First Zombie

by Fisher, Sean Thomas

  Silence bloomed as he fumbled shells into the Browning his father passed down to him, shallow breaths shaking his hands. Pumping the shotgun hard, he rushed back into the kitchen to find Miranda picking up shards of glass from her knees.

  “What are you doing?” she asked, a heavy scowl marring her pretty face. “Why do you have that?”

  Finn jammed the walnut stock into his right shoulder. “Just call the cops,” he panted, stopping at the French doors.

  “Why?” Miranda barked, dumping broken glass into the garbage can. Turning to face him, she brushed margarita from a black tank top she traded the robe out for. “Finn! Talk to me!”

  The elderly man limped up the deck stairs, so close now Finn could see oily drool oozing from his yawning mouth. Opening both doors at the same time, Finn stepped outside and took deadly aim. “Stop right there!” he said, even though he knew the man was well beyond comprehending the English language anymore.

  The dead thing reached for him, bumping the patio table and knocking the margarita to the floor with a crash of broken glass.

  “Finn!” Miranda cried out from behind. “What’re you doing?”

  The barking dogs seemed like they were coming from down a long, dark tunnel in Finn’s ears, the shotgun trembling in his sweaty hands. This couldn’t be happening. It was impossible. But the man’s bloody eyeball and hollow moans said differently. He shuffled his dress shoes closer, tacking muddy footprints across the deck. The smell of decay wafted from his skin on warm, rancid waves, turning Finn’s stomach.

  Tightening the shotgun against his shoulder, Finn’s index finger hugged the cool trigger. “I will blow your head off if you don’t stop!”

  The man stopped and studied Finn with a glimmer of understanding flaring in his only eye. He coughed something onto the wood planks Finn power washed last weekend. Then, with a labored groan, he started limping closer. Finn’s chest was the only part of him that moved. He tightened his grip on the weapon and stared down the barrel, growling through his teeth. “What are you?”

  The man stumbled forward and Finn’s shot missed high and to the right, the recoil jerking him back a step. Miranda screamed from the kitchen and Finn pumped the shotgun, ejecting an empty shell casing to the deck with a clatter. The man reached for him and kept coming so Finn squeezed the trigger again.

  The buttstock pounded against his shoulder and the dead guy flew backwards down the deck steps, landing with a soft bounce in the green grass below.

  Birds took flight and the dogs went silent.

  Blood dripped from the railing and Finn pumped the shotgun, ejecting another casing.

  A cardinal sang out in the thunderstruck silence that followed, Finn’s ragged breathing and overworked heart filling his head. The man didn’t move in the grass but Finn kept the gun trained on him anyway. He’d seen enough movies to know what can happen when you don’t. His tight gaze jerked into the trees, searching for more corpses to come stumbling out of the woodwork. The cemetery was large and where there’s one… A hand landed on his shoulder. Spinning around, he nearly shot his wife in the face. “Jesus, Miranda!”

  “Is he dead?” she whispered, covering her mouth and staring down at the man lying in their backyard.

  “I don’t know,” Finn panted, blinking sweat from his eyes. It was eerily quiet. Nobody came running outside to see what happened and, somewhere deep down inside, he knew they were all dead. For all he knew, they were the last two people alive on the entire planet.

  Side by side, they crept to the edge of the deck, hearts pounding in their chests. Most of the man’s face was gone and the smell was nauseating.

  Miranda inhaled sharply. “Oh my God,” she whispered through her fingers. Looking up at her husband in horror, tears raced over the apples on her cheeks. “What did you do?” she breathed out, beating her fists against his chest. “What did you do!”

  Backing away, his forehead wrinkled. “Didn’t you see the eyeball hanging from his face?”

  “The what?” Blinking more tears out, Miranda dug a cellphone from her jeans and tapped at the screen with shaky fingers. She pressed it to an ear, glaring fearfully at Finn like he might shoot her next. “Yes, I’d like to report a shooting!” she blurted into the phone, turning her back to him.

