Zombie Queen

by Mary Martel

I’m glad I make it a part of my routine to oil the hinges on the hatch door, for when I open it, the stench of spoiled meat hits my nostrils, and I’m fighting back another gag. In the back of my mind, I register how late in the day it is, leaving only a few hours of daylight left. Without making any noise, I scuttle over to the back edge of the roof. Four undead scuffle around the alley, occasionally bumping into each other and the giant dumpster. They aren’t what’s disturbing. No, that would be the fucking rotter. The one that smells like hamburger and crab meat mixed together and left out in the hot sun for a couple days. None of them smell like air freshener, but this has to be the worst one I’ve ever crossed paths with. Unfortunately for her, she’s not a looker either. What once used to be a highly obese middle-aged woman, is now a rotting pus-filled walking meat sack. Half her face has been ripped clean off down to the bone. The eyeball on that side hangs by a string-looking thing and appears to be caught between the folds of her double chins and chest. Her once clean white muumuu with little blue flowers is ripped down the middle and saturated with dark black blood stains. I suck my lips back through my teeth as she turns my direction in her shuffling. Through the hole in the front, her saggy boobs rest against the gaping empty cavity of her stomach.

  Nasty as it is, I don’t make any sudden moves to cover my face. Drawing their attention will only get them agitated. I lower myself stomach first to the roof and press my face into it, taking a moment to hope that if I ever turn into one of the putrid monsters, someone will kill me if I can’t do it myself. Save me the dignity of walking around with all my lady parts exposed to anyone that cares to have a look. I silently make the rotting woman a promise to put her down as soon as I can.

  Taking a deep breath, I let it out before doing a military crawl across the roof to the front of the store, keeping quiet. Since first being alerted to the undead in the back, I’ve had a sneaking suspicion forming in my gut. It quickly turns concrete as I peek over the brick storefront.

  Where my once fuckface free street used to be, is now littered with at least thirty of them between my store and the old gas station about half a mile away. Add that to the five in the back, and I’d say it’s safe to assume these aren’t going to be the only ones that were drawn in by the noise either. Jesus Pete, I hate this shit. I’m not scared to go down there and crack some skulls. I just hate that it’s going to be so much work. What’s even worse is that I don’t feel safe inside the store with all of these creeps on the street. I’ll feel trapped much like the first days of this homicidal plague.

  My decision is stripped from me when a low roll of thunder cracks through the sky and the clouds start to take a piss all over the town. It’s just a light drizzle, but by the time I’ve made it back down into the storeroom, a downpour racks the roof. At least this time my boots didn’t fall victim.

  Stripping them off over by my bed, I’m happy to find only the top two layers of socks are wet, which means they’re drying out faster than I thought they would. I drape my damp clothes on the back of the desk chair in the back and pull on a clean, well, clean to me, pair of jeans and long sleeve shirt. My bed beckons, calling me to lay down and sleep the stress away until I can deal with the current problem. There’s no chance that’s happening, though. Every little sound makes my heart pounce into my throat, and my hands feel jittery.

  I pace a square around the store for hours until I force myself to sit and eat a can of cold stew. As I let my feet carry me around the small space, I argue with even bothering. Stomach in knots, I figured I’ll puke, but I for sure won’t eat tomorrow when I go out. A full belly makes it harder to squeeze into tight spots, and I’d rather not have undigested food sloshing around in there while I fight for my life. Though it seems kind of stupid if I were to die and not get a last meal and all. The lesser of the two stupids win, so vegetable stew it is.

  My entire night passes in darkness since I’m too afraid to turn any of the lights on. I’m not taking any chances I don’t have to. Without any light to read by, I doze off more than once into a light sleep, jumping awake at any small sound.

  Judging the time for daylight, a yawn cracks my jaw as I stand up and stretch. Time to get a freaky dink move on because I can’t handle another restless night like that. Habits are one of the things that have managed to keep me alive this long, and those strangers have really thrown me off. I let my lips drop into a frown as I nod to myself…Yeah, I’m going to chop their fingers off.

