Dorm Life

by Camille Picott

  We pause at the edge of campus, all of us in a silent semicircle. There’s no telling what we’ll find in the streets of Arcata.

  “Keep your weapons ready.” I heft my screwdriver to emphasize the point. “Make as little noise as possible. If something happens and we’re separated, get back to Creekside.”

  We exit the campus, weave through the cars clogging the overpass, and cross into downtown Arcata.

  “Slow down,” I call as the sound of moaning reaches my ears. “I hear them.”

  Everyone slows, the bikes falling into line behind me. I pull to a stop at the corner of a strip mall and look into the street beyond.

  Two dozen zombies mill around in the street. The closest is a good ten yards from where we stand, giving us a decent amount of clearance.

  “We can get by them,” I whisper-shout. “Just pedal fast.”

  We zip across the street, pedaling hard for the next turn. The zombies rotate at the sound of our passage, their bodies moving in strange synchronicity. I lead the kids in a hard left turn, angling deeper into the town.

  Old houses spring up on either side of us, colorful bungalows leftover from the logging era. They’re a mixture of storefronts and small shops.

  I bite my lip as we turn onto another street, this one with more zombies in the middle of the road. I wish we were on foot. It would be easier to sneak through the town undetected. The soft whir of the bike pedals sound like gongs going off in these dead-quiet neighborhoods.

  I mentally trace the map of Arcata in my head. I know the streets well, having run through them many times over the past two years when I visited Carter. We can turn and backtrack to another street that leads to the central square where Trading Post is located, or we can push through this street.

  I count ten zombies in front of us. Less before us than behind.

  “We pedal through them,” I murmur, brandishing my screwdriver. “Kill any that get too close. Stay together.”

  I pick up speed, gripping the handlebar with one hand and the screwdriver in the other. Around and behind me are Carter and his friends, every one of them wielding their wooden spears.

  The first zombie half runs, half shuffles in my direction. His legs are partially decomposed, and he can’t move too fast. Flies and maggots swarm his left thigh, leading me to believe that’s where he was bitten.

  I aim my bike in his direction, jamming my screwdriver into his eye socket as I do.

  The bike keeps going, but the screwdriver gets stuck in the socket. I tip sideways, dragged down by the dead weight of the impaled body. My leg shoots out, catching me, and I manage to yank the screwdriver free without falling off.

  Johnny isn’t so lucky. As his spear punches through the face of an oncoming zombie, the creature falls on him. The bike makes a loud rattle as it tips over, pinning Johnny’s leg to the ground.

  I leap off my bike and race toward him. The zombie he stabbed is dead, but the body is draped across the bike with Johnny underneath. I reach for the body as three more zombies close in.

  Jenna wheels her bike around, planting herself between us and the oncoming zombies. Carter wheels up beside her, the two of them striking out with their spears.

  Reed rolls up behind us and faces off against a zombie of his own. I fling aside the dead body, freeing Johnny. He scrambles up, jumping back onto the bike.

  “Go!” I hiss.

  Jenna and Carter finish off their zombies and push hard against the bike pedals, breaking free of the melee. I race back to my bike, which is tipped over in a clump of bushes. Just as I grab it, a figure looms up from the other side of the greenery.

  He was homeless when he was alive, his skin sun-darkened and half his teeth missing. He growls at me, bunching his legs to spring.

  I don’t give him a chance. Straddling my bike, I lunge across the bushes and bury my screwdriver in his forehead. I yank my weapon free, not waiting to see the body hit the ground before slamming down on the pedals.

  I race to catch up with the others, who keep glancing back in my direction to be sure I’ve made it. We race in a clump down the street. There are a few more zombies. We pick up speed and swerve around them.

  Reaching the next intersection, we slow long enough to scan every direction. We need to go left, toward the plaza, but that way is clogged with cars, zombies, and dead bodies. By the amount of shell casings shining on the ground, I’d say a shootout happened here.

  The ways forward and to the right aren’t much better.