  Finn listened to her rattle off their address and he wasn’t sure which surprised him more: the fact that she thought he was crazy or that she got through to the police. Usually the phones were the first thing to go when the dead rose from their graves in search of human flesh. He stared out over the yard, stomach twisting into ropy knots. They’d have to be prepared to make a stand on their own. The cops were probably getting flooded with similar calls around town and he and his wife could be dead by the time they showed up.

  With the shotgun tucked into a shoulder, Finn started down the short flight of steps on rubbery legs, his wife trailing behind him.

  She tugged on his shirt sleeve, stopping him on the bottom step, phone glued to an ear. “They’re on the way.”

  His eyebrows dipped. “They are?”

  She nodded and Finn spilled into the backyard with sweat running down his back. The smell was like spoiled chicken and diarrhea mixed into one. Cautiously, he nudged the body with a Burberry dress shoe, expecting the damn thing to latch onto his ankle with a cold, clammy hand and pull him to its teeth. Finn jumped back and scanned the trees, heart battering his ribcage.

  “I told you, we don’t know who he is,” Miranda said into the phone, looking away from the man’s gruesome face. “No, he’s not moving! His face is gone.”

  Finn searched the property with sweat stinging his eyes. Sirens approached in the distance, probably responding to a similar call. These things must be all over the place by now. He turned back to the lifeless corpse, wondering how it freed itself from its coffin and then clawed its way out of the grave. The man’s suit coat and slacks were torn and soiled in spots but, overall, looked new. Same went for his muddy dress shoes. There wasn’t much dirt under his trimmed nails and the freshly cut carnation pinned to his lapel gave Finn pause. He looked up and stared off toward the funeral home located on the other side of the graveyard. He couldn’t see it from here but that didn’t stop the pieces from clicking together in his mind.

  “Finn, put the gun down.”

  He turned a frown to his wife. “What?”

  She stared up at him, the phone pressed to an ear. “He said to put the gun down before the police arrive.”

  “No fucking way!” he snapped. “There could be more of them.”

  “Finn!” Miranda shook her head in distress and started speaking into the cellphone again, spewing a rambling stream of run-on sentences that made his heart pound harder in his chest. Where could they go? The mall? No. He’d seen enough zombie movies to know that everybody and their brother would go to the mall. Not only did it have a Scheel’s with guns and ammo, but it had food and room to move. No, not the mall. They needed to get out of the city and away from people. People who could turn into these things.

  His mind raced. They would need a siphon kit. The gas stations had to be overrun by now and it was only a matter of time before the power went out on the pumps. He wet his lips and gripped the Browning. How much gas did the Tahoe have? He couldn't even remember the last time he put gas in it. His mind was just as empty as the tank might be. They could take Miranda’s car if they had to. No, too small. Plus, they might need the four-wheel drive.

  His tight gaze jerked back to the dead guy lying in his grass. A single bite from one of these things and it was game over. He had to remember flashlights and the camping stove. God knows when they might have a hot meal again. The dogs started barking again and Finn swung the twelve-gauge around to the trees, expecting a flash mob of decaying ghouls to amble from the shadows. He was ready for at least five of them. Or were there only four shells left in the weapon? Shit, he couldn’t remember. A noise came from the driveway behind him and, before he could spin around, Finn knew the dead w
ere surrounding the house, working together like a pack of wild…

  “Drop it!” a man yelled out from behind.

  Finn stared down at the faceless corpse, pulse thudding in the hollow of his throat.

  “Drop the gun, motherfucker, or I’ll shoot you dead!”

  “Finn,” Miranda cried, clutching the phone to her chest. “Put the gun down! It’s the police!”

  Glancing at the mascara trails running down his wife’s twisted face, he slowly set the shotgun in the grass next to the dead man before calmly raising his hands into the air.

  “Get back, Ma’am!” a female voice yelled out from the other side of the house.

  Miranda stepped back and when Finn turned around, both cops yelled at him to get on his knees.

