by Matthew Boyd
Somehow, the door held long enough for Paul to stack up almost every object in the basement. Box upon box of canned food, gallons and gallons of water, even every round of ammunition was piled up in front of the basement door. There must have been 2,000 pounds of supplies holding back the horde just on the other side of that threshold.
For two months Paul lived like a mouse, making as little noise as humanly possible. The entire time the zombies beat against the door unceasingly or walked about above him. The constant pounding was driving him slowly insane. Once or twice Paul put the 1911 against his temple, ready to give up. He pulled back the hammer and wrapped his finger around the inviting trigger. There were no tears. The metal taste of the barrel and the burned smell of the gunpowder and the thought of how it might feel to pull the trigger and blow his brains out would stay with him for a long time. Somehow he knew that even if he escaped this prison that he built for himself the day might still come where the only exit from the nightmare was the permanent one.
With nothing to do other than read or eat in silence, his newest form of entertainment was listening to the zombies. The growls and moans of those things were somehow oddly still human, and sometimes as he listened to them on the other side of his door he thought he heard them speak. One day he had a disturbing thought.
"What if they are still really alive and just trapped inside some diseased body and unable to control themselves? Have I murdered some of these people?" He thought, as his mind reeled at the morality of it. Was he a murderer?
"No. I had no choice,” echoed in his head. “I had to do it."
His mind was completely twisted and every day hope seemed to drain away from him. When he slept it was out of sheer exhaustion. Whenever he did eat his food was uncooked and cold and he knew better than to try turning on his radio. He even turned the pages of his books carefully and covered the lantern when he dared to use it, afraid the light would seep through a crack in the door somewhere.
Paul was at the end of his rope. After a while the world started to seem totally empty. Perhaps there was no one left. Maybe everyone had changed into these monsters. Thoughts of how this all had come to pass began to fill his mind. His mood shifted from a depressed one to one of anger.
"How could this have happened? There must be someone still out there that can tell me how this occurred and why!" raged in his thoughts.
Eventually the only thing Paul cared about was finding a way out. Somehow, the will to live was still there. Surviving and finding out the truth prevailed.
Now, after two months trapped in the basement, after two months of floorboards creaking to announce a zombie above him, after two months of the pounding on the door, his time here was nearly up. The supplies were almost gone now. They had dwindled away to almost nothing.
Paul looked around and took stock of his surroundings and himself yet again. His clothes were all filthy and stained and his skin was covered in dirt and grime. He smelled horrible, but he had gotten used to the smell of body odor now and barely noticed it. A shower or just a quick wash with some of the water would have been nice but long ago he stopped caring and decided to conserve every last drop of water for drinking instead.
Trash and bags of waste were added to the pile in front of the door. There was still enough other stuff to keep the door secure, but just barely. Every time one of those things smashed against it he watched as it shuddered open a few inches. The zombies never seemed to tire and it was only a matter of time before they managed to get in or he managed to die of thirst.
Paul counted what he had left. There was enough water for three or four days. He had saved most of the bottled water for last and had nine 20-ounce sized bottles remaining. There were six MREs and two cans of Spam. He had four cans of mixed vegetables and one still unopened can of mixed nuts.
Sporting scuffed black steel-toe boots, camouflage cargo pants, a thick, gray, and thoroughly stained hooded sweatshirt, a black 10 pocket tactical vest from his paintball days, a pair of yellow leather work gloves with the trigger fingers cut out, and topped off with an old beat-up orange and white dirt bike helmet with goggles and matching pads, Paul felt as ready as he could be to face the world outside his basement.
His appearance was like some homemade suburban Road Warrior, and if he had a mirror he would have probably laughed at himself. Twelve magazines of .223 'Silver Bear' 62 grain hollow point were loaded into the pockets of his vest and cargo pants. A side-by-side magazine of the same was inserted into his AR-15, which was sitting on the wooden workbench. Paul loaded his Glock and its magazines and tossed it and as much varied ammo as he felt he could carry and run with swiftly into his large duffel bag. He tossed the rest of his food and water in too. With a last thought, Paul added his Eton radio to the bag and zipped everything up.
It barely all fit and felt like the bag weighed at least 90 pounds. The large duffel bag had seen some heavy loads in the past, but never this much.
"If only I spent a little extra and got a real backpack, but this will have to do." Paul thought, still having his doubts if the thing could hold it all, but hoping it would at least hold his gear long enough for him to get out of the house.
Moving fast would be extremely difficult but he would most likely not be coming back to this place, this hell he had lived in for what seemed like an eternity. So much ammunition would be gone forever. It seemed like such a waste, but there was no way to take it all. A makeshift strap made of an old, faded red t-shirt was knotted and attached to his 10/22, which also rested next to the AR-15 on the workbench. Paul loaded the magazines on his 1911 and added them to the last empty pocket on the back of his pants, opting to holster the .45 as his backup. He had even taken his old aluminum tee-ball bat and rigged it up to a belt harness. It was time to go to war. Paul closed his eyes and whispered a hushed prayer. Everything was ready.
