Genesis Virus

by Pinto, Daniel

  The cop in charge says in the microphone. “Don’t shoot.” He may be a bastard, but not a child killer.

  Junior’s so scared and running so fast, he has to slide to the side of the little girl or he might not stop running at all. She smiles and opens her eyes. “Amen.”

  He picks her up and cradles her head into his chest; he flits with her on the grass. “Close your eyes and cover your ears.” She does. “See it worked.”

  Aplenty of zombies climb over each other, through and over the metal fence like escaping convicts ready to restart their havoc; all the cops start firing smoke canisters, sandbags, and pellets at the herd of zombies. It only makes the dead become alive and that much more eager. The fence topples over like a house of cards. More zombies are descending the hill into the bedrock of America.

  The Captain brandishes his firearm up high. “Go lethal and fire at will.” He activates the fusillade by firing his entire assault magazine in ten seconds; followed by his men. It sounds like fireworks in a metal trashcan, disorienting and painful to the mind’s eye.

  Down the street from the cops, the first wave of car accidents limit options. Every car wants to be the first to leave, which only makes every person a loser. It’s like bumper cars with more cars joining the arena every second. Humans run into each, everyone is fast for a minute then cruel reality kicks in and they struggle to move after a block, holding their ribs as if to keep their lungs inside.

  The first two rows of zombies go down like the easy pawns they are and get trampled by the infinite regression of zombies behind them. Hundreds of bullet casings roll down the dark mouth of the sewer drains. The Captain fires the last of his gun magazine. “Fire everything or die.” Stands up, pumps and fires his shotgun into the crowd that is half a block long now and moves down the street like molten lava. Smoke grenades by the broken gateway is so thick there is no hill or gate anymore.

  A growing stack of guns is behind the cops, and most of the officers have resorted to firing their handguns. The zombie herd is breaking up into octopus tentacles and squeezing their ways into front doors.

  Back around the corner, Junior whisks down the sidewalk, halting behind a reversing car in the driveway. He kicks at the taillight. “Let us in.” The little boy with puffy eyes, rows down his window in the back for his friend. The dad says. “Get the fuck out of my way.” Junior slides the teensy girl’s arms and legs into the window in one swift motion as if she’s flying, then he jumps back. The car reverses over the grass, barely missing his foot; he watches the car ride away in agony until the little girl waves at him goodbye from the back seat. He’s still in the center of Nietzsche’s abyss. Beware that, when fighting monsters, you yourself do not become a monster. Be the Übermensch.

  A zombie is racing towards Junior with her fists leading the way, he hurriedly back steps and stumbles over his own feet.

  “Go for the head.” A cop says to his buddy, somewhere. A low groan is brewing and fast approaching. Junior crawls on his palms and knees, wincing at the inevitable, with infinitesimal hope that he will see tomorrow. The wind is picking up and circulating the stench of death for everyone to enjoy.

  If you want to see your mom again, grab it. A compunctious Junior musters up the testicular fortitude and snatches up a shovel, bends his knees and wields it at the zombie’s face. Closing his eyes like jumping off a cliff, he misses, then swings blindly at the afterimage forever in his brain. The shovel slams flat against the pretty zombie, it teeters with a flicker of life left, Junior brings the shovel down in a chopping motion over one of its aflutter eyes. She ain’t pretty no more. Another zombie grabs his hanging hoodie, scampers away holding and dragging Junior against the lawn, the zombie has a new target in mind plus Junior. With each blink, more zombies appear in the street, rapping on front doors with their heads. One zombie is in the middle of the street, getting yanked by each limb by a pack of ferocious dogs. A whimpering dog with an arm in its mouth goes swinging up in the air.

  The corner of a concrete step pokes into Junior’s spine and the abrupt force causes the zombie to let go of him. Junior rolls off the curb, still holding onto the shovel; it feels like he is falling forever. Dogs jump over him to get to their friends. The zombie who was pulling the jilted Junior jumps for an oblivious teenager that’s mowing the grass with big earphones, bespectacled in dark shades. The dead man belly flops on the freshly cut grass, coming up short, the young man lowers the lawnmower into the zombie’s back and reverses it over its head, but the zombie still grabs the boy’s leg and brings him down to get eaten by the mower as well. His dad shoves a plank of wood from a for-sale sign into the mouth of a zombie, thereby planting the sign back into the dirt with the zombie staked, then gets attacked from behind. His wife grabs the zombie by the ankles, who’s eating the inside of a thigh, and handles it like a wheelbarrow rolling it off her husband. She gets pounced on and brought down as well by two prowling zombies, their faces are tucked into the crook of her neck. The nuclear family is now a dying lineage on their front lawn. Junior’s heart drops to his tennis shoes.

