I crouched toward the ground, my old soccer-playing knees popping every inch of the way. Keeping my face level with hers, I softly whispered her name. “Jenny… Jenny, listen to me. You can totally do this. You’re already halfway across. Just keep your eyes on mine and take it one step at a time.”
When she failed to move or even make a sound, I decided to try a new approach.
“Jenny,” I shouted. “Listen to me, goddammit. If you don’t snap out of it and cross this fucking bridge, I’m leaving your ass here. I’m risking my life to help you and your grandparents, but I can’t stay here forever. My wife needs me.” I stopped to take a breath. “And besides, I thought you said you could do anything a man can do. If that’s true, prove it.”
Still standing on the opposite roof, Alvin and Ellen both wore horrified expressions, but as guilty as I felt for yelling at their granddaughter, the “tough love” tactic seemed to work. Gradually, Jenny lifted her head and steadied her breathing. Then, with her eyes fixed on mine, she advanced across the bridge.
True, her pace was excruciatingly slow: She would slide her gun-wielding right hand forward a few inches, followed by her right knee, then push her machete-gripping left hand forward a few inches, followed by her left knee, then repeat the whole process. As I watched her, the tension in my chest increased until I thought I might begin hyperventilating, too.
Eventually, though, she reached the Pet Mart roof. Alvin, Ellen, and I all seemed to exhale with relief as she rose to her feet.
I smiled at her reassuringly. “I knew you could do it.” As a married man, I was no stranger to the necessity of white lies.
“Well, that makes one of us,” she confessed, her cheeks blushing with shame. “I had a full-on panic attack out there. How the hell am I supposed to get back to the other side?”
I chuckled. “Why don’t we cross that bridge when we get to it?”
She grinned in spite of her fear and embarrassment. Then, after giving her a few minutes to calm down, I led her to the access door I’d already discovered while constructing the bridge.
Normally, I would’ve preferred using quieter weapons like the machete and crowbar for such a zombie-killing mission, but we’d already decided well-aimed gunshots would be more efficient. With any luck, the sounds would also lure the zombies away from the bridge and toward the front of the pet store.
Once Jenny had clipped the machete to her overalls and readied the flashlight and handgun, I pried open the door, tucked the crowbar behind my belt, and ventured inside the darkened Pet Mart. Although I assumed the stairwell led to a second level, not the ground floor, I couldn’t be certain who – or what – we would soon encounter. I just hoped the animals – whose mournful meows and barks echoed from below – would endure a little longer. Or else, Jenny and I would be tempting fate for no reason at all.
Chapter
27
“Fight now, cry later.” – Seth Gecko, From Dusk Till Dawn (1996)
Because the roof access door had been locked, as expected – and I’d had to pry it open with my crowbar – the animals weren’t the only ones making a ruckus. The scraping and thudding from our unavoidably noisy entrance had incensed the undead as well. We could hear quite a bit of groaning and moaning as we descended the stairs.
“Sounds like more than a few zombies,” Jenny lamented from behind me, the flashlight beam jiggling as she navigated the steps.
“Yeah, I’m hoping it only seems that way,” I replied, aiming the shotgun directly ahead. “Even a handful of voices can sound like a lot in a large space.”
Not that I really believe that crap, given my luck.
We emerged cautiously from the stairwell, stepping onto a second-level catwalk that ran alongside a row of open offices, at the rear of the building. As predicted, the store’s interior was rather dim, but between the flashlight still clutched in Jenny’s hand and the natural light spilling through the office windows and front glass doors, it was bright enough for us to navigate along the catwalk. Good thing, too, as we apparently had to cross the entire width of the building to reach the staircase leading to the ground level.
The power outage hadn’t only made it tougher to see. Without the air conditioning required to cool the enormous store, Pet Mart was also stuffier and smellier than I would’ve preferred. Though I caught a whiff of animal feces and funkiness, it was, of course, the smell of blood and rotting flesh that threatened to overwhelm me and Jenny. But we had a job to do, and the sooner we did it, the sooner I’d be on my not-so-merry way.