"Ok. Go time,” he whispered quietly.
His plan was about to unfold, and everything depended on the stolen VW Beetle that he had parked outside the house six months ago.
Chapter Five: Escape
September 1st, 2012. 11:50pm
Striking a match against the cold stone surface of the basement floor, Paul lighted 4 cans of sterno. The blue flame quietly flickered and waved, slowly burning off the gel alcohol in each can. Hesitantly, he placed the metal grill from his portable camping stove over the lit cans of sterno. It looked like he was ready to grill up some steaks or burgers, but he had something else in mind.
After all this time, all these months, the things had never left. Paul had initially thought that sound was what drew them in, but they were somehow just intelligent enough to know he was hiding in the basement. For days on end he would remain almost completely still and quiet, only moving to take a drink or a small bite of food, but it was futile. He thought perhaps they could actually smell him, and shuddered at the thought. If that were true, his plan would be a total failure and a swift end to his life.
“Here goes nothin’,” He thought.
Paul extended his arm, pointing it towards the front of the house. In his hand was the remote entry fob to the Beetle. He had no way of knowing if the battery in the thing was still even functional. It had sat in his driveway for the past six months without being started or driven. Pressing down on the panic alarm button with his thumb, Paul closed his eyes tightly and mouthed a silent prayer.
The most glorious sound could suddenly be heard, muffled by the basement door and the walls of his house. The VW’s horn began to honk loudly, in regular and rapid intervals. Thankfully, the battery still had some life left in it. Animalistic growls pierced the air as the zombies all heard the car alarm go off. They immediately ceased their pounding on the door, and hundreds of footsteps rushed in a great clamor away from his position and towards the VW.
Now was his chance. He had no idea how long the alarm would last or if the zombie’s attention might somehow be steered back to his location when it finally cut out. Paul quickly began to shuffle the remai
ning bags of waste and the few boxes of supplies he was not going to carry with him away, removing his barricade. Around the grill he had placed all of the remaining propane fuel cells he had left and all of the ammo he had moved away from the door. He reached over to the counter and snatched a plastic bag that he had filled with gun powder recovered from several hundred rounds of ammunition. He placed it gingerly into a plain cardboard box, which he then sat directly onto the red hot camping grill.
Paul quickly scooped up his remaining gear and weapons, opened the door, and crept up into the house. Looking up the stairs, he could barely see anything. The interior of the house was very dark. Loud honking and glass shattering could be heard not far away. Step by step, he worked his way up. He had been so concentrated on being undetected, he almost didn’t notice the area behind him becoming more and more illuminated, and turning around, he could see why.
The cardboard box holding the gunpowder had already burst into flames. Any moment and the improvised gunpowder bomb would go off. With fear in his eyes, Paul dashed up the rest of the steps and through the open stairwell door. As he exited, he glanced over his shoulder and out the front door. Hundreds of zombies had gathered around the honking, lights flashing VW. They were smashing their fists and heads into it, breaking the glass and denting the metal. The roof was completely caved in and many zombies were on top of the car, shaking it and trying to bite through the metal. The poor VW looked like it had been in a devastating rollover accident.
No zombies appeared to be inside the house.
“That’s it. Sound has to be what draws these things,” Paul thought.
The kitchen was his first objective. Dashing by the open front door, Paul ran into the kitchen and opened the valve that controlled the flow of gas wide open. A delicate hiss escaped and he left the kitchen. He scrambled down the short hall way and through his small living room, praying that the alarm wouldn’t attract more of them on the back side of his property. The back door had been smashed in and lay squarely on the floor, its hinges and locks ripped out of the frame. As Paul sprang through the open doorway, he realized that his prayers had gone unanswered.
Three zombies were approaching fast, running across his backyard directly towards the sounds. With a hair-raising snarl the zombies pivoted their heads towards him and slightly changed their course to intercept.
He hadn’t wanted to use his firearms, wary of diverting attention away from the honking car, but he had no choice. There were too many of the damn things and they moved too fast to attack with the aluminum bat. Paul went to one knee and brought his AR-15 to bear on the incoming threat.
Steadying his aim, Paul let loose with a barrage of gun fire. Bullets tore through the monsters and threw up plumes of dirt on shots that missed. One of them went down almost immediately, shot in the head. The other two continued to advance, even after taking rounds to the midsection and extremities. Paul had used all the rounds in the magazine, and speedily withdrew it, spun it around, and reinserted the fully loaded side into the AR-15.
He had just enough time to squeeze off two more rounds into the neck and chest of the nearest zombie before it leapt, knocking him over. Dark, cold liquid poured out of the thing, dripping all over Paul as he lay struggling underneath it. The zombie swiped its hands, slapping roughly against his helmet which absorbed the impacts, then dipped its head and started to tear into his jacket. The second one had stopped short, and was doing everything in its power to bite through his steel-toe boots. Paul could feel the bones in his foot nearly break with each fantastically powerful bite.
