by Brian Keene
Eventually, the anxiety spell passed. Shaking, he retrieved the rifle.
"Okay," he said aloud. "Time to go."
He glanced around at the shelter one last time, knowing he would never stare at the four cinder block walls again. His eyes wandered over the photographs of Carrie and Danny, and settled on the cell phone.
He hesitated, then picked it up. After a moment's consideration, he clipped it to his belt. The battery was dead without the charger.
"Just in case," he said to the room, trying to convince himself.
He walked down the narrow passage and placed a steady hand on the door lever. Slowly, he lifted the handle. Each click of the tumbler boomed in the silence. There was a final click, and the hatch creaked open.
Raising the rifle, Jim let the door swing backward, revealing the dark cellar beyond it. The basement was quiet, but once familiar shapes now took on sinister connotations. The tool cabinet became a zombie. The furnace was a crouching beast, ready to leap upon him. His heart pounded ferociously in the darkness.
Carefully, he picked his way around the scattered debris of their past life. He reached the stairway, which led up to the kitchen. He paused again, listening.
Above him, a floorboard creaked softly. Then another. The third creak was punctuated by the distinct squeal of a kitchen chair being scooted across the linoleum.
Jim froze. Finger tightening on the trigger, he fumbled in the darkness for the bottom stair. His foot found purchase and he took a tentative step.
More sounds from the kitchen now, followed by a frustrated growl. He pointed the rifle at the door and took another step. Something brushed lightly against his ear and Jim bit his tongue, stifling a scream. The fly buzzed him again, hovering invisibly.
He shook his head, willing the insect to go away. Now there was a new sound; a droning hum farther up the stairway.
The fly had friends. Lot's of them, judging by the noise. Their buzzing protests filled his ears. A second one landed on his palm, followed by another on his neck.
Then he smelled it; a sickly, butcher shop odor. The reek of roadkill and offal and rotten meat.
He took another step, felt the ceiling brush the top of his head, and realized that he was halfway up. From beyond the door came more plodding steps. The creaking floorboards tracked the zombie's progress.
Steeling himself, Jim prepared to charge up the remaining stairs and burst through the door.
There was a wet squelch as his foot came down in something slippery. The buzzing grew angry, the flies upset at having their dinner disturbed.
The stench was stronger now, overpowering. His feet slid out from under him and he toppled forward, his knees colliding with the stair.
The footsteps in the kitchen hurried towards the door.
Grimacing, Jim pulled the lighter from his pocket and looked down.
Intestines. Somebody's intestines lay on the stair in a congealing heap.
The footsteps stopped on the other side of the cellar door.
Gagging, Jim dropped the lighter. The intestines stank worse than anything he had ever smelled. Ignoring the pain in his knees, he stood up.
The doorknob began to turn.
He raised the rifle, aiming blindly in the dark.
The door crashed open, and Jim gaped at the hideous thing standing before him. The viscera on the stairs had belonged to Mr. Thompson. The glistening ends of its intestines hung from their empty cavity, swaying as the zombie raised its arms.
"Howdy neighbor," it rasped. Its voice sounded like somebody gargling glass. "I see you found the rest of me."
The zombie's tongue was a blackened, swollen mass; yet impossibly, the thing spoke.
Jim fired, then worked the bolt on the rifle and squeezed off another shot. The crotch of the creature's soiled corduroy pants disintegrated.
"Oooo," it glanced downward. "Mrs. Thompson isn't going to like that at all."
With a speed that belied its ponderous movements, the zombie lashed out, clutching the smoking barrel and snatching it from Jim's grasp.
Stunned at its strength, Jim backed away as the thing examined the gun.
It grinned, swung the rifle around, and pointed it at Jim. The leathery skin lining its fingers cracked as it playfully stroked the trigger.
Beyond the kitchen, the screen door banged on its hinges. More zombies paraded into the house. The thing that had once been his neighbor stepped forward. Jim retreated to the bottom of the stairs, yanking the pistol from its holster.
"I ever tell you about the big war, neighbor? That was a real war, not like Viet Nam or Desert Storm or the 'War on Terrorism'. I was there.
Well, not ME, of course. But this body was there. I see the memories."
It advanced down the stairs. A plump maggot dropped from the crater that had housed its stomach, and the zombie squashed it underfoot.
"Of course, you never fought in a war, did you? You don't know the effects that a gut shot has on a human being. You're about to learn."
"Mr. Thompson," Jim began, "Please. I just want to get to my son."
"Oh, don't worry, you will," the thing cackled. Behind him, more zombies swarmed into the doorframe. "You'll still be able to get around. I'm just going to wound you, make you suffer a bit Then we'll eat parts of you. Got to keep our strength up. But we'll leave enough of you left to walk. There are many of us still waiting to walk again."
"Many of you-?"
"We are many. Our number is more than the stars. We are more than infinity."
