Eye Witness: Zombie

by Lederman, William

  “Dad, no! I’m not fucking shooting you! Fuck no!”

  He tried to grab him and Brian grabbed his hands, thick eyebrows furrowing. I looked up and realized that Brian was terrified as all hell, afraid that his son wouldn’t kill him, just as scared that he would. His eyes shimmered with tears refusing to spill and he forced a shaky smile, setting one heavy hand down on his son’s shoulder. “Boy, you’ve got to do this...I don’t wanna be one of them fuckers. If you ain’t gonna do it, I’ll do it my goddamn self...”

  Don crossed his arms and looked away, chewing his bottom lip and fighting an impossible inner war. “I’ll do it,” he finally croaked, glaring back at Brian. “But I’m waiting, dad. I’m waiting until you go, if you go...I’m not killing you. I’ll only save you.” Brian closed his eyes and nodded, knowing that even if he wouldn’t admit it, he would certainly turn. So we pulled out those six-packs and sat down to wait for Don’s father to turn into a monster.

  ***

  After the first few beers, I realized I was crying, too, another loss being thrown in my face. I realized that Don was losing his father, and probably his only living relative, but I felt something akin to that, too. I didn’t know if my family was gone, I knew I’d probably never find them again if they weren’t, though. I had no friends to look forward to, the world was gone. Brian went through beer after beer, Don sitting close to him but never drinking, his eyes always threatening to spill over again. After a while, Brian’s breath began to get shallow, his words getting more jumbled and incoherent, his eyes lilting. With great effort, He leaned over to Don and whispered something in his ear, hugging him tightly. I heard Don hitch a sob and say “Me, too, dad. Me, too.” Brian wheezed, fell back, and sagged against the concrete.

  There was a long period of silence, the kind that starts to seem loud after a while before I finally whispered “What did he say?”

  Don sniffled, crying silently and looked up at me. “He said he was proud of me. Said he loved me.”

  I pushed myself off the pile of towels I’d been sleeping on and grabbed a hold of Don, hugging him tight. Fuck if he thought I was a fag, fuck if he got mad. This man needed some fucking support right now, and it was just the two of us. To my surprise he didn’t resist, just clutched ahold of me and cried against my shoulder. I’d never felt so incredibly alone and, at the same time, so bonded to another person. Funny what trauma can teach you. The moment was shattered when I heard a quiet groan behind me. I stumbled back away from Brian, hoping that it wouldn’t happen, wishing it didn’t have to, Don had already seen his father die once; why couldn’t that be enough? Don covered his face, looking away, refusing to see his father’s eyes opening, trying to will away the scrabbling dead hands that clawed for his boots like overgrown spiders.

  ”Don, do it, please, he wanted you to...he wouldn’t want to kill you and you know that.”

  Don whirled on me, gun in hand, his eyes crazy. “Bullshit, man. He wouldn’t have wanted me to fucking KILL him either, you motherfucker!”

  I closed my eyes and tried to breathe, not knowing how long we had until he fully reanimated and tried to kill us both. “Don, please...Brian didn’t wanna be a fucking zombie, can’t you give him that much?”

  Now the gun was aimed at me, Don’s face twisted in blind rage and loss. “Fuck you, man, fuck you! Maybe I should fucking kill you instead, eh? Trying to kill my father, you fuck!”

  Brian screeched and grabbed Don’s leg, dragging him to the floor, teeth gnashing at him. Don screamed, kicked his legs, grabbed for me as I backed away and grabbed the gun he’d dropped.

  “I’m sorry, Don. I’m sorry, Brian. But I’m saving both your asses.” I forced myself to see straight and shot once, right between Brian’s eyes, and he stopped, lingered for a second and then slid off of Don. Don shoved him away, crawled to his feet and stared at me, horrified, disgusted, pissed as all hell.

  “YOU SON OF A BITCH!” he roared, flinging himself at me.