  One zombie is galloping on the top of a van and dives down for Junior with its hands front and center, Junior weaves both of his hands around the shovel and juts it upwards, closing his eyes. It worked the last time. The thick steel blade shims through the bridge of the zombie’s nose; it falls to its knees in a shaking fit then lands on its back. Junior presses his foot against the ridge of the shovel and follows through until he hears concrete. Smashed brains blow away. He grabs the back window and vomits up his breakfast; his testicles feel as if a flying curveball has collided with them. He straightens to see a zombie in the reflection of the window and feints to the side. The zombie’s face cracks the back window; Junior shovels its head off, this time from the ear down. There is nothing left to regurgitate, his diaphragm is sore.

  With a panicky hand, the old woman in the muumuu, presses a sterling silver cross attached to rosy beads, against a zombie’s forehead, “the power of Christ compels you,” naturally imitating what she saw in the movies. The zombie bites down on her throat and pulls back, ripping an entire side out of the woman’s neck, swallowing chucks of esophagus and larynx, taking her last words from her. The zombie laps up the blood like her dog to the end of a water-hose. The old woman squeezes the zombie’s throat and tries to hold it back.

  “Stop.” It comes out lower than a library whisper by a passing spectator.

  Her personal zombie bites through her nose, the cartilage comes off like butter, her hand reaches high and shakes for a few seconds. After the zombie gobbles up her face, the walls of the zombie’s throat expand twice its size, like an un-milked cow udder, waiting to be released. Junior slams the shovel in the back of the head of the zombie eating the old woman. Once. Its scalp scoops overs its face like a funeral veil. Twice. Its windows to its unholy soul descends into the grass. Thrice. The old lady’s face and the zombie’s face are fused together as if a dump truck ran over them.

  “Noooo.” Her husband hospice shuffles to the doorway, fires his German Mauser (a collector’s item) pistol at Junior. There’s a Parkinson’s delay between each shot. The last shot pushes Junior into a car door, bleeding from his shoulder. Zombies ransack through the lawn, the old man throws his gun at them, and they throw themselves through the door and onto his back. “Noooo.”

  Huge deadfalls caused by an escaping battering-ram vehicle barricades the community’s only exit. On both sides of the street, houses are burning effigies. A little boy jumps out of a window from the second story into the rose bushes down below. Two zombies follow suit and pull the kid back into the bushes, the thorns and teeth ensnarl him, all the red roses are shaken off. The screaming is high pitched.

  Junior runs with one hand over his head as if to block rain, under a man firing a hunting rifle from his bedroom window. “Don’t stop running kid.” Three gelatinous zombie noggins burst in the scope of Junior’s searching eyes, when he looks up his savior is gone.

  T
he shovel weapon vibrates in Junior’s hand like a tuning fork; there is a pinch of pain in his shoulder. On the second hit, the shovel splits in two, so Junior poleaxes the jagged wooden pole into the zombie’s throat, guides the body to the side like a matador then kicks it in the pelvis into running zombies. Junior races for an opening and hurdles over a zombie’s head waist high, but he’s speared with animal magnetism midair in the ribs and bought into the middle of the street by a different haggard looking zombie.

  Him and the zombie twist and tango on the ground, when they stop, the zombie is on top. A dingy tooth gets snagged on Junior’s collar, he feels the ground reverberate and he makes himself as flat as possible as the zombie pulls back, dislocating its jaw to open wide.

  Junior’s body and voice rumbles. “Ahhh.”

  The zombie scratches the cleft in Junior’s chin, then is alerted to the upcoming headlights, getting rammed in the chest before it can act. The dullard is hefted off Junior. Covering him in zombie’s blood. Junior drags his leg to a fallen cop and takes his assault rife, a M4A1 with an M203A2. He stands in one spot and rotates on the balls of his heels, firing at die-hard zombies dashing towards him. One cold blooded bastard at a time in a clockwork fashion.

