by Chris Lowry
She wondered for a moment if she appeared the same, then shrugged. It didn’t matter. They had food for now, even if it was light. They had food in the truck, and all of it would be enough for a week, maybe ten days.
If they could get out of here. She turned her attention back to Bob to see if it would work.
“We have two of these bottles, right?” he held up the two liter plastic bottles they had emptied and put aside. “I think I can make the mix, seal it before the reaction overflows and let the CO2 build up inside. Then prick it with a needle and the bottle is going to shoot past the Z.”
He demonstrated with his hand.
“Ok, I’ve seen this before,” Steve sighed.
“You saw a soda bottle bomb distract a group of zombies before?”
“No,” he snapped. “I saw a guy on TV do what you’re saying. He put the stuff in a bottle, only the bottle had a straw taped to it, and the straw was tied between two trees. He made a rocket out of it.”
“Yeah,” Bob beamed. “I saw that. That’s part of the idea!”
“But we don’t have string,” said Steve. “Who’s going to tie it.”
“No, no, no,” Bob shook his head. It’s going to be more like a bottle rocket. We don’t know where it’s going to go, just that it’s going to move them away.”
He looked down at the bottle in his hand and licked his lips.
“We hope,” he added.
“That’s why we have two,” said Emma. “In case the first one doesn’t go where we want.”
Bob took a deep breath, and with it, his confidence returned.
“Yeah, we don’t need them to go half a mile down the road. We just need to clear a path to the truck. Once we do that, we get inside and drive the other way.”
“Okay,” said Steve.
“Okay?” Bob glanced at him from under furrowed brow. “You don’t have more to add, or some smart ass comment about how it can’t work?”
“No,” Steve shrugged. “It’s a plan. It’s better than anything I’ve got. We can try it. If it doesn’t work, what have we got to lose? Vinegar? Baking Soda? We can’t eat those.”
“They use vinegar to make pickles,” said Bob.
“I hate pickles.”
“And they use brine, Bob,” said Emma.
“My grandma used white vinegar,” he shook the jug.
“Who gives a crap about your grandma Knob,” Steve sighed. “We’re not making pickles.”
“My grandmother was a great woman,” Bob grumbled.
“Just build the damn bottle bomb, would you. Let’s try it and get out of here.”
Steve twirled around and began gathering their food in a sheet. He stacked it all in the middle and folded the four corners over to make a bundle he could sling over his shoulder like a giant Santa sack.
“Anything else you guys want to take?” he asked.
Bob sloshed vinegar into the second bottle and watched the reaction begin to bubble immediately. He rushed to cap it before too much of the building gas could escape and felt the pressure inside stiffen the thin plastic membranes of the bottle wall.
“Ready,” he said.
Steve watched him heft the two bottles, one in each hand.
“You know how you want to do this?” he asked.
Bob nodded. He had a plan.
CHAPTER SEVEN
The first part of the plan went off without a hitch. Bob fished around in the kitchen drawer.
“What are you looking for?”
“Long thin knife, or an icepick or something,” he said without looking up.
Emma reached over to the counter and spun a block of knives in his direction.
“One of these?”
Bob closed the drawer and lifted the first knife. It was a wide butcher knife.
He dropped it back the slot with a shake of his head and tried two more. They wouldn’t work either, but the fourth one was the key. It was a long thin filet knife that tapered to a razor point tip.
“This should do it,” he said and touched the point with the tip of his finger. “I’m going to open the front door, set this on the porch and send it off like a rocket.”
He licked his lips and studied their faces.
“Then, I’ll do the same thing with the next one. The first one should get their attention, the second should open a hole.”
“You hope,” said Steve.
“It’s all we’ve got right now,” Bob explained. “Hope.”
“They’ll see the front door move,” Emma said. “And there’s a screen door.”
“Yeah, that’s going to bring them over.”
“But then the rocket will get them to chase it away,” said Bob. “Don’t you see.”
Steve shook his head.
“I’ve got a different way.”
Bob made a noise low in his throat.
“You’ve always got a different way. This way is going to work. We don’t need your way.”
“The rockets a good idea Knob. It’s the door I have a problem with.”
“Oh yeah, then what’s the different way?”
Steve pointed with his thumb over his shoulder.
“Back door.”
“They won’t see it from back there,” Bob sighed.
