The Deadly Thirst: A WJ Lundy Short

by W. J. Lundy

  Herb, on his feet now, tiptoed away from the window and moved to a chair at the end of the room. He let his rifle lay across his lap, then he looked across at Wyatt and put a finger to his lips. Herb indicated the chair next to him and waved the other man over.

  Wyatt pushed himself to his feet, his legs shaking from fear. He urged himself forward, feeling like he was walking on fractured ice and certain that the still shaking house would collapse below his feet. He made his way to a well-worn recliner and spun around, collapsing into it.

  He pressed back, suddenly realizing the sweat pouring from his forehead. He glanced across at Herb. The man’s eyes were wide, his jaw clenched tight, and his leathered hand gripped the rifle. For the first time, he did not look old to Wyatt; he seemed strong and in charge. Herb made a fist and put a knuckle up to his mouth. He looked back and made eye contact with Wyatt. “This is worse than I’d planned.”

  Wyatt gasped and said, “Worse than you planned?” The absurdity of the statement causing him to burst into tear-filled laughter. “You planned for this?”

  Herb shot him a stern look. “Keep your voice down. The floor is insulated, but no reason to take any chances.”

  Wyatt dropped back his head, sweeping the room again. “Wait—what the hell is this anyway? Why do you have a fallout shelter in your attic, Herb?”

  Herb grimaced and used a hand to scratch at his chin. “It’s not a fallout shelter, that’s in the basement. Nobody puts a fallout shelter in their attic; that’s just ridiculous.”

  Wyatt put a hand to his face and again broke into depressing laughter, earning a scowl from Herb.

  “Don’t go cracking up on me, kid, you need to keep it together,” Herb said. “Might sound strange to you, but I’m sixty-seven years old; I’ve been retired since I was fifty. It’s those damn cable news channels. They got me to thinking and, hell, I guess prepping my house this way just became a bit of a hobby. Especially since Janice passed.”

  “But the attic? I didn’t even know the houses in this neighborhood had attics.”

  Herb grinned, exposing white teeth through his beard; almost showing an expression of pride. “Exactly. Nobody in this neighborhood has an attic, but everyone has a basement. That’s why I spent so much time carving this little place out; nobody would think to look up here for me. Did it right under your all’s noses too. That new roof I put on five years ago? Right under your noses.”

  “Who exactly did you plan to hide from?”

  Herb shrugged and tilted his head, listening to the wave of things below continue their wailing. He looked back up at Wyatt. “I always figured it would be secret police, or maybe the Chinese army, I’d be hiding from. What does it matter now? I don’t see you complaining.”

  Wyatt started to respond when the stench hit his nose. He eased back and put a hand over his face. “Aww, what is that? It smells like a squirrel crawled up a skunk’s ass and died.”

  Herb slowly dipped his chin and made a foul expression. “The Zombies, I’m afraid,” he said matter-of-factly. “It was one of the things I meant to plan for, but it was always pretty low on my list; guess I didn’t think about the smell enough. We’d been okay in the basement… got air filtration down there.”

  Wyatt clenched his eyes shut tight and shook his head side to side. “Zombies,” he murmured. “Herb, I would love to call you bat shit crazy right now, but after what I saw coming through your living room window… you just might be right.”

  The things below had stopped moving; the house was quiet now, so they moved back to speaking in hushed tones. The old man eased out of the chair and moved across the room. He used a long bladed knife to open a shrink-wrapped box stored along the wall. From inside, he removed bottles of water then cautiously passed one over to Wyatt.

  “What, no more beer?” Wyatt whispered sarcastically. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen you drink anything else.”

  “Oh, we have plenty of beer, but I think water is best for now.” Herb carefully crossed the floor and moved back to his chair. He cut the light off to conserve the batteries and left the two men sitting quietly in the darkness.

  “So what do we do now?” Wyatt asked.

  He could hear Herb chugging his bottle of water, a slurping gasp before he stopped to speak. “Now we wait. Sleep some, if you want; we’re locked up nice and tight here.”

