James is a veteran of the United States Army and was an educator for the Los Angeles School District in various capacities for thirty years. He has have six books published by small presses and now lives on the Big Island of Hawaii.
~~~
Halloween. I hate Halloween.
… and I hate kids too. I didn’t used to. But since I lost Bram, my beautiful boy, a veteran with PTSD, who put a gun in his mouth … well, kids are just a pain in the ass. Especially that snothead kid from next door, George Romero. He and his good-for-nothing friends had better not play any Halloween tricks on me like last year. That son-of-a-bitch put dog shit on my porch and lit it on fire. Such an old prank and I didn’t fall for it. I dumped a bottle of my favorite stout on it and marched over to yell at his old man. I sneered at that creep, George, as he cleaned it up.
Just then someone tries to engage the latch on my locked front door. Then the person knocks.
My house dark, all the lights off, those bastards can see that no one is home. Reclining in my lazy boy chair, I light up a joint, not only because I want to get high and escape my miserable existence, but for my glaucoma.
The knocking gets louder and a voice calls out, “Tom? Tom! Let me in!”
Then someone smashes my living room window, the broken glass falling onto the carpet between the curtain and the window.
“You bastards!” I flick on the light next to me and struggle to stand. Damn sciatica. “What in the son-of-Sam do you idiots think you’re doing?” I hurry over to the window, yank back the curtain to see a hand thrusting through the broken pane, breaking off larger pieces and cutting the person’s hand up. Not sure of what I’m seeing, there’s no blood from the cuts on the hand. And it’s a grayish pale.
The knocking at the door becomes pounding. “Please, Tom. Let me in!”
The voice sounds familiar.
The hand at the window breaking off more glass draws my attention away from whoever is pounding on the door. “What kind of a sick prank is this? Is that you, George Romero? You’re father’s gonna get it. Again.” I reach down onto the end table there, pick up a large glass ashtray, and swing it down hard onto the hand at the window. My heart leaps into my throat as the damn hand falls off!
I lean down to get a closer look. With just enough moonlight, I see it is that ass George Romero. “You shit! What’s wrong with you?”
That spoiled brat keeps on breaking off more of the pane. Without a hand! I don’t have time for this nonsense. “Okay. The prank’s over. Y’all can go and get. Back to yer homes or go and terrorize someone else. It’s not working on me.”
But that shit George keeps on breaking off more of my window pane with his fake arm, the hand missing at the wrist. This kid should go into special effects in the movies.
Now that damn kid starts climbing through the broken pane, falling onto my living room floor. I get a closer look at him, his face pale and the entire front side of his T-shirt is covered in blood. Great make up, I muse.
Just then the door crashes open and my neighbor, Chuck Dickens falls onto the floor. “Help me, Tom. Help me.” Reaching up for assistance, his head is covered in blood. I freeze, not sure of what’s happening. He can’t be in on this prank, can he? He’s in his seventies.
Two of George’s friends, more good-for-nothings, stumble through the door and jump on Chuck, attacking him. One of the kids starts smashing Chuck’s head onto the floor repeatedly, cracking it open.
“Hey!” I take a couple steps towards the scene, but George turns and joins in as all three of them put their faces down and begin feeding on Chuck’s brains like pigs at a trough. I retch but manage to hold in the chicken fried steak I had for dinner, the bile in my throat bitter.
This can’t be real. Am I having a nightmare? Ever since my wife, Virginia passed away from ALS last year, I’d been having strange dreams. Such a horrible disease. ALS. You eventually lose all muscle control until you can’t breathe. You waste away and suffocate. Holding her hand as she took her last breath, I told her I loved her, kissed her one last time.
I choke back a tear and glance over at my light stand but realize I left my phone charging in the bedroom. Besides, the police, my former colleagues, would laugh at me.
George and the kids get up and start shuffling towards me, blood dripping from their faces and what appears to be Chuck’s brain matter hanging from their teeth.
That’s it! This is Florida. We have a Stand-Your-Ground law. Besides, I have a Constitutional right to defend myself in my own home. Teenagers or not.
I hurry back over to my chair and open the drawer in the light stand. I withdraw my semi-automatic handgun and chamber a round. As a retired sheriff’s deputy, trained to diffuse situations, I don’t want to kill the kids, only scare them off.
Looking over at George and his friends, I say, “Enough, you punks. What the hell’s wrong with you?”
They edge closer.
That’s it. I fire a warning shot into the air, the bullet going into my ceiling. Now I’ll have to fix the window, the door and the ceiling. Dammit!
But they keep coming, unfazed. George mumbles, “Brains.”
This can’t be. I remember that movie I saw as a kid, The Night of the Living Dead. No. There has to be some logical and scientific explanation.
But, I look down at Chuck Dickens again, his head cracked open, his brains gone.
“Brains.” George is almost on me.
I still can’t believe this, and I don’t want to kill the kid. “Do you really want me to shoot you? I have nothing to live for.”