Steve shook his head.
“It’s easier for me to do it than explain. Give me the knife.”
Bob held on to it like it was a national treasure for a moment, glaring at Steve’s outstretched hand.
“It’s my plan,” he said in a weak voice.
“It’s a good plan, Knob. It just needs a little finesse.”
Steve wiggled his fingers, waiting. After a moment, Bob slapped the handle of the knife into it.
“Can you carry the food?”
Bob nodded.
“I’ll help,” said Emma.
“Then get ready to move.”
“When?”
“You’ll know when.”
CHAPTER EIGHT
Steve eased the back door open and juggled the two soda bottles in his arms. He was hyper focused on being quiet as he stepped onto the large deck.
There were three steps to the overgrown back yard and he took a moment to decide which direction to go.
Then he spied the gate and chuckled breathless at his own indecision. There really was no choice unless he wanted to scale the fence.
He pictured in his mind where the twirling windchime was in relation to the corner of the house as he reached the gate.
He tried the latch, a simple metal bar that he pushed down on that was supposed to lift the slot tooth on the other side off of a tiny bar.
It rattled and only lifted a micro-inch.
Steve glared through the slit in between the boards and saw a small padlock hooked through the hole in the bottom of the latch, preventing it from slipping over the bar.
“Damn it,” he breathed out.
He could go back in and hunt for the key. In fact it was probably hanging on a pegboard in the kitchen that he had seen next to the untouched refrigerator.
But it was just as easy to hop over.
He rested one of the bottles on the flat four inch square top of the gateway post, and set the other on the opposite post.
The gate had a supporting crossbar across the middle, and it was nothing for him to hoist himself up and over.
He held at the top for a moment to check the coast was clear, then swung his legs over and dropped lightly to the other side.
His feet slipped in the gravel and he held out a hand to the gate to steady himself.
The movement sent a shiver through one of the posts and the bottle at the top shifted, tilted and fell.
Steve dropped to his knees and caught it before it hit and stayed there trying to breath.
He wasn’t sure how that would have gone done. Would the bottle have exploded in loud gassy clap? Would the top have broken off, and sent it pounding into the metal siding on the house?
He wiped his forearm across his bro
w and retrieved the other bottle, then took slow, tentative steps toward the edge of the house.
Steve wasn’t sure if he should risk a peek, but he did with one eye.
The Z were still there, still occupied with the twirling cloth of rainbow colors.
“So far, so good,” he thought and kneeled next to the house.
He set the bottle down, tried to aim it so it would land in some trees on the other side of the lot.
It wasn’t perfect, but it would have to do.
He wished he had a radio to let them know to be ready inside, but he told them they would know when to go.
It was time.
He took the tip of the filet knife, pressed it against the plastic and jabbed it.
The gas hissed out in a giant whooshing plop. The air forced out of the tiny hole sent the bottle rocketing across the yard.
But with no string to hold it straight, it began to spin and twist, just like the whirly bird wind chime.
Except it was in front of the SUV.
The Z noticed the new noise, the new movement and turned as one shuffling group to investigate.
Steve didn’t wait for them to surround the truck. He set up the next bottle and poked it again.
This one shot across the yard in a loud hiss, straight past the Z.
Steve held up one arm in victory, fist clenched as he mouthed the word yes.
One of the Z noticed the moving bottle and began to shuffle after it.
A second noticed Steve’s arm and began to lumber toward him.
“Uh-oh,” Steve said.
The rest of the group of zombies had a choice to make. They could follow the guy and the bottle or the other one headed straight toward Steve.
Murphy’s inexorable law won out.
They all turned to Steve and began moaning.
The bottle flew across the yard and into a clump of bushes at the next house.
It ended in a loud yip and the starving pup they had released ran howling from the bushes.
The Z turned at the sound of the yelp, and watched the dog race away in loud complaint.
They turned as a group and gave chase.
CHAPTER NINE
The shift wasn’t on a dime. It didn’t happen in an instant. The zombies saw the dog, heard the yelping and turned.
It was movement and noise and chaos, the kind of things they were drawn to and whatever had attracted their attention at the corner of the house was gone.
They turned. In slow shuffles, and laborious lumbering motions, they followed the scared canine.
Steve peeked around at their fleeing backs and waited until they passed the tail end of the SUV.