  His 12 o’clock, 3 o’clock, and 6 o’clock. Repeat. Shoulder is numb and fingers are tingly. His adrenaline is losing its magic, his body is ready to stop fighting and die, not his mind.

  Junior is halfway into the cockpit of the last gargantuan vehicle, a zombie is a few feet from the door, his dangling legs are appeasing appetizers. He kicks the door with his big toe; it judders into the zombie’s mouth. He lays back and squeezes the second trigger on the weapon, it fires a grenade into the zombie’s head, exploding it, the ballistic travels behind the zombie, denting the broadside of a car inward like a soda can. Blood paints the white car. After pulling the trigger, Junior has to bobble his head away from the flying singed zombie limbs that land in the passenger seat; he pats the fire out before he closes the door. Zombies move towards the crushed car like ants rallying around their queen.

  Smoking cars fill the street and zombies are springing over them like deer in heat. Junior shifts his car into drive and turns the big wheel left. It moves painstakingly slow. He puts the car in neutral and revs the engine, the tractor like tires screech against the pavement and the car hurls him side-to-side like he’s on a mechanic bull. A massive wall of flesh stands before him. He puts the car in drive and shoots across the dozens of zombies, razing them all into the ground, tanks over the crushed car with ease and slams down on more zombies, he picks up speed and drives through the living room of a house and through the backdoor. The second floor splits in two like a cracked egg and floods the kitchen. He repeatedly slaps the wheel to the right to avoid the swimming pool. His yelling face is against his window as he busts through the wooden picket fence. That separates the community from the real world. Zombies clawing at the sides of his car are turned to powder under the heavy cogs of tires, other aggressive pests become dead logs in the water, finally at peace.

  In the rearview mirror, the house collapses within itself burying more zombies. The eponymous Haven Homes is a smoldering dead end.

  “Oh shoot. Oh shoot.” Junior’s chest feels like an elephant is stepping on it like in some sort of silly trick gone horribly awry. He reaches for his phone. Gone. It must’ve fallen out, it’s probably ringing in the belly of a monster. He looks at his right bicep, layers of cloth are shredded and he can see the traces of rows of teeth embedded in skin, bleeding.

  “I’ll be fine, it’s just a bite.”

  2

  Yellow rawhide gloved hands steer the thoroughbred horses. Soft neighs and nickers escape from the animals.

  A group of Indians is in tandem behind David’s trail making their way through a valley. Four horsemen of the apocalypse on their high stature and taut muscular beasts, maneuver through the impoverished land. The brigade of sixteen hooves is synchronous with each other and moves in one direction at full speed, skirting pass steep dips. The Indians have long dark brown duster coats with tactical vests underneath. They ride further in; a herd of twenty idle zombies is blocking their path. Wallowing like drunks.

  The youngest one is in his twenties, looks to the side. “Uncle, let’s just go around. We can’t risk the horses.” He has dry zombie blood on his face in a war paint pattern on purpose.

  The Chief looks left and right. “This is our only shot, we’ll lose him if we take the long way around. These creatures are slow.” The Chief gets his weapon ready. “Don’t use your rifles.”

  The four men get their bows out, each inhale deeply, and kick their majestic horses. “Rah.”

  All gallop as close as they can and begin to fire rapid arrows into the moaning. Each shot brings a louder moan. The thunderous vibrations of the hooves activates the zombies’ madness and their dark void eyes search the wind like eager bloodhounds. The huddle of twenty zombies breaks up their meeting of the dead minds, as their supper arrives. The Indians break formation as well and spread out horizontally of each other, riding a little closer to the group as they each kill a zombie. Fallen zombies get crushed and lost under the dead weight of their doppelgängers. The Chief succeeds in shooting a thick arrow into the back of a shirtless zombie in the center of the pack. That zombie goes berserk, emerging through the crowd to chase the Chief. Pandemonium ensues with all the zombies spreading out and encroaching the Indians with newfound speed. The other three men back up their horses to create a phalanx tactical position, no blind spots, as each warrior continues to rain arrows into everything moving, drawing the zombies in closer around them like slow and dangerous molten fire. They nod in the affirmative to each other. Safety balances on the head of a pin. The world of men closes around them, pulling on their coat sleeves. Horses backpedal into each other and retrace their steps digging a ring into the dirt. Grace and discipline is in their genes. Zombies follow each other’s lead and dance around the three men blowing their brains out. Blood splashes across the horse’s throats like sacrificial lambs. Menfolk and womenfolk bow down at their feet.

