Left Behind: The Suburban Dead

by T. A. Sorsby

  I didn’t want to get tied down into another hand-to-hand with it. I knew I’d gotten lucky again. So I vaulted over the display, catching a glimpse of what was inside it: the guns.

  But they were there, unloaded, behind glass and locks, and I was standing there like a dick while the zombie staggered around the side. Seeing so many of them out on the roads you kinda think they’re slow movers, but when you’re stuck with one in an enclosed space, your biggest advantage, your speed, doesn’t mean a whole lot.

  I ran further into the shop, hearing my heartbeat pounding in my ears, and cast a look at the door. There were way too many locks and chains on that damn thing for me to get them all undone. Not before the zombie got to me. So I had to find something in the shop to club it to death with.

  I felt like that bald guy in that pulp action movie, he’s in the pawnshop, picks up the baseball bat, then the chainsaw and then the… other thing. It was like my prayers had been answered. I looked at one of the display cases at the right side of the room, just in the corner by the window displays.

  A fucking collection of swords.

  I knew that I couldn’t break the glass upstairs without a hammer, but this probably wasn’t security glazing and I was not thinking clearly. If I was, I’d have never thought I could get away with it.

  But I ran over to the display case and ploughed my elbow down into it as hard as I could, shattering the glass in one blow and probably inviting a hell of a bruise in the process, but at the time, I couldn’t feel anything but the pounding of blood in my ears. I cast a look over my shoulder and saw the zombie coming for me, knocking over a display stand half-full of sunglasses and reaching out with both arms, that empty moan coming from its cracked lips.

  I grasped the handle of the closest weapon, short-bladed, heavy, and pulled it over the hooks that kept it on display. I didn’t count on it also being secured to the case with plastic cable – it let me get the sword two or three feet out of its moorings before snapping to full extension. Well, shit.

  I dropped it, ducked under the zed’s arms and ran back into the shop, towards the counter. If it had to lurch around it again, I’d have time to pick up my gun and fire. But it was really hauling ass after me. I made it to the counter, glanced back as I swung my leg over, and saw it pulling itself along, grabbing the shelves and pumping its legs, every step nearly falling down. I was glad the pawn shop owner wasn’t one of the fitness freaks we’d seen, but the bastard worked out, if those pawned weights upstairs were any indication.

  I got on my hands and knees and looked around for my gun, but I couldn’t see it anywhere. It’d probably gotten kicked into the cupboard in the fight, and there was so much junk in there I didn’t want to get trapped looking for it. I looked at the back of the counter, and saw nothing but locks between me and the guns inside – which were still going to be unloaded anyway. Damn, damn, damn…

  The zombie reached over the counter and grabbed me by the hair, dead hands getting a grip on my nice clean hair. Pain and fear froze me for a moment as the zombie pulled, hauling itself onto the counter and pulling me closer. Fuck!

  I grabbed its wrists, my hands making contact with the cold, clammy skin of the dead. My gag reflex made me choke as I tried to stop its hands from pulling – not shoving it away like I should have, because that’d have hurt like hell. It pulled itself over the counter and fell on top of me, letting out another moan, right by my fucking ear.

  I tried to push it away, but all I succeeded in doing was putting my arm in its mouth – covered by the tough leather there was no way it was getting through, but it was only a matter of time until something happened. It’d just wrestle me until the adrenaline faded, or it’d pull its mouth free and go for the exposed skin on my wrist.

  ‘Holy shit. This is it. I am going to die.’

  My brain failed me. I couldn’t think.

  I’d forgotten I had friends.

  The claw-side of a hammer cracked into the back of the zombie’s head, and its grip on my hair slacked as someone hauled the zombie off me, using the lodged hammer as a handle.

  I looked up at the ceiling for a moment while my heart thudded in my throat, my vision narrowing on a patch of ceiling. Laurel’s face filled the tunnel, and I felt myself cough out a laugh, while tears welled up in my eyes. I felt cold, hot, sick, tired, buzzed, all at the same time. I could barely breathe past the pace of my pulse and all I could think of was how close that zombie’s mouth had been to my ear, the smell of its decayed breath as it moaned.

