DEAD Snapshot Box Set, Vol. 1 [#1-#4]

by Brown, TW

  “Now, Missy,” the other man said as he leaned where Rose had been standing only moments before, moving the curtains aside so that he could peer out the window, “that man fought in World War Two.”

  “Don’t make him any less an asshole,” Missy retorted. The woman gave Hank a pat on the shoulder which caused the man to wince. As she started to stand, she shot a nasty look over at Rose and her expression changed to one of confusion. “Hey, Randy, that ain’t the Spring cunt.”

  The man at the window turned and shot a glance over his shoulder. He shrugged and turned to look back out the window. “Prob’ly her sister. Seem to recall she had a sister that came out from time to time.”

  “You picked a bad day to come pay a visit,” Missy huffed as she came over to Rose and knelt down.

  The first thing that Rose noticed was the bitter stink of whiskey on the woman’s breath. She knew that smell all too well from her married life. However, now that she was getting her wind back, she was able to get a better look at these intruders.

  The Reynolds family. She remembered hearing a great deal about them. They were some of the last remnants of the folks that had retreated to these parts to avoid the eyes of the law. In the 70s, they had grown pot, but now, these were meth heads. They had smoked, snorted and injected away what had once been a few hundred acres of beautiful farmland. All that remained was less than an acre with a rundown and ratty looking single wide with rust stains and the siding peeling away.

  Missy Reynolds would be the last person you might expect to be a meth addict if you were going off of initial appearances. At just about five feet tall and well over two hundred and fifty pounds, she was a big woman. Her blond hair was greasy and kept in a bowl cut on her large, round head. She was missing well over half her teeth, and those that remained would not be staying long by the looks of it. Her face was a pocked mix of serious acne scars and the fresh, open sores of the meth addict. Her nose was flat from having been busted a few times more than it had been reset, and her dull blue eyes were beady and hidden in folds of flesh that gave her a perpetual look of being drunk and angry.

  Randy Reynolds, the oldest of the three siblings, was in his thirties, but looked considerably older as the years of hard drinking and heavy drug use took their inevitable toll. His long brown hair was easily as greasy as his sister’s and pulled back in a sloppy ponytail that only accented his receding hairline. Where his sister was obese, Randy was stick thin to the point of gaunt. He had no trouble looking the part of a “tweaker” in the meth scene. His arms were scrawled on with the typical—if not some of the worst—jailhouse tattoo art. It was the rare occasion that he (or any of his siblings, for that matter) were seen without a cigarette either dangling from their mouth or tucked in behind one ear.

  Last, but not least, was Hank Reynolds. The baby of the bunch, Hank was actually twenty-three. He’d been blessed (or cursed, depending on how you looked at it) with a baby face; and for that reason alone, he had endured the constant ribbing, taunting, and beatings from his elder brother and sister. His hair was a cross between the blond of his sister (and mother) and the deep brown of his brother (and real father). His eyes were big and brown, and his skin was almost flawless, only just beginning to show the hints of the open lesions that were so common amongst the users of crystal meth. He still had all of his teeth, and was the only one of the three to brush with any regularity—and by regularity, for a Reynolds, that meant once or twice a week.

  The consensus around town was that Hank would have been a heartbreaker if not for his last name. That alone precluded his having any shot at the bevy of local girls who all knew, or knew of, his family by the time they were old enough to start school. Having made it all the way through the sixth grade before being officially expelled and prohibited from attending any of the local schools in the Sandy area, Hank was considered the “smart” one in the family; that did nothing more than make him a bigger target for his siblings.

  “Ain’t you called Rose or something?” Hank said through clenched teeth as he pushed up to his feet with an audible gasp and wince.

  “Yes,” Rose said with a nod, her eyes darting from one Reynolds family member to the next.

  “Them your dogs out in the car?” Hank took a step towards the woman and reached to help her up. He got a smack on the back of his head for his troubles.

  “Ow! What’d you go and do that for?” Hank whimpered.