  With a good dose of anger coursing through my veins, I saddle up for battle. My boots feel dry, giving me extra pep in my step as I zip myself into my specially-designed jacket. After reading all of the post-apocalyptic material here, more padding from old clothes were sewn around my forearms. Defense mechanisms will always win, meaning my arms will be the first part to get a chunk taken out of them if I don’t take out the zombie fast enough. The zipper comes all the way up to the bottom of my chin, encasing my neck just tight enough to be borderline uncomfortable. Rather be that than have my jugular ripped out, though, so there’s that. Last in my wardrobe arsenal are my fingerless leather gloves. I’d much rather have every inch of skin covered just in case, but I need to have a good grip on my weapons. That’s life or death right there.

  Fastening the buckles for the straps across my chest, I then slide my swords home in the scabbards on my back. A few more short blades go on my body, one at my hip, and another in my boot for backups. By the time I feel prepared enough to lob some heads off, my nerves have calmed some, and I’m ready to get this shit done.

  Emerald

  I make the same trek back to the top of the building after doing a security check on the inside. The hatch lid opens as quietly as it did yesterday, and I’m so damn grateful that the rain has finally stopped. The first rays of the sun are starting to crest over the tops of the trees over in the direction of the old water tower. As much as I’d really love to stop and watch it rise, my mood has other plans. I’m pissed at the squealing losers who invaded my town and now have nerves cinching my stomach tight for having to do another clean up.

  My thoughts are a quick reminder that I have more than the undead to worry about. Staying low, I do a quick route around the edges of the building, getting an idea of the changes that happened overnight. The rotter and her friends are gone from the back alley, and I don’t know whether that’s a good thing or bad. When I make it to the front, I’m surprised to see the street almost clear too. There weren’t any noticeable loud sounds during the night, but something has definitely distracted the crowd.

  Undoing the rope that secures the emergency ladder, I lower it and then myself to the ground without a sound. With my heart in my throat, I take a deep calming breath as I listen. Confident there’s nothing waiting to jump out at me before I make it out of the alley, I let out the puff of air I’ve been holding in. It helps to calm my nerves.

  I’ve never felt more like a stranger in my own town. Well, maybe the first time I came out to take care of the fuckfaces by myself. It’s one of those feelings that I assume a small town bumpkin like me would feel if I had gone to a big city alone before all the crazy shit went down. That fear of new places, new faces, and of course the whole more people, more crazies mixed in waiting to rob or rape you around every corner.

  Not only do I have the nasties to worry about, I’ve also got to keep an eye out for the moron invaders. Those two said there are more, and I do not want anymore surprises from them.

  As always, my shield goes up while anger burns like molten lava underneath my skin when the first freak makes an appearance. By the looks of it, there’s a likely possibility that it used to be a teenage girl. There’s an even higher possibility that I probably know her. However, my brain doesn’t comprehend her as a real person, so I don’t look for the face underneath the claw marks ripping the skin down to the bone. One quick swipe of my blade and it’s down for the count.

  I spend hours wandering the side streets around my base, making sure to be aware of my surroundings in case
anyone from that other group stuck around. Which is the reason I stay clear of Main Street. It’ll eventually need sweeps done, but I won’t be doing it today while I’m on high alert for other breathers.

  Yanking my blade from the skull of the fuckface in front of me, I cut down another side street that’ll take me to the other side of town. I’m a good few miles from base, but it’s only close to noon so I’ve got plenty of time to make it back before dark. Even if my new destination is at least another half hour walk from my current position, it’ll so be worth it later.

  I use the piece of cloth from my belt to wipe down the remaining dark liquid on my sword after flicking the goop off the tip. Just jelly, I tell myself to keep from thinking the truth and puking in the street. It takes quite a bit to make me gag these days, but rotters and brain jelly are two things that’ll get me every time.

  I’m not stupid enough to sheath my weapon, but I do let it relax against the side of my leg as I walk through what used to be the backyards of a cute little subdivision. As I got older, I always wished we could’ve lived on this street. ‘The grass isn’t always greener on the other side of the fence,’ my mom used to tell me. Turns out she was right, just like a lot of other times when moms are never wrong.

