by Doug Ward
We decided to have Timmy open the door. That way, if the undead occupant of the basement was actually at the top of the stairs, we would be, hopefully, able to bring one or both of our weapons to bear. We hoped to push the zombie down the stairwell; and, if we were lucky, that would create the necessary trauma to the brain area to cause permanent death.
"The needs of the many outweigh the needs of the few," said Tim stoically with a knowing grin.
"Or the one," added Dean. I had no idea what they were talking about.
As the door swung out, we lunged into the breach. The stairs before us were empty. We could hear muffled sounds from the kitchen.
"Here zombie, zombie, zombie..." Dean called out, mimicking a master calling for his dog.
We could hear the dragging gait of our quarry as he passed through the kitchen door we had so carelessly left open. The shuffling sound was muffled by the occasional moan. As the walking dead came into view, my hands tightened on the wooden handle, my sweating palms making a sure grip nearly impossible.
At the foot of the steps, the monster looked down, confused. It was seemingly unable to comprehend how to continue. After a few moments, the zombie tentatively lifted its leg and awkwardly placed it on the first riser. Hand finding the rail it slowly began its ascent.
As the creature neared our position, I gained faith that our plan would work. I quickly wiped my hands on my pants and readied myself for the big push.
When he was still a step away, I could only watch as my neighbor's snow shovel lashed out and caught the slow-moving predator in the throat. The zombie flew out and away, then connected with the steps. Bouncing off the step treads, it rolled from back to neck to head as the being flipped down the stairs.
We kept our distance, not wanting to rush in, but content to wait and see the outcome of the fall. When the beast came to rest at the bottom of the steps, we could clearly see, by the odd direction his neck bent, that he was going to stay dead this time.
Dean fearlessly took the lead once again, his descent slowing as he neared the bottom. Gingerly, he avoided the crumpled heap of the zombie at the base of the stairs, taking great pains to tiptoe around the leg that angled out, blocking the path.
As I mirrored his movements, I could clearly see where Dean had shot the now still undead. The bullet had definitely struck it in the head, but it was more a glancing blow, enough to make it drop but obviously not enough to keep it down.
We made our way to the kitchen and began rifling through the cupboards, sometimes slipping on the debris the undead had knocked on the floor. We avoided the blood-splattered areas from the zombie’s earlier head wound, searching only the untainted storage areas, not wanting to take any risks with whatever contamination caused this outbreak.
Most of the cupboards were empty. The few that held anything at all were mostly pots, pans, paper products and empty plastic storage containers. The drawers were held a collection on mix matched cooking utensils, potholders, towels, and wash clothes. Everything had the look of donations. Mismatched handles and many duplicates gave validation to that conclusion.
Timmy went straight for the fridge. "Holy Crap!" he trumpeted, pulling out a large pan covered with aluminum foil. Placing it on the counter, he pulled back the silvery covering, exposing delicious-looking lasagna.
"It looks like they were going to have a party," assessed Dean, pulling out dish after covered dish.
"Keep the door closed. You’re letting in the heat," I barked, mimicking my father. The other two just looked at me with this odd, questioning face. "Something my dad used to say," I offered. "He said the same thing about the front door."
We all fell in, ripping open containers. Pierogies, hot sausages, and potato salad were all in abundance, but the best of all were two large pans of fried chicken. My mouth watered in response to the feast before us. It had been at least two days since I had eaten anything of substance. Some beef jerky and a few fruit roll-ups just couldn't keep my hunger at bay.
We fired up one of the old gas stoves, nibbling on cold chicken as we warmed our meal. It was all I could do to wait, the smell nearly driving me mad. It seemed to take forever to heat this bountiful supper.
Cheap, generic soda washed down steaming sporks full of food. I ate like there was no tomorrow, my pants straining against my expanding belly.
We were exhausted when it was over, gasping for breath as if we had exercised something more than our mouths. We methodically repackaged the leftovers and put them back in the fridge. The dishes were all paper and plastic, so we threw them away.
