by Smith, S. L.
“Wait – wasn’t he our age when we left the grocery store?” Justin whispered to Patrick as they reclaimed their shopping carts, chunking their weapons into the child seats.
CHAPTER ELEVEN: WAL-MARTIANS
“We’re out of almost every type of ammo except 9mm.” Sara remarked over coffee the next morning. “It’s now or never.” The Smiths, Gran, and Monsignor were all gathered again for morning coffee.
“I’ve got nothing at all left for my rifle.” Monsignor nodded.
“Oh, don’t you worry.” Isherwood shook his head. “Today is the day. Come hell or high water.”
“You gotta stop using that phrase, Smith.” Sara said, putting down her coffee a little too hard.
“Hell’s come.” Monsignor agreed. “It’s at the gates.”
They came a rumbling of feet above their heads, as the chandelier above the dining table twinkled a little. “Oh!” Gran smiled, “sounds like somebody’s awake.”
“And everyone else soon will be.” Aunt Lizzy grumbled from under her blankets in the side parlor.
“That’s just as well,” Gran sighed. “Lots of work for us to do today here on the home front. Those vegetables won’t wash, peel, and can themselves.”
The blankets were rising from the couch in the side parlor, as though Nosferatu lay beneath them. The blankets hung for a moment and them fell gradually from Lizzy’s face. “All right, Rosie. I’m up. I’m up.”
“That’s good to hear,” Tad clapped as she rounded the staircase, just emerging from the larger parlor and striding joyously into the dining room. “We’ve got lots of work to do today, washing, peeling, and canning all those vegetables!”
“My God. They’re in stereo.” Lizzy wailed, falling back down onto the side parlor couch.
The quick pitter-pat of little feet rumbled down the stairs and across the wood floors into the dining room. They all watched as the little girl disappeared under the dining room table and reappeared on the other side of the table, scrambling onto a dining room chair. She plopped herself down on the cushion and looked around the table with clenched teeth and mounting excitement. “Dee-dee’s awake! Dee-dee’s awake! It’s canning day today? It’s my buft-day!” And then she popped her thumb into her mouth.
As soon as she came, she was sliding back down off the chair. She reappeared under the dining room table at Monsignor’s lap, and began climbing up and over the old man’s knees. “You snuckle me? Mozeener, you snuckle me? Okay? Thanks.”
*****
About an hour or so later, Isherwood, Justin, and Patrick found themselves right back where they started – along Major Parkway, right outside the entrance to what used to be their subdivision.
“I’d love to just honk the horn, and see what numbers come stumbling our way.” Isherwood said, as the blue Chevy sat idling in the intersection of the Wal-Mart road and Major Parkway. They were between the unfinished nursing home and the Washburn building. Several thousand feet of sugar cane still stood between them and the back of the Super Wal-Mart, and just a bit farther, Hospital Road.
“But quiet’s better. This time.” Jerry answered from the driver’s seat.
“Okay, so here’s the plan. One more time.” Isherwood turned to face the others in the back seat. “We go in through the Tire & Lube Entrance. I don’t think there’s a metal safety door covering that door. All the rest have those garage door-like security grills, which we’ll need Uncle Jerry and his blow torch to cut through. If we can get in through the auto repair door, we roll up the door to one of their maintenance bays and stash the truck in there. If not, we’ll cut open one of the delivery doors along the backside to keep out of view of Hospital Road and what’s left along it.”
Patrick clicked on the radio. “Denise, you there? We’re on back on Major Parkway about to head in to Wal-Mart. Click-shhhh.”
“Uncle Jerry, you got your radio?” Isherwood asked. Jerry picked up the radio from the dash and flipped it on, all without saying a word.
“Denise? Over?” Patrick repeated.
“I thought you said they we’re good for over five miles,” Isherwood complained.
“Eh, maybe five miles of open water, but we—”
“Patrick? We’re here. Click-shhhh.” Denise answered.
Patrick clicked back. “Good. Thanks, love. Remember, please don’t use the radio unless it’s an emergency. And please don’t have an emergency, okay? Love you all.”