  Don was at least twice my size and a bit taller. He had me wedged against the wall, twisting my gun-holding hand towards my own head. It fucking figures I thought. Goddamn zombie-apocalypse and I get killed by some fucking ass in a basement. I don’t know what happened, but I managed to get him off of me fast enough to duck out the door and run up the stairs to the main area. If I got lucky, they’d get him before me, and at least I wouldn’t have to hear his accusations. The worst part was, I completely understood why he was mad. If someone’d shot my dad, zombie or not, I would’ve fuckin’ killed them. Again I thought back to Ed and wondered how the hell I’d done it, wondered how I’d made it this far, and I felt like crying again.

  I could hear Don screaming, getting closer, and I forced myself to run, to try and hide, try and figure something out. I ducked into a utility closet and hoped there was no one else in there, squatted down in the corner and waited. After twenty minutes I still heard him sobbing and cursing, throwing over shelves and kicking things. I started to worry that, if we didn’t find each other soon, all the noise he was making would draw more of them in, so, I took a deep breath and opened the door.

  ”Don, listen to me. Goddammit man, are you fucking stupid? He wasn’t your father anymore! He was a goddamn zombie, a fucking MONSTER!” He whipped around, eyes blazing murder, and ran in my direction, swinging a metal bar he’d found somewhere in the store. Fuck it, I thought, knowing he was beyond listening at this point. I shot him once in the chest and ran backwards, not wanting to watch another friend die today. On the way back to the basement I checked him, made sure he was really dead and wished things hadn’t ended like this. I dragged Brian out of the basement, tried to get him up the stairs but couldn’t, and just settled on a side closet. And that about brings us up to date, myself in a room covered with the dried blood of two men I considered friends, one of them saved, and the other too insane to care. I’m running low on everything now, bullets and food, resorting to eating dry noodles and powdered crap to survive.

  There’s still beer, though I haven’t touched it much.

  About twenty minutes ago I realized I was on my last round for the .45, meaning I’d have to venture back up, find the hunting department on the other side of the store and hope there weren’t a fuck-ton of them. A while ago, probably a day at least, there was a bunch in there. I heard a few living people, too, but didn’t go up. I didn’t know if they’d been bit, didn’t know anything other than I was safe, they weren’t. And at this point, it’s a risk I won’t take. I’m hoping they won’t make it down here, drawn to a disgustingly bloated Brian who is stinking up this entire basement.

  As if to fucking cap off my fears, my door has a nice hole in the goddamn middle of it, and there’s two more bodies down here I need to get rid of.

  Last shot, last chance? I know there’s more up there, and I know there are bullets, too...but it’s so goddamn easy when there’s only one shot left. I can hear them breaking shit.

  Fuck, I heard kids dying up there earlier, screaming, “Mommy, why are you trying to kill me?” This whole world is fucked, why not just give the fuck up now...

  Fuck it, it’s too easy. Fuck them, too. I’d rather take ‘em out with me than be a quick meal for them.

  Funny what the apocalypse teaches us. I used to let Ed fight all my battles for me, but Ed’s gone now. I think it’s time to grow the fuck up, get a pair and do someth—

  Brian Harrison dwells in Tulsa, Oklahoma with his wife, Bridget, and their four mad dogs. The world of writing is completely new to him. Tony Monchinski turned him on to the idea of writing a short story, so Brian wrote it, and now it’s being published by May December Publications ; he is currently working on a full novel, which, he hopes, will also be published. The only other type of writing he does is musical. He performs in the horror punk band The Decomposed. The band has just signed a record deal with Crypt of Blood Records out of New Jersey, and the new album should be available by Halloween 2010. Other interests are: painting, playing with blood, biting people,
and raising the dead. He wishes one day to be reborn as a walking corpse.

  Let him know what you think of the story, and also check out The Decomposed on myspace.

  myspace.com/thedecomposed13

  Email: mikebharrison@live.com

  flowing in from independent sources * EWZN * Military attempts

  One Nation Undead

  Reported By Mike Harrison

  The room reeked of blood and death. Two undead, both male, bound and gagged, sat side by side on the love-seat, though they showed no signs of love; a third zombie sat on the floor, chained to a radiator, eating the remains of a child contentedly. The corpses on the couch watched the living dead man on the floor, grunting through their gags, straining against their bonds, with what appeared to be anguish, as he devoured his meal. Abruptly, the undead on the floor halted his feast as the child opened his new dead eyes onto a new dead world, moaning as he sat up, innards spilled from his demolished abdomen. Whoosh! Suddenly, a machete lodged itself into the undead boy’s skull, with a sickening crack and thud. Pinkish-gray brain matter oozed from the gaping wound. I stood in the center of the room over the freshly dead child. My child. My Andy. I wept.