  Chapter Three

  Morning arrived with a woman’s scream. Wyatt leapt from the chair, finding himself standing in the middle of the room. Beside him in the opposite chair, Herb sat back with his mouth open, snoring loudly.

  The woman screamed again. Wyatt moved through the space and crept to the solitary window at the end of the attic in the gable end of the house. Concealed as an attic vent, the opening was narrow yet still large enough to provide a full street view. He could see the road packed with vehicles, but now hundreds of people were moving among them. They were all passing through the traffic toward a house across the street. From their awkward movements and torn clothing, he knew they were the hordes of undead from the night before.

  The lavender painted home already had several of the things crowded on the porch. The front door was down and they were pouring though the entrance, moaning as they moved.

  “Herb! Wake up,” he said.

  “Huh? What?” Herb eased forward in the chair, scratching at his head. “Why you yelling?”

  “They’re gone. Well, they aren’t… they just aren’t downstairs anymore; they’re all moving across the street.”

  Herb got up, and edged closer. “The woman’s place?” he said, rubbing at his eyes.

  Wyatt turned to look at him with a puzzled expression. “Yeah, Susan. Wait… how did you know?” Wyatt asked.

  Herb shrugged. “She’s the only other person left on the block.”

  “What the hell, Herb? Why didn’t you tell me that last night? I thought everyone was gone.”

  Herb nodded, moving closer to the window. “Yeah, everyone’s gone; it’s just us and Susan.” The old man pushed his face to the glass. “Well, by the looks of all of that… Probably going to just be us soon enough.” Herb pointed a finger. “Nope, looks like she’s good. She made it up to the roof. Come on, let’s go scrounge up some breakfast.”

  Wyatt stepped back and gasped. “Breakfast?! Come on, Herb, we’ve got to go help her.” He nudged the old man aside and focused on the small, one story home. The zombies now had the place surrounded. The windows were all broken and they were crawling through every opening in the home. He spotted Susan near the peak of the roof. She stopped screaming and managed to make it to a safe spot. The zombies outside were beginning to circle the house; all of them looking up, reaching for her.

  “So– what, you got a crush on her or something?” Herb asked.

  He stopped and looked hard at the man with wide eyes, his mouth open. “Seriously, Herb… honestly, are you crazy?”

  Herb sighed and walked away; he stopped and turned back to Wyatt. “Kid, I’m starting to wonder why I invited you over here.”

  “We can’t leave her out there.”

  The old man strained his neck and took another look at the stranded woman. “Okay, but you’ll have all the heavy lifting.”

  Wyatt raised his brow. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  The old man shuffled to a long wall and pounded at it with the flat of his hand, knocking free an access hatch. He pulled at the wooden door and let it swing away to the floor. Then he pushed on the boards behind them until they broke free. Wyatt watched as a large, wooden block was removed to reveal a dark passageway.

  “What is this?” Wyatt asked.

  “It’s a narrow space under the roof line; leads right over top of the garage.” Herb forced his body though the narrow opening then turned back. “Come on, boy, we going after your girlfriend or not?”

  Wyatt glanced out the window one last time then rushed ahead, ducking into the opening. The space was small, barely two feet from floor to exposed rafters. He cr
awled ahead watching as Herb reached the end of the passage then dropped through another opening and down into the garage.

  “How the hell does he move so fast?” Wyatt stretched out, grabbing the lip of the opening and pulling himself along the last few feet. He peered down to see Herb moving along a covered vehicle. Wyatt searched for a handhold and swung himself down and into the garage. With his body extended, he released his grip and fell to the concrete floor. He’d dropped into a small space with a large, covered vehicle parked in the center facing a heavy wooden garage door that had cardboard taped over the windows. Suddenly aware that he was again on the ground floor, his head spun quickly searching for zombies, but found none.

  Before he could stand, Herb was barking instructions.

  “Come on, help me get this uncovered,” the old man said, pointing to a back corner of the canvas tarp. Wyatt walked to the back, grabbed the corner of the cover, and helped Herb pull it back and off the vehicle. Wyatt stepped back and looked at it. The antique SUV was a mix between a van and a station wagon.