“Brains.”
I step back and squeeze off a round, hitting him in the shoulder. A shoulder wound would not normally kill anyone if they got medical attention.
But George absorbs the round, his shoulder jerking backwards, and he keeps coming, unfazed and there is no blood coming from the wound. They keep on closing, backing me into the hallway that leads to the garage.
“What the hell’s going on with you kids? This has gone on way too far.”
I drop the magazine into my palm to see whether someone, as part of this prank, replaced my rounds with blanks. No. The nine millimeter bullets are there and are real. And I saw the rounds impact, both into the ceiling and George’s shoulder. What the hell … ?
I slam the magazine back into my gun and snatch the truck fob off the key rack as I back up towards the garage. I just realize that George and his buddies have black, lifeless eyes. If I recall, George had blue eyes.
The joint still dangling in my mouth, I reach up, pinch it tight between my fingers, take a deep drag. Tossing the joint onto the floor, I snuff it out with my foot and shake my head. It must be laced with something. None of this makes any sense. Wake up from this ridiculous nightmare, Thomas.
But I don’t wake up. So this is real?
With my heart now racing and sweat dripping from my brow, I throw open the door to the garage and hurry over to my truck. After I climb in, I glance at my shotgun on the rack behind me then open the glove box, quickly inspecting the extra nine millimeter rounds for my handgun, and the rounds there for the shotgun.
As I start the engine, I look over at the kids entering the garage shuffling towards me. I jam the truck into gear and only realize after crashing through the garage door that I forgot to open it. Damn. Those Romeros are on the hook for all of this.
….
My truck tires screeching, I zip out onto the street, almost running over two kids on the sidewalk. A deep breath, I blow it out and put the truck into drive.
But I stomp on the brakes when a few kids, all sizes and ages, plus two adults, surround my truck, blocking me. “Hey! Get outa the way.” I wave my hand for them to disburse, but they don’t. All mumbling brains, my good neighbors start pounding on my truck, from all sides.
My neighbor from across the street, old Mrs. Dorthy Parker in her nightgown comes around to my window. “Brains,” she mumbles. Like George and his friends, she’s a grayish pale and has blood down the front of her nightgown, and what appears to be brain matter hanging from her teeth.
I glance over at another neighbor, Arthur Doyle running down the sidewalk but falling to the ground. Several people then attack him, one teenager smashing Doyle’s head repeatedly onto the sidewalk. This is really happening.
I inch forward again to disperse those around my truck, but to no avail. A man climbs up onto my hood and starts banging on my windshield.
Glancing over at Arthur Doyle again, the boy has smashed his head in. I squint and do a doubletake as he bites into Doyle’s head. The boy then looks up in my direction, a bloody mess, gooey gray brain matter sticking to his teeth.
I gotta get the hell outta here. Throwing sanity to the wind, I step on the gas. The people in front fall over, the truck bouncing as I drive over their bodies. The man on my hood rolls off and onto the ground. Dorthy Parker keeps slapping her hands onto my truck as it passes her.
I speed down the street noticing more people looking similar to the others aimlessly shuffling around the neighborhood.
Catching my breath and trying to get my heart rate back to normal, I swerve around others shuffling along the street. But as I miss this one then that one, I clip an old woman in the street with a walker of all things. She flies up and over my cab, landing in my open bed, her walker hitting the passenger side of the windshield, causing a spider web crack in it.
Pulling into the parking lot of the sheriff’s station where I worked for thirty-five years, I avoid driving over several deputies and civilians scattered around on the ground. I pull up and stop, just sitting there with the engine running scanning the bodies. I gasp and put my hand up, covering my mouth. Sheriff Robert Stevenson, an army buddy of mine and former boss, lies there, a bloody mess, his sidearm in his hand, the top of his head missing, his brains gone.
The old woman in the bed of my truck starts banging on the cab window behind me. I grab my shotgun, fumble around in the glove box for shells, and load it. I stuff my handgun into the waistband at the rear of my pants and climb out of the cab.
Holding the shotgun level I open the tailgate and say to the old woman, “Ma’am? You okay?”
She turns around and crawls towards me.
A couple feet from the edge of the tailgate, she stops, looks up, thrusts out her arms and says, “Brains.”
I notice her skin is pale, as white as all the others and her eyes too are black and lifeless. “Get out of my truck,” I say to her backing up a bit.
She starts crawling again, reaches the edge and falls out. I back up a couple more feet. She starts crawling towards me again muttering, “Brains. Brains. Brains.”
“Ma’am I don’t want to shoot you. Just stop and I can get you some assistance.” Wow, I still sound like a deputy.
But she doesn’t stop and I can now see something gray and gooey dangling from her teeth.
It can’t be. This cannot be happening. Wake up Tom and don’t remember this nightmare.
But again I don’t. Wake up. “Stop, ma’am!”
But she doesn’t. So, I fire at her leg to get her to stop. Damn. I blew her leg off below the knee. I didn’t intend to mangle the poor old lady.
