Zomb-Pocalypse

by Megan Berry

  Megan is already checking her clip and reloading her gun. “It looks deserted,” she reiterates my own thoughts and I try and take comfort in that.

  “Abby, will you stay and watch my back while I’m pulling this lid up?” Ryan asks.

  Abby looks massively relieved that she doesn’t have to go inside the store.

  We cautiously approach the gas station. It’s one of those convenience stores that have a mechanics garage attached to the side of it. We try the door and are surprised that it’s locked.

  “This might be a good sign, maybe this place was closed when things started to go down,” I mutter as I wind my fire poker back and smash the glass. “If the store was closed when all this stuff happened, there is a good chance it’s empty of anything with a taste for flesh.”

  Megan looks excited as well, though she brings her gun up and enters the store like she’s a TV cop clearing a room.

  The interior looks normal, and the air smells like any other convenience store I’ve ever been in. Rows and rows of chips and candy bars stretch before us, and I have to fight down a surge of excitement.

  “Please tell me that you’re thinking what I’m thinking?” I ask.

  Megan stuffs her gun into the band of her pants and smiles. We fill bags and bags up with chips, candy bars, beef jerky, warm pop of every flavor, peanuts, and anything else that strikes our fancy. When we’re loaded down with at least ten bags each, we head back to the suburban with large red gas cans in each hand.

  Ryan’s gotten the cover off the underground reservoir and has a long rubber garden hose dipped into the tank. The other end of the hose is in the gas tank, and he’s pumping away furiously on a hand pump. We put our haul inside the back of the car and leave the gas cans out for Ryan to fill before going back to see what else we can find.

  The store is a gold mine. I open up a warm Pepsi and take a long swallow while I flip through the magazine rack. Megan is rummaging behind the counter, pulling out packs of cigarettes and stuffing them in to her pockets and bra.

  I give her a scandalized look. “I didn’t know you smoked,” I say, and I know my tone is a little judgy, but I can’t help it. She flashes me a grin.

  “I don’t, but these will be in short supply soon and we can use them as currency if we come across more people.”

  It’s a great idea I have to admit, so I throw a few packs into each pocket of my jeans and a bunch inside the front pocket of my hoodie.

  “That’s enough gals,” a voice drawls from behind us.

  We turn to find the creepiest-looking man we have ever seen. He is only about five-foot-four, a full three inches shorter than me, and his greasy hair falls well past his shoulders. He’s wearing a blood stained pair of mechanic’s coveralls with the name Billy Bob on the front, and he has a gun pointed right at Megan.

  “Look mister, we don’t want any trouble,” I say, putting my hands up in surrender. The man’s eyes linger over my body in a way that I don’t like.

  “Too bad, missy, trouble’s all I got,” he says in a sing song way before letting out a nasally guffaw of laughter at his own joke. He motions with the gun towards a doorway at the back of the store. “Ladies first.”

  I see Megan’s hand twitch towards her pistol, but the man catches the slight movement out of the corner of his eye and turns to glare at her. She changes her course, planting her hands on her hips instead.

  “This is a terrible idea, we have friends outside,” Megan blurts out.

  The man laughs in her face, “Ain’t no trouble to me, I’ll just kill that boy out there and have you three pretty girls all to myself.”

  His hand grips Megan’s face, and he squeezes harder than is necessary.

  Megan spit’s defiantly in his face, and he retaliates by slapping her hard enough to send her back a few steps. “You’re a feisty one, that’s a good thing. You’ll last a lot longer than the last one did.” He laugh’s gleefully, and I begin to hyperventilate.

  We had been fools to think that zombies were the only thing left in this world that we needed to fear. The barrel of his rifle presses into my back, urging us through the door. The smell of grease and oil assault’s my nose the second we walk into the mechanics bay.

  The first thing I see on the floor is a huge puddle of dried blood, and it doesn’t look like the dark, disgusting blood of a zombie either. I look over at Megan and see that she’s staring at it too.