  “What kind of car is this?” Wyatt asked.

  “1960 Dodge Town Wagon,” he said. Herb moved around Wyatt, making his way to the back of the vehicle. He stopped and worked a latch. After a clunk, the rear compartment opened, the doors swinging out like an ambulance. Herb reached in the back and pulled back a black duffle bag.

  He quickly unzipped it and removed a shaving cream sized canister painted in a dark green. He extended his hand to Wyatt. “Here, you’re going to need this.”

  Wyatt reached out then pulled back his hand and asked, “What is it?”

  “Smoke grenade.”

  Wyatt’s expression hardened. “And why do I need a smoke grenade?”

  Herb let out a long sigh and shook his head. “Because we don’t have any fire bombs. Now do you want to rescue your girlfriend or not?”

  “For the last time, she’s not my gir— Wait… Herb, why do we need a fire bomb?”

  “To get the zombies away from that house, we need to cause a distraction on this side of the street. So you’re going to go throw that smoke grenade through the front window of your house. The noise of the breaking glass and the fire should get them all looking and moving in that direction.”

  Slowly Wyatt took the grenade from Herb’s hand, examining it. “The fire?! Is this really necessary? I mean, seriously, you want to burn down my house?”

  “It’s the best option. This grenade will spout flames out of its tail; it should get your place burning really good.” Herb moved to the overhead garage door. Lightly, he pressed his hand against it and released the lock. “But don’t hang around. If I’m right, this will have every zombie in the neighborhood showing up at your place. And while they are preoccupied with the fire, I’ll go fetch your missus off the roof.”

  Wyatt let the last comment pass, still staring at the grenade. “But my house… Can’t we burn a neighbor’s?”

  Herb shook his head. “Thought about that, but I’m not comfortable burning a stranger’s place. Now listen, once I get your gal, I’m going to loop back around and pick you up.”

  Wyatt’s jaw dropped. “So you want me to run out there with all those zombies, throw a grenade, and burn down my own house while you do what? Drive around in this big beast, crashing through that traffic jam? Can I at least have a gun?”

  The old man finished unlocking the door and turned back to face the younger man. He used his thumb and fore finger to massage his jaw. “You ever shot a gun?”

  “No—”

  “Then nope you can’t have a gun.” Herb removed the rifle from his shoulder. “This here is a M1 Garand; it’s just too much for a fragile butterfly like yourself. Maybe after you get some experience.”

  “So what the hell am I supposed to do if a zombie comes?”

  Herb used a hand to point at a wall of gardening tools. “I recommend a shovel.”

  Chapter Four

  The old Dodge came to life with a guttural roar. Herb looked over at him and nodded. Wyatt edged to the driver’s door. He had the grenade hooked to a loop on his belt, a short garden shovel in his right hand. “You sure Herb?” he said.

  The old man gave a grin. “Open the door and let me out; I’ll lead them away and circle back around once the fire is going. You meet me by the girl’s house.” Herb revved the engine. “Now open the door,” he said, rolling up the window.

  Wyatt blinked his eyes, already burning from the noxious exhaust fumes. He moved around the front of the truck and grabbed the garage door handle. Bending his knees and lifting, the door broke free, the high tension springs engaging and pulling the door to the ceiling. Bright light filled the garage and Wyatt quickly pressed back against the front of the truck.

  “Move your ass!” He heard Herb call from inside the Dodge.

  Wyatt quickly moved out of the way and the vehicle’s engine roared onto the small driveway. Wyatt looked past it and could see the horde of zombies surrounding Susan’s house turn to look at the Dodge. Herb appeared to enjoy the attention; he let the truck roll forward, still revving the engine. The undead began to move away from the house, their eyes all locked on the slow moving truck.

  He looked up and could see Susan on the roof; she looked down at him and waved her arms. He went to wave back when he saw the first of them weaving through the abandoned vehicles in the street. He ducked into the side of the garage and allowed Herb to capture their attention. The old man gunned the engine and squealed the tires. Cutting the wheel, the Dodge turned sharp and ripped into Herb’s finely manicured lawn, ripping up flowerbeds and spitting sod in a geyser behind the back tires.