“Brains.” She keeps crawling for me, unfazed that she’s missing half her leg.
I’m not a bad person, right? I tried to do my job to serve and protect as a sheriff’s deputy all those years. Not once did I ever shoot anybody and I only drew my sidearm twice in thirty-five years, despite this being Florida. Now I have shot a kid, George, run over people in the street, and shot this poor old lady who could barely walk in the first place.
“Brains.” The old woman lifts her arms up and reaches out.
“God forgive me.” I step right up to her, point the gun at her head, close my eyes, and squeeze the trigger.
“Bam!”
I step back, open my eyes, and see that the back of her head is gone. She had flopped down onto the ground, face first, her body twitching.
“I’m so sorry,” I say to the woman. Blowing out a deep sigh, my heart racing and sweat dripping from every pore, I again wonder if I’d be forgiven. My wife, Virginia, was a good, god-fearing Christian, and I took her to church regularly, but would I be at her side in heaven for eternity like she said I would on her deathbed, or was I now destined to burn and rot in hell for what I’ve done?
Someone shouts then screams in bloody terror just back down the road from where I had come. I scan the parking lot again then sprint for the door to the station.
Inside, a bloody nightmare; more deputies and others lay scattered around the station floor, all missing the tops of their heads, their brains gone. Not seeing anyone alive, I turn to go, but just then I hear something jangle, like iron bars.
Hurrying to the back of the station, I swerve around desks in the detective section and zip down the hall to the cell block. The main door to the block is propped open by a dead deputy on the floor. In the hallway two more deputies lie there, dead, same as the others. Checking the cells, all empty, I make my way down the hall. “Hello? Anyone there?”
At a cell near the end of the hall where another deputy lay dead, someone is crouched in the corner, hiding behind the toilet, the person’s head between his knees. Sniffling, the person shakes.
“Hey you.”
A teenager looks up, tears streaming down his cheeks. “Stay away from me,” he blubbers.
“Look kid. I’m not one of those. Whatever they are. I’ll get you outta here.”
“No!” He tries to back up away from me, tighter into the corner but he’s as far as he can go and I’m still outside the cell which is locked.
“You can’t stay here. Those things are crawling all over out there.”
“You see, they can’t get me in here. The deputy was releasing all the prisoners to get them outta here when he was attacked. The keys to the cell are still there. By him.”
I look down at the deputy and see that the boy is correct.
“Their brains don’t work like ours.”
I sigh and look around. “But you can’t stay here. They could come back and yet break in. We don’t know what the hell’s going on, or how long before this nightmare is over.”
“It’s that virus. The one from Antarctica. It spread here and turned all these people into zombies.”
“Zombies?” I shake my head. “I don’t know about that.” I hadn’t paid any attention to the news and haven’t been out of the house in a few days. After Bram’s death, then with Virginia, I really didn’t care with what was happening in the crazy world. I was prepared to sit in my house smoking pot waiting for the big sleep.
“What’s your name, kid?”
“Nathaniel. But my friends call me Nate.” He wipes away more tears.
“Look, Nate. I’ll call you Nate because I’m going to be your friend. Okay? I’m not one of those. I was a deputy. Right here in this station until I retired a few years ago. Let’s raid the armory, pack as much firepower as we can, and blast our way outta this. I just blew the head off of one and it stopped.” I pause, raise my eyebrows, nodding at him.
He sniffles and after a moment nods.
I grab the keys off the floor and open the cell. “Come on.” I wave my hand at him to follow me.
I jog down the hall, back into the main part of the station and into the armory. It had already been opened, and two deputies lay dead there. They must have been attempting to distribute the assault rifles when this went down.
Nate shows up behind me, yet glances back into the station, his hands trembling.
“Just don’t look at them,” I say grabbing four Colt LE M4 assault rifles. “Here, you carry these.” I sling them over his shoulders. “And as many as these you can carry.” I stack several boxes of 5.56mm carbine ammunition into his arms. His hands still shaking a bit, he manages to steady himself and hold them. I stuff two Smith and Wesson M&P9 handguns into my waistband and grab several boxes of 9mm rounds, some magazines, both for the assault rifles and the handguns. “Let’s go.”
Back at my truck, the engine still running, we load the weapons into the truck bed. I close the tailgate then we hop into the cab.
“There’s more of them,” Nate says. “There. Coming this way.” He points at a dozen or so Zom … or whatever the hell they are, approaching at about twenty yards.
I jam the truck into drive, spin around, and peel out. Out on the highway I glance over at Nate. “How old are you, kid? And what was a kid like you doing in a holding cell?”
He swipes at his long bangs and says, “Seventeen. Stealing some groceries.”
Swerving around several people shuffling around on the highway I look back over at Nate. “And why were you stealing groceries?”
“My mama is sick. Cancer. Can’t work. My dad ran off. I just got a job after school. At a restaurant busing tables. But it isn’t enough.”