  “Don’t you two worry your pretty heads about that, it isn’t a problem anymore.” Billy Bob chuckles again, and I begin to realize that this guy is a psychopath.

  “Go sit over there,” he motions to the oily floor as he grabs a handful of zip ties from the work bench. He ties our hands together behind our backs and then zip-ties our ankles too. The ties are so tight that they sting and burn against my flesh whenever I try to wiggle even a little bit.

  He adds insult to injury by stuffing dirty rags into both of our mouths. “Don’t worry, I’ll be back after I deal with your friends,” he promise’s, patting Megan fondly on the top of the head. She jerks away, and he laughs again before practically skipping out the door.

  We are tied together so tightly that I can barely feel my hands. I use my tongue to slowly work the cloth out of my mouth and spit it out on the floor. I can tell Megan is doing the same behind me. My mouth is dry and burns from the gasoline that must have been on the rag. “Oh God,” I moan.

  Megan quickly shushes me. “We need to get over to that tool bench and get something to cut these ties off,” she says, taking command like she has so many times in the last two days.

  I agree.

  It is nearly impossible to move, bound together with our feet tied. Finally, we settle on inching along the floor, back to back. I feel like a fish flopping around on dry land.

  It is slow going. We have to crawl through the dried blood, going around would waste too many precious minutes. Sweat pops out on my forehead as I strain. My wrists are burning, and quickly becoming raw and bloody, and I feel a bit like giving up. The only thing that keeps me going is the idea of Billy Bob coming back in here after killing Ryan and laying his disgusting, hillbilly hands on me.

  We reach the tool bench, both of us panting, hot, and sweaty. I take a millisecond to rest my cheek against the cool, dusty concrete floor. It takes us a good three minutes of trying to stand up before we finally make it. Megan and I survey the bench. We both spot the box-cutting knife with its dull blade laying in a pile of junk. Megan leans forward and uses her face to knock the knife to the floor, it falls with a deafening clatter. We struggle to get back down, rolling around until Megan is able to reach it. She slices at the plastic that holds us together and gets my hand. I cry out in objection, but she doesn’t have time to apologize, and I don’t really expect it anyway, not in our current situation. She doesn’t stop sawing and hacking. Soon, I can feel the ties starting to give, and that makes the cut hand worth it. I strain against the zip ties and give a ragged cry of joy when I feel them break apart.

  When our hands are free, Megan does her own feet first and then mine. She bounces up like the energizer bunny before reaching down and giving me a helping hand up. She draws the gun from the waist band of her pants. Thankfully, Billy Bob hadn’t thought to frisk us—thank God. I guess looking like a pair of underage tween’s has finally worked to our advantage.

  “Maybe over there?” I suggest, bringing my bloody hand up to point at a door that hopefully leads somewhere other than the route Billy Bob took.

  Together we run over and listened intently. We don’t hear any moaning or groaning, so Megan aims her gun at the door. I quickly grow a pair and throw it open so Megan can shoot.

  The smell hits us right away, and my mind starts screaming zombie. I am so sure we have screwed up and opened the door on a zombie. As the light filters in through the open doorway, the darkness becomes a little less dark, and I begin to notice the buzzing of flies. I let out a gasp when I see the crumpled body on the floor.

  It’
s a bathroom and in it is a woman’s body, a few years older than us, and she is in rough shape. Tears prick my eyes as I stare down at her mangled body. I feel for a pulse, but she’s just cold. I go cold too, I don’t want this to happen to us. We have to get out of here.

  Tears are slipping down Megan’s cheeks, and she looks furious. We hear the pop of gunfire ring out from the parking lot. Megan’s face grows grimmer, if that’s even possible. Without another word, she marches out the same door that Billy Bob took.

  “Megan,” I hiss, sure she is about to get herself shot, but she ignores me and keeps walking. When we emerge back into the gas station, we are momentarily blinded by the sun. Our eyes adjust quickly. We follow the sound of gunfire to find Billy Bob crouched behind a stack of tires, laughing like a mad man while he aims and shoots his rifle at Ryan and Abby.