  “We ain’t here to make friends with these people,” Missy hissed. “You seen the news. People are getting attacked and killed. Old Man Riggs got his guts hanging to his knees and is still walking about like it’s nobody’s business. We got a chance to cash in and I ain’t gonna have you ruin it by gettin’ all nicey-nice with some bitch you’re gonna have to end up killin’ before we go.”

  Rose felt her mouth go dry. This was actually more frightening than her encounter back at the house with her ex and the man up the street. At least they were infected or zombies or whatever the hell was going on. These were perfectly normal people (in a manner of speaking) who were talking about murdering her like it was the most normal and natural thing in the world.

  “So,” Missy returned her piggish gaze back to Rose, that permanent sneer deepening with extra menace, “where is the rest of the family? Tulip or whatever the hell your sister’s name is. And those two brats of hers, where are they?”

  Almost on cue, a low moan came from the bedroom where Rose had just led Crystal. Missy’s head turned slowly, almost like she was a bad animatronic. Her eyes narrowed, which Rose found herself being amazed at considering how deeply set and squinty they were already.

  “Sounds like somebody already caught whatever this damn sickness is,” Randy said, coming away from the curtain. “Hank, go see what the dealy-oh is with whoever is down yonder.”

  “Yonder?” Rose whispered incredulously.

  “You gettin’ sassy, bitch?” Missy grunted as she made her way to her feet. Leaning down, she grabbed Rose by the hair and yanked her up. “Maybe you should show us what is down there. I gots me a feelin’ that I already know.”

  Rose struggled, wincing as she felt hair being ripped from her scalp by the roots. That was enough to get her to settle down.

  “My sister,” Rose blurted. “She and the kids all have whatever this is.”

  “Then that is good news for us,” Missy snorted.

  “How so?” Hank asked.

  “We ain’t gotta get our hands dirty. Can’t nobody accuse us of a murder that we didn’t commit.”

  “Sis, sometimes I can’t believe folks say that Hank got all the brains in the family,” Randy said with a laugh.

  “Go on,” Missy extended her arm to her little brother like she was handing off something nasty. “Take her down the hall and shove her in that room. Me and Randy will have a look around to see if there is anything here worth taking.”

  “Randy and I,” Hank muttered under his breath as he took Rose, choosing to grab her arm instead of accepting the proffered handful of hair that Missy offered.

  “What did you say, boy?” Missy called as her youngest brother led Rose down the hallway.

  “Nothing,” Hank shouted over his shoulder. “Nothing you would understand, you fat idiot,” he whispered just barely loud enough for Rose to hear.

  As they reached the door, Rose winced at the sound of something being shattered back up the hallway. That crash was followed by some hoots and yells of glee.

  “You don’t have to do this,” Rose whispered. Hearing Hank’s obvious disapproval of his brother and sister’s behavior, she felt a kernel of hope start to grow.

  The young man stopped and turned to face her. His face was a twisted mask of hate and anger. For the briefest of moments, she thought that it was for Missy and Randy. Then, Hank spoke.

  “Don’t even think about it, you snotty little bitch. You never gave me the time of day. Now, you think that I am gonna go against blood to do you any favors.” He laughed, and it was an evil, bitter s
ound. “You’re lucky old Randy and I didn’t take a go at ya before tossing your skinny white ass aside.”

  The sound of a hand smacking against the door broke the spell and allowed Rose to tear her eyes away from those of Hank as he glared with unveiled venom at her. Stepping to the door, the youngest Reynolds family member turned the knob and flung it open. There was a thud, and as the door opened all the way, Rose saw Crystal clawing at the air as she struggled to her feet. In the bed, Violet’s head turned and her mouth opened in a moan. Beside her, Jacob struggled as well, and quickly joined in on the moaning chorus.

  “Holy shit,” Hank breathed as he pushed Rose forward to lead the way into the room. He barely broke stride as he lashed out with a boot and kicked Crystal’s legs out from under her so that he could approach the bed and get a closer look.

  He turned to Rose with a downcast expression. “She ain’t nearly so hot with her eyes like that and her skin all gray.” His eyes traveled the length of Rose’s body, causing her to take an involuntary step backwards.