  Whatever survived the initial onslaught of the undead here, was soon cleared out by looters and the needy. Which, if one thinks about it, makes absolutely no sense. Sure you can go in and rob the rich people, but where’s that going to leave you in the middle of the apocalypse? I know where. Surrounded by a bunch of rich people shit and nothing to do with it. Money is a thing of the past now. Evidence of the decline in human morals is the only thing in high supply.

  My first walk down this way was in the middle of the street, and I have no desire to do that again. Parents and children alike were strewn across lawns and in their cars. Bullet holes marking almost every surface I could see. The hardest thing was seeing the kids. It reminded me so much of my sister that I did lose my lunch that day. I know she wouldn’t blame me if I could talk to her one more time, but that doesn’t stop me from blaming myself. Every. Single. Day.

  A casual shake of my head, and those thoughts drop into the background of my mind. I can’t afford to be distracted by the darkness right now. In my long restless night, I’d thought long and hard about this.

  The best conclusion being what I’m doing. Which is why I now find myself staring at the backdoor to my old house. I came back here once when fury and shame racked me the hardest. There’s no way I could let my sister and mom walk around like one of those things, possibly wrecking someone else’s life. Mr. Thompson was still rotting away in the middle of the floor, but my family was nowhere to be found. It was as heartbreaking as it was a relief. Deep down, I really didn’t want to have to put them down like the rabid family dog. Donning thick rubber gloves and a facial cover, I’d rolled Mr. Thompson into a rug burrito and dragged him outside. It was illogical, but I kept going way past our yard and hid him in the bushes of our neighbors. I hadn’t bothered cleaning anything, but I did lock the house up tight and never came back.

  Now here I stand, gathering the guts to go inside once again. All for clean panties. After the run in, I’d wagered the risks of raiding stores or someone else’s home where I can’t be certain I’d even find my size. Not to mention how much less time this takes.

  My eyes wander up and down the backside of the houses around me. The only sound is the slight breeze rustling a few leaves in the trees behind me, and the occasional bird calling out to another. A small puff of air leaves my lips before I make my way up to the backdoor. I’d sealed everything months ago, but that doesn’t mean looters among other things, haven’t broken in.

  When I check the handle, though, it’s to find it still locked. Stalking around the perimeter of the house, I confirm none of the fuckfaces, living or dead, are around before pulling out a loose piece of siding on the house. A silver key drops to the dirt, and I scoop it up with another paranoid look around.

  I use it to slide the back door open but don’t bother to lock it back up. Safety of an escape route and all that jazz. Going on the defense, I two-hand my blade as I make my way from the kitchen to the stairs, ears open to catch the smallest of sounds. When nothing but silence greets me, I start up to the next level.

  Mom’s room is at the far end of the hallway. At some point, the door had been broken off its hinges and now lays as a welcome mat into her room. The large gaping maw of the doorway gives the hall a sinister feel to it, and I’ll be glad to get out of here. What once was my home, is no more. I feel exposed and truly terrified as though my mom or sister will come waltzing into the room demanding to know why I didn’t save them or worse, simply trying to eat me.

  I’m stronger than I was, I tell myself. I’m stronger for them, and I’m not afraid of ghosts.

  That quick little mantra inside my head gives me the courage to look away from her door and turn towards my own. Everything inside is just as I left it. Covers thrown back to the footboard. School books and laptop on my desk collecting dust. None of which is any use to me anymore.

  With a curl of my lip, I stroll over to my closet and grab my travel duffel. I drop it to my bed, causing a puff of dust to fly out from underneath it. It attacks me before my next blink, lodging in my nostrils and the back of my throat. I have to bury my face inside my jacket to keep the sneezes contained and quiet.

  When I can finally breathe again, I clean my drawers of the jeans and shirts and stuff them into the duffel. I’m not sure what will fit anymore, but I’m sure I can find uses for the shit that doesn’t. Next, I take my now useless backpack off the back of my desk chair and empty it onto the bed before cleaning out my sock and panty drawers and jamming it all in the bag.