I nod and sigh. “I see.”
“What’s your name, sir?”
“Sir?” I haven’t been called that since I retired. “Tom.”
As I speed along, way over the limit, he nods and holds on, one hand on the dash the other gripping the passenger assist handle above the door.
“Well, Nate, my friend. We’re going to the convenience store to steal groceries.” Despite all this madness, I attempt a half-smile while glancing over at him. He nods back at me. I continue, saying, “Then, we’re gonna drive north to Georgia. Hide in the mountains until this blows over.” ….
Nate wants to get his mother first, so we turn down his street and pull into the driveway to his house. He climbs out and I follow.
Inside, he rushes to her bedroom, me jogging to catch up.
Just inside the bedroom door I almost bump into his backside after he freezes in his tracks. His mother is dead. Her body is like all the others back at the station. He starts to sob and edge towards her, but I grab onto his shoulder holding him back.
“I’m sorry, Nate. She’s gone.”
Sobbing and shaking violently, he tries to break free, but I use both hands on both his shoulders now to hold him in place.
I tell him, “We don’t know what’s really going on and you can’t touch her body because we don’t know if she’s infected with something or not. Like the others. Besides it’s best not to remember her this way.”
He breaks free and runs back into the living room. I follow and he falls to his knees retching, but nothing comes up. I think he might have thrown up before, probably back in his cell.
I glance back out through the front door and see those things heading in our direction. “We gotta go, kid. Now.” I help him up and he stumbles to the door.
After getting him into the truck, someone lurches out of the bushes coming straight for me. I withdraw my handgun and shoot the creep in the face point blank, blowing out the back of his head. It falls onto the ground and its body twitches.
I hop into the truck and back out of the driveway, running over two more on the street. “Jesus Christ!”
Heading out of town, we pass many more … well, whatever you want to call these people, shuffling along, most heading back into town.
I glance over at Nate, sniffling and wiping away his tears with the back of his hand. “We’re gonna get outta this, Nate. I promise.”
He looks over at me and nods, pursing his lips and sighing.
We pull up to Conrad’s Convenience store, a store us deputies frequented, and skid to a stop in front. Again, there are several bodies lying around in the parking lot. “You ever shoot a gun, Nate?” I say looking over at him.
“Yes, sir. My old man before he ran off taught me how to shoot a handgun but not a rifle.”
“Okay. How to shoot an assault rifle one-o-one.”
We jump out of the truck. I hand him one of the assault rifles and two magazines. I take another. Opening a box of ammo, I show him how to load the rounds into the magazine. I then slap a magazine into the rifle and one into my pants. He does the same.
“This is the safety lever. Click it like this to fire. Chamber a round like this, then it’s squeeze the trigger for each shot, as these are semi-automatics.”
He follows my example.
“Okay. We each grab a shopping cart and fill it with as much non-perishable foods as we can. Beef jerky and such. Let’s go.”
We rush into the store where many people lay about, all like the others; their heads cracked open, brains gone. It makes me belch again, but once more nothing comes up. As a deputy I had seen many gruesome traffic accidents and other violent crime scenes, but nothing like this.
“Don’t look at them, Nate.” Of course it’s hard not to as they litter the aisles.
Up and down the aisles we go tossing into our baskets as much edibles as we can. Rounding an aisle I see a body blocking the swinging door to the back storage room. Approaching, I see that’s it’s Joe Conrad, the owner. I push open the swinging door a foot or two and see that he is like the others. Joe’s about my age, in his late sixties, but always told me he’d work until the day he died. Well, I guess he did.
I’m about to turn and go back down another aisle when out of the corner of my eye see a shadow in the main office move ever so slightly against the back wall. I unshoulder my rifle and level it at the office door.
Switching the safety off, I edge forward. The shadow stops moving. “Hello?”
Nothing. So I try the door handle, but it’s locked. Peering through the office window, I can see the desk facing the door, cabinets against the wall. The overhead light casts a small shadow of the desk onto the floor. Looking closer, I just make out the outline a someone under the desk. “Hello?” I knock.
Nothing, but the shadow of the person moves slightly, as if shaking.
“Hello? It’s okay. I’m not one of those things.”
Nothing.
“We need to get you outta here before more of those things show up.”
Nothing.
But then a gunshot explodes in the store. Then another. I look in that direction then back at the shadow under the desk, shaking more.
“I’ll be back.” I rush back into the store to find Nate shooting at one of those things, hitting it in the chest, but to no avail. It keep shuffling towards him.
I step up next to him and fire a head shot at it. Assault rifles fire high-velocity rounds, generating a lot of kinetic energy that leave gaping exit wounds. The back of the monster’s head explodes. It falls onto the floor and twitches.
“Aim for their heads, kid.”
He nods several times in quick succession. He’s clearly in shock.
I shoulder my rifle. “There’s someone locked in the office that I think is not like them.” I nod at the monster that has stopped moving. “Load up what you’ve got, and I’ll be out in a moment.”