  In sidesaddle style, the Chief pulls on his reins and turns around, then zigzags his horse in the morass. Zombies slide in the mud, some legs do the splits. The horse’s ass knocks over zombies as the Chief turns again and readjusts his legs. Steep hills block his upward escape; horseshoes sink into the soggy ground. The running zombie with its cloudy eyes and dry cascading blood down its mouth is closing the distance. It has a flash of recognition in its face as if it just discovered a stubborn memory. The Chief shoots at the zombie by turning backwards on his horse as his dependable friend pulls forward, but the jerking motion causes him to miss. He tries to shift his weight and inspect his weapon.

  The rest of the men hesitate to fire arrows at the running zombie because it and the Chief are weaving back and forth in the foreground.

  Galloping back the way he came, the Chief hopes to create a window for a shot.

  Meanwhile, his men are pulling the zombies deeper in the valley, dispersing the zombie herd into mini herds. They continue to dodge and shoot them in a hurry, protecting the horses first. Low on arrows, it was more than twenty zombies.

  The eldest Indian steadies his horse during both assaults and shoots the runner in the back a few times. Arrows pierce through to the other side of the zombie’s shoulder and rib cage. It does not impede the zombie’s blood thirst it merely antagonizes the necro-maniac as if he lives for these thrills. He rampages up the hill and onward covered in several keloids that seem to stitch him together.

  Now, the scrambling zombie is right behind the Chief’s horse and it claws with its bony fingers at the horse’s belly. Almost neutering it. The disoriented horse pulls away, but not fast enough, allowing the zombie to grab onto the horse’s braided tail like a black rope, the zombie’s ankles tear and hyperextend, dragging in the mud trail. Creating a sound similar to deer horns intertwining, bones crack and fly off from toes-to-pelvis. Its skinless jaw
snaps at the horse’s back like a dog at its own tail. The Chief immediately stops and swings his horse in an effort to throw the zombie off. However, the half zombie is still hanging on and is climbing up to get the Chief. Quicker than ever. So he slaps the zombie with his bow and pushes it back as the tensile zombie lunges forward like a rabid mountain cat. The Chief pulls his rifle out from the pouch and sticks it in the zombie’s slimy mouth, it bites down on the barrel; shattering its teeth. Clack-Clack. The Chief pulls the trigger blowing its brains out, spooking the horse. Raw grief and a discharging gun in its ear is enough. His horse runs towards the rest of the zombies again and does not stop this time. Out of the frying pan and into the fire.

  Upon entering the fray, the Chief’s dolorous horse picks up his front two legs, kicking zombies like soccer balls, balloons of blood and brains spat in its eyes. The horse decides to run away over a stack of bodies, bumping the Chief off. Who hits his head and the daze takes hold. A pale zombie on the ground because of the horse, is now owning its revenge and is tugging on the Chief’s pant leg in hunger pangs. It’s chugging on dirt hurtling towards the old man. Who rolls to the side eyes slightly open.

  The youngest Indian is on his way full speed with his pickaxe, he rides through the parting crowd and strikes the pale zombie that’s about to bite his uncle. The pickaxe goes through the zombie’s chin and drags it yards away from the Chief. Arrows in its body snap like toothpicks.

  “Yah.” The other two Indians cheer as they run towards the Chief.

  The brazen young man jumps off his horse, turns around, and runs with the pickaxe through the remaining dead. He plants his feet and does an uppercut with his climbing pickaxe as if it’s a tennis racket. The tip of the axe tears through the zombie’s frozen heart and drags it up past the throat. The mewling zombie gnaws on its blacken heart with what’s left of its face. The Indian pushes the top of his axe through the zombie’s nose like a pool cue and quickly retracts his arm with all his strength from the shot. “Oooh.”