Just a few paces along the catwalk, we spotted our first zombie. He’d just emerged from one of the far offices and, unfortunately, spotted us as well. He was an older man, perhaps in his late fifties, with a shredded, gore-splattered Oxford shirt, a rotund belly full of gaping wounds, and a bushy beard matted with blood.
“Oh, my God,” Jenny whispered from behind me, the flashlight beam wavering across the creature. “That’s Mr. Jones. The manager.”
It didn’t matter what he used to be.
Right now, he’s just a big ol’ mess stumbling down the catwalk, headed directly for us.
From the trembling sound of Jenny’s voice, I knew she didn’t share my opinion. A quick glance at her stricken face, her watery eyes, and I realized she wouldn’t be able to shoot someone she’d once known as a human. In her defense, I hadn’t had to pass that particular test yet either.
“Cover your ears,” I told her.
Nodding sadly, she pressed the flashlight against one ear and the pistol against the other. I faced forward again and aimed my shotgun. Now, it was just Mr. Jones and me, and neither of us would be smiling.
Back in the van, I’d decided to load the Mossberg with buckshot and slugs, assuming both would prove to be useful. Planning to alternate between the two, I’d loaded the buckshot shell first. Keeping the shotgun trained on the former manager, I watched and waited as he tried to close the gap between us. When he was only ten feet away, Jenny gasped from behind me – likely surprised I’d allowed him to get so close. I promptly squeezed the trigger and put a dozen holes into the zombie.
One of the shots must’ve severed his spine, as he immediately collapsed onto the catwalk, about five feet from us. Although he’d lost the ability to ramble, he wasn’t done yet. As soon as he hit the floor, he began pulling himself across the metal grates toward us.
At that moment, Jenny’s moist eyes became full-on waterworks. Doing my best to ignore her amplified sobs, I aimed the shotgun downward and put a slug through the zombie’s skull. The exploding head didn’t do much to stop her crying – and now, I had even more gore on my sneakers.
Even worse, the commotion had alerted perhaps half a dozen other zombies in the store. From our vantage point above the sales floor, we could see them moving through the aisles, edging closer to the catwalk.
I turned to Jenny, who was gazing over the railing and weeping even harder now.
She pointed the flashlight toward two zombies – a bloody male and an even bloodier female – near a bin of furry pet toys. “That’s Tim and Sharon,” she informed me between sobs. “They work with us at the Humane Society.”
Damn it.
Another two creatures she wouldn’t be able to shoot.
“OK,” I said. “New plan. You stay up here and tell me where the zombies are.” I nodded toward the so-called Tim and Sharon. “I’ll go down and take care of those two first.”
She sniffed, then nodded, suddenly looking much younger and more helpless than her feisty, thirty-year-old self.
Fucking fantastic.
Basically, I was on my own, which is exactly what I didn’t want. I’d never planned on getting involved with other people’s problems. Just aimed to reach Clare any way I could. And yet, there I was, venturing down into a pit of flesh-eaters like some zombie-killing expert.
What a bunch of bullshit.
Chapter
28
“Come and get it, you undead sack of shit.” �
�� Elvis Presley, Bubba Ho-Tep (2002)
After loading my shotgun with a couple more slugs and checking the six cylinders of my .38 revolver, I left Jenny behind. As I crept past the open doors on my left, I glanced into each office, ensuring no more zombie surprises awaited me. Once I reached the far end of the catwalk, I realized Mr. Jones had been the only active zombie on the second level.
Unfortunately, though, he hadn’t been the only victim. In each of the five offices, I’d spotted at least one bloody mess of a brain-dead corpse, and on the catwalk itself, I’d had to step over several random body parts.
What a fucking horror show.
Standing at the top of the metal staircase, I aimed my .38 at Tim’s head as he reached the lowest step. Given the angle, the distance, and the wavering flashlight beam, it took four shots to put him down.
Shit. Shit. Shit!