I rush back into the storeroom and peer into the office again. “I’m not going to hurt you,” I shout through the door. “I’m coming in.”
I pull my handgun out of my waistband and shoot at the door handle. It breaks apart so I can wrangle it, pushing the door open. The person under the desk hasn’t moved, so I make my way over and squat down, looking under it.
A girl, in her teens, holds a large carving knife, sobbing. When she sees me she waves the knife in the air, trying to stab me. The rifle slung across my back, I hold up my hands, showing her the gun, but I slip it into the back of my waistband and show her my now empty hands.
“I’m not one of those. It’s okay. I’m Tom and I’m gonna get you to safety. Okay?”
She slashes at the air with the knife, sobs, tears streaming down her cheeks. Her long, brown hair, half tied with a scrunchie, the other half cascading down and hanging in her face.
“What’s your name, honey?”
Catching her breath she stops slashing the air with the knife and manages to squeak out, “Harper.”
“Okay, Harper. We’re gonna get out of this. I promise you. I found another kid, his name is Nate, and he’s out there getting supplies and we’re gonna head north to Georgia. I have a buddy who owns a hunting cabin up in the hills. The Appalachians.”
She sniffles but doesn’t move. “My mother’s out there. In the store. Those things attacked her. I ran in here and locked the door.”
I nod but know her mother’s dead. “I understand.” I sigh. “I’m sorry, Harper. She’s gone.”
Harper shakes and more tears drip from her eyes.
Gunshots ring out in the store. “We’ve got to hurry if we are to live. Nate is out there keeping those things at bay. Please.” I hold out my hand for her.
She drops the knife, crawls out and jumps up, throwing her arms around me in a tight embrace.
“It’s okay, Harper. It’s gonna be all right.” I stroke her head. I learned to say that in the army to wounded and dying soldiers, even those with their guts spilled. And it’s a tactic all police and emergency personnel say to calm victims.
I gently pull her arms off me, take her by her shaky hand, and lead her back out into the store. My shopping cart is still there but I don’t see Nate. “Take this and follow me, Harper.” I place her hand on the cart. “Okay?”
She nods and sniffles.
Unshouldering my rifle and leveling it, I zip down the aisle, past the checkout stand, and burst out into the parking lot just as Nate, next to the truck, shoots one of them … well, zombies I guess. Harper and I run up to the truck. “Toss it all in, Harper.” To Nate I say, “You okay?” I put my hand on his shoulder and squeeze it.
Breathing heavily, his tanned boyish face with peach fuzz now a little pale, he nods.
Pointing across the parking lot where half a dozen zombies shuffle towards us I say, “Okay. We’ve gotta go. Quick.”
I toss my rifle into the truck bed but say to Nate, “Keep yours at the ready. Pointed out your window.” I climb into the driver’s seat while Harper climbs into the crew cab seat behind me; Nate shotgun.
Hitting the gas and squealing out, I dodge two zombies after pulling out onto the highway. Turning on the radio, I search up and down and find nothing but static. I hit the scan button, and it goes up the dial searching, until stopping on a male voice:
This is the emergency broadcast system. This is not a test. The virus from Antarctica, the one that is believed to have been dormant for millions of years, brought to Earth on a meteor or some other lifeform from outer space, infected the scientists who brought it back to study. For some reason, it only infects some people. Those infected have gone on to … well, let’s say kill those not infected. Citizens are advised to take shelter. Barricade themselves in their homes. Gather anything that can be used as a weapon. And defend yourself. This message will continuously loop.
After a pause the message begins to repeat, so I shut it off. I glance in the rearview mirror at Harper whose tears still cascade down her cheeks. She’s re-tying all of her hair back up into her scrunchie. I glance over at Nate who’s got his eyes trained on the road ahead, tightly gripping the assault rifle in his hands. Kids. They’re just kids.
I speed up the highway. To Georgia. To hide in the hills. For how long? A shiver zips up and down my spine as I let out a deep sigh.
….
The drive from Central Florida to the Georgia State line going the speed limit takes about three and a half to four hours. Driving like a bat out of hell, I make it in two and a half. We passed a few cars and trucks speeding in both directions and swerved to miss many of those things aimlessly wandering along Interstate 75.
I glance back at Harper whose head rests against the door. She’s been asleep about an hour. Nate has slept for about forty-five minutes but awakes with a jolt, still gripping his rifle.
“It’s okay, kid. We’re okay.”
He regains his composure, looks over at me and nods. “Where are we?”
“We’re coming in to Valdosta, Georgia. I served in the army with an officer who worked here and visited him often. It’s his cabin we’re heading to.” I pull off the Interstate and head into downtown. “We need to get some gas first.”
The sun now rising, I drive slowly and weave around bodies scattered all over the place but see no monsters. The town looks like a warzone.