  I’ve just thrown the straps on my shoulders and grabbed the duffel as I hear the sound of a car engine. I startle so bad that I bump into the corner of my dresser. Swearing inside my head, I make a mad dash out of my room and back down the stairs. There’s no doubt in my mind who sits behind the wheel of that engine, and I’ve got a few fingers to chop off.

  Plans are thwarted, however, when I round the corner into the kitchen and run straight into a solid rock wall of muscle. It plants me on my ass, but I bound back up with a swift punch to his stomach before bringing the tip of my sword to the stranger’s throat before he can even move.

  His palms go up into the air as he struggles to breathe. “Don’t kill me. I’m here to help.”

  “Move,” I demand in a harsh whisper. I don’t need or have time for his lies. He’s probably just the welcome committee sent in to delay me until the others get here. The thought has me putting more pressure on my blade.

  “Please, Emerald,” he pleads.

  My eyes narrow. “How do you know my name?”

  The sound of the engine is getting closer, and his face turns the color of ash as he speaks faster this time. “I’m Sam. Sam Farmer. We went to school together. We’ve got to go. Those guys followed you here.”

  His name rings a bell, but it doesn’t change the fact that he could be with them. “How do you know?” I ask.

  “Because I followed you too,” he replies, earning himself another knuckle sandwich to his stomach.

  I don’t even give him the time to recover, nor do I bother to grab the duffel where it fell to the floor. There will be time for me to come back for it. Now is not the time to be carting around the extra weight of clothes. I haul ass out the backdoor, leaving both behind.

  Emerald

  I’m barely two steps into the neighbor’s yard before Sam catches up with me. He doesn’t reach out to touch me, but I round on him anyways. “I don’t care who you say you are. Get. The. Hell. Away. From. Me.”

  “We need to help each other,” he starts, looking back towards the road in fear. Then rushes to get the rest out. “I’ve been watching you for weeks. I know you’re alone. I saw them come into town and it’s nothing but a bunch of guys with guns. Let me help you.”

&n
bsp; I’m tempted to punch him again just for good measure. Stalking creep. But that voice deep down that lies low until I’m in trouble speaks up and says to trust him. At least for now, considering he’s the lesser of the two evils at the moment.

  I open my mouth to speak, but a stranger’s voice cuts across the grass to us. “Hey, stop!”

  “Run!” Sam yells at me before I can even get a look at who the voice belongs to.

  He doesn’t need to tell me twice. There’s no way in hell I’m leading them all back to my base, so I skirt around the houses that lay on the cul-de-sac behind mine. Sam and I cut across several yards, hopefully making it difficult for us to be followed by the vehicle. A quick glance behind us shows me that we aren’t being pursued on foot. By the time that we finally stop, we’re at least a mile and a half away and so out of breath that our chests are puffing, trying to suck in lungfuls of air.

  Sam props against the old brick building of the power company and drops his hands to his knees as he tries to catch his breath. My fists clench reflexively over and over, one of them with my sword still wrapped up in the middle. A string of curses is going off in my brain as I chastise myself for being so stupid. This is what I get for being nice and saving those gutless wonders. Sam makes a soft snorting noise, and it reminds me that I’m not alone. And much to my dismay, it appears I’ve said some of that aloud.

  “You’re not off the hook either, bub,” I warn. “You can’t go around stalking people. It’s just plain rude. Even farm boys should know better.”

  His face turns red, but I’m not sorry for embarrassing him. Maybe I should be considering that he revealed himself to try and save me. Before I can think any more on it, another rumble cuts through the air. They’re back.

  “Shit,” Sam growls, reaching for my hand.

  I let him take it and pull me over into some overgrown brush situated beside the building. We’re hidden from sight, but through the leaves, I can still spot the huge SUV as it creeps along the streets. The windows are down, and I can see people inside, but the interior is too dark to make out faces. Only one is visible. He’s standing on the bumper while gripping the roof rack in one hand and a shotgun in the other. The backwards hat on the top of his head does nothing to hide the scowl that darkens his features. If I had to guess, I’d say he’s probably got at least four or five years on me and Sam. Unquestionably not someone I want to be kidnapped by.