  The female cop and her tall, muscular partner crept closer, guns pointed at Finn as he dropped to his knees before them like a faithful subject. “Jesus Christ,” she groaned, glancing at the dead man and holstering her weapon. Pulling her black gloves on tighter, she cuffed Finn under her partner’s cover and then helped him to his feet. “You have the right to remain silent,” she started, ushering him toward the driveway. “Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law. You have the right to an attorney. If you can’t afford an attorney, one will…”

  “He tried to kill me,” Finn panted, rounding the corner of the house and tripping over his own two feet.

  “Do you understand your rights?”

  “It was self-defense!”

  “Sir! Do you understand your rights?”

  Stopping in the driveway, he watched another squad car screech to a stop out in the street. The neighbors were starting to come out to see what was going on and maybe everyone wasn’t dead after all. His breath came faster, a far-off ringing starting up in his ears. “Yes.”

  “Okay,” the officer replied, hanging onto his elbow. She was pretty and smelled like flowers, a black uniform hugging her slender body. “With these rights in mind, do you wish to speak to me?”

  A scary scenario whisked through his mind at breakneck speed, leaving him dizzy. The margaritas and burnt joint, the faceless old man, and the smoking shotgun. It wasn’t a good combination. He listened for more sirens but it was suddenly quiet. Tom and Linda pulled into their driveway, warped looks stretching their faces as they stared at Finn and the police officers milling about.

  “Sir?”

  His eyes jerked back to the pretty cop and thinned.

  “Do you wish to speak to me?”

  “He was already dead.”

  Shifting in her stance, she sharpened her brown-eyed gaze. “Who was?”

  “The man I just shot.”

  She tilted her head to the side, a long dark ponytail swinging behind her. “He was…dead before you shot him?”

  “He came from the funeral home,” he added, jerking his chin in the direction of the cemetery. “There’s a yellow flower pinned to his suit like he just left his own funeral.”

  The cop blinked blankly at him for what seemed like several minutes, birds singing happily in the trees around them.

  “His eyeball was hanging out of its socket!” he blurted, breaking the silence stretching between them.

  Her face fell with her jaw. “How is that?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe it got caught on a thorn bush or maybe he tried digging it out for a snack! How the fuck should I know?”

  “Mac,” her burly partner called out, making Mac flinch.

  “Over here, Jason!” she replied, studying Finn closely.

  “He’s definitely dead,” Jason said, storming around the side of the house with Miranda hot on his heels. His angry eyes locked in on Finn, badge rising and falling on his bulletproof vest. “Who was he? And why’d you kill him?”

  “He claims the victim was already dead when he entered the property.”

  The tall, brawny cop turned a baffled look to Mac, lips pulling down at the corners. “He claims what?”

  “The victim was dead when he entered the property.”

  His eyes jerked back to Finn. “Come on, guy, you can do better than that.”

  “I was standing my ground! This is my house!”

  Jason stepped in front of Finn, dwarfing him in his shadow. “That was an unarmed old man you just killed,” he growled, the smell of coffee floating from his breath. “Why?”

  “He said the man’s eyeball was hanging out,” Mac told him, pulling her leather gloves on tighter and glancing at an ambulance parking in the street.

  Slowly turning to her, Jason furrowed his brow. “He said what!”

  “He claims the eyeball was bouncing against the man’s cheek and, despite that, he kept coming.”

  The imposing officer turned back to Finn, thrusting a finger out to the backyard. “Well, kind of hard to prove that now considering you just blew his face off!” Spittle sprayed Finn in the eye and Miranda broke down in tears. Jason pulled his duty belt up higher and pinched his gaze. “Have you been smoking marijuana this evening, sir?”

  “What? No!”

  Jason leaned in closer. “Really? Because there’s a burnt joint on the patio table out back.” He sniffed at the air like a dog catching a whiff of something interesting. “I also smell alcohol on your breath.”

  Finn’s eyes darted to his poor wife. The terrified look on her face broke his heart in two. “Tell them, Miranda. Tell them what you saw.”

  Mac and Jason turned to her with raised brows.

  Sobbing, she swiped at her tears, smearing mascara across her cheeks. “I-I never saw his face.”

  Finn’s eyes bulged from their sockets.