  “Which way?” Reed hisses.

  “Straight,” I say.

  We pedal another few blocks, breaking up as we swerve around zombies.

  The moaning has increased in the streets around us. Somewhere nearby, several high-pitched keens rend the air. I look over my shoulder and see a large pack of the undead rounding the corner.

  We’re making too much noise, drawing too much attention.

  “There’s an alleyway half a mile up the street,” I call, pitching my voice as loud as I dare. “On your left. Turn down that way.”

  With any luck, the zombies will have a hard time figuring out how to follow us into the narrow opening.

  I zip around one of the undead only to find myself in a near head-on collision with another. I grit my teeth and rise up on the bike pedals, giving myself leverage over the oncoming creature. I stab it through the eye. As it drops from the blow, I yank my screwdriver free.

  Two creatures converge on Jenna, each of them a silver-haired woman in a flowing skirt. Jenna spins to take out the nearest of them, her spear missing the old lady’s head and instead punching through her sternum. The impaled zombie claws her way toward Jenna, bloodied hands reaching.

  Carter drops his bike and sprints to her side, his face a mask of fear and determination. He grabs the impaled zombie by the hair and hauls her backward. He swings his spear like a bat, clubbing the old lady so hard her skull cracks.

  Jenna spins around to face the last of the old ladies. She’s lost her spear, but her expression is fierce. She leaps free of the bike and shoves both hands against the zombie. As the creature topples backward, she pounces. One booted foot comes down on the old lady’s face, smashing through bone. Bits of blood and bone fragments spray in every direction.

  “There’s too many of them,” Johnny wheezes, dispatching an undead with half a dozen facial piercings.

  He’s right. Zombies flood the street from both directions, their eerie keening cutting the air. There’s no way to break through them without getting killed.

  “Into that house.” I charge up the steps of a pink bungalow.

  I raise my screwdriver, ready to shatter the window if need be, but the door swings open under my hand.

  “Inside!” I hold it open as the others rush past me.

  A zombie scrambles up the steps, hard on the heels of Reed. I slam the door in its face.

  22

  On Foot

  KATE

  Carter and Johnny wedge a sofa against the door. Outside come several thumps as the undead barrel into it.

  We lean over our knees, breathing hard. My hand is covered up to the elbow in blood. More of it spatters my clothing.

  “Everyone okay?” I ask between gulps for air. “Anyone bit?”

  They shake their heads, casting wide-eyed looks of fear in the direction of the door.

  “We go on foot from here,” I say. “We won’t make as much noise and we’ll be more nimble.”

  “We’ll also be slower,” Johnny points out.

  “Slower is okay if we aren’t running for our lives,” I reply. “I made my way on foot through Arcata without attracting any attention.”

  A glance out the window shows me more and more of the undead pouring into the street. We can’t linger. If we don’t move now, we risk getting trapped inside the bungalow.

  “Out the back.” I spin, ushering Carter and the others toward the rear of the house.

  We pass through rooms with shag carpet and flowered wallpaper in
hues of green, orange, and metallic gold. Gaudy light fixtures of black wrought iron with bulging glass bowls of olive green hang from the walls and ceiling. The house looks like it was transported from the set of That 70s Show.

  The air smells like decades of nicotine. I sniff, trying to discern the smell of death over the cigarette residue. I detect none, though there is a smear of blood across the wall. Other than that, the place looks like it’s been undisturbed for forty years.

  We enter the kitchen at the back of the house. I snatch a serrated knife out of the butcher block, knowing my screwdriver might not be enough to get us through this. I’m a fan of having plan Bs. Speaking of which, we all need some backup.

  “Hold up,” I whisper. I pull out the longest knives, passing them around to the others. They take them from me with tense expressions, each of them sliding the knives into the belts they wear.

  Jenna ends up with a giant cleaver. She grimaces, but slides it into her belt without complaint. She looks like a Buffy the Vampire Slayer caricature.