  “Hank!” Missy hollered from the front of the house. “Get your ass out here. Looks like we got company!”

  The young man headed for the door, but paused before he shut it. “You stay alive long enough with her,” he nodded his head towards Crystal who was just now regaining her feet again, “and just maybe we can reach an…arrangement. One that lets you live.”

  The door shut and Rose turned to face her niece.

  ***

  “Pull in up there,” Erin said as she sat up suddenly.

  “This your place?” Ken asked as he slowed.

  “No, but I know who lives here and they don’t ever leave their gate open.”

  The truck pulled up to the driveway and Ken whistled. “Don’t look like they opened it of their own free will.”

  The gate was a twisted mess of metal that had obviously been smashed through. Up the driveway, but nose down in a deep irrigation ditch that ran alongside it, was a beat up old truck.

  “That is the Reynolds’ pickup,” Erin said in a tone that made it clear that little fact was important.

  “Okay?” Ken offered a leading question that he hoped would give him an idea of what the hell was going on.

  Erin never got a chance to answer as a figure stepped out from behind the rear of the Reynolds’ truck and into the path of Ken’s. Out of reflex, he slammed on the brakes. The figure in the headlights was obviously not one of the living. Both arms had been ripped free and the creature still managed to wobble towards them with his guts spooling out of a horrific tear in his belly. What had once been a very elderly man opened his mouth to reveal dark gums. Obviously this guy had worn dentures. Ken was about to make a witty comment about not having to fear this zombie’s bite as he watched it run into the front bumper, apparently seeking the shortest route to its intended target, but not quite grasping the concept of having to go around.

  Erin flung open her door and stepped out, blade coming free before both feet hit the ground. Walking around the truck, she swung hard and fast, cleaving the top half of the man’s head clean off. Ken winced at the display of violence, but was momentarily confused as the young woman seemed to just stand over the fallen body of the corpse.

  At last, she turned and came back to the truck. When she climbed in, Ken could see tears carving trails through the grime on her cheeks. He wondered if perhaps she had known the man. He was about to ask when she spoke.

  “Old Man Riggs. His name was Samuel Riggs. He fought in World War Two. Every summer he would pay the local kids to mow his yard and do odd jobs. He was never stingy with his money if you were willing to put in an honest day’s work. He didn’t tolerate slackers, and if he caught you loafing, he sent you packing. He used to march every year in the Veteran’s Day parade, refusing to ride in the car with the banner. He told the most amazing stories…” Erin’s voice hitched and caught as she began to sob.

  Ken put the truck in gear and started forward, wincing when the vehicle jolted just a bit as it ran over the body lying in front of it. Once the rear tires were clear, he goosed the accelerator and made short work of the rest of the lengthy driveway which terminated at an open turnaround. There was already one car parked right in front of the house.

  However, there were also a good dozen or so of the undead gathered around it and another ten or so (at least that he could see) along the front of the house. Some were clawing at windows, a few were at the front door, and a couple were simply at the wall, clawing like they might actually think they could get through to whatever was on the other side.

  “You can sit in here again and do nothing if you want,” Erin said while giving herself a pat-down. “The people here are good people, and they have a lot of things that we can use if we join up. Their farm and ours are adjacent. Between the two groups, we could ride this out for a good long while.”

  She didn’t wait for his response; instead, the woman climbed out of the truck and shut the door. However, she did not move forward towards the house like he expected, and for a moment, Ken lost sight of her. When he found her again, she was at the car behind them with that guy Jason and the Hispanic woman who he could not recall the name of at the moment.

  Seconds later, both front doors to the car opened and the pair emerged. Jason had a bat in his hand. The woman hurried to the rear of the car and popped the trunk, she emerged with a tire iron. The trio did a quick huddle and then started for the nearest of the walking dead.

  “I’m living a fucking zombie movie,” Ken sighed as he watched the carnage begin.