Another five minutes passed and the blue Chevy was turning into the back entrance of the Wal-Mart. They had only encountered two stray zombies along the side road, and Jerry had been able to run both down with the truck, slowing them down considerably. Isherwood made a mental note that they would need to start upgrading the vehicles for running over zombies without clogging up the works, reinforcing the windows, roof turrets – he had to stop himself, as his mind starting racing with new ideas to distract himself from his present anxiety.
Isherwood turned his attention to the present, trying to lock onto something that would scare him enough to keep focused. He noticed more zombies tripping across the furrows of the sugar cane fields. He thanked God the sugar cane wasn’t yet taller than the heads of the zombies, or there would be no telling how many zombies lay between them and their way out. He thought darkly that it would be the zombie apocalypse version of Field of Dreams.
As they turned into the alleyway along the back of the store, they saw another three or four zombies staggering around and slowly turning in their direction. Uncle Jerry took careful aim, choosing to run them down and over with the left side of the truck.
Justin was giggling in the back seat, as Jerry made short work of the zombies. “It’s kinda like Whack-a-Mole, it’nt it?” He laughed, as Isherwood turn back to look at him. Isherwood shook his head in mock disdain, and noticed that Jerry was smiling as he drove. Good opportunity for stress relief, Isherwood thought to himself. He was starting to pay more attention to the morale of their group, as he slowly shouldered some leadership of the group. Obviously, he wanted Monsignor to be the leader – the priest would always be his leader – but maybe he could be sort of a Chief of Operations. He had plenty of ideas, anyway. And maybe that’s all it takes sometimes, he concluded, feeling somewhat naïve in his assessment.
Isherwood tightened the grip on the axe he was holding, as they prepared to round the back corner of Wal-Mart turning into the small parking lot adjacent to the Tire & Lube department. “Go slow, okay, Uncle Jerry?” Isherwood could feel everyone tensing up, as well. “There,” he pointed. “Y’all see that nursing home or whatever it is? That’s what I’m worried about, besides zeds still coming from Hospital Road, whatever’s in the parking lot, and whatever’s inside. Don’t forget we’ve got that place at our backs.”
“Gah, I never realized this city was so full of nursing homes,” Justin complained.
“Wheelchair zombies,” Patrick laughed nervously.
As they finished talking, the truck rounded the corner. Jerry slowed to a stop for a moment. There was nothing. No zombies at all that they could see. “Wow.” Isherwood felt his heart leap in his chest. “Awesome.” He asked Jerry to come forward a little farther, so the truck would be hidden from view from the back side of the store. “Come on, guys. Let’s see if we can get that door open, so we don’t have to mess with the security grills and the blow torch.”
The three younger men slid out of the cab, leaving Jerry to man the getaway truck. The wind was blowing east, back the way they had come, and so hopefully was carrying the truck’s engine noises away into the cane fields. There was a long chain link fence behind the Wal-Mart, as well as drainage servitude that would keep at bay any zombies coming at them from the cane fields.
They hurried to an exterior entrance that was protected by a sort of doorless concrete wall. It was likely intended as sort of a rain porch, but it was especially helpful in the current situation to conceal their movements and noise as they pried at the steel entrance. The doors to the mainten
ance bays stood closed, as had been expected. Patrick ran over to check them on the off chance they weren’t locked, but he returned shortly shaking his head.
“Okay, guys. Like we practiced. About here look right?” Isherwood asked the other two, as he put his waist against the door and marked a spot with a Sharpie. Patrick and Justin nodded quietly. “Okay. Justin, you got my umbrella? Okay, good. Stand back while I swing the axe. It’s pretty tight in this little porch-thing.” Isherwood took a practice swing of the axe, leveling it at the black mark on the steel door. He was actually pretty practiced with an axe, though he preferred his Louisville Slugger for close combat. He had attended a college where the majority of the second half of the Fall Semester was spent chopping down woods to provide logs for a massive bonfire. But, he was not practiced at being quiet while he swung an axe. He took out the saint medal from around his neck and kissed it. “Ready? Here goes.”
