Of course, Clare wouldn’t approve of such cravings. Although she shared my penchant for naughty foods, she’d instituted a healthy diet plan (for both of us) in preparation for the impending zombie apocalypse. I understood her reasoning – we needed to be in our best fighting shape to survive the undead invasion – but after all I’d endured since the previous night, I couldn’t possibly turn down the chance to swipe some free Ding Dongs, potato chips, or, if I was lucky, a precious bag of Lemonheads.
What can I say? I’m a junk-food junkie.
Prior to the world dying, Clare and I had shared a private joke about my compulsive weakness for snacks. Whenever I’d venture to the grocery store alone and return with chocolate cake, ice cream, lemon poppyseed muffins, or one of our other favorite treats – which pretty much occurred every time I shopped for groceries – my penance was to pout like a kid and mumble, “I cannot be trusted.” A silly act that would always make my wife giggle. Mainly because, in all other ways, she could absolutely trust me.
But Clare wasn’t with me. She couldn’t scold me or laugh with me or eat tasty treats with me. I had to overcome my latest trial on my own – or we’d never be together again. And I had to bear in mind that others could be hiding in the store. Walmart, after all, had enough supplies to last savvy looters a good long while – and I hadn’t exactly made a subtle entrance.
So, before venturing into the megastore, I reloaded the shotgun and locked up the van. No matter what happened to me, at least Azazel would be safe.
I stepped cautiously toward the side entrance, jiggled the handle, and discovered that the door was indeed locked.
“This shit just keeps getting better,” I grumbled.
“Yeah, and I don’t think that shotgun of yours will blast its way through,” a voice rasped from the other end of the service bays.
Chapter
2
“One-stop shopping: everything you need, right at your fingertips.” – Roger, Dawn of the Dead (1978)
I whirled around and swung the shotgun upward just as a slender, shaggy-haired white man, maybe in his late twenties, stepped from behind a black-and-gold SUV in one of the adjacent bays. He’d managed to stay quietly concealed all through my loud-ass arrival, which made me wonder how many others presently hid inside Walmart.
But first things first…
For the moment, my priority was keeping an eye on the large bow he gripped in his hands and, more importantly, the arrow he’d pointed in my direction.
Of course, to be fair… I’d also trained my shotgun on him, and unless the stranger excelled at archery, my weapon would cause infinitely more damage.
I gestured toward the bow. “That’s different.”
He shrugged, then advanced a few steps. “Gotta make do.”
I nodded and slowly stepped to my left, trying to put one of the support columns between us. Though the concrete shielded most of my body, I still kept both eyes and the shotgun aimed at him.
His gaze flitted toward my gore-covered vehicle. “Nice ride.”
There it is. Dude wants my precious van. Sorry, pal, not today.
“Gotta make do,” I repeated, noting his every move.
Smirking, he relaxed the tension on the bowstring and lowered his weapon. Perhaps as a sign of good faith, he even stepped clear of the column’s protection. Or maybe he just didn’t think I had the stones to shoot him.
True, I still found it hard to kill living humans, but I’d do anything to protect my home and my family.
Including my cat.
After a few seconds, I lowered my shotgun, but left my finger on the trigger. Just in case.
Meanwhile, the zombies continued pounding on the doors alongside the alley, scraping and denting the metal in their ravenous fervor.
“Really riled them up out there,” the guy said.
I sighed. “Had no choice. Too many to drive through.”
“So, lemme guess. You didn’t plan on waiting them out. You hoped to get out that way.” He nodded toward the large overhead door on the far side of the Ford – the one facing the parking lot.
And your point is?
Although I didn’t appreciate his sarcastic tone, the little prick was right. I needed to shove the compact aside (or barrel through it, if possible), get my ass to the other end of the auto center, and find a way through the front entrance. Hopefully, that part of the property was free of zombies. Or at least less packed than the stupid alleyway.
“Yep. That was my plan.”
“Not gonna happen.”
I raised an eyebrow, wondering if I should lift the Mossberg as well. Was he threatening me – or simply stating a fact?
As if sensing my thought process, he waved his hand in a conciliatory way. “What I mean is…” He pointed toward one edge of the front door. “See that bolt through the latch?”
I stepped closer, squinting. Sure enough, a heavy-duty bolt lock held the door in place. In fact, someone had secured all the doors – except the one I’d found open – in the same manner.
“Son of a bitch.”
I didn’t have enough shells to blast through a bolt like that. I needed a key to unlock it. And since I had no idea where to search for such a key – and figured, if it had been in the auto center, the archer would’ve found it already – I knew we were screwed. Me, Azazel, and the new guy.
He sat on the hood of the Ford Focus, resting the bow and arrow across his thighs. “I know where the keys are.”
My gut told me not to trust the guy – not to trust anyone, actually – but since he presently wore a dirty Walmart uniform that seemed to fit his slender frame, I figured he could certainly be telling the truth. On the other hand, he could’ve been a sleazy looter who’d killed a former Walmart employee, stolen his duds, and gotten himself locked out of the store.
Either way, I don’t have many options here.
“OK, I’ll bite. Where are they?”
