by Rob Horner
The zombies were gaining on the women.
* * * * *
“That’s disgusting!” Jeff said, coming over the counter so fast he could’ve been Don Johnson in the old Miami Vice shows.
“Jasmine? What?” Robbie asked.
She shook her head, dark hair flying.
The head sat in the refrigerator, eyes open. The skin had a pale tinge to it, and the lips were bloodless.
Of course, they’re bloodless. It’s a freaking disembodied head!
Black lines like splinters under the skin climbed the left side of the neck, what little of it there was. The lines disappeared behind the left ear, as though they’d suddenly decided being inside the head would be warmer.
“It’s one of them,” Jeff said, moving past Jasmine to get a better look. “Someone cut off one of their heads and put it there.”
“Who would do something like that?” Robbie asked.
“I’m guessing one of the pharmacists,” Jeff said. “Think about it. You’re a medical person, and you see something that defies all the laws of medicine you know. Wouldn’t you want to save a specimen for study?”
Jasmine didn’t answer. Now that she’d gotten over the shock of finding a head in the refrigerator, she felt embarrassed. Just a stupid head, yet she’d screamed like a blond bimbo in a horror movie.
Another scream reached them from across the store, like an echo of her voice but on a time delay.
A double tap of gunshots followed, then more screams and more gunfire.
“Okay,” Jeff said, reaching into the refrigerator—carefully avoiding touching the head—and grabbing bottles with big letters on the front, like R, and NPH. He half-turned, thrusting his full hands at her. Take these, then get all this to the front doors. Jasmine pivoted, placed the first double handful on the counter, then barely turned back in time to catch a second.
“What’re you gonna do?” Robbie asked.
Jeff slung his shotgun off his shoulder and clambered back over the counter.
“I’m gonna go help the ladies.”
In his wake, one of the insulin bottles wobbled, fell on its side, and rolled off onto the floor.
More shots, this time from several different weapons, filled the air, galvanizing Jasmine.
“Quick, pop the lock on that thing and grab the pain meds.” She pulled herself over the counter and began loading the larger containers into the cart. “We gotta be quick.”
* * * * *
Jeff DeMarco ran through the aisles of Wal-Mart, and a strange thing happened.
He stopped seeing the store.
His fear didn’t leave, no. No matter how tough you were or how brave people thought you, the fear never left.
But suddenly the racks of clothes were gone, replaced by the burned-out husks of forty-year old cars resting on rusted rims, some with their bumpers several inches into the brick of the surrounding buildings.
The cool tile floor disappeared, replaced by the hard-packed grit and dirt of a dusty Afghanistan village, its name forgotten as soon as it was heard and impossible to pronounce besides. The wavy pattern in the tiles became a haze of heat rising beneath a merciless sun, or the floating dust kicked up by the quick stomp of twenty boots hustling double time from one cover to the next, without a breath of breeze to blow it aside.
Large shelves became bombed-out ruins lining the arid streets, where a sheet might cover a hole in the wall, and you were as like to see the head of a young child poking out to watch the soldiers as you were to see the muted gleam of sun on the blackened barrel of a would-be sniper.
The shotgun in his arms morphed into the trusty M4-A1 he’d carried for a dozen years, until the Army medics determined his PTSD too severe to allow him back into combat.
Unlike so many combat veterans, Jeff was aware of the change in his perspective. He welcomed it. His way of dealing with prior trauma was to make it the soldier’s problem. Jeff the civilian had his own issues.
So, when fight or flight kicked in, the soldier came forth, full of piss and vinegar and the harsh voice of an infantry sergeant used to shouting orders across a battlefield.
There were no IEDs tucked under the racks, no RPGs spiraling in to make the ground erupt all around him. Just a few gunshots from a couple dozen yards away. Close, but not close enough to see, not with the twisting warren of walls, a rat’s nest of human design whether it be a city or a city supermarket.
Sprinting around a blown-to-shit Hilux Surf SSR which might also be a random endcap T-shirt display, Jeff came across a strange scene. Two women rushing away from a racing horde. They could have been hijab-wearing mothers or two of the women from The Wilds, just as the people chasing them might have been Taliban fighters or mindless zombies, and it wouldn’t have mattered. There were two people fleeing from an aggressive force, and he knew an enemy when he saw them.
Dropping to one knee, a small part of him mindful of the fact that he carried a scattergun even though it wasn’t what his eyes saw, he braced the stock firmly against his right shoulder and waited. The women ran by, pushing their cart full of scavenged supplies as fast as they could. Another couple moved into sight from the left, also pushing carts.
More scavengers.
He cataloged and dismissed them as soon as he saw them, though whether he recognized them as friends or simply as not-enemies was impossible to tell.
Aiming carefully, he fired a shot, the loud report eliciting a scream from one of the women.
The lead attacker’s face disappeared in a splash of blood and black gore, the body falling bonelessly forward, carried by momentum. Zombies to each side caught smaller doses of shot. A single ball drew a line across the cheek of the one on the right, while a new hole opened in the throat of the one on the left. Neither so much as flinched.
