by Carl Hose
Alan took a proactive stance with the zombies. He went on regular missions to dispatch his rotting neighbors. Search and destroy missions that almost always seemed fruitless. There were more of them than he’d first thought. And there was a good mix now, some from the old Jonesboro, others from the more recent Jonesville community.
One night Alan came home from one of his nightly assault missions and found a couple of shambling corpses making themselves at home in his house. He recognized all of them as recent living neighbors, friends even, and now they were invading his space. He’d forgotten to lock the door. That pissed him off. Being that careless could cost him.
He blasted the zombie intruders one by one. He dragged them outside, but not all the way to the lake. He was simply too tired. Keeping the neighbors at bay was wearing him thin, wreaking havoc on his health.
But this house and property was his lifelong dream. He’d worked hard to get where he was. He was here for the long haul, by God. Let the community fall apart around him, but he would die before he’d let the zombies take over. They could eat his brains, and he’d come back to defend his home and property.
When his supplies ran low, Alan had to make another trip to Fayetteville. It had been some time since he’d ventured away from Jonesville, but if he planned to continue dealing with the bad elements corroding his neighborhood, he was going to have to replenish his supplies, no two ways about it. Only God could say what he might find when he reached Fayetteville, but there was no other option.
He decided to do it during daylight hours. He needed to rest before attempting the journey. The night before the trip to Fayetteville, he slept as he always did, sitting with his back against the wall, a shotgun across his lap. He was in the dozing stage when the sound of something scuffling around in the kitchen snapped him awake.
The son of a bitches were in his house again.
It bothered him to know the dead things were inside his house, invading his personal space. It was bad enough they had to move into his neighborhood, worse still that they dared to trespass on his property, but this . . . actually invading his home . . . was the ultimate sin.
He listened at his bedroom door for a moment, trying to gauge as much information about the intruders as possible. He wasn’t about to let them catch him by surprise. He judged by the scuffling and scraping noises that there were at least two, maybe more, of the walking dead outside the bedroom door.
The electricity had gone out some time ago. He grabbed a flashlight off his dresser, which would do him no good. He needed both hands for the shotgun. He’d made the mistake once of trying to fire it with one hand, and it had knocked him flat on his ass. Nearly cost him his life too. While he’d tried to regain his senses, a zombie had almost made a meal of him.
He stuck the flashlight in his back pocket, turned the doorknob, and slowly pulled the bedroom door open, cringing as it squeaked on its hinges. Surely the shambling intruders had heard that.
He heard a noise to his right, immediately upon stepping into the dark hallway. He saw it coming at him before he could react, a shadow of a thing just limping along. It got so close that Alan could see it even in the dark. One of its eyes hung from the socket, dangling like a bloody rubber ball, bouncing against the zombie’s cheek with every step the thing took. Its lower jaw hung loose, secured by just a few thin strips of stringy gray flesh. The rest of the face looked like hamburger that had gone bad.
Alan couldn’t get the shotgun up in time. There was no room between him and the reanimated corpse. He managed to raise it gut level and fired, blowing a hole through the zombie’s already-hollow midsection. The blast knocked the creature backward, sending it sprawling across the floor.
“Teach you to break into my fuckin’ house,” Alan said triumphantly.
He took a couple of steps toward the zombie and leveled his shotgun at its head. Just like in the movies, he’d blow its fucking brains all over the place, then he’d dance in the slime, reveling in his victory.
“Sleep tight, you walking abomi—”
John Miller from down the street, now minus his piss- and shit-stained undies, sporting a flaccid, nearly-rotten penis, came out of the darkness behind Alan. The dead Miller thing got one greenish-gray arm around Alan’s neck. The shotgun went off, splattering the head of the corpse on the ground, thank the Lord in Heaven for that much.
“Get off me . . .” Alan wailed, struggling to heft the reanimated corpse of Miller over his shoulder.