He grinned, as if considering me a hooked fish. “I’ll make a deal with you. If you help me get through that door…” He indicated the sturdy, impossible-to-breach door that linked the auto care center to the actual store. “…I’ll help you get through that one.” He cocked his head toward the front wall.
If the side door were easy to open, he likely would’ve succeeded before my loud-ass arrival. Frankly, I wasn’t sure how he expected me to help him.
What really perplexed me, though, was how he’d gotten stuck in the auto center in the first place – with one of the doors wide-open, no less. I wanted to ask him what had happened, but before I could formulate the question, he continued his proposal.
“My brother’s in the grocery section,” he explained. “Help me get back to him, and I’ll get you the keys.”
I didn’t fully believe him – about the keys, his brother, any of it – but what choice did I have? At least assisting him would get me inside the store, where I’d have access to tools, food, and other essentials.
“Deal.” I extended my hand. “By the way, my name is Joe.”
He shook my hand. “Matt.”
Same as the name tag on his shirt. Still not evidence of anything more than his ability to read.
“Well, Matt… how the fuck are we gonna get through that door?”
“To be honest, I’m not sure yet.”
Cautiously, I followed him to the side entrance: a hardcore steel door that could probably withstand a ton of pressure. As if the powers-that-be had known they might one day face a zombie apocalypse.
Beyond the locked door handle, I also spotted two badass deadbolts that likely wouldn’t sustain much damage from a shotgun. An explosive could work, though.
While the van didn’t contain any incendiary devices, I was resourceful enough to fashion one from the things I did have – like cleaning supplies and ammunition. I was no expert, of course, but I’d downloaded at least one YouTube video on how to build a bomb from average household items.
Ah, YouTube. Best place for a prepper to g
et ready for doomsday.
In the runup to our present zombie shitstorm, I’d downloaded a few terabytes of useful how-to videos. Not that I’d had a chance to view them all yet. But I was fairly certain that, in one of them, some psycho had demonstrated the “proper” procedure for building a big-ass bomb out of gunpowder and bubblegum. You just had to grab the video before it was taken down the poster was banned.
Hell, forget this door. I might even be able to blast through the overhead one.
While I reflected on my potential bomb – and how much fun I’d have setting it off – Matt picked up a crowbar and tried to wedge it between the door and the frame. Based on the notches near the hinges, I figured he’d already attempted that maneuver – and obviously failed.
A crowbar couldn’t penetrate such a stalwart door any better than my shotgun. Of course, explosives wouldn’t work either. If I did attempt to build a Joe-bomb, I’d likely end up blowing myself to hell, leaving poor Azazel trapped in the van, and Clare…
“Fuck. Lemme help you with that.”
Matt had managed to squeeze the crowbar in place, so I gingerly leaned my shotgun against the wall – in a spot I could potentially reach before the new guy made a move – and grabbed ahold of the lever. Together, we pulled and pushed on the crowbar, but the damn door wouldn’t budge. Not even a little.
With a pissed-off grunt, Matt ripped the crowbar from my hands and hurled it at the wall beside the door, where it left a huge gash in the plaster.
I examined the wall – clearly not as sturdy as the door – then glanced at the Ford Focus. After a few seconds, I retrieved my shotgun and met Matt’s frustrated gaze.
“Look, before I get us into the store, I need to know how you managed to trap yourself in here. Who locked you out and why?”
He furrowed his brow, as if insulted by the question, but after a few seconds, realization dawned in his eyes.
That’s right. I’m not an idiot. Well, not entirely.
Someone must’ve had a good reason for banishing him to the auto care center – and leaving him with an unsecured doorway to the outside world.
He sighed with resignation. “When the shit hit the fan on Halloween,” he explained, “we… me and the rest of the Walmart employees, I mean… got rid of all the zombies and locked the building down. There were forty-nine of us then.”
I had a feeling I’d hear a lot of similar stories in the coming days, months, and years. Every surviving human would have his or her own version of the it-began-like-this tale. Some might share accounts of heroism or tragedy, while other, less-noble individuals would try to reframe their involvement in villainous acts to make themselves look better – and get away with more mayhem.
So, which kind of tale is this asshat trying to sell me?
Matt possessed the easy confidence of a skilled storyteller – or a slick bullshitter. The words flowed in a convincing way. In a different life, he might’ve made an effective teacher – or politician.
“At first, we were all together,” he said. “Each department head or manager became the representative for his or her staff, and everyone seemed willing to work toward a common goal: surviving the apocalypse.” He sighed. “But all it took was mentioning the store’s weapons, and the divide began.”
He explained that the Sporting Goods Gang, already in control of the weapons, had wanted to take charge of the food and water supplies as well. Naturally, the Grocery Gang had disagreed, and a battle had erupted between the two factions (with the other departments having taken one side or the other).
Since having the most weapons could determine the victor, the Grocery Gang (the good side, according to Matt) had managed to grab a few guns, some ammo, and over a dozen bows and arrows before having to retreat. The Sporting Goods Gang had nabbed all the rest of the weapons, and the two sides had been at war ever since.