Keeping his eye on the mark, Isherwood reared back, fully extending. As he swung, he let his right hand slide down along the smooth wood of the axe handle until it came to rest atop his left. RIP-KA-RONGGG. The door reverberated with the impact as axe head sank into the steel, tearing open a four-inch or so gap straight through the door.
“Okay, try the umbrella.” Justin tried pushing the curved wooden handle of Isherwood’s umbrella through the gap. The gap was long enough. That was good.
But Justin shook his head. “Wider,” he said.
“See anything?” Isherwood as Patrick, who was watching the front corner of the building. They were hidden behind the tall, outdoor storage area of the Outdoors department, but they knew little would cover the sound of the axe blows.
“Alright. Get back. Headache.” Isherwood called out again in a whisper as swung the axe again.
Justin again tried pushing the handle of the umbrella through the torn steel. This time, after a little wiggling, it slid through.
“Yes!” Isherwood whispered loudly and nodded to Justin. Justin rotated the shaft of the umbrella ninety degrees, so that the handle of the umbrella was now pointing down on the inside of the other side of the door. “Pull it,” Isherwood smiled.
They head the soft screech of metal, as the panic bar clanged and collapsed on the other side of the door. The door popped open.
Justin smiled, still holding the umbrella. “You idiot,” he added, admiring Isherwood’s idea. “You stupid idiot. That was awesome.”
“Thanks, buddy.” Isherwood winked. “Hand me my umbrella, would’ya?”
“Just in case there’s a crap storm in Zombieland, right buddy?” Patrick laughed. He turned back to Jerry in the truck and gave him a thumbs up, as they the three men slipped inside the door. None of them took notice of the small trickle of zombies that had begun stumbling around the corner of the vertical stacks of compost and potting soil outside the gardening section.
*****
The three men stepped inside the darkened automotive department of the Super Wal-Mart. “Thank God.” Patrick said looking up to the ceiling. “I thought I remembered there being sky lights. Otherwise, it’d be dark as pitch in here.”
“Yeah, but look at that.” Justin swung a thumb behind him to the security grill that was drawn down, separating the automotive check-out area from the rest of the store.
“Crap-tastical.” Patrick said, letting his head drop to his chest.
“No, nah.” Isherwood said.
“Poor guy’s in denial.” Justin informed Patrick with mock sympathy.
“No,” Isherwood said again. “I mean this might be a blessing in disguise. We don’t have to worry about those creeps jumping us until after we’ve got Uncle Jerry and the truck inside. Come on,” he said, knocking loudly on the linoleum countertop beside a credit card reader. “Justin, will you look for a manual override lever or chain or something to get one of those bay doors open? Don’t want to leave Uncle out there. He won’t be able to see anything coming until ten yards or less, poor guy.”
Isherwood and Patrick swept first the maintenance bays, while Justin started rummaging around. Leaving Justin, they hopped back over the check-out counter to sweep the back bay where the tall stacks of tires and other equipment stood.
Isherwood had left his umbrella on the checkout counter, but was still holding the axe. They were all keeping their pistols holstered until they got Jerry’s truck inside.
Patrick thought Isherwood was still at his side, and so, at first, didn’t notice the dark shape lunging at him from the shadows. He dodged out of the way as the thing lunged at him. They both went sprawling onto the smooth, cold painted concrete floor. Patrick knocked into a portable battery charger on his way down that wobbled a bit and then steadied itself, like one of those Bozo the clown inflatable punching bags. The zombie, however, bore no resemblance to the clown except for the sickly white skin, absent of color as the corpse’s blood had long drained into its lower extremities. The thing reached for Patrick’s heel with its grease-stained fingers, as Patrick groped blindly in the half-light for his mini-sledge. In his panic, he had forgotten the pistol still holstered at his hip. The thing had his ankle, and Patrick knew with paralyzing fear that teeth would soon close around his Achilles.