  Laurel knelt down and pulled me into her lap, wrapping her arms around me and smoothing my hair down. She put her chin on my shoulder and started whispering

  ‘It’s okay, you’re okay now, everything’s fine, it’s dead, you’re alive, you’re fine…’ she kept saying, over and over until I had the energy to reach up and touch her hand.

  ‘I’m good.’ I said, my voice coming out rough. ‘I’m good.’ I said again, giving her hand a squeeze.

  ‘Are you…did it…?’ she tried, her voice wavering.

  ‘No, it didn’t bite me.’ I coughed, putting more force into my voice. ‘Nearly. Nearly got me there, but…’ I cleared my throat, and used the counter to pull myself up to my feet. ‘You saved me. You saved my life.’ I mumbled, feeling a hot tear streak for my chin. It tickled, and I wiped it away with an irritated grunt. ‘Really thought I’d had it there.’

  ‘Just need good friends at your back.’ Laurel smiled weakly. I saw her eyes were shining, wet, just on the verge of tears herself.

  I clasped my arms around her shoulders, and she slid her’s around my waist, locking her fingers and pulling me closer. Neville came down the stairs a moment later, and almost tripped over the body of the zombie.

  ‘Whoa, can’t just leave this stuff lying around,’ he tutted, ‘could hurt someone.’ He added, putting his foot on the zombie’s head to brace it while he pulled the hammer out with a wet crunch and a sneer of disgust.

  He saw us both hugging, me holding onto Laurel like she was the last piece of dry land in the ocean.

  ‘What happened?’ he asked, his voice growing serious.

  ‘Shit.’ Laurel said, breaking the hug and turning around, ‘Shit happened. We should never have let him go in alone.’ She shot, before striding off to unlock the front door.

  Neville looked me up and down, searching for a bite mark, most likely. ‘Are you okay?’

  ‘Peachy.’ I replied, running a hand through my hair. I could still feel its clammy hands on me. ‘How did you know to come in?’

  ‘Screaming, breaking glass, zombie moans.’ Neville said, not even trying to act casual, like usual. ‘What’s the matter? You too busy to yell for help?’ he said quietly, his voice taking on a definite edge.

  I sighed, and sat down on the counter, holding my head.

  ‘Wasn’t thinking straight.’ I muttered, ‘Almost forgot you guys were outside until I heard Laurel running down the stairs.’

  ‘Buddy system, I told you yesterday.’ Neville said, his tone plainly accusing me now, quite rightly accusing me of being an idiot. ‘Nobody’s going anywhere alone from now on, okay? Always pairs or more.’

  ‘Alright man,’ I said, holding up a hand in surrender, ‘it’s my fault. Just…don’t go on about it. Didn’t we come here to do something?’ I asked.

  ‘Yeah,’ he sighed, shaking his head and looking down for a second, ‘yeah. We’d better hurry up. No telling when those guys will be back for Damian’s ride.’

  ‘Not gonna happen.’ Damian said, appearing in the doorway. ‘You good?’

  ‘I’m fine, quit asking.’ I said, taking a deep breath, trying to live up to those words.

  I found my gun in the cupboard under the stairs, while Neville searched the body for the keys to the cabinets and display cases. Laurel and Damian were supposed to be browsing the selection, but Laurel’s eyes were on me more than the shelves.

  Most of the pawnshop’s stock was the kind of stuff you’d expect. Old boo
mboxes, game consoles, a few bits of signed sporting memorabilia, TVs, DVD players, even one or two home-computer towers.

  But hell yes, there were a few things there we could use. Having been getting by with baseball bats and a pair of pistols, we finally had a chance to add a little extra firepower to our group. But to my absolute horror, the sword wasn’t real.

  It looked like a nice sword too. Not showy, not fancy, not like an action-hero’s oversized crotch-extension, just a functional straight-up sword. As it turned out, it was a ‘battle-ready replica’ – they all were. Heavy pieces of steel that’d nick their edges in one or two hits, if the blade didn’t slide out of its fixings first. I’d have liked a sword. It’d have made me feel better, especially after nearly dying.