Sharon attempted to step over her former partner’s body, presumably to reach me, but thanks to her clumsy gait and lack of coordination, she ended up getting her right foot caught in Tim’s torso. Even from my vantage point, I could see a gaping wound where his stomach had once been, and Sharon had just shoved her foot smack in the center of the jagged hole. When she tried to lift it and correct her mistake, she only succeeded in catching the toe of her sneaker in Tim’s exposed rib cage.
When the flashlight beam shifted to illuminate the gruesome scene, Jenny bellowed even louder from above – and the rest of the zombies sped up their progress toward the catwalk.
Great. Just fucking great.
With several zombies on the move – and too much experience watching horror flicks about murderous assailants and open staircases (like the one I was about to descend) – I decided not to wait for the inevitable to occur. Hugging the wall, I stuck the .38 in my holster and bolted down the steps. About five feet from Sharon, I pointed the shotgun at her head and pulled the trigger.
The subsequent blast turned the top half of her skull into an explosion of red mist, black ooze, and brain matter, and naturally, even more zombie gore landed on my skin and clothes. Tired of being covered in such foulness, I really regretted not grabbing a rain poncho before leaving Home Depot.
I hastened down the remaining stairs and stepped over the rancid, motionless bodies of Tim and Sharon. Beyond the cacophony of moans, groans, meows, and barks, I could no longer hear Jenny’s bellowing. Not necessarily a good sign. Stiffening my back against the wall and shifting my focus toward the catwalk, I noticed she was pointing the flashlight down an aisle directly ahead of me. She might not have been the most reliable back-up shooter, but at least she hadn’t abandoned me altogether.
Her silent signal gave me just enough time to lock eyes with the approaching zombie, swing the shotgun upward, and fire. Because the former male employee was at least six and a half feet tall – about eight inches taller than I was – my aim was slightly off. Instead of blasting his brains, the slug blew an enormous hole through his neck, severing his head from his body. Both dropped to the concrete floor, but while the body stopped twitching immediately, the head continued rolling toward the rear doors, which likely led into the storage area.
Jenny’s flashlight beam pivoted toward a spot two aisles away. Gazing around to ensure she hadn’t missed any closer zombies, I headed toward the place she’d indicated. Unfortunately, though, the blood-covered floor had become as slick as an ice-skating rink. My sneakers slipped, and I slid across the concrete, losing my grip on the shotgun in the process.
“Look out!” Jenny yelled, a bit too late to be helpful.
Sliding past my destination, I just missed colliding into an overweight woman, sporting a fuzzy pink sweater covered in embroidered felines. Yep, an actual zombified cat lady grasped the air above my head as I sailed past her.
I crashed ungracefully into a cat litter display, righted myself as quickly as possible, and leaned against the pile of containers. After grabbing the .38 from my holster, I aimed the barrel at the cat lady and unloaded the remaining two shots. Luckily, I managed to hit her in the head twice, ending her flesh-eating days.
Since my .38 was now empty, the shotgun lay who-the-fuck-knew-where, and at least a couple zombies remained in the store, I didn’t exactly love my odds of survival. At least the crowbar still hung from my belt.
Hastily, I shoved the .38 in my holster, but before I could rise to my feet, I heard a terrified caterwauling, followed by a shrill human scream. Although both sounds had come from the back of the sales floor, I instinctively glanced toward the catwalk. Jenny was no longer up there – and she wasn’t on the stairs either.
A few seconds later, I heard half a dozen gunshots coming from the same place I’d heard the scream. While I’d been crashing into the litter containers and taking out the cat lady, Jenny had apparently darted across the catwalk, leapt down the stairs, and bolted along another aisle.
When I finally scrambled to my feet, I managed to find the Mossberg under a shelf in the next aisle. Quickly, I retrieved it and headed in Jenny’s direction. Another half-dozen shots exploded in the store – basically, all of the bullets in the damn gun I’d lent her.