  Ryan and Abby have taken cover behind the Suburban and seem to be alright. Ryan is trying to return fire, though Billy Bob has pretty good cover.

  Megan doesn’t even hesitate as she lifts her gun and aims. The gun lets out a horribly loud bang. Then the back of Billy Bob’s head explodes, spraying anything within five feet with little bits of bone chips and brains.

  “Megan!” I cry out in horror. She has just killed a man in cold blood. I begin to hyperventilate not for the first time today.

  “Did you not see what he did to that woman back there?” Megan snaps at me.

  Reluctantly, I nod. How could I forget? I will never forget; the image is seared into my brain.

  “That would have been us. Or if we had managed to escape, that would have been the next poor woman or kid that was unlucky enough to stop here. That guy was a rabid animal, and he needed to be put down.”

  I nod numbly, my panic attack subsiding a little. She is right. I don’t think I would have been able to pull the trigger, but thank God she did.

  Ryan comes running over, his weapon still drawn. “Holy shit!” he yells when he sees the dead guy. He looks at Megan like he doesn’t know what to say.

  Megan ignores him and holsters her weapon while she walks over to the vehicle. I stare after her as she gets in the back seat and slams the door. I can feel Ryan’s eyes on me, questioning.

  “He deserved it,” is all I say before I follow Megan out to the Suburban. The reasonable part of me knows that we can still use stuff from the gas station, but the current sixteen-year-old, traumatized version won’t let me step foot back in that place.

  Abby climbs into the passenger seat and none of us say a word. Ryan disappears into the store for ten minutes before coming out with a bag full of stuff, his face so grim that I know he must have found the woman in the bathroom.

  “I found flashlights and batteries, and some other stuff,” is all he says when he slides into the driver’s seat and adjusts the position to fit his tall frame.

  He passes the bag back to me, and I add it to our rapidly increasing pile of stuff. The gas cans are strapped to the roof with bungee cords. I’m glad they aren’t in the cab, the smell would have given me an instant migraine. The way today is going, I don’t need any help.

  Ryan puts the vehicle into drive and pulls out far more smoothly than Megan has managed so far. Since I just saw her blow a guy’s head apart, I wisely keep the criticism about her driving to myself. Abby pulls the map out and shows Ryan the direction to take, and pretty soon, we are back on the main road.

  None of us speak for a long time. Abby rummages around in the glove box and finds a mix cd. She pops it into the player, and soon we have music filling the cab. It’s nice to hear something so normal. I’m pretty sure the upbeat Pop isn’t Ryan’s usual jam, but he doesn’t complain, and it is way better than the static.

  We skirt around towns, but we can’t miss seeing all the damage and destruction. We pass more zombies than people. The few remaining people we do see, passing by in other vehicles, look heartbroken and weary as they drive by with long, pale faces. Weirdly, seeing these people actually makes me feel worse.

  I think a lot about Ryan as we drive. Up until earlier today, we had no idea how lucky we’d been to come across someone decent. Had Billy Bob stumbled across us earlier, without weapons, without someone like Ryan…we could have been dead right now—or worse, wishing we were dead. Not for the first time today, I thank God for Ryan’s appearance in our lives.

  My thoughts turn to my parents next, and I pull out my phone from my pocket. There are no bars, but I still have half of my battery power left. I click my camera and flip through some photos of my parents and me on a Disneyland vacation a few months ago. A horrible pain begins in my chest as I look at our smiling faces, and I flip the hood up on my sweater and turn my face to the window as I begin to cry.

  I’m not sure when I fell asleep, but I wake up to Megan shaking me gently.

  “What’s going on?” I ask, my senses already on full alert.

  “We need to find somewhere to stay for the night.”

  I feel a shudder go through me at the idea of dealing with any more of this crap.

  We are on some rural country road. Ryan signals and pulls into a driveway. The yard looks like it has been well maintained. He pulls up in front of the house and gets out of the vehicle, looking around for any sign of the undead.