  Nevertheless. We did find a few things we could use. Once we had the key to the display cases, Neville grabbed a few plastic bags and started shopping. There wasn’t too much, this wasn’t a gun-store, but there were enough new toys to make nearly getting eaten worthwhile.

  *

  Twenty Three

  ‘M1943.’ Neville said, bagging up an old magazine-loading handgun I’d seen countless times in movies or games. ‘Solid gun. Plenty of soldiers use an updated version, chambered for the same ammo, so we’ve got half a chance of finding more. Spare magazine, and a holster too.’

  ‘Who’s getting that one?’ Laurel asked.

  ‘We’ll divvy them up when we get back to the flats,’ I said, ‘I don’t want to be around when those guys in the SUV come back.’

  The next pistol in the bag was a lot smaller than the M19, shorter barrel, shorter grip, like it was intended for a smaller hand or concealed carry. The M19 looked its age with all that faded brushed steel, but so did this, with modern plastics and carbon fibre. It too had a spare magazine and a belt-clipping holster. With all of the holsters flying around, I was starting to feel a little jealous.

  ‘Seg 357. Some police prefer these to the nine-mills that Anita and I have,’ Neville said, ‘more shots in a magazine, lighter, more modern. But I’m of the school of thought that people are going to make less trouble around a bigger gun, so I’m not sold.’

  The third pistol was a revolver, the bigger, more badassed cousin to Edgar’s old Tetley. If people were willing to misbehave around smaller guns, then this was a real peacemaker. Polished steel and a dark wooden handle matched rather nicely with the shoulder-rigging holster it came with.

  ‘Problem with this Cobra, no speedloader here.’ Neville said, dropping the ammo box into the bag and throwing it to me. ‘Box feels a little light too, but we’ll do a proper count when we get back. I don’t want to be here too long either.’

  That was it for handguns, but while Neville was doing his shopping, Damian was at the other end of the store doing his. He had a long shotgun strapped over one shoulder and a sheathed blade as long as my forearm in his hand.

  ‘Me Uncle Robb has one of these on de farm.’ He said, tilting his head back to the shotgun, ‘You mind if I keep this one?’

  ‘You ever fired a shotgun before?’ Neville asked.

  ‘He took me hunting once,’ Damian smiled, ‘didn’t get anything, so we shot bottles instead.’ He smiled, a happy memory. A man his size probably wouldn’t have much of a problem handling the recoil from a shotgun.

  ‘What’s that?’ I asked, pointing at the sheath in his hand.

  ‘From the war, I think. Matches your gun.’ He said, passing it to me. It was bloody heavy; and the sheath was all metal, more of a case with straps and buckles.

  ‘And it’s not even my birthday.’ I said, pulling out the bayonet and grinning at Damian, ‘I’ll almost-die more often if you get me more stuff like this.’

  Most people, people who don’t watch a lot of history documentaries, think bayonets were just for the end of guns. Before they started manufacturing specialised trench-knives, the bayonet filled that function, with a lot of them never seeing use under a rifle barrel. I fastened the sheath to my belt; where it carried a reassuring weight. I’d never get caught without protection again.

  ‘Saw you were upset at de state of de swords.’ Damian said, ‘Now unless we got anything else, we got to be going. Lucile’s going to need de diesel, and if we going to be doing much more driving, my ride could do with a top up.’

  We still had the co-op to loot for food, but if our SUV friends would be making another appearance, that could wait until tonight, or tomorrow – we risked losing the food I guess, but we had to, they had too much firepower to argue over it. Neville grabbed the guns, Damian wedged his shotgun by the driver’s seat and we piled into hid ride once more.

  ‘Any ideas where we could find some gas then?’ Laurel asked, ‘I’m betting silvers to sandwiches every gas station in the city will be tapped – and do pumps even work without power?’

  ‘If we could steal an oil tanker we’d have all the gas we’d ever need.’ Neville hummed, as Damian got the engine running.

  ‘Are you actually suggesting that?’ Laurel snorted. ‘Where would we find one? A truck stop? I don’t know if you heard last night, but the motorways are a little bit fucked.’

  ‘Children.’ Damian said, flicking his eyes to the rear-view mirror as he pulled away from the curb.