He swung the butt of his weapon out savagely, making a solid connection with a resounding crack, breaking the jaw of the zombie on top of him. The creature appeared to be stunned momentarily and was unable to move its mouth. Paul took this opportunity to reach down and unholster his tee-ball bat, swinging with all his might at the zombie’s skull. The bat landed with a familiar twang, fracturing the skull of the zombie and sending it flopping over to his side, dead.
Paul sat up, reached back with the bat and loudly said, “Hey!”
The zombie that was chewing on his foot snapped its head up at the sound and Paul swung the bat, striking the thing in the temple. A mist of blood drifted through the air for a microsecond as the zombie fell over in a similar fashion as the first.
Paul wearily got up and brushed himself off. He was covered in the foul, tarry looking substance that had splattered on him during the fight. It smelled like a strange mixture of blood and decomposing flesh. Looking down at the defeated zombies, he wondered briefly how long they could go on living without food. They seemed stronger and faster than the average human. Blows or bullets to the head seemed to take them out pretty well, though.
“Just like the movies,” whispered Paul.
He glanced around aimlessly for a moment before he realized that the situation had changed drastically. The car horn had stopped blasting.
Guttural growls and deep moans emanated from within his house. He could see fast-moving shadows through the windows as the zombies moved towards him en masse. Paul spotted the first one running down the hallway and towards the open back door, straight at him. He shouldered his rifle quickly and pulled the trigger.
Instead of the expected pop of the AR-15, the air roared with a deafening blast as the simple bomb he had made exploded. Paul was knocked off his feet as the fireball ripped outwards from the basement, fed by the leftover fuel and ammunition that had resided there. Splinters of wood and all manners of junk flying at high-velocity shot through the open space between him and the house.
Recovering, Paul gazed up at the sky and the now falling pieces of debris which dropped all around him. Night briefly turned into day in the light of a brilliant fire that consumed his entire house almost immediately. Zombies that had escaped the main explosion ran around in a confused state, burning with an intense orange flame that was nearly as bright as the fire in the house. None of them were moving toward him.
Feeling like his luck had just about run out, Paul once again got to his feet and scaled over the fence and into a neighbor’s property. He crossed the small yard past an overgrown garden and a jungle gym to a side door. Turning the door knob gently, he exhaled a sigh of relief that it was unlocked. Slipping inside, Paul shut the door and crept through the darkness to the master bedroom upstairs.
The windows in the bedroom let in plenty of moonlight for him to see his way around. There was a large bed that was still made, covered with a plain navy blue comforter. Drawers had been pulled all the way out and a few articles of clothing were scattered across the carpet.
“They must have gotten the hell out of here while they had the chance,” Paul thought, wondering if staying hunkered down in his basement had been the best idea.
A digital clock on a nightstand beside the bed was dark; the electricity was out all over town. Paul doubted that it would ever be turned on again. Examining the closet, he found a number of useful items, including a flashlight that still worked and some shirts that would fit him. He rifled through the medicine cabinet in the adjoining bathroom, uncovering a bottle of Percocet that was half-full and an unopened bottle of rubbing alcohol, which he promptly shoved into his already overflowing duffel bag.
Paul sat in the dark for a few minutes, peering out the window across to his still burning home. A handful of zombies were milling about, apparently lucky enough to have avoided the explosion or catching on fire. He couldn’t hear them, but he knew the terrifying sound of their moans by heart. Once the blaze died down, he decided to explore the rest of the house. It wouldn’t do to settle in for a fitful rest only to be interrupted by a zombie trying to chew his head off.
The other rooms upstairs were a tiny office with a computer desk and a child’s room. The office had been ransacked, papers were strewn everywhere and an empty safe sat open. Toys of all types filled a trunk to the brim in the child’s room. The drawers had been emptied here, too. All of the closets held a wide variety of random an
d completely useless items. Paul was just glad there were no monsters living in them. Finding nothing he could scavenge, he moved downstairs to continue the search.
Portraits of a smiling, cheerful family were hanging on the walls in the living room. In the photographs was an average-looking American family. The man looked to be about 30 years old, his wife the same age, and the child might have been 5 or 6. They were all brunettes and seemed absurdly happy in the staged, cheap photo studio prints. Paul remembered when he had a family and felt the way those people in the photographs must have felt. He wished that he had more time with them, but was glad that they had avoided this horrible mess the world had landed itself in.
The rest of the house was totally empty. Not a soul save himself occupied the dwelling. Paul back tracked into the kitchen, a sudden wave of hunger passing over him. He had some leftover supplies, but decided to see what might be available. Inside the refrigerator was some disgusting moldy meat and vegetables that he justifiably decided against eating. On the very top shelf of an empty cupboard he finally found something edible; a can of soup that had expired two years ago.