Jeff pumped the slide, ejecting the spent shell and priming a new one, then took aim and fired again, catching the one with the hole in its throat center mass, destroying its chest and slamming it backward.
There was more to the undead than simple hunger, a guiding intelligence or at least a modicum of residual thought. They didn’t simply continue forward, content to let him pick them off one by one.
The remaining three pivoted, like a military squad following orders, and rushed toward him.
They’d reach him before he could ready another round, but that didn’t stop him from trying.
* * * * *
It took Robbie two shots to damage the lock enough to get it open, with the second breaking through the pivoting flange.
Damn those Master Locks!
But then it was done, and the lock was on the floor. Inside were more jugs of pills, none as large as the regular medicines, but each containing enough narcotic to overdose a small town. Searching fast, he selected a single bottle of hydrocodone pills in five milligram doses, the smallest number he could see. Slamming it on the counter, he hurried out of the pharmacy.
“If someone else comes, they’re gonna clean this out,” he said to himself.
“That’s if there’s anyone else left,” Jasmine replied, moving medicine bottles from counter to cart as fast as she could. Robbie added his effort to hers, then grabbed the cart handle and began pushing.
“That way,” Jasmine said, pointing left.
Robbie grunted and pushed, setting the cart moving at a jog.
“What do you think’s going on back there?” she asked. She tossed a worried look over her shoulder.
He didn’t know, but he could guess. “Probably found a few of those…things in the store. Just because we didn’t see any outside doesn’t mean they weren’t waiting inside.”
A louder boom echoed across the hall, followed by more screams.
“Should we go help?” Jasmine asked.
Robbie shook his head. “Let’s do what we were told. Get this stuff to the front. There’s so many guns back there now, we might get shot by accident.”
Jasmine didn’t look satisfied with the answer, but she didn’t ar
gue.
Alex and Tia were waiting as they raced toward the cash registers. Both women pushed carts loaded with milk and cheese, frozen pizzas and other perishables. Despite the odd circumstances outside, the power was still on everywhere. Better enjoy the little things like fresh milk while they could, he supposed.
Alex was a tall blond, somewhere shy of middle age. Tia was the opposite, shorter, dark haired, and maybe a few years younger. They introduced themselves as best friends, but Robbie knew a couple when he saw one. Neither he nor Jasmine said anything. If the women thought it easier disguising their relationship under the guise of roommate or close friend, who was he to judge?
The questions started as soon as the women saw them…
Who’s shooting?
Who’s screaming?
What’s going on?
…but before he could think of an answer, several shots cracked in rapid succession.
* * * * *
They weren’t going to get close enough in time to help Melissa and Judy, not with the heavy carts and the fact that the women were running away from them.
Still, Angel tried. He pushed with one hand and drew his pistol with the other, wondering if he looked more like a gunman from Red Dead Redemption or the crazy dude in BioShock, riding in on a trusty metal steed with wheels instead of hooves.
Except I don’t have a grappling hook for an arm.
Then a blast roared out from the right and one of things chasing the girls went down. Angel stopped, searching for the shooter.
A second blast took out another and, rather than continue chasing the women, the zombies turned, rushing toward a clustered group of clothing racks full of Minnie Mouse and Frozen pajamas, small skirts and t-shirt separates, shorts and thin leggings.
“It’s Jeff!” he breathed.
“Hey! Hey you! Ugly fuckers! Over here!” Ann yelled.
She hadn’t stopped when he did. She’d kept going and was now only a few yards away from the rushing monsters. She had her pistol in hand.
As the closest zombie stopped and turned, so did Ann, giving her shopping cart a tremendous shove.
The cart rolled into the first zombie and she fired a round.
The zombie closest to Jeff jerked sideways, its body moved by the bullet’s punch. Jeff scooted the opposite direction, pumping his shotgun.
Ann fired again, then a third time as Jeff fired from the hip into the body of the middle creature. The blast came from such close range that the zombie’s body was torn in half. Ann made an irking sound, like maybe she’d thrown up a little at the grisly display.
She didn’t stop shooting though, now focusing on the zombie clutching the front end of her cart, trying to figure out what to do with it. Its shoulders jerked, then an ear disappeared until finally, on the fourth round, she scored a hit which dropped it to the floor.
Jeff fired again, taking out the last zombie, and Angel discovered he could move again., like someone had hit pause on his personal video game while they went to take a shit.
Pushing, he caught up to his wife, who was focusing intently on reloading her pistol. She had the magazine ejected in her hands and was trying to push a fresh round into the spring-loaded top. But her hands shook so badly that the copper-jacketed bullet chittered and rattled against the magazine rather than sliding smoothly into place.
“It’s okay,” he tried to say, but as soon as he opened his mouth, she turned and buried her face against his chest.
“You two all right?” Jeff asked.
Angel nodded.
“Good. Hurry to the front. I’m going to make sure everyone else is okay, too.”
Jeff ran off, turning to follow Melissa and Judy. His voice raised again a few seconds later, though Angel couldn’t understand the words.