I pull into a gas station with a small convenience store. Harper begins stirring. She wipes the sleep from her eyes and stretches. “You okay, honey?” I say to her.
She nods.
A couple bodies lay near the entrance to the store. I stop at the gas pump. “I’ll fill up. You kids go to the restroom but Nate, don’t let Harper outta your sight.”
We climb out of the truck. The kids head off inside the store where the restroom is located while I top off the truck.
After putting the cap back on my gas tank, Harper runs out of the store shouting, “Sir? You haffta see this.”
She goes back in and I hurry to catch up.
Inside, a TV on a wall mount behind the cashier counter where the clerk lay dead, shows a national cable feed. An anchor there sits at a desk reading copy:
So to recap what we know. There are eleven of us here, at the station in D.C. We have barricaded ourselves inside. We have received confirmation from the presidential emergency command center in the bunker at Raven Rock Mountain complex along the Maryland-Pennsylvania border that the Speaker of the House has now been sworn in and has assumed the presidency. They have assessed from military sources and diplomatic posts that the virus spread world-wide and has infected at least three-quarters of the population. Scientists at national laboratories have concluded there is no cure for the infected. The infected are delirious and continue to attack those not infected. Citizens are advised to avoid the infected and ...
I snatch up the remote off the counter there and turn the TV off. Looking over at the frightened faces of the two kids, their mouths hanging open I say, “We need to stick to the plan until this blows over.” I glance around the store. “Grab a couple bags and get what you want.”
They each grab two bags and hustle up and down the aisles stuffing in candy and sodas. I grab a bag and some more jerky, some pastries, and a six-pack of beer.
A gunshot rings out near the door. Then another. “Shit!”
I drop my bag and sprint to the door while unshouldering my rifle.
There, a thing lies on the floor twitching, it’s head blown off. Nate stands nearby trembling, training his rifle at it. Harper is behind Nate, her bags of groceries on the floor at her feet, the groceries spilt out.
“There’s more,” Harper says, pointing out through the door, her body shaking.
Dammit. She’s right. About a dozen of them are shuffling around in the parking lot, three of them heading our way. “Harper, get that cart, my bag back at the end of that aisle, grab yours and Nate’s and meet us in the truck. Nate, you okay?” He nods. I say, “Well then, let’s do this.”
We burst out into the lot and begin slaughtering the monsters there. The kid, despite being terrified, holds his own. Although, I’m certainly terrified too.
We get them all just as Harper runs out pushing the cart with our goodies. As we toss the bags into the truck, Harper says, “Sir? Look at them.” She looks away, puts her hand to her mouth.
I look down at one of the monsters. “What about them?”
Looking away from me and the dead monsters—zombies or whatever—she says, “Their flesh is rotting. Falling off their bones.”
She’s right. It’s disgusting. I’d been on a case where a decaying corpse was found in the scrub. These things were beginning to resemble them.
“Right. Well, we’ll let them stay there and rot.”
We climb into the truck and I peel out.
I glance back at Harper who’s shaking again, tears dripping from her eyes.
“We’re gonna make it through this, Harper. Okay?”
She sniffles, wipes her tears away. “Yes sir.”
“Call me Tom, Harper. Please.”
She nods. “I saw you once. At the Elks Lodge.”
“Oh yeah?”
“My dad, before he died last year was a member. You gave that speech once. Mr. Wolfe, right?”
“That’s right. Yes. I remember your pa. Lee? Stanley, right?”
“Yes. That’s him.”
I nod and crack a smile.
A few streets over I turn into the driveway of a Southern Traditional one-story home with a large encircling porch. “You kids stay here. I’m gonna check on Walt and get the keys for the cabin.” I look over at Nate and back at Harper. “You ever fire a weapon, Harper?”
She shakes her head.
“Okay. When we get to the cabin, I’m gonna teach you.”
I keep the truck running, jump out, and grab my rifle from the bed, my handgun still in my waistband. I level the rifle at the house and head up to the porch. “Walt? You there? It’s Tom.”
I get up onto the porch and discover the door is open wide, the screen door ripped apart. “Walt? It’s Tom.”
Nothing.
I peer into the foyer but it’s too dark so I slowly push past the screen door, step inside and flick the lights on.
It’s a massacre. I step over two monster bodies, their heads blown off. In the middle of the living room Walt’s body lay there, so too his wife’s, Emily, both their heads cracked open and brains missing. I put a hand up to my mouth trying to mask the stench. Jesus. A shotgun lay near Walt’s body. Several shotgun shells and a box lay there too. He must have been trying to reload when he was attacked.
There is nothing I can do. I make my way into the kitchen and open a drawer. I finger through the items there and find the keys to his cabin. I make my way back into the living room but stop before exiting. I can’t leave my army buddy like this. Left to rot for God knows how long. So I go into the shed on the side of the house and find the extra can of gasoline he keeps for his lawnmower.