As I reached the cat food section, I discovered Jenny standing in the middle of the aisle, both arms extended, the empty 9mm still gripped in her hands. The flashlight rolled at her feet, where she’d likely dropped it, the beam illuminating a horrific scene several feet away. Two male zombies, their heads a mangled, bullet-riddled mess, lay on either side of a partially eaten feline, with a punctured bag of kibble in the distance.
“Holy crap, Jenny. What happened here?”
At the sound of my voice, she lowered the gun and turned to face me. Even with her puffy eyelids and tear-stained cheeks, I could see she no longer wore the expression of shock and dismay I’d seen upstairs. Her clenched jaws, flared nostrils, and steely eyes all pointed to one foregone conclusion: She was seething with anger.
“I saw movement off to the side. Realized Francis, the store’s cat, had torn into a bag of kibble. He was probably starving, the poor thing. The two zombies were headed toward him. I tried to get to him in time, but they must’ve cornered him.”
“Dammit,” I said, taking a closer look at the eviscerated calico. “That’s terrible.”
“He had free reign over the place,” she said, sniffling again. “People loved to visit with him. He was so sweet. And with all that’s been happening around here, he was probably so scared and desperate. Much weaker than usual. An easy target.”
“I’m really sorry,” I told her with all sincerity, hoping Azazel was still safe in her carrier. “But we need to make sure there are no other zombies here.”
Following a moment of renewed catatonia, she nodded in compliance. Then, once we’d reloaded our weapons with the bullets and shells I’d crammed into my pockets, we combed the rest of the store: up and down each aisle, across the bodies and debris, even in the adjacent rooms. Luckily, we only found three additional zombies: a man pinned beneath a pallet of dog food in the rear storage area, a boy wedged behind a vending machine in the employee break room, and a woman locked in the wheelchair-accessible stall in the ladies’ restroom.
The first two had likely been trapped on purpose, but I suspected the woman, after receiving a bite on her forearm, had hidden in the bathroom, where she’d eventually turned. Sad as the situation was, we promptly put all three out of their misery.
Honestly, I was surprised we had found so few zombies in the Pet Mart. Given all the corpses and body parts we’d discovered, we knew several victims had endured too much brain trauma to reemerge as the undead. But still, I thought it would take us longer to secure the store. Perhaps some reanimated victims had wandered outside when the automatic doors still functioned.
After reloading our weapons again and ensuring no zombies remained, we checked on the cats and dogs that Jenny, her grandparents, and the other Humane Society volunteers had brought for the adoption event. Happily, all dozen of the remaining animals had endured their ordeal. Alth
ough blood and gore stained the area around the kennels, the zombies obviously hadn’t figured out how to open the latches – and frankly, the animals seemed grateful to encounter people not trying to eat them.
Once we’d cleaned our hands and forearms with some hand sanitizer near the registers, we gave the cats and dogs some fresh water and kibble, then quickly checked the other critters in the store. The gerbils, hamsters, guinea pigs, rabbits, and turtles had all survived in their terrariums. Even the tropical fish – whose fish tanks were still powered, probably by a backup generator – had made it through the early stage of the zombie apocalypse. No less overjoyed than Jenny, I was also grateful our death-defying journey had been worth it.
Before returning to Home Depot, we decided to secure the adjacent shops and restaurants, too. As with similar complexes, a back corridor linked all the establishments. When we opened the door leading to it and illuminated the dark hallway with our trusty flashlight, I wasn’t terribly surprised to find a couple zombies waiting for us.
Two Vietnamese cooks, each sporting bloody white aprons and ragged neck wounds, had apparently hidden from the madness in the rear corridor, only to succumb to their injuries. From the look of their decomposing, bloodless faces, I assumed they had yet to taste human flesh. Naturally, I had no intention of being their first meal as zombies.
After taking them out with two well-placed bullets, we cautiously checked all six establishments. While the Vietnamese restaurant and adjacent gaming store contained several zombified employees and customers, the two clothing shops – likely closed when the zombie attacks began – were devoid of the living or the dead. Same with two of the restaurants that were strictly breakfast and lunch joints.
Zombie Chaos (Book 1): Escape from the Big Easy Page 15