  Taking a deep breath, he pulled the shovel close to his chest and rounded the corner. The way ahead was clear; he could see to the thick, green hedge line that separated his property from Herb’s. Taking long strides, he ran along the side of the house until he reached the trail that led between the thick foliage. He slowed his approach and stepped though. He could hear the sounds of the big vehicle’s engine and tires as he neared the front of his house.

  At the base of the porch steps, he spotted a woman; she stood alone with her head resting against one of the porch columns. Wyatt stopped and held his breath, trying to decide what to do; he was still too far away to attempt throwing the grenade. He needed to get close, but he did not want to attract the woman’s attention. Before he could decide how to get around the sleeping zombie, he heard Susan’s scream for help. He glanced back over his shoulder; she had spotted him and was jumping and waving her arms at him, begging for rescue.

  When Wyatt spun back to the front, he could see that the sleeping beauty also heard the calls for help. The woman was dressed in khaki slacks and a yellow top; her hair was silver on the half of her scalp that wasn’t removed. She took a step toward Wyatt, the zombie woman’s lips drawn back in a snarl. He pushed the shovel to his front and tried to circle away from it. “Okay now, lady; I don’t want any trouble.”

  The zombie’s neck craned toward him and the jaws snapped. She reached out a gnarled hand with broken fingernails and lunged. Wyatt took a wide sidestep, easily getting out of the way. The thing turned and took another step toward him. Wyatt swallowed hard and adjusted his grip on the shovel, switching to a batter’s stance. When she lunged again, he swung, connecting the zombie’s head with a loud thwang!

  The zombie flew over sideways, leading with its head. “Home run!” Wyatt shouted as he drew back the shovel. Before he could finish the celebration, the zombie began to jerk and convulse. Pushing crumpled arms under itself, it pushed up to its knees then attempted to stand. This time Wyatt didn’t hesitate; with the way lined up, he took a long leading step and soccer kicked the creature in the head. He felt its neck break as his boot connected. He stumbled and caught his balance, turning on the balls of his feet. The zombie lay immobile, only its darting eyes and snapping jaw let Wyatt know the thing was still alive.

  He looked back toward Susan’s place and could see he’d gathered the a
ttention of the horde. The Dodge was gone; he could no longer hear it. Wyatt reached for his belt and gripped the smoke grenade. He pulled the pin and threw it directly at his front window; the glass shattered, the curtains fluttering with the impact. There was a loud pop and a bright flash of light, then a cloud of green smoke came from the broken window.

  Wyatt turned to see if the distraction was working; it was working too well. Zombies to his left, right, and front were all focused and converging on his position. He looked up at Susan; she understood what he was doing. She stopped yelling, her hands dropping to her side. Wyatt stepped back toward the porch, he could feel the heat on the back of his neck as his house was now fully engulfed in flames. The zombies were merging on him in a staggering horseshoe that was closing in on all sides. He took another step back toward the house, the heat of the flames burning his neck.

  Pushing fear aside, he ran toward the right side of the mass, not wanting to allow himself to get surrounded. He jumped into the congested street and climbed on the roof of a sedan. A fat zombie in a white tank top with a yellow mustard stain was just nearing the passenger side door while more lined up directly behind it. Just as mustard stain reached out for him, Wyatt ran at the creature and swung the shovel like nine iron on a par five. He connected hard. With bits of its head exploding, mustard stain fell hard onto the line behind him, bringing them all to the pavement.

  Without pause, Wyatt leapt off the roof, bounded across the hood, then again jumped to the next car. Another lined up on the fairway; he repeated the shovel laden golf swing, knocking over a man in nice shoes with a nice shirt, silk suit and a black tie. The sharp dressed man spun with the impact, its arms out, flailing helicopter style and tangling with more of the approaching things. Wyatt quickly realized his movements were confusing the pack. They all went straight at him, unable to comprehend his direction or plan enough to intersect with him. The zombies moved to the place he’d been instead of where he was going.