I return to the living room and spread the gasoline all over the floor. I stop, look down at Walt and Emily then pour gasoline on their bodies. He told me once while at the cabin he wanted to be cremated. So, I tear a match from a book I keep in my pocket for my marijuana stash, light it and toss it onto the gasoline. It quickly lights so I turn and hustle out of the house.
Back in my truck Nate says, “What happened?”
“He’s gone.”
Backing out of the driveway, the living room is now engulfed, flames shooting out through the front door. Rest in peace, my friend.
We hightail it out of town, heading north on Interstate 75 again.
….
We head up Interstate 75 but get off and take smaller roads, avoiding Atlanta because I found a radio station broadcasting, with DJ’s barricaded inside, reporting that Atlanta was in total chaos.
The ride is mostly quiet, the kids still in great shock, everyone in their own thoughts. They had tried to see what was going on out in the world on their phones but could get no signals.
Pulling into the small town of Blairsville, bodies lay about decaying. “Rest your eyes, kids. It’s best, otherwise you can’t unsee this.” Harper does, but Nate doesn’t. Blairsville is one of those small, quaint Southern towns. Well, was. It’s a warzone like many others.
On Blue Ridge Street we come to the roundabout encircling the Union County Historical Society and encounter a half-dozen of those monsters suddenly appearing and blocking our path. Shit. “Hold on!”
I try to swerve to miss them but clip two who fly up and over the hood, one bouncing off the roof of the cab. I skid around the roundabout and speed north on Young Harris Street swerving to miss other monsters.
“Y’all okay?”
Both kids nod. I glance into my rearview mirror and see the monsters shuffling along, turning and following us. We’re not far from Walt’s cabin, near Nottely Lake, but I’m not sure what we’ll encounter when we get there. I look over at Nate holding on, his rifle pointed out the window. Harper holds onto the passenger grip looking out her window. What am I going to do with these kids? They’ve lost their families.
Just north of the Chattahoochee-Oconee National Forest, near Nottely Lake off of Highway 19, I turn up a dirt road, the dust pluming behind the truck. I race up a narrowing mountain road, the trees and scrub close to both sides of the truck.
After a couple miles we come to a clearing, Walt’s two-room cabin just ahead. I pull up and stop, shutting off the engine. “This is it,” I tell the kids.
I climb out of the truck, the kids following, each scanning the property. A view of the lake below in the clearing, it’s an isolated, quiet and serene patch of the Appalachian Mountains. Walt wanted his and Emily’s ashes scattered here. If this nightmare ever ends, I’ll try and go back, gather up as much as I can, and fulfill his wish.
“Okay,” I say to the kids. “Let’s unload everything from the truck and get it all inside. I’m gonna give you a crash course with these weapons, Harper. Then, some guidelines about guard duty and the like.” She nods but is shaking. Nate’s face is long and drawn.
“Come here,” I say to the both of them. They come over and I pull them both in for a group hug. “We’re gonna make it through this, kids. I promise.” Again, I use those words as if I’m in combat or on duty as a sheriff’s deputy, despite knowing they might not be true. “Okay. Let’s get to work.”
I show Harper how to load and fire both her handgun and her rifle. Nate puts the food in the kitchen, loads the magazines and stacks the ammo. I worry now and could kick myself because I wanted to get to the cabin and away from those monsters, but we could very quickly run out of ammo if too many of these creatures show up. I might have to run back into town and raid the gun store. This is the South, and there are gun stores all over the place.
….
The first five days are uneventful. No one, or no things, are anywhere to be seen. The kids have calmed down a bit, but I seem to be the one more on edge. I’m responsible for the lives of two kids. I wish I had brought pot to smoke, to calm me. When we do head into town, that’s something I intend to seek out.
Walt has no TV or radio or internet in the cabin. So I have gone out to the truck to see what updates there are. I can only receive one station and a recording on a loop tells me nothing; the loop seems to be five days old.
We take two hour shifts on watch at night, so we can each stay alert.
On our sixth night, the sun setting behind us, the three of us sit in rocking chairs on the porch looking out at the lake below us.
“We’re gonna need more food soon, Tom,” Nate says.
I nod. “I know.” I dread going back down the mountain into town, any town.
After a long silence Harper says, “What’re we gonna do when this is over?”
If this ends. I sigh. “I don’t know, Harper. We’ll figure it out then.” I glance at her and she cracks a smile, her lips pursed.
“It’s almost time for first watch,” I say.
“I’ll take it,” Nate says.
I nod at him and pat his knee.
Harper and I get up and go into the cabin. The cabin has a large room with a kitchen and pantry, and a couple cots near a Franklin Stove. The bedroom off the main room has one bed and I let the kids take turns there. I stay in the main room and serve as a last line-of-defense against would-be intruders.
Harper goes into the bedroom while I settle into one of the cots. I dim the lights but keep them on so I can find what I need quickly.
I lay there staring at the ceiling. Closing my eyes tightly, I see Virginia in her bed dying again. As with seeing these most recent horrifying events, it’s like being in combat or on duty as a cop; once you see things, you cannot get those images out of your head.