The phrase echoed through Jim's head, grimly reminding him of Danny.
He fired six shots in rapid succession. The bullets slammed into the rancid flesh, boring through muscle and tissue. Laughing, the zombie returned fire.
The blast reverberated through the cellar. The slug whined by Jim. Above the shots, the other zombies clamored for him, stampeding toward the cellar. The thing that had been Mr. Thompson moved aside, allowing them to slip down the stairway.
Jim fired the Ruger again. Thompson's eyeball imploded. The hunting rifle dropped from its grasp as it fell to the floor. Howling, the undead hordes rushed forward.
Jim backed towards the basement window, aiming and shooting as he went.
There were eight shots left in the clip. Eight more zombies dropped to the floor. The others paused, forming a semi-circle around him.
Jim kept the Ruger pointed at them, sweeping it back and forth. He prayed they wouldn't realize it was empty.
Behind him, half-empty buckets of driveway sealant sat stacked in front of the window. He stepped up, balancing his weight on the lids, and quickly considered his next move. With an empty clip, he couldn't defend himself. If he turned to climb out the window, they would swarm him.
"Concede," rasped a zombie that had once been his paperboy. "Our brothers await release from the void. Give us your flesh as our sustenance and their vehicle."
Slowly, Jim inched his hand toward his back pocket.
"What are you?"
"We are what once was and are again. We own your flesh. When your soul has departed, you belong to us. We consume you. We inhabit you!"
His hand closed around the clip.
Glass exploded behind him as two arms crashed through the window.
Claw-like fingers clutched his shoulders. He was yanked upward, and jagged spears of glass slashed at his arms and chest. Below him, the zombies cheered.
His attacker flung him through the air. He landed on the wet grass, tasting blood in the back of his throat.
"Hello, Crazy-Man," Carrie teased.
"Oh God," he sobbed, fishing the clip from his pocket and slamming it into the pistol. "Honey, if you can hear me, stay back! I don't want to shoot you!"
Her voice was like leaves blowing in the wind. "Aren't you glad to see me, Jim? I've been waiting so long and I'm so very hungry. I missed you."
Jim scuttled backward as she advanced on him. The tatters of her robe billowed in the night breeze.
"G
et the fuck back, Carrie!"
"I'm not the only one who missed you, Jim. Somebody else wants to meet you."
Beneath the thin material of the robe, something moved.
Her bony fingers released the drawstring, allowing the robe to slip from her shoulders.
Jim screamed.
Carrie's abdomen was gone, eaten away from the inside. In the hollow cavity, the baby wallowed, clutching the rotting umbilical cord that still attached the two. Smiling, it waved a tiny, desiccated arm. The thing inside the infant tried to speak, but the sounds were unintelligible. Its voice was deep, guttural and old.
"Give your daughter a hug," Carrie squealed.
The fetal zombie leapt to the ground. Wet strands of tissue fell with it. It scampered toward him, the dangling umbilical cord trailing along behind it like a leash.
"We had a girl, darling," the Carrie-thing rasped. "Aren't you happy?
She's sooooo HUNGRY!"
"Honey," he pleaded. "Don't do this. I've got to get to Danny! He's alive!"
"Not for long," Carrie taunted. "Someone is waiting to take his place.
Someone is waiting to take yours as well."
The baby padded across the wet grass, panting eagerly as it drew closer.
"Da...Da...Da.."
Its mocking, guttural chant paralyzed him. Each half-formed word sounded like a belch. It tripped over the remains of the umbilical cord.
Finally, it ripped the rancid tissue away from its belly and closed the gap between them.
Small, decomposing fingers brushed against the soles of his boot. A tiny hand gripped his ankle.
Shrieking, Jim opened fire. The shots slammed into the baby, sending it sprawling backward. Jim's cries were lost in the barrage.
The infant stopped moving and still he fired.
Enraged, Carrie raced toward him, hatred etched onto her decaying face.
Obscenities poured from her; a thousand promised tortures that she would bestow upon him.
Jim continued screaming.
Smoke poured from the barrel, as the gun grew hot in his hands. The tenth shot hit Carrie in the forehead, dropping her to the ground. His finger clenched and unclenched even after the gun clicked empty.
His mouth was still open, but all that escaped was a low, mournful whine.
Jim sprang to his feet as more of the creatures poured from the house.
He slid a third clip into the Ruger and opened fire again, mechanically aiming for their heads with each shot.
He ran into the road, feet pounding on the blacktop.
He fled from the house, the neighborhood, his wife, his unborn daughter, and his life; and slipped into the darkness, his tears leaving a trail behind him.
His agonized screams echoed through the empty streets of Lewisburg, West Virginia, and there was no living thing left to hear them.
An hour later, as he staggered along the road, fear and despair gave way to cramps. Exhausted, he tumbled down an embankment, and saw no more.