  We don’t get very far before the front door creaks open, and we are greeted with the business end of a shotgun.

  “I don’t care what you want, but you better get gone.” An older man, with a terrified woman staring out at us over his shoulder, is standing in the doorway.

  “Sir, we are just looking for a safe place to stay the night,” Ryan inquires politely, but his statement is met with the sound of the shotgun being pumped.

  “We’ll be on our way then, we don’t want any trouble,” Ryan holds his hands up to show that he’s not reaching for a weapon while he gets in the car. I notice that, even though his demeanor is relaxed, he’s careful to keep an eye on the gun until we are out of its range.

  “We’ll try the next one,” he says with determination and picks a driveway a few miles up the road.

  My heart is pounding in my throat. After our experience with Billy Bob, I am so leery of live people. The yard is filled with old junker cars that are rusted out, some are up on blocks and others look like the tires have simply melted into the grass. I don’t like it.

  “Maybe we shouldn’t stop here either,” Megan says, voicing my own concerns.

  Ryan glances at his watch. “Alright, but we only have about another hour of daylight,” he warns.

  We all nod in agreement; I don’t think any of us want to stay at this house.

  The next farm is much less creepy and we pull in. It’s actually a log cabin with a beautiful wrap-around verandah. Ryan gets out and knocks on the door, but there isn’t any answer. After a full five minutes of waiting, we try the knob and find it locked.

  “Great,” Abby mutters, but Ryan doesn’t seem very upset.

  “Will you girls keep an eye out for zeds?” he instructs us.

  We nod, turning around to look out at the yard.

  From the corner of my eye, I see Ryan digging around in a flower pot, lifting the welcome mat, and moving various rocks scattered around the deck. He stops for a moment and scans the porch before heading over to a weathered-looking BBQ. “Yes!” he exclaims excitedly, and we turn to see him holding up a key. “Found the spare.” His excitement is infectious, and we all grin like idiots over our small victory.

  “Keep your guard up,” Ryan warns.

  Megan nods.

  We send Abby back to the car to keep the motor running in case we need a quick getaway. She readily agrees, and I’m pretty sure she isn’t ready to face a zombie. Who would be?

  The house is already dark enough that I don’t really want to go in.

  Ryan runs back to the vehicle and pulls out one of the flashlights he took from the gas station. “Ready?” he asks.

  I shake my head. I’m not, but I don’t really have a choice.

  Ch
apter Five

  The beam of the flashlight cuts through the darkness, illuminating a path through the darkened house. The three of us move as one unit as we enter. The smell of something decaying hits us right away.

  “Don’t fire your gun unless it’s a last resort, we don’t want to attract anything,” Ryan warns Megan.

  From the corner of my eye, I can see him holstering his own nine millimetre in favor of a large, curved hunting knife that he’s been carrying on his belt since the gas station. The thought that he’s planning to stab something to death, even an ex-human to re-death, is disturbing to me. The house looks like it was well cared for when it had occupants. The walls are lined with family photographs, and it makes a lump form in my throat, so I look away. A thumping noise up ahead is a bitter reminder that, obviously, this house still has at least one occupant.

  My steps falter, but Ryan’s never do. He moves cautiously towards the noise. I’m reminded of that commercial…maybe it was about firemen…they are running into danger when everyone else is running out. It is such an odd thought to pop into my head at this moment. I actually smirk, which feels totally creepy and out of place in this serious situation.

  Ryan comes to a stop outside a closed door. The wood looks as if whatever is inside has been trying to get out for a while now.

  “I think there’s only one,” Ryan speaks after listening intently for a full five minutes. His voice sounds like he’s using a megaphone to advertise our location. I want to climb underneath a blanket and hide.

  Inside the room, the clawing and scratching gets worse. The zombie lets out a feral growl, and it makes my legs turn to jelly. I’ve never intentionally been this close to one before, not without running for my life, or trying to bash their head in.

  “Can’t we just leave it in there?” I ask, not proud of the whine that has wormed its way into my voice.