The thing’s grip around Patrick’s heel suddenly relaxed as a terrible scraping sound echoed across the cavernous back maintenance bay. Sparks flew up from the floor, momentarily illuminating a face full of malice. It was Isherwood. His axe had come down hard on the concrete floor, passing through the rotting corpse smoothly and severing the zombie’s head right at the first cervical vertebrae.
Isherwood let the axe drag back to him, scraping against the floor as bent over panting. He put his hand to his head. “Man, something just took over me. Thought I had lost you,” he said between pants.
Before Patrick could thank Isherwood, he was scrambling to his feet at the sound of Justin calling to them for help.
“What the heck, man?” Patrick called over to Justin when he and Isherwood came running into the main maintenance bay. “I thought you were in actual trouble.”
“Well, I – I mean we – might be.” Justin said. “Look through the windows in the door. I figured out how to get the doors open without the motor, but as soon as I roll it up, those freaks will start rolling in.”
There were now about twenty zombies all together. The beginning of them were passing the first of the four bay doors and staggering towards Jerry and the truck.
“Screw it.” Isherwood said, losing his patience. “Open up the last door. We’ll beat ‘em to punch.”
“Aye, aye, Cap’n.” Justin said, immediately jumping up and catching hold of a thick chain. As he dropped back to the floor, the twenty foot metal door had risen about three feet. They couldn’t tell if Jerry had noticed the door opening or not. Justin kept at it. Isherwood rolled out from under the door with his axe, just as it was opening another few feet.
Behind him, Isherwood could hear the truck’s engine noise increase slightly, as well as the clanking of the gate rising. They should be almost home free, but he was going to be their insurance policy. Unlike before, he didn’t wait for the first zombie to drift into his strike zone. He came out swinging. The first skull dislodged cleanly from the shoulders of an older white man in overalls. Instead of arresting his momentum and re-swinging, he finished his rotation three hundred sixty degrees into the head of his next target, like a whirling dervish.
He sheared off the cap of a large black woman’s skull and decapitated a skinny high schooler with his next swings. There was a gap between him and the next wave.
“Isherwood, come on!” Patrick called to him. Isherwood looked back to see the rear of the truck disappearing into the dim light of the bay as the door rolled shut behind it. “Slide on into home.”
He grabbed the handle of his axe with both hands and ran towards the bay door, which was again only about three feet from the ground. He tucked one leg behind him and slid under the door, or at least mostly under. The concrete was rough and slowe
d his slide, but Patrick pull him in the rest of the way, just as Justin slammed the door down the last few feet.
“Phew!” Justin smiled, clapping his torn up hands. “That was a tight little maneuver, but we did it. Who’s ready to go shopping?”
“Y’all go on ahead. If you won’t be needing my help with the blow torch, think I’ll just take myself a siesta in the truck.” Jerry said from the driver’s door.
“Sounds good, Uncle.” Isherwood said. “We’ll come getcha if the security grill separating us from the rest of the store gives us any issues.”
As the driver’s door slammed closed behind them, the younger men hurried back through the door to the check-out counter. Justin, for his part, slid across the counter.
“Come and get it!” Justin yelled into the huge cavern of the rest of the store. He shook the security gate as he did it. “Ring-a-ding-ding. Dinner! One chubby white boy with a side of ginger. Cooome and get it.”
“Am I the side of ginger?” Patrick asked.
“Aren’t you red-headed?” Justin asked.
“Uh, no.”
“Really? No way. All this time. But your beard’s red, right?”
“No, not really.”
“Shoot, well. Your name’s Patrick, ain’t it? You must be Irish.”
“Okay, whatever.”
“Hey, guys. Not to interrupt.” Isherwood spoke up. “But, uh. I’m starting to think the controls for that door are on the other side of it.”
“Really?” Justin asked. “Let me take a look.” He slapped the security grill a couple more times for good measure. He took a couple steps backward sizing up the gate. “Nah, look – the chain hoist is on this side, but dang. It’s really high up there. Isherwood, you’ve got long arms. Can you reach?”
“Fat chance,” Isherwood scoffed.
“Stop calling me fat,” Justin pushed his eyebrows upward and popped out his lower lip.