  My name is Ace Harmann. I’ve lost the majority of my family to soldiers who, only moments ago, kidnapped my wife and daughter, brutally raped and murdered my mother, and fed my father to a mob of the living dead. I’d been searching a nearby house for supplies, my family waiting for my return in our Escalade, when I heard gunfire. A surge of adrenaline flashed through my body like lightning as I rushed for the front door, left partially open in case a hasty retreat would be necessary, unsheathing my black, blood-stained machete.

  A window beside the front door gave me a view of the Escalade. I stopped and peered through the window as soldiers fired upon a few shambling zombies, dropping them one by one with shots to the head, the only way to destroy them. I could see my seventeen-year-old daughter, Amy, through the Escalade window, trying to comfort her younger brother.

  My wife, Shannon, climbed out of the driver’s seat, waving and hollering to the soldiers. That’s when things went completely awry. The soldiers fired on the Escalade, dropping Shannon with a shot to the knee; popping three of the tires on the vehicle. From inside the house I could hear the screams of my family, the tormented howls from my wife, hoots and laughter from the soldiers, causing my stomach to knot. My son, Andy, fell out of the rear passenger side door, panic etched on his face. He clambered to his feet and sprinted to a nearby apartment building.

  As the rest of my family exited the vehicle, hands grasping at the sky in surrender, the soldiers moved down on them, weapons at the ready, blind to the departure of Andy. My father, Herman Harmann, did his best to defend the ladies of the family, but to no avail. The soldiers outnumbered and outgunned them. I watched as my father was knocked to his knees by the butt of a rifle; as my wife, shrieking with pain, and daughter, were dragged to the military Humvee; as my mother was savagely beaten, clothes ripped off, and raped.

  In shock, I couldn’t move. Even if I could move, they’d kill me if I’d tried anything. There were just too many of them. I gripped the machete tightly, knuckles bone white, until my hand throbbed with pain, tears trailing down my face. I felt like a coward.

  In the distance the ever familiar siren of the dead drifted through the canyons of the ruined city. The gunfire had attracted more of them, which the soldiers took as an opportunity to have some fun. Once finished with my mother, the soldiers slowly slit her throat and dragged her body into the path of the carnivorous undead. The monsters began feeding on her promptly.

  My father scurried after them, pleading on deaf ears. One of the soldiers spun around to face him and slashed his cheek with a Ka-Bar. Herman screamed in shock and pain, cheek flayed and hanging, gushing blood. He desperately tried to reattach the piece of flopping flesh back onto his face. The soldiers found this amusing. One of them gripped Herman by the throat and threw him to the horde of flesh-hungry ghouls; my dad, still trying to amend his demolished face, fell into gnawing, gnashing teeth where he found his painful death. I immediately vomited on my boots. Losing consciousness, I collapsed in my own bile.

  When I came to, my face in a pool of puke, I threw up again from the smell. Remembering what had occurred with my family, I stood immediately, a new surge of adrenaline rushing through me, and bound out the front door.

  The soldiers were nowhere to be found. I slumped to my knees crying and screaming, the walking dead wreathing me. I suddenly remembered the escape of my son into the apartment building across the street. I returned to my feet readying myself for battle. With my only weapon, the machete, I cleaved heads and severed limbs as if they were butter while quickly making my way toward the apartment building.

  Once inside, I barred the front door with a couch that had been in the foyer. Screaming from upstairs! Andy! I’m coming Andy, the thought repeatedly pounded in my head as I made my way up. The elevator was out of the question. Electricity was lost soon after the beginning of this nightmare, plunging the entire city into darkness and chaos.