It surprised him how much strength these things had. Alan managed to break free of John Miller’s grasp. He took a swing, catching Miller in the cheek. A thick chunk of slimy skin sloughed off, clinging to Alan’s fist.
Another corpse came up behind Alan while he was getting ready to blast the dead corpse that used to be John Miller. This one bit Alan in the neck, and he could actually hear his skin ripping away. The shotgun went off one more time, then Alan was on the floor. Both Miller and the other corpse were on top of him, tearing him open, stringing his intestines out of his stomach like raw sausage . . .
They’re making a mess of my house, Alan thought, then he blacked out.
* * *
Alan stepped onto the porch and looked toward the outskirts of Jonesville. There were vehicles there—helicopters flying overhead, a perimeter of trucks, men in green clothes with weapons, cars with flashing lights . . . sheer pandemonium.
Alan took it all in for a thoughtful moment, then he lumbered down the front steps and onto the sidewalk, his body canted to the right, his stomach gaping and hollow, with his ribcage exposed.
Some of the other neighbors had come out to see what all the commotion was about. Alan joined them as they made their slow trek toward the newcomers.
Alan already knew what was going on. There were new neighbors today. Intruders. The property values were going to take a nose dive.
No way in hell Alan was going to let that happen.
There was just no way. . . .
Zombie Shift
The radio crackled and sputtered as a voice from the control tower said, “Come in, Leon. You there?”
They’d been trying to raise him for damn near two hours. Billy was tired of hearing it. He figured he’d better try to find Leon on his own. He didn’t much like the idea of leaving the guard shack, but he knew it was either now, on his own terms, or later, when the boys in the control tower decided to start calling him on the radio instead of Leon. It wouldn’t take long anyway. He knew Leon would have his fat ass up in the quarry, catching a few winks in one of the company trucks.
It looked to Bill like there might be a little rain due in. He stuck his head out of the guard shack door and sniffed the air. Smelled like rain too. Last thing he wanted was to get his ass caught up in that shit.
He put on his rain slicker, grabbed his walkie-talkie and flashlight, and left behind the comfort of his warm shack and the latest episode of Jerry Springer fading in and out on the old black and white TV that helped pass the long nights at work.
Thunder rumbled in the distance. Billy cut across the lot where the workers parked their vehicles. He made a cursory inspection while he was there. Not that he paid all that much attention to detail, but hell, he was already out, so he figured he might as well make a round of it. He’d log it in the book when he got back, just to make himself look like a real go-getter.
A heavy drop of rain hit him on the nose.
“Goddamnit, Leon,” he muttered. “Got me out here workin.’”
He trudged past the pump house, the maintenance buildings, and the cement storage area. Yellow-orange light bathed the area.
He cut a right and started up toward the quarry, leaving behind the light. A goddamn mile-long walk up gravel roads blasted out of a fuckin’ mountain, and that was the easy part. You had to be careful walking around the quarry because of all the holes dug up so they could test the quality of the rock. You couldn’t see those holes at night. Fall in one and you might ram your balls right up into your bell
y, and if you missed the holes, you might still walk right off the edge of a cliff. Four dollars and seventy-five cents an hour just wasn’t enough money for this kind of shit. He was a goddamn security officer, not a babysitter.
The rain was coming down now, and wouldn’t it just figure, the wind was coming right at Billy. He kept his head low to avoid being battered. The security company could have at least given him a truck. All this walking wasn’t good for a man. It damn sure wasn’t good for Billy. He’d taken the zombie shift so he could sit on his ass and watch Springer, not to walk around in the middle of the night in some rock quarry looking for a sleeping fat ass named Leon.
The walkie-talkie in his back pocket sputtered again. “Come in, Leon.”
Billy was half tempted to grab the walkie-talkie and tell the sons of bitches to shut up, but he thought better of it. Best just to wake Leon’s fat ass up and be done with the whole mess.
