Circle past the number . . . damn it all!” Three times he had to spin it and start all over again. It took him awhile, but Hastings finally got the safe open.
As he looked through his collection, he worried what had happened to his grandson and his M1A. His grandson and his grand daughter-in-law had been gone for days. Atlanta was called “Crazy Town” back before the zombies arrived. Now, Hastings was sure that it was completely insane. Finally, he pulled out a venerable Marlin Model 60 .22 rifle, his M1 carbine, several boxes of ammunition, some magazines, and some speed loaders for his revolver.
“Hey Ryan, get in here,” the old man yelled gruffly down the hall. “Help me out.”
“Yes, I’m here Greatpa,” the youngster replied bounding into the room.
“Boy, you need to help me load up these rifles.”
Ryan’s eyes grew wide with excitement and he started towards the bed full of guns and boxes of ammunition.
“Not so fast,’ old man Hastings said interposing an arm between the boy and the bed.
“Yes Greatpa.’
‘You need to tell me the most important rules.’
“Yes Greatpa,” the boy replied. “I remember ‘em.”
“Well, what are they?”
“Always treat it like it’s loaded.”
“And…”
“Always keep it pointed in a safe direction.”
“And…”
“Keep it unloaded until ready to shoot.”
“And…”
“Know your target and what’s behind your target.”
“And…”
“Keep your God damn finger off the trigger until you’re ready to shoot.”
“Don’t be a smart ass Ryan,” Greatpa snapped. “Boy, I may have taught you too well.”
“Yes Sir.”
The old man set the boy to work loading the .30-caliber magazines for the M1 carbine. He only had three 15-round magazine and a big “X” was scratched onto one of them. That was the one that had given him trouble with jams at the range over the years. In this crisis, it would be the magazine of last resort. As Ryan handed over each magazine, the old man carefully examined them before putting one magazine in the carbine and one in each pocket of his shooting jacket. He carefully kept the “X” magazine in his left pocket.
Then Hastings showed Ryan how the safety button worked on the Marlin Model 60. The boy had seen it before, but he would need to remember it under stress. Then they pulled the long tubular magazine up and started dropping rounds into the loading port.
“Count ‘em Ryan. You get 14 rounds.”
“One, two, three . . .”
After fourteen dutifully counted rounds, they dropped them into the loading port, pushed the magazine back down and closed it with a twist.
“You can reload with rounds from the box,” the old man added passing over a couple of boxes of loose .22 rounds, “but it won’t be easy to do fast.”
Finally, Hastings grabbed some small plastic boxes filled with .32-caliber cartridges he handloaded himself a few years ago. He had worked up a slightly hot load with flat-nosed wadcutter bullets. In theory, they would impart the most energy into the targets. He had the boy fill some rubber loading strips that would help reload the .32 revolver quickly. As they worked, the great-grandfather instructed the boy. They couldn’t shoot their way across the whole city. Hastings hoped his instructions had sunk in.
“Alright kids, get your backpacks” old man Hastings announced as he and Ryan slowly marched back into the living room. “We’re going for a little ride.”
“Do I get a rifle?” young Andrew asked.
“No, we’re all out,” old man Hastings replied. “You’ll have other things to do.”
The children dutifully retrieved their knapsacks. Hastings had never led troops who had gear adorned with Disney princesses and comic book superheroes. He handed each of the kids a bottle of water and a package of crackers and cheese.
“Greatpa,’ Taylor asked. “Where are we going with empty book bags?”
“We’re going to get food,” the old man replied, “lots of food.”
It took a few minutes, but Hastings managed to get all the kids lined up at the kitchen door. He inspected each of them and made sure they had their packs on. Then he grabbed the keys to the van. The van was only a few feet away under the carport. But, getting it loaded with great-grandchildren could take an eternity.
“When I open this door,” he instructed. “You kids run and get in the van.”
“Won’t the monsters see us,” Emily asked.
“No, I’ll open my door
and you kids will hop right in and climb into the back.”
Hastings peeked out at his old Dodge custom van through the thin curtain on the kitchen door. He didn’t see any creatures lurking out on the carport. He just hoped he could get the door open and everyone in the van before anything monstrous showed up.
“Are you kids ready?”
“We’re ready Greatpa!”
With that the old man threw open the door and made his way outside with the van keys in his hand. The kids lined up at the driver’s door and waited patiently for Hastings to unlock van. At times like this, a sliding door on each side would be great, but there was only a conventional double-door over on the passenger side. Ryan kept his eyes peeled towards the front yard and the road. He had his rifle at the ready. Hastings had his own carbine slung so that he could get the door open. Unfortunately, as he focused on the lock, the carbine started to slide off of his shoulder and down his arm. Hastings reached back to grab the short rifle’s stock and ended up flinging the jingling keys down onto the concrete pad of the carport and out of sight slightly under the running board of the van.
“Shit!” he exclaimed. “Where did they go?”
“Shhhh, Greatpa!’ Emily scolded. “They’ll hear you!”
As Hastings slowly turned around looking for the keys, young Andrew scooped them up from just under the van.
“Which key opens the door, Greatpa?”
“The square one does the driver’s door. The round one does the back and passenger-side door.”
The young boy moved like lightning, opening the driver’s door first and then running around to the van’s passenger-side double door. Meanwhile, Ryan scooped up Emily and put her in the driver’s seat.
“Up and over,” he said playfully, “get in the back.”
Taylor jumped in next and guided her little sister into the back. Then she hopped into the back herself, stumbled over a pair of skateboards, and plopped into with her little sister into the couch-like rear bench seat. From the far side, Andrew scrambled in, and grabbed the passenger-side captain’s chair. Ethan Junior hopped in and over to grab the driver’s side captain’s chair.
Zombie Complex | Short Story | Neither Seen Nor Heard Page 1