  On the third and final floor I could no longer discern screaming. I didn’t dare call out my son’s name for fear of attracting the wrong kind of attention. Gradually, I made my way down the hall, trying the first door on the right. Locked. The second and third doors, locked as well. Behind the fourth door I could hear gurgling noises and strangled grunts. Slowly, I opened the door. I took in everything in an instant; the smell, the imprisoned undead...my son.

  After putting down my own son, I dislodged the machete from his skull and, in a fury, butchered the zombie that had been feasting on Andy, screaming with rage, hacking for several minutes. The two beasts on the couch struggled to get at me, achingly wanting to tear into my flesh and discover what tasty treats hid within. I ignored them for the time being, dropped to my knees at my son’s side and cradled the boy in my arms. Sobbing uncontrollably, snot and tears mingling on my lips, I cried, “Why didn’t I help them? I just stood there...watched them die.”

  Rocking my lifeless son, I wiped the blood from Andy’s face, bent and kissed him on the forehead. Laying him gently on the floor, I curled up next to him. As I lay weeping, I drifted to sleep.

  My dreams were filled with nostalgic memories of lives long forgotten and dead, a mirror image of the new world. I dreamed of the birth of my son and how beautiful he had been. Shannon, she was so happy, lit up with an inner-glow of glorious magnificence as she stared in awe at our creation. I’d held my son high, smiling and crying tears of joy. Long had I wanted a boy and now, finally, I had my Andy. I gently handed the baby to Shannon and we sat together watching, with love, as our new baby boy kicked and squirmed in her arms.

  A loud banging came from the hall, the other side of the door. I ignored the sound, too enthralled by my new son. The banging grew in intensity with every beat. I grudgingly averted my attention to the door, staring as it shook and rattled in its frame; bang Bang BANG! I stood, went to the door, turning the knob deliberately. The banging abruptly subsided. The door creaked open an inch and the smell of death infiltrated my nostrils. The door swung wide, knocking me to the floor as a zombie stormed past me to my wife and, NO, not Andy! I tried to stand, but couldn’t seem to gain any leverage. I sat watching with horror, glued to the floor, as the zombie reached my boy, gripped him by his abdomen with decayed hands and buried his rotten face into my screaming child’s stomach, pulling with jagged, broken teeth on a stubborn piece of stretchy, taffy-like skin.

  I awoke, taking in hard, fast breaths, my face moist with fresh tears. Examining the room from my position on the floor I noticed my son, dead next to me. The dream came rushing back, hitting me hard. I leaped to my feet screaming ferociously, retrieved my saber, and mutilated the two remaining zombies on the love-seat. Coagulated blood and gore splashed my body, limbs flew ubiquitously, the blade—glinting in the sunlight from the window—hit harder and faster with each swing, spewing thick droplets of blood. A he
ad rolled across the stained carpet, coming to a halt against the refrigerator, eyes still examining the surroundings. I lunged at the head, impaling it upon my blade. Smashing the head with my foot for support, I removed my dripping red machete.

  Commotion in the next room drew my attention. Still in a blood frenzy, I ran, kicked the door in, and discovered a large white man fighting with two more zombies. I rushed one of the undead, targeting her skull, missed, hitting her in the shoulder instead; the blade slicing through meat, shattering the clavicle. With a nauseating, wet sound, I slipped my blade from the creature’s shoulder. The monster turned—a growl escaping her ravaged throat—stumbled toward me, arms outstretched. I swung the blade wildly, severing a hand, swung again disemboweling the creature, feces and putrid intestines plopping onto the floor; the smell immediate, intense. Gagging, swinging upwards with all of my strength, my machete connected with the thing’s face, slicing from the cheek to above the right ear. The dead woman toppled to the floor, landing on her face; the impact separated the sliced portion of her head. Brown, decomposed brain matter leaked from the opening.

  Struggling on the floor, his forearm pushed against the zombie’s throat, keeping those dangerous, infectious teeth at bay, the big man tried to penetrate the temple of the beast with a hunting knife, but the angle was bad. “Help me for fuck’s sake!” roared the man. Without further hesitation I thrust my weapon through the back of the monster’s skull, destroying it instantly. The creature fell limp.

  After getting to his feet the unknown man extended his hand, “Name’s Murder Coleman. Thanks for saving my life.”