Z.N.A. - Origin

by Matthew Boyd

  Paul tapped on the sides of the can, feeling for any signs of swelling or leakage. It appeared to be intact. It had a pull tab, so he conveniently was able to simply pull on the top ring and open the can. He inhaled deeply, smelling the contents to reduce the chances that he would be eating food that might cause him to be sick. Being bent-over with diarrhea was the last thing Paul wanted with those things running around out there. Detecting nothing unusual, he dug a spoon out of a nearby drawer and ravenously consumed the soup cold right out of the can.

  Satiated, Paul sat down on a large leather couch in the living room and listened to the world. Blessed silence was the only sound he could hear. He had escaped the zombies, at least for now.

  “There must be other people that have survived, like me,” Paul thought. “I need to restock some food and water and see if anyone else is out there. Maybe I’ll get lucky, or maybe I’ll just wind up dead, but anything is better than sticking around here any longer than I have to.”

  He put the empty soup can on the glass coffee table and walked upstairs to the master bedroom. Closing the door behind him and locking it, Paul took off his gear and dropped into the bed. He was asleep before he even had a chance to get under the covers.

  Chapter Six: Contact

  In his dreams, Paul relived his escape attempt. In this version, however, the car horn failed to provide a distraction. In a last-ditch effort, he removed the barricade and tried to fight his way out of the basement as hundreds of zombies forced their way in. They quickly overtook him, tearing his arms and legs off. He screamed when a zombie that looked like one of his friends tore into his neck.

  “Ahh!”

  Paul awoke with a start, sweating and breathing heavily. The sheets under him were soaked with perspiration. He fanned himself lightly with the covers, the cool air breezing over his skin in a comforting way. Groaning as he stood up and stretched out, Paul looked around, feeling strange at not waking up in his basement shelter.

  He moved over to the open window and looked down at what remained of his house. There was nothing more than a burned out husk, still smoldering in the dawn’s light. Little swirls of smoke curled up from the charred structure and were taken by the wind and dissipated into the air. Most importantly, he could see no sign of the zombies. They had either moved on or been destroyed by the explosion and resulting fire.

  Paul walked into the bathroom and grabbed a large towel. He attempted to wipe as much of the blood and gore off of his jacket as best he could. His pants and sweatshirt were a total loss. Paul had no interest in wearing something so caked in whatever the sick combination was that had leaked out of the zombies. He still didn’t know if whatever had infected these people could be spread or not and didn’t want to find out the hard way.

  He rummaged through the closet and removed a soft and clean polar fleece zip-up hoodie. It fit quite well. He found several pairs of well-worn jeans which were about two sizes too big, but alleviated that problem by drawing them snug around his waist with a plain leather belt. He planned to eventually find some clothes that fit him better.

  What was on his mind presently, though, was food.

  Paul barely had any food or water remaining in his bag, only enough emergency supplies to last him a few days at most. He tossed on the jeans, grabbed his gear, and walked downstairs. Everything was still quiet in the house. He could hear birds chirping loudly outside. Peering out the window, he could see no signs of zombies anywhere. Paul decided to move out and check another house nearby.

  He encountered no threats and easily walked right through the broken back door of a neighbor’s house. The inside was a mess, and he nearly gagged at the severely decomposed corpse that was sprawled out in the living room. Lying on the sofa next to the body was a handwritten note, which Paul picked up and read.

  “Please forgive me. They are coming in and I can’t stop them. I will –“

  The note ended.

  He returned quickly to the kitchen and looked around. There were a few food items which he took and some bottled water in a small cabinet under the sink. It would be enough to last him a few more days.

  Paul continued his scavenging efforts for over a month. Some homes were completely barren and some yielded a few canned items and perhaps some water. He occasionally ran into a hungry zombie, which he easily dispatched. Some people had remained inside their homes, hoping to wait out the threat. They had still become infected. Paul assumed he must somehow be immune to whatever was causing it to happen. There were no signs of survivors in any of the houses, at least until the day he found the house with the model R/C plane.

  There, he found a letter:

  “Linda – if you get this note, we decided to bug out. These damn things have taken over the entire neighborhood. It’s not safe here anymore. I’m taking the Jeep and driving with Molly to the Tyler Lake campground. I think it might be remote enough to avoid them. Get here as soon as you can, and be careful!”

  P.S. – I left you some clothes and supplies in the black bag in the hall closet.

  Love,

  Tim

  Paul held the note in his hands, rereading it several times. He thought about taking it, but decided to place it back on the kitchen counter where he found it. Tyler Lake wasn’t too far off, about 50 miles North. If he could make it there, perhaps he would find other survivors.

  “Well, it’s worth a shot,” Paul said. “Now to find a car that will run.”

  Paul decided against taking the emergency supplies that had been stashed away for whoever Linda was. He didn’t feel right taking it if there was any chance she might still be alive. Rooting through the kitchen, though, he found a dozen bottles of water and some canned fruit which he took with him.

  Setting the small case of water and supplies on the front door step, Paul looked out into the neighborhood for a vehicle he could obtain.