He sprinted toward the front door and reached to pull it open. But the knob was ripped away from him as Emma yanked the door back.
She and Bob spilled out onto the front porch, eyes wide in confusion and surprise.
Bob opened his mouth to say something, lips working as he drew in a breath.
But Emma slapped her hand across his mouth, the hollow of her palm making a small pop in the open space between his teeth.
Then they were moving, running toward the SUV.
Bob grabbed the passenger door handle, but Steve shouldered him back to the rear door and climbed into the front.
Bob scrambled in after him as Emma slid behind the wheel. They all pulled the doors closed quietly, the latches clicking and they finally breathed.
“I can’t believe it,” Emma snickered.
“Dumb luck,” said Steve.
“I was trying to call shotgun,” Bob said as he leaned between the two front seats.
CHAPTER TEN
Emma’s door ripped open and dirty hands grabbed her by the shoulder. They yanked her out of the SUV.
“Get out!” a voice screamed.
Steven and Bob hurried out of the passenger side and ran into two shaky guns aimed at their heads.
Big black barrels wavered in the sunlight, shoving, motioning them around the back of the truck. They met Emma near the back and stood, shaking, scared.
Three people faced them, two men and a woman, dirty faces smudged with anger and fear.
They were armed with small pistols and a single barrel shotgun with a long barrel and a wood stock. It bounced across the three of them, never settling to aim at one, but a continuous figure eight movement.
Steve thought it would almost be hypnotic if it wasn’t so terrifying.
“We’re taking your car,” the woman said.
Her teeth were yellow, her eyes rimmed red, like she was on the verge of crying or maybe she hadn’t stopped crying since the Z showed up.
“Take it,” Bob stuttered.
“Shut up, Knob.”
“Listen to your friend,” the woman said. She aimed the snub nosed revolver at Steve, then moved it to Emma.
“Like they have a choice,” the man on the left giggled.
His teeth were just as yellow, crusty sores on the edge of his chapped lips. He looked like a junky a long way from a trip, like sobriety found him waking up in a nightmare world and there wasn’t much to score on anymore.
Steve thought they all looked like junkies, or crazy homeless people. But then, he figured, almost everyone looked homeless these days because the truth of the matter was they were.
There were no more homes, and now, these people were mugging them.
“The keys are in the floorboard,” said Emma, wide eyes staring at the guns aimed at them.
Their hands were in the air, an act of surrender and an assurance that they were just going to get out of the way.
Steve wondered for a moment where they came from, where the robbers had been hiding.
His eyebrows shot up as the dog sprinted past them, long nails clacking on the asphalt driveway as it ran around the side of the house to the fence and kept going around it, back into the bushes where it had been hiding before.
The three junkies stared in wonder.
“Was that a dog?” the man asked the woman. The third one let out an insane sounding guffaw, a wheezy exhale that carried across the yard.
Bob opened his mouth and pointed.
All three guns swiveled in his direction and he clamped both hands across his mouth.
They heard the moaning and turned as the wave of Z lumbered up the road.
The woman screamed and shot off three rounds into the bodies before her gun clicked dry.
Emma yanked on Steve’s arm and motioned him back toward the truck.
He grabbed Bob and hauled him down the side of the SUV and shoved him into the back seat. Steve slammed the door and piled in the passenger seat as Emma scrambled behind the wheel.
They slammed the doors closed and Emma hit the lock button.
The woman robber yanked on the door and beat against the glass with the butt of the revolver.
“Let us in!” she screamed.
Emma fished around on the floor for the keys, jammed them in the ignition and cranked the engine.
The guy with the shotgun aimed at Steve through the window on his side.
Steve ducked away, but there was not shot. The gun was empty.
Then the Z were on him, pulling him into their midst. He screamed and lashed out with the thick wooden butt of the gun, but there were too many of them.
The bodies overwhelmed him, dragged him screaming into a scrum of reaching, grasping hands.
The other man ran past the woman toward the fence. He fought with the latch, let it fall and tried to scramble over as the Z caught up with him.
Two gripped his ankle and hauled him down into a swarm of bodies. He didn’t make a sound as he died.
The woman glared at Emma.
“Please,” she begged.
A Z grabbed her by the shoulder and yanked her away from the window.
Emma dropped the truck in reverse and began backing through the small herd, bodies bouncing off the bumper.