  ‘Head to the garage, Smith Casey’s,’ I said, ‘we’ll get a hand-pump. Plenty of cars and vans blocking up the roads, and even if someone’s already thought to tap them, I’m betting they’re not all dry. Except for those soldiers we haven’t had to share the road with anyone.’

  ‘Sounds like a plan.’ Neville said, unfazed by Laurel’s teasing. ‘You know where Smith Casey’s is?’ he asked Damian.

  The big man nodded, and drove off past the flats, into suburbia again, and on towards Hillside. Most of the houses out near us weren’t modern by any standards. Pebble-dash exteriors for the most part – a neighbourhood where the windows might get smashed but the lawn will always be trimmed.

  Smith Casey’s wasn’t far. Maybe fifteen minutes on clear roads; which, since this road wasn’t on a main route, we had. It took a steep climb uphill at the side of a park, the kind of place fun-fares set up in the summer months, and when the road got level again we were there; quick as a flash. No messing about with roadblocks, taking detours or anything…Yeah, I should have probably realised that meant something else was going to go wrong.

  Smith Casey’s was a squat little place with a big gas station-style shelter out front that was a little taller than the building itself. But instead of there being actual gasoline pumps, there were supply cupboards and coiled hoses for valeting cars. At the back left of the forecourt was a rolling metal door way bigger than you’d find on anyone’s house garage, with an ordinary, person-sized door cut into it. I knew that the pokey office was through another door on the right side of the building, behind a truck that was up on blocks.

  Damian leaned over the steering wheel to peer through the windscreen. As we pulled onto the forecourt, I saw it too – a man, walking across the concrete with a bit of a bustle in his step. More people, live people. My heart raced faster as I wound my window down to call out to him.

  However, as the rumble of our engine caught his attention, he spun around to face us. There was a mass of chewed flesh and missing pieces, where his throat should be. I thought I even saw the grizzly tube of his windpipe, but it was too much, I had to look away from this one. I felt my breath stick in my throat as I fought to wind the window back up.

  ‘Damn, he almost looked alive.’ Damian muttered, hand going to his shotgun, even though he hadn’t loaded it yet, the shells still in his pocket.

  The zombie’s jaw dropped open as it raised its head to the sky, letting rip this primal, animal scream that bounced around the sheltered forecourt. That wasn’t the kind of moan we’d been hearing earlier, this was something else. I pulled out my pistol, broke the top open and checked the chambers. Five shots loaded.

  ‘Wasn’t limping as much as the others, not running at us either, but it is definitely n
ot alive – not human.’

  It started to stride towards us, a little faster than walking pace, but not breaking out into the sprint that we’d seen some of them do. Its eyes were fixed on us.

  Damian urged us forwards again and turned off to the left, like he was manoeuvring for a naval broadside. With the volume it put into that scream, I wasn’t going to risk attracting more of them by firing off rounds here; but the zombie still needed taking care of.

  I opened the door at the same as Neville, the sound of it echoing around the forecourt, along with the thuds of us dropping to the concrete. I pulled my bat out of the front seat and reached over to get Damian’s too. I tossed it over to Neville, who gave me a quick nod – ‘you first.’

  I didn’t feel the same adrenaline I’d felt the first time I’d squared off against a zombie, back in Greenside with Lucile. Maybe because I’d seen a lot more of them now, gotten used to the idea that the dead were up and walking. I guess people can adapt to just about anything.

  The zombie hissed at us, hissed - like a freaking snake, and took three quick steps forwards, moving faster than I was anticipating. I stepped forwards to meet it with the bat raised to my shoulder, and turned into the swing like a pro.

  I hit it out of the park.

  My bat crunched into the side of the zombie’s head, sending tremors of force up my arms. It spun to the ground, its hiss abruptly cut short. Neville looked down at it with the cricket bat raised above his head for the coup de grace, but the zed didn’t move again. He lowered the bat.

  ‘We’re getting good at this.’ He commented, working a crick out of his neck. Damian brought the 4x4 around, parking it in the centre of the shelter.

  ‘They still moving out of de centre,’ he said, bleeping his ride locked after they had gotten out, ‘going where de food is. We’re in the DMZ now.’

  ‘Demilitarized zone?’ Laurel asked.