The old blue pickup truck Leon used was right where Billy expected to find it. The engine was running and exhaust puffed from the tail pipe. Billy knew what he’d find when he got there. Leon’s fat ass slouched down in the seat, snoring like a pig, with the cab smelling like beer farts and cigars.
“Wake your ass up in there,” he said, kicking the side panel of the truck as he shined a flashlight at the cab. “I ain’t got time for this shit.”
He pressed his face against the side window and looked into the cab. There Leon was, just like Billy knew he would be, full, fat, and lazy.
Billy tapped the glass with the butt of his flashlight. “I could be back at the shack lookin’ at a titty book or watchin’ Springer,” he complained, reaching for the door handle. “But no, not tonight . . . tonight I gotta come out in a goddamn thunderstorm and get your fat ass—”
Something fell out when Billy opened the door. He aimed his light at the ground at his feet and saw Leon’s head staring up at him, eyes wide open, terrified of whatever it was that did this awful fucking thing to him. The top half of the head was missing.
“Sweet Jesus,” Billy groaned.
He whipped the flashlight beam up to examine what was left of Leon in the truck. No goddamn head, just bloody shoulders, and say all you wanted about Leon’s beer farts, but a smell like that would’ve been welcome right about now.
“Aw, Jesus, Leon . . .” Billy dragged the decapitated corpse from the truck and climbed inside. “I’ll send somebody back for ya,” he said.
He was fumbling for the key and pulling the door shut when the glass on the passenger-side shattered. Billy jerked his head to see what it was and damn near lost his dinner when he saw a rotten corpse hanging through the broken window, groping at him with mangled fingers. The son of a bitch was missing an eye, and its jaw was so decayed it was falling away from the dead thing’s face.
Another one came at Billy on the driver’s side. Billy could smell its rancid breath as it leaned in to get at him. That smell was worse than any beer fart Leon could ever spit from his ass.
Billy kicked and screamed. He tried to get the old truck started, but the sons of bitches were everywhere now, climbing all over the truck, squeezing into the cab, coming up from the holes in the quarry.
The truck finally started. Billy hit the gas and tried to plow through the dead fuckers, but he couldn’t see a goddamn thing, and then one got hold of his arm and took a big bite out of it, Billy let go of the wheel.
Something started chewing on his neck, then there were teeth sinking into his scalp and maggot-infested tongues licking at his wounds.
His walkie-talkie sputtered.
“Come in, Billy,” came the control-tower voice. “You wanna get your fat ass away from the Springer show long enough to find Leon?”
Dead Inn
“Are you sure we’re going the right way?” Jennifer asked, trying to read the map by the dome light. “I think we should’ve turned onto Route 89.”
“This way is shorter,” Brandon said, agitated.
“It’s not even a real road,” Jennifer complained.
It wasn’t a real road by any stretch of the imagination. Deeply-rutted dirt with a gravel coating, just barely wide enough for one vehicle, and a thick stand of trees on either side. That was the extent of it, but Brandon was pretty sure it was a shortcut.
“This will bring us out at least ten miles down from where eighty-nine would’ve taken us. It’ll save a bundle of time.”
The car sputtered and spit steam from under the hood.
“Great,” Jennifer said. “We’re about to break down in cow country.”
She rolled down the window and lit a cigarette.
“Those things are going to kill you,” Brandon said.
“Jesus, Brandon, a lot of things could kill me. You don’t smoke, fine, don’t smoke. I don’t care. Just skip the sermon, okay?”
“Don’t bite my head off,” he said. “I’m only—”
The car sputtered again, then it stopped running altogether. Brandon cranked the ignition. Something under the hood rattled.
“What now, rocket scientist?” Jennifer said, blowing smoke in his direction. She got out of the car, slamming the door behind her. Brandon got out, looking flustered. He popped the hood and fiddled around with the engine, not really doing anything of use.
“Don’t pretend you might be able to figure out the problem,” Jennifer said. “We both know you don’t know jack shit about cars.”