“I never thought—” Ann said.
“Shh. I know.”
She wasn’t crying, but Angel thought she might. She’d just killed someone after all. How would he feel?
He tried to calm her, explaining that she only did what she had to do, but she shook her head against him.
“It’s not that. I didn’t mind killing the thing. I didn’t like it, but I’m not upset about doing it.”
“What is it, then?” he asked. She’d let go of him and turned back to her cart. The two were maneuvering around the downed zombies, working their way to where their friends waited.
“I never thought we’d really be in such danger, you know? Like maybe it was one of your video games, something we could watch on television and not have to worry about being caught in the middle of. Even when we carried guns into the store…I just… But then it was do something or watch Jeff get killed and it all just clicked. This is for real.”
He understood. Now.
Funny how having someone else put something into words made it that much clearer for him.
The rest of their scavenging group waited by the front doors as they returned, though none were close enough to trip the electronic eyes.
The reason was clear.
There were dozens if not hundreds of zombies waiting for them outside.
Chapter 30
Jeff saw it, even if no one else did.
This wasn’t an accident. It wasn’t bad luck.
This was tactical.
There wasn’t a single zombie interested in Wal-Mart when they arrived. Just the one wandering along the side of the parking lot like someone with a place to go but no way to get there.
They weren’t inside but twenty minutes. He checked his watch to confirm it.
And now this. Now a swarm of the fuckers rushing in from every direction. If they’d been inside any longer, they’d have been trapped.
If they’d been…
“Everyone out! Now!” he shouted. “Leave the baskets. Just get in the Ram.”
“What about—?” someone started.
“No time!” he yelled. And when Jeff DeMarco yelled, people jumped.
He pumped the shotgun and led the way, pushing through the doors before they finished opening.
It was so clear to him. They finished up a little faster than someone…something…expected. It was the only reason they got to the doors in time to see the horde descending, rather than rushing to the front to find a whole army already inside the store and waiting for them.
There were questions there, serious things he’d have to think about and then discuss with others, people with a lot more brains than him.
The things could communicate.
It had to be that. Either the one walking outside, or one of the things inside, had alerted the swarm to their presence.
No!
Think about it later.
For now, just get out.
The stagnant air of an Alabama summer struck him as the doors opened. The monsters were already in the parking lot, jumping dividers and shoving aside loose carts, but still far enough that they could make it.
If they hurried.
Thankfully, they’d parked at the front. Thankfully, he’d thought to tell them to turn nose out. At the time, he did it to make unloading the carts easier.
“Come on!” he shouted, not knowing if they were behind him, intent only upon reaching the driver’s side of the white Dodge Ram Crew Cab sitting on the left.
He got there a second before the lead zombie, more than enough time to raise and fire the shotgun, blowing it away.
More forms rushed in, moving with gusto. These weren’t the slow shamblers of the television shows, but agile creatures in full control of their limbs. The arms weren’t straight out like a blind man using a cane, but pumping at the sides, an active aspect in maintaining balance.
Before the spent shell bounced off the ground, another shot rang out beside him, one of the women stepping up to the passenger side of the truck.
“Get in and get it started,” Angel said, his voice recognizable by a slight accent. The report of his 9mm nearly deafened Jeff, going off so close to the ear, but the bullet plowed into another zombie’s head
, dropping it in front of a rushing horde of others, tripping some.
Ducking backward, some instinct helping him turn in just the right way to avoid fouling Angel’s line of sight, Jeff squeezed around the smaller man and yanked open one of the truck’s doors. On the passenger side, both doors opened, though no one got in.
What were they waiting for?
Oh yeah. Him. They wanted him to get it started.
More gunshots exploded around him, the sound threatening to cast him back in time to another life, but he growled through it. The soldier had his place, but this wasn’t it. He needed to be Jeff, just plain old Jeff who had the keys to the truck in his right front pocket.
Voices shouted instructions or just plain shouted, a primal cry of life, its enjoyment, and abject defiance toward its end.
He pulled out the keys and started the engine.
“Get in!” someone shouted, banging on the truck roof. “Everyone in. It’ll be tight, but it’s the only way.”
The voice was right. The parking lot was a hive of bees swarming. They weren’t hip to hip or a wave impossible to stop—there weren’t that many—but there’d be no time to try to free up another vehicle.
One person climbed in the back, then another.
More gunshots sounded.
The tide…flowed. Not like bees but more like ants. There was a choreography to the ebb and flow, though it was on a large scale, like troop movements seen from an E-2 Hawkeye.
The zombies weren’t just swarming like a pack of rats on a morsel of meat. They moved deliberately. The monsters coming from the right were working their way behind the vehicles, cutting off any retreat into the store. The ones from the left weren’t attacking outright, but were ranging along the side of the building, perhaps thinking to prevent an escape in that direction.
Do I really think they’re thinking?
And the larger mass coming in from the main street moved like a high school marching band, long lines funneling in toward the center, toward them. The maneuver left areas of concrete wide open but allowed the maximum number of people in a small space.