  Of course he’d come to that conclusion a long time ago. However, for whatever reason, it was now becoming real. With a sigh, he reached under his seat and pulled out a case. Setting it down, he watched calmly as the three worked methodically to reach the house. It wasn’t too difficult by the looks of things.

  Removing one of his Glocks, Ken inserted the magazine and let the slide slam into place. He considered bringing both, but decided to just scoop up another two magazines and stuff them in his coat pocket. Then he loaded the second and set it on the seat. Never knew if he might have to make a run for it. It would be nice to have this second weapon as a safety net.

  Ken climbed out of the car, his nose wrinkling immediately at the stench. He was a step away from the truck when he saw the curtain twitch beside the front door. Maybe it was his cop instincts, or maybe it was just dumb luck, but Ken whipped his pistol up and leveled it at the center of the door frame just as it flew open and a large figure stepped out onto the porch with a street sweeper jammed against one shoulder.

  Time slowed down for Ken as he aimed. He could tell instantly that the short, squat figure in that doorway was aiming at Erin. Without giving it another second’s worth of thought, Ken fired three rounds. All three shots slammed into the figure’s center mass. The body toppled backwards and fell back into the house.

  There was a moment of silence. In that instant, it seemed as if even the zombies paused in their pitiful moans and groans to see what would happen next. An anguished voice finally shattered that silence.

  “YOU MOTHER FUCKERS DONE KILLED MY SISTER!”

  That was a girl? was Ken’s last thought before a tall, lanky figure leapt through the open doorway, a street sweeper at his hip—probably the same one that his sister had been holding just moments before—erupting with a mighty roar and a flash of fire.

  7

  “What about Hank?”

  Randy Reynolds pumped and fired the shotgun. Fortunately for Erin, Jason and Juanita, he was basically firing blind, the barrel swiveling to anything that moved; which, at the moment, were just the zombies.

  Ken was relatively safe considering the distance. Shotguns were hellish at close range. This was a point vividly illustrated when a zombie stepped directly into the line of fire and took the full brunt from the twelve-gauge buckshot. Its head erupted, reminding Ken for some reason of the grand finale of watermelon smashing that took place at the end of the Gallagher shows. T
he body took one more step and then collapsed in a heap. Another round slammed into the chest of a young woman and erupted from her back. This rocked the woman, but she continued on as if she did not notice the fist-sized hole in her body.

  Ken did not see where the third shot went as he sighted in on his target and fired. At first, he thought that he had missed, But then, the man took an unsteady step forward and then another before dropping to his knees. A dark stain was visible on his forehead. Ken was actually a bit miffed. He had aimed for the chest. The man had moved at the last second, taking a step down from the porch. In doing so, he had taken the bullet to the head.

  Everybody seemed fascinated by Ken’s recent kill; so much so that all of them were paying more attention to the two dead bodies in the doorway and ignoring the zombies moving in on them. He was about to say something when a hand clamped down on his shoulder. Ken spun to see a man about his age. The man had a nasty rip on his throat and a few bites on his arms that looked strangely small.

  Shaking his head to snap himself back into action, he shoved his Glock up under the man’s chin and fired. The man dropped like a stone and revealed another several figures headed his way. They were nothing more than black silhouettes in the bright headlights of his pickup directly behind them, but he did not need to see details to know that they were children.

  “Jesus on a jet plane,” he muttered.

  The first of the children finally closed to a distance where Ken could see him better. The boy was maybe five. He had been ravaged most unpleasantly. In Ken’s mind, he saw the boy pulled to the ground by a pack of those things. That would be the only explanation for how this boy was so ripped up.

  Adjusting his aim, Ken was about to fire when something happened that made him pause. It had nothing to do with the fact that this zombie was a child. The moment that he’d accepted the idea of what was happening, he had simply turned off the part of his brain that allowed him to see these things as anything more than a savage animal that needed to be put down. It would be no different if he was out deer hunting and a cougar or a bear tried to attack him. While he had no desire to hunt either of those predatory animals, he would not simply stand there and be mauled. To him, zombies were no different. Man. Woman. Child. A zombie did not care. It simply wanted to eat you for whatever reason.