He awoke in a culvert; cold, wet, and wretched-but not alone. The night was alive with the sounds of the dead. He wiped the rain from his brow and shuddered as a horrible, gibbering laugh echoed over the hills.
After several minutes, it faded, but the silence left in its wake was just as awful.
He lay in the dark. Thunderheads covered the moon. He decided against lighting a match or using the flashlight out here in the open. Instead, he thumbed water from the face of his watch and squinted. Three a.m.
He'd passed out on his stomach, and the muddy water running through the culvert had soaked his jeans and shirt. He fumbled in the dark for the pistol, and found it lying on the bank.
His pack had remained mostly dry. Cautiously, he crawled from the stream and eased it from his aching shoulders. Something rattled inside. He searched the contents, nicking his finger on a jagged piece of broken pottery.
The coffee mug, the one he'd packed as an afterthought, was shattered.
The one Danny had bought him for Father's Day.
Jim could hear Danny's voice, full of trust and innocence-and terror.
Groaning, half-nauseous, he got up. His knees popped. He froze, waiting to see if he had attracted the attention of anything hidden in the night.
Cautiously, he began to crawl up to the road. Then he heard it. Distant, but unmistakable.
The growl of a Mopar, distinct and beautiful. Two headlights stabbed the darkness. Tires squealed, and the engine roared as gears were shifted.
"Oh, thank Christ," he sobbed in relief, dragging himself upright. He stepped out into the road, waving his hands above his head. "Hey! Over here!"
The car thundered down the road. The beam from the headlights speared him, bathing him with light.
He took another step.
The car accelerated, hurtling toward him.
"Fuck!"
He leaped out of the way, tumbling back into the culvert. As he jumped, he caught a glimpse of the driver and the passengers.
They were zombies.
Jim rolled to his feet, crouching in the darkness. The car screeched to a halt, the smell of burning rubber filling the air.
He clutched the pistol.
The motor hummed, idling. Then, a car door slammed, followed by another.
And another.
"Did you see that?" The voice sounded like sandpaper. "Sent him flying!"
"No you didn't!" rasped another. "You didn't even tap him."
"And you shouldn't have tried," reprimanded a third. "What use is the body if you've shattered it beyond mobility?"
"Bah. There's enough for all of our brothers. Let's have some fun with this one."
Jim crept backward, into the treeline. A skull, draped in tattered flesh, peered over the ravine.
"Hey meat! Where do you think you're going?"
Two more appeared, and slowly, they began to clamber down the hill. Jim raised the pistol, fired, then turned and fled into the woods.
Their catcalls echoed off the trees as he ran. Head down, he barreled his way through the clinging vines, forcing his way through the undergrowth. Branches from a deadfall clutched at him, and for one fearful moment, he thought that perhaps the dead tree had come back to life as well. Then the branch snapped, and he sprang free.
As he made his way deeper into the forest, the sounds of pursuit faded.
Pausing for breath, Jim leaned against an oak and listened intently. The forest was quiet. No bird sang, no insect buzzed. There was nothing, not even the wind.
Mind reeling, he tried to figure out what to do next. They could talk, shoot guns, drive fucking cars! Was there anything they weren't capable of?
He thought back to the zombie movies he had watched through the years.
In the movies, the things weren't smart. They just shambled around-vacant, thoughtless eating machines. In the movies, the zombies didn't shoot back. The only similarity he could find between the movies and real life was that they were slow, and they ate living flesh.
Their lack of speed was an obvious advantage. All he had to do was stay ahead of them. But what they lacked in quick mobility, the made up for in their cunning. They were intelligent. They could plan and calculate.
Outrunning them wouldn't be enough. He had to outthink them.
His goal had been to make it to White Sulphur Springs on foot, and steal a car from the Chevy dealership there. Then, he'd planned on taking Interstate 64 to 81 North. That would take him all the way to Pennsylvania, where he could then head towards New Jersey.
Jim realized the folly in that line of thinking now. The creatures could drive, and he didn't know what shape the highways were in. They could have traps set all along them, waiting for unwary survivors like himself.
But he couldn't do it on foot! He needed to get to Danny and he needed to get there now! New Jersey was a twelve-hour drive. Doing it on foot was inconceivable. His son would be long dead by the time he got there.
Even the twelve-hour drive offered no assura
nces that he'd make it in time.
So then what the hell am I doing? He's probably dead already!
Danny's pleas rang in his ears. He thrust his fists against them, shook his head, and trudged forward.
For most of his life, Jim had hunted deer and turkey in the mountains around Lewisburg. White Sulphur Springs was roughly five or six miles away, through a deep hollow and over two mountain ridges. Once there, he'd arm himself better, find a rifle to replace the one he'd lost to Mr. Thompson, and move on. Barring any trouble, he'd make it to White Sulphur Springs by dawn.