Nothing he said came as a surprise to me. During my journey across New Orleans, I’d witnessed several gruesome scenes of humanity falling to shit and eating its young. So, the fact that gangs could form in less than twenty-four hours didn’t shock me.
“What a shame,” I said. “If you could’ve worked together, a store this big and well stocked could’ve kept everyone alive indefinitely.”
For a fleeting moment, his face contorted into one of confusion, as if such a thought had never occurred to him. But he quickly recovered.
“Yeah, it sucks,” he agreed. “So, anyway, we secured most of the grocery section. And kept the sporties at bay with our bows.” He picked up his weapon. “Not that we’re all that skilled.”
“Even a poorly shot arrow can poke an eye out,” I quipped.
He cracked a smile, then continued his tale. “At one point, I went with the woman in charge of the crafts section to speak with Jason, the leader of the sporties.”
“I take it that didn’t go well.”
He shook his head sadly. “The bastards shot poor Helen. I made a break for it and ran in here to hide, but someone must’ve seen me cuz they locked the door from the inside, and I had no way of getting back to my crew.”
I still wasn’t sure I believed his story – especially since I couldn’t hear any gunfire or other sounds of mayhem on the other side of the door – but for now, I decided to play along. “Geez, that sucks. How long you been in here?”
He shrugged. “A while. Lost track of time.”
“I have to ask… since one of the bay doors was wide-open, why didn’t you just leave and try another entrance?”
“Cuz I knew they were all locked.” He nodded toward the doorway I’d entered. “The only reason that one wasn’t is that someone cut the power before we had a chance to secure it.”
“I thought all Walmarts had back-up generators.”
An unreadable expression twisted his face, but as before, he recovered immediately.
“Yeah, but the same assholes that cut the power destroyed that system, too.” He shrugged. “Guess to make it tougher for us to fight back.”
He paused, the pounding, moaning zombies filling the short silence.
“Anyway,” he continued, “I wasn’t sure how long I could make it on my own. But I didn’t think my arrows would last against all the zombies out there. Just hoped someone would free me eventually.”
The quiver strapped across his back didn’t contain many arrows, lending credence to his version of the Walmart saga, but still, my stomach clenched with doubt.
As previously mentioned, I’d never liked or trusted most people. Clare, one of the few individuals who’d benefited from my soft side, would playfully scold me for being such a grumpy old bastard, but I knew she appreciated my discerning nature, especially since it balanced out her tendency to trust everyone.
Seriously, maybe the world’ll be better off if the zombies win.
The fact was… I didn’t trust Matt as far as I could throw him through the plaster wall – which I planned to breach with the stupid Ford Focus. It didn’t help that, while he was spinning his bullshit, I’d noticed several grease and oil stains on his dark blue shirt and pants – plus an official patch beneath his name tag that read Walmart Auto Care Center.
Nothing wrong with being a mechanic – I’d known plenty of trustworthy grease monkeys over the years. But something about the omission bugged me – perhaps because, knowing the store layout as I did, I realized the automotive section was far closer to the sporting goods than the groceries.
“Please help me,” he pleaded, as if sensing my reluctance. “My brother’s still in there, along with a lot of other good people.”
No, I didn’t trust the guy. But pretending that I did seemed to be my best play for now. So, I’d go along with him but keep my shotgun handy – somewhere only I could reach it.
“OK,” I said. “Here’s what I’m thinking…”
After explaining my crazy-ass plan to him, I asked him to ready the Ford. Then, while he grabbed the keys from a nearby station and moved the compact into position, I rolled the van clos
er to my future exit, whispered a few reassuring words to Azazel, and stashed one of my pistols in my pocket.
By the time I’d resecured the van, Matt had emerged from the Ford.
“I don’t know if this is going to work,” he said, handing me the keys.
He’d given me the reins nonchalantly, but I still sensed he was a smooth operator. Figured he wanted me to drive to keep my hands busy.
No problem. I’ll just put the shotgun beside the door and leave the handgun in my left pocket.
I slipped behind the steering wheel. Matt took the front passenger seat. Then I buckled my seatbelt, started the engine, and slowly reversed – stopping only when the back bumper pressed into a lengthy workbench separating two of the bays.
Matt barely had time to secure his own seatbelt before I shifted into drive and, with a rebel yell, hit the gas.
Chapter
3
“I just can’t take no pleasure in killing. There’s just some things you gotta do. Don’t mean you have to like it.” – Old Man, The Texas Chainsaw Massacre (1974)
A tiny inner voice warned me not to attempt such a dumbass stunt. Behind the plaster might lie wooden studs, concrete blocks, or unyielding rebars that could stop a compact car in its tracks.
But honestly, I was tapped out of ideas. And I sure as shit had no intention of ramming my precious zombie-mobile through the walls of Walmart.
Fortunately, though, I needn’t have worried. My crazy plan succeeded – and I had an utter blast crashing through the plaster, breaking two studs in half, and sliding into the hardware department, where I inadvertently caused a deafening avalanche of power tools, lightbulbs, and assorted cans of paint.
Zombie Chaos Box Set | Books 1-4 Page 19