“I’m about ready to slap you. I’ve had enough of your shit.”
“Jesus, Brandon, the day you get the balls to slap me, I’ll drop down and blow you on the spot,” Jennifer said.
Brandon huffed and started pacing. It would be dark in less than half an hour, and on a road like this one, there would be no way in hell they’d be able to see anything.
“Let’s walk,” Brandon said.
“What about a flashlight. Is there one in the car?”
“There might be one in the glove box.”
Jennifer looked in the glove box and didn’t find one. Brandon looked again, just to be sure.
“You think I’m blind?” she said.
He ignored her and looked in the trunk. There was no light there either.
“Glad to see you’re prepared for emergencies,” Jennifer said.
“Remind me to dump you when we get home,” he replied.
“If we get home, I’ll save you the trouble and leave.”
Brandon resisted the temptation to engage in verbal combat with her. Sparring with her was too taxing. It didn’t matter what he said, it would always be a no-win situation for him.
“There has to be somewhere we can get help, or at least spend the night and worry about it tomorrow,” he said.
“You asshole, we’re in the middle of nowhere. I expect to see Andy and Opy any minute. We’re not going to find anything out here.”
“Do what you want, but I’m at least going to try and find something.”
He took off walking. Jennifer lit another cigarette. She leaned against the car, took a drag, and nervously studied the dark line of trees. A twig snapped, then something rustled in the trees.
“Okay, hey, wait . . .” she said. “I’m coming with you.”
Brandon kept walking. He was finished with her. If she wanted to come along, she could catch up on her own.
She was out of breath by the time she fell in beside him. “Slow down, will you?”
He kept his pace. They walked for another fifteen minutes. Jennifer had finally decided to keep her mouth shut, which was a welcome relief for Brandon. The less he heard from her, the better off he would be.
“There’s a house,” he said
A time-worn plantation-style house sat on a hill in the distance, situated at the top of a winding drive. It was half shrouded by thick bushes and covered with age-old moss.
“Looks like a real freak show,” Jennifer complained.
“Are you kidding? That’s history sitting up there,” Brandon said. “You can always stay out here. I won’t mi
nd a bit.”
He started up the driveway, his feet crunching on gravel. Thunder boomed overhead and a flash of lightning spider-webbed across the sky.
Jennifer quickly fell in behind him.
The house was something out of a horror film, but it would most certainly offer shelter from what looked to be one hell of a storm.
A sign next to the front porch read: Dead Inn.
“Comforting,” Jennifer said.
“I’ll bet it’s a bed and breakfast. I told you we were heading in the right direction. Who’d put a bed and breakfast in the middle of nowhere?”
Jennifer rolled her eyes. “I don’t care what this is, it’s still in the middle of nowhere.”
Brandon started up the stairs. They creaked as his weight settled on each of them. He knocked on the door, then he saw a doorbell and rang that for good measure. An elderly woman answered. A sweet old thing. Somebody’s apple-pie-baking grandma for sure.
“Hi,” Brandon said. “We noticed your sign. Our car broke down about a mile back, and we were wondering—”
“You’re looking for a room?” the old woman said, a smile rushing across her wrinkled features.
“Exactly,” Brandon said.
“Do come in,” she gushed. “There’s always a vacancy at the Dead Inn, especially for a nice young couple like the two of you. My name’s Mabel, by the way, and you can’t believe how you’re going to enjoy my cookin’.”
Brandon grinned at Jennifer, more smug than ever. He loved being right because it meant she was wrong. Jennifer waited until the old woman turned away before she stuck her tongue out and flipped Brandon the bird.
Mabel led them upstairs. The room was decorated with Victorian-era furniture, elegant and beautiful. Jennifer was so impressed that she felt a rush of emotion toward Brandon she hadn’t felt in quite some time. She wrapped her arms around him and kissed him. The move caught him off guard. He wasn’t used to the display of affection.