….
I must have finally dozed off at some point because I’m jolted awake by gunshots. Jumping up and grabbing my rifle, handgun and a couple magazines, I rush for the door as Nate fires off rounds and screams, “They’re here!”
Out onto the porch Nate fires another round, blasting one of those monsters. Harper comes out behind me. “You okay to do this?” I ask her.
She nods, but her hands shake as she switches the safety of her rifle from safe to fire.
At least a dozen zombies shuffle towards the cabin, the powerful floodlights Walt had installed there on the porch illuminating the clearing. And thank Walt for having a large generator with plenty of backup gasoline on hand.
The three of us take shots, most hitting their target, the zombies’ heads exploding and some completely blown off. Harper, who has stopped shaking, has excellent eyesight and aim; she’s a natural.
We must have destroyed two dozen of them but more keep coming. “Here,” I say to Nate. I hand him a magazine as he drops the one from his rifle. I shoulder mine, pull out my handgun and keep firing, hitting more in their heads.
“I’m out,” Harper yells, panic in her voice.
“Me too,” Nate says, panic in his voice too.
“Okay. Everyone inside.” We hightail it back inside. I close and lock the door. “You two reload the rifle magazines, I’ll hold them off with my handgun. Give me your extra handgun magazines. They both comply. I stack them on the table by the window as the kids tear open the ammo boxes and reload the rifle magazines.
Jesus, Mary and Joseph. Those things keep coming! I break the window and start firing at them as they stumble up onto the front porch. Luckily I was a good shot in the service and on the job, and my glaucoma is under control. I shoot several in their heads. They fall onto the porch and twitch.
I reload my handgun just as several break down the door and fall through, one on top of another until there is a pile of them at the door, crawling to get over one another. I back up into the main room and Nate fires away, blasting them. Harper tosses me a magazine, I unshoulder my rifle and slap it in. The three of us blast away until there remains a heaping bloody and bodily mess.
But I can see more of those monsters out on the clearing coming. We will soon run out of ammo. It’s almost over. I picture Virginia and Bram. God I miss them so. I have to try and get out and make another run for it. For these poor kids. And I sure as hell don’t want to die like this. I’ll blow my own brains out before I let one of those creatures eat it.
Another comes to the door, crawls over the pile, but before we can shoot it, it’s head falls off. It’s body takes a couple more steps then falls over.
“What the … ?” I look down at its head, its black lifeless eyes looking at me and its mouth chomping on air. It says, “brains.”
I point my rifle at it and respond, “Sorry, old pal. Not gonna happen.” I blast it, it’s head exploding.
Peering through the door, the others are closing.
“What’ll we do?” Harper asks, her voice shaky.
“Make a run for it. We need to find a gun store. Quick, out the side door.”
We hurry out, around the side of the cabin and make it to the truck. A couple more zombies stumble up the path, some missing their arms, a few crawling with missing legs.
Nate says, “Look.”
“Yeah,” Harper says. “They’re losing their limbs.”
“Wait here,” I say.
I make my way over to the monsters, most missing their limbs. They begin falling over and crawling, some their heads falling off. Their bodies wiggling around on the ground, unable to advance, I go up to each and every one of them and blow the heads off the ones not detached.
Scanning the clearing, I don’t see any more approaching. I weave my way through the carnage and back to the truck.
“Their flesh is rotting and falling off,” I say to the kids. “Nothing’s holding their limbs intact.”
“Maybe they won’t be able to attack us now,” Harper says, her voice lighting up.
“I hope so.” I catch my breath, scan the scene. “Let’s get the hell outta here.” We climb into the truck, and I peel out and down the dirt road.
….
We drive back through Blairsville but there’s no living to be seen. Yet, hundreds of zombie bodies litter the town. None are moving, most missing all their arms and legs, and all of their heads are detached from their bodies.
The kids say nothing.
We stop at a gas station, top off the truck and load up with as many supplies from the store as the truck can hold. There is no incident.
Back in the truck I fire it up and turn on the radio. I find an active station with a live DJ coming through:
Sources are now saying that it appears these … well, infected people are literally falling apart. Once their heads fall off they quickly die and their bodies rot away within hours, leaving only bones. Citizens are advised to wear gloves and burn all the corpses. Do not, I repeat do not, touch the bodies.
I turn off the radio.
“Is it over?” Nate asks.
“I think so.”
We sit there, the engine running, all lost in our own thoughts. Harper at last asks, “What’ll we do now?”
“Go home,” I say.
“What will we do when we get home, Tom?” Nate asks.
I don’t hesitate. “You two come and live with me until we figure things out. We’ll rebuild our community and just live. As long as we can.”
The sun starts to rise, warming my face. I look back at Harper who nods and smiles back at me. I nod at her, smiling.
Shifting the truck into drive, I peel out of the lot, turn and head home.
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