  “I was behind you, Finn, and when I came outside, I could barely see anything against the sunlight.” She threw her hands out. “It all happened so fast!”

  His world crashed around him, sinking his posture and spirits in one fell swoop.

  “Let’s go, buddy,” Jason said, roughly escorting him down the driveway.

  Coming around the front of the brown brick house, Finn glanced at the Uber driver pulling up behind the ambulance parked in the street. His mind raced as Jason stuffed him into the warm backseat of a squad car that smelled like corn chips. Desperate to catch his breath, he could hear Miranda scream his name through the window as Mac and Jason drove him away from his home.

  Detective Holland

  The interrogation room was small and cold. A short string danced from a ceiling vent and Finn could feel people watching him through the mirrored glass to the right. His reflection looked just like he felt. Dogshit. His tanned skin had turned a clammy shade of gray and dark circles ringed his eyes. Rubbing his wrists where the handcuffs had been cinched too tightly, he turned to look out a long, narrow window in the door, watching police officers pass by out in the station. Most glanced his direction, wanting a glimpse of the crazy drunk guy who claimed he just killed a zombie. His throat clicked when he swallowed and maybe they were right. Maybe he just made the worst mistake of his life. After all, now that he had time to cool his heels, his story was even starting to sound crazy in his own ears.

  The door opened and a heavyset man sporting a wrinkled shirt and wide necktie entered the room, two steaming cups of coffee wrapped in his hands. The pretty cop named Mac walked past the open doorway, glancing in at Finn before snatching a sheet of paper from a fax machine.

  Detective Holland used a brown loafer to shut the door. “Sorry about the wait, Mr. Bryson,” he said, setting a paper cup in front of Finn. “Had to make a new pot. These people drink coffee around here like vampires drink blood.” Straightening the handgun on his hip, he sat in the chair across from Finn, making it creak in protest. He set his coffee down and combed a thick mustache with a hand, eyes pinching into unreadable gashes.

  Finn leaned over the cold, metal table. “Have you had any other calls yet?”

  Pulling a pen from a shirt pocket, Holland arched a bushy eyebrow at him. “Calls?”

  “Similar to mine.”

  His li
ps went down, eyes squeezing so tightly together they were barely visible. “Not yet.”

  Shoulders slumping, Finn dropped his face into his hands and rubbed his eyes until he saw stars. There couldn’t be just one of them. There had to be more of those dead things out there trying to eat people. It couldn’t just happen to him. On TV, the dead come in herds, rolling through an area and decimating it from the inside out. Literally.

  Leaning across the table, the detective hit a red button on a recording device. “Why don’t we start from the beginning.”

  “I already told you everything that happened.”

  “I know,” he said, writing something down on a pad of paper. “But sometimes it helps to remember the smaller details if you repeat the story.”

  Sighing, Finn hung his head and started with their dinner plans with Chad and Carmen. The margaritas. The back deck. The dogs. The shape. Toward the end of Finn’s ghastly tale, people were fluttering about out in the station, answering phones and rushing back and forth past the long, narrow window in the room’s only door.

  “Hang on,” the detective interrupted, sticking the pen into the air. “The victim never said a word to you?”

  “No, he just…moaned.”

  “At any time, did he ever threaten you verbally?”

  Glancing at the recorder, Finn clasped his hands on the silver table before him and exhaled a heated breath. “No, he never threatened me verbally,” he confessed, wondering if he should get an attorney before saying another word. He knew that was the smart thing to do, but he had nothing to hide. The guy came on his property and tried to eat him, for Christ’s sake! If Finn wouldn’t have blown his face off, they could see he wasn’t crazy.

  “And you’ve never seen this gentleman before? No prior arguments or ongoing feuds?”

  Finn shook his head no, rubbing a silver ring around his finger. “Who is he?”

  Holland shrugged. “He wasn’t carrying any ID, so we’re still working on that.” He tapped the pen against the table, closely looking Finn over through narrow eyes. “He didn’t threaten you. He didn’t have a weapon. So why shoot him in the face, Mr. Bryson?”