Hunger satisfied, we began our trek back upstairs. Dean paused at the body of the dead Jehovah's Witness, reaching down to pat his pocket areas and, finally, reaching inside one.
"What are you doing there, Dean?" I questioned, Tim nodding at my side.
"Looking for this," he chirped, withdrawing a set of keys. "Maybe they go to that car in the parking lot."
"I thought you were going for his wallet," Tim chirped.
"In the middle of a zombie apocalypse?" responded my neighbor, hurt registering in his voice. "Seriously? What could I do with his wallet? Steal his identity? His milk money?"
"He might have his driver's license in there. We would know who he was."
Dean looked a little deflated. He rolled the formerly living man over and patted his back pocket for his wallet. After a few disgusted looks, while struggling with the tight trousers, he produced a brown leather billfold. He let go of the man, causing the corpse to roll back over. We all stared as the dead man rolled back. It was as if we expected him to rise and attempt to eat one of us.
I patted Dean on the back, showing my appreciation for a job well done. He looked back at me, relieved, before sidestepping the dead man and starting his ascent of the stairs.
We all took seats in the small office. I woke the computer with a tap of the spacebar. The screen came to life, displaying one lone living dead at the door. The parking lot was still full of zombies milling about aimlessly.
Dean dropped the keys on the counter, causing a brief musical jingling. The wallet, he kept, emptying the contents on the side of the desk. It contained the usual; credit and bank cards formed a small pile while pictures formed a different pile.
"Eric Matthews," my neighbor said solemnly, letting the card drop to the walnut stained wooden surface of the desk.
"I wonder if these were his kids?" I added to no one in particular, sliding the pictures apart with my fingertip to view them. "Was this his wife?"
Dean reached out and swept the items back to the area in front of him. "Taking the wallet was a bad idea," he muttered while forming a neat stack out of the contents.
My neighbor reverently restored the contents and closed the billfold. Lowering his left hand, he slid open a desk drawer and dropped the wallet inside. "We may not be able to bury the man, but we can bury this," he softly said while sliding the drawer closed. This act of symbolism seemed to lighten the mood. We felt a measure of closure.
A tear slid down Timmy's face as he left the room. I started to rise, but Dean's hand restrained me. "Let him go."
I understood. The boy had gone through unknown trauma. In this new world, there was little time for mourning. There was only time to survive.
I could hear my phone making a pinging sound as it vibrated in my pocket. I reached over and pressed the home button, activating the slide lock screen. There were two new text messages from Mel. With a quick gesture of my thumb, the screen came to life, a picture of my wife and I distorted by the covering of apps. I activated Messages and her recent texts appeared on the screen.
Things are getting bad here. Please hurry, but most of all, be safe! I love you so much. Melissa.
The next one continued the feeling of urgency.
My inhaler is nearly used up. The stress is making me use it up too fast. Hurry.
&nbs
p; I read the messages three times before looking at Dean.
"We have to get to my wife. I think she's in trouble." I offered the phone to my friend. Dean read the messages and looked at me, sympathy showing in his eyes.
"We need a plan!" he said boldly, returning the device to my hand.
I tried to call her but, once again, there was no connection. So I settled on writing her a hasty text. We'll be there as soon as we can Mel. Keep yourself safe. I owe you more than you could ever know and I love you even more! Henry.
I tried calling her but the connection was already gone. I felt helpless. I had to settle for text messages. I would have done anything to hear Melissa's voice. It would have gone a long way toward making me feel like everything would be all right.
I returned my phone to my left front pocket and resumed my studying of the cameras. I wished we could see the one side of the building. We had no idea what was going on over there. The rest of the area surrounding the Kingdom Hall was visible to us, but we could only guess what the void in our view was holding.
"We have the keys to his car," I offered.
"Eric's car," Dean corrected.
"Eric's car," I repeated. "What we need is a distraction. Something to draw the undead away."
"Let's take another look around. Maybe we can find something we can use for this distraction of yours."
Chapter 14
Melissa