  I lead the way out the aluminum porch door. The backyard is quiet and empty. The moans and keening of the undead pepper the air. They bang on the front door and rattle against the windows.

  We need to get off this street and around the hoard. At this point, the best way to do that is by moving through the backyards.

  This yard is surrounded with a cheap bamboo fence, the type you get at Walmart. I peek through the slats to make sure we aren’t going to blunder into a barbecue gone bad. When I see nothing but a rusted old car and a cracked fountain, I push against the bamboo.

  It gives way beneath the pressure. I trample over it. The others follow me, Carter bringing up the rear.

  “We’re going to go through the backyards and circle around the zombies,” I whisper. “Stay alert. There’s no telling what we might encounter.”

  They nod at me in grim-faced understanding. I can see they’re scared.

  Scared is good. I’m fucking terrified, though I do my best to hide it.

  The next fence is made of wood, but it’s old and rotting and lists to one side. Once we determine there are no undead on the other side of it, Carter yanks two boards free to create an opening we can pass through. I notice him staying close to Jenna, his stance alert and protective. Maybe after this near-death experience, they’ll get over themselves and make up completely.

  We pass through the next two yards without incident. The moaning and keening from the street haven’t let up. The sound of shattering glass tells me when they’ve broken through the front window of the house we escaped into.

  This knowledge hits me with a shockwave of urgency. There are four houses between us and them, but what if they bash their way into the backyard? Did we close the back door or just the screen? Shit, I can’t remember.

  I hurry to the next fence which, as luck would have it, is the first sturdy fence we’ve encountered. Sturdy and tall. Carter hauls himself up to peer over the side.

  No sooner has he popped his head over the side than a dog lets loose a string of frantic barks. The animal throws itself against the fence as Carter leaps backward. It barks and claws at the planks.

  The barking is like a beacon to the blind zombies. Out on the street and back in the house, their keening goes off like a jumble of alarm clocks.

  “Back fence,” I hiss.

  Carter checks over the top of this one, then drops down and nods.

  The dog is still going nuts, barking and growling and throwing himself at the fence. Where is his owner? There must be an owner if the dog has survived, right?

  Carter grabs Jenna around the waist and heaves her up. She grabs the top of the fence, hauling herself up and over.

  “Your turn.” I jump in surprise when Johnny grabs me and hoists me up. He’s not a strapping kid by any sense of the imagination, but he lifts me like I weigh nothing more than an oversized stuffed animal. Bits of blood and gore are spattered in his sideburns.

  I drop down beside Jenna on the other side. She crouches and scans the yard. It’s overgrown with weeds and faded lawn ornaments. To the left is a deer with a broken antler. Hiding in the grass near my feet is a garden gnome that looks like it tangled with a weed whacker and lost.

  The boys follow us over the fence. Carter is the last one to drop into the weed-choked yard with us. As he does, I hear the sound of splintering wood, frantic barks, and the crescendo of moaning zombies.

  “They’ve broken through the fence into the yard with the dog,” Carter whispers.

  Poor animal. I might not have a warm fuzzy spot for dogs who attack my son, but I wouldn’t wish the zombies on it. Hearing its pain also brings back memories of Stout, the sweet dog who ran with Frederico and me before some assholes thought it would be fun to shoot her.

  I take our group toward the gate that leads onto the next street. I pause, straining my ears and peering through the gap in the fence boards. I can’t be certain, but it sounds like all the zombie commotion is behind us, not on the neighboring street.

  The barking of the dog rises in pitch. It yelps then barks some more.

  I suck in a breath and ease open the gate. It creaks on rusted hinges, but the sound is lost in the keening of the zombies in the dog’s yard. The poor animal gives two more pitiful cries before going silent. I try not to think of its fate.

  We creep onto a street lined with more colorful bungalows. There are only a few zombies in sight, all of them bumping against houses and cars as they try to figure out how to get to the keening pack one street over.

  It’s with a sense of relief that I set out on foot. If it’s one thing I know how to do, it’s how to maneuver on my own two feet.

  I resolve to do something about the fitness levels of the kids if—when—we make it back to Creekside. They won’t survive in this world if they insist on being couch potatoes.

  We hurry to the end of the block, pausing as a zombie lumbers into our path. Jenna takes an experimental swing with her cleaver, pursing her lips in satisfaction when the blade sinks deep into the skull and the undead drops to the ground.

  Carter stands nearby, hovering as he watches the operation. Jenna, putting one boot on the shoulder of the monster and yanking the cleaver free, doesn’t notice.

  “I could get used to this thing,” she whispers to me.

  At the end of the block, we drop behind a hedgerow that hasn’t been trimmed in months. The runners grow wild in all directions, creating a decent barrier for us to hide behind. The blind zombies can’t see us regardless, but it’s still comforting to have something between us and them.

  I peer through the foliage, gauging the threat from the street we just escaped. A mob of zombies is congregating, so large it balloons out into the intersecting street.

  “We have to get around the horde,” I tell the others. “Stay light on your feet and we should be fine.”

  We make it another block without incident, only having to dispatch another few zombies. The horde behind us still makes a ruckus, drawing the attention of every undead within earshot.

  We pass two zombies who claw at a fence, trying to reach the sound of their keening brethren. Neither notices our passing.

  “Much better on foot,” Jenna whispers to me as we hurry along.

  “No more bikes,” I reply. She nods in agreement.

  The next intersection is passable, but instead of turning left and heading toward downtown, I hurry up another block.

  “Kate,” Reed says, “that street was clear. Trading Post is that way.” He gestures to the street I bypassed.

  The poor kid is panting, sweat dripping down his temples and saturating his shirt. Some of that must be fear induced, but I decide Reed needs to smoke less pot and start running. They all need to start running.

  “We don’t know how far the mob stretches,” I reply. “I want to make sure we have at least another block between us.”

  He swallows, nodding in understanding, chest heaving as he sucks in air. “I can’t believe you ra
n two hundred miles to get here. I can barely run two blocks.”

  I squeeze his shoulder in sympathy, but don’t slow down.

  The next connecting street is also clear, except for a few stray undead. I lead our group down it. At the following cross street, we see a thick knot of zombies. Luckily, they’re gathered around a cluster of cars that blocks the road and all their attention is away from us.

  Most of the keening has died down, but the moaning hasn’t subsided. The crowd shoves at one another and the cars, all of them trying to move in the same direction. Several zombies are on the ground, trampled by their brethren.

  Our group makes little noise as we continue through the streets of Arcata, eliminating zombies as needed. It takes us another thirty minutes to maneuver into the center of town.

  The Arcata plaza is a quaint grass area divided like a compass with cement walkways. In the center is a circular area with a statue of a United States president. I can’t remember which one.

  The plaza throngs with zombies. Two wrecked Hummers are there, one tipped on its side, the other smashed through a storefront. The zombies are a mixture of college kids, locals, and tourists, with a handful of homeless mixed in.

  “There’s Trading Post.” Carter raises a finger, pointing across the plaza to a blue Victorian storefront. Between us and the shop are several hundred zombies.

  “We could try and go around the back,” Jenna says, crouching beside us. “Maybe it’s clear behind the shop.”

  I nod. It’s our only option.

  We fall back, working our way around the plaza. We’re forced to drop back several more blocks when the subsequent ones have more zombies than we’re comfortable taking on. Many are in military uniform. I even spot a few rifles strewn among the undead.

  I consider trying to snag a few of them but dismiss the idea. We have a mission today, and it’s not gun retrieval. Besides that, the few guns I do see are not easy to retrieve, thanks to the undead wandering around the streets.

  There are more real dead in this part of town, too, people killed during the chaos that exploded here. The bodies I see are riddled with gunshot wounds. How many were killed because they were zombies, and how many were unfortunate enough to be in the wrong place at the wrong time?