  There were a few that looked like possibilities; a red Focus that looked brand new, an older-model Dodge pickup, and a blue Caravan that had some age on it. He walked across the street to check them out,

  The Focus’ engine turned and started right up immediately. Paul shifted into drive and began to pull out of the driveway, but he felt like something was wrong when it began to bump up and down. He stopped, jumped out, and saw that a back tire was flat. The Dodge flatly refused to start for him at all; the battery was completely drained. The Caravan made the cut. It started right up and had about a quarter of a tank of gas.

  He drove it right up to the house and tossed all his gear and supplies into the back area. Paul placed his AR-15 on the passenger seat next to him and removed his helmet and goggles.

  “Here we go,” he said to no one. “God, I hope this works.”

  He drove down the street of his neighborhood, taking it all in. Destruction was everywhere. Flipped cars, wreckage partially blocking the road, and homes that had burned to the ground dotted the area. He saw a few dead bodies that looked like they had been stripped of flesh, not much more than skeletons baking in the sun. As he passed by the front of his house, he saw over a dozen blackened corpses and the burned-out, crushed remnants of the VW Beetle that had saved his life twice. Accelerating, he exited the neighborhood and pulled onto the main road.

  Flipping on the radio, Paul scanned the AM and FM stations for anything. He was greeted with only static. The first few miles were uneventful. He had seen no zombies or survivors. The main road was surprisingly clear of downed vehicles. The ones he did see were parked on the side of the road. As he drive along slowly, Paul noticed a rhythmic thudding sound. It got louder and louder as he drove on. Rolling down the window, the sound increased dramatically. At first he thought he had a flat tire and began to curse loudly at his rotten luck, but as he slowed to a stop the noise continued. Within moments, the sound overtook his vehicle and he poked his head out of the window, looking up.

  A camouflaged military helicopter flew by, nearly right on top of him. The steady and loud thudding of the propeller consumed everyth
ing for a brief time, as the helicopter passed right over him.

  “I’m saved!” ran through Paul’s mind, until he realized the pilot had not seen him.

  Frantically, Paul laid on the horn and shouted at the top of his lungs at the quickly moving helicopter, now nearly half a mile away.

  “Hey! Stop! Stop! Come back here! Turn around!”

  Paul watched as the helicopter flew on, never altering its course in the slightest. He head butted the steering wheel, resigned that rescue was not in the cards for him today. While he sat in the idling vehicle in the middle of the street with his head against the steering wheel, he felt even more lost and alone than ever.

  Then the zombies attacked.

  Caught off guard, Paul jerked in surprise as nearly a dozen zombies came running out of the nearby woods from all directions towards him. They had heard him shouting and blowing the horn. Before he could hit the gas, they were pounding against the walls and doors of the van, rocking it back and forth violently. Glass shattered, and one of them was trying to climb in through the passenger window.

  Paul floored it. The Caravan had an unexpected amount of acceleration and the tires chirped as the tires caught the pavement. The zombie that had broken the window still hung on, halfway inside now and struggling to reach Paul. With a gloved fist, Paul struck out, punching the thing in the face. He retracted his hand painfully after the punch. Other than a brief delay, the only effect was a broken hand.

  The AR-15 still rested snugly in the passenger seat. Every time he reached out for it, the zombie clawed and gnashed its teeth at Paul. It was like all the others, but this one was a female. Most of her hair had fallen or been torn out. Only a few strands of filthy brown hair were left in her scalp. Half of her face had been completely torn away. Paul could see her skull and empty eye socket.

  “Man, lady, you are ugly!” Paul shouted while attempting to kick out with one foot and expel the thing before it could get any farther inside with him.

  His attack was ineffective. There wasn’t enough room to maneuver inside the van while he was trying to drive. The zombie continued its assault when the van suddenly ran off the road. Paul spun the wheel, overcorrecting, as the van hopped back onto the street. It began to fishtail and the zombie nearly fell out, but managed to remain holding on with its head still inside the window.

  Paul slammed the brakes, sending supplies in the back crashing forward into the back seats. The tires screeched, laying down two long, wavy stripes of rubber on the asphalt as the vehicle ground to a sudden halt. The zombie became airborne, flying 70 feet through the air in front of the van and landing on the road with a loud crunch. Catching his breath, Paul stared at the creature through the windshield as it lay in the road unmoving. The van idled silently and he looked at the instrument panel to make sure there were no warning lights on. Slowly, the zombie woman began to sit up. Her breasts had spilled out of the tattered clothing she wore. The skin on them were gray and decomposing. Her body was covered with scrapes and dark black bruises. Every piece of fabric that was left of her clothes was dark with stains and blood.

  Paul punched the accelerator, sending the van right into her. The bumper connected with her head, crushing her skull and blasting her body backwards and then under the wheels. Body parts thudded loudly against the undercarriage as the van bounced over her, finally spitting her out, her body rolling along the pavement. Paul looked into his rearview mirror as he pulled away. The mangled zombie wasn’t much more than a pile of shredded flesh. The group of zombies he had left behind were just coming up over the hill behind him. He gassed it and headed down the road.

  There were no other encounters as he continued his drive North. Paul counted his blessings as he passed a faded sign reading, “Welcome to Tyler Lake.” Big wooden arrows pointed the direction towards destinations in the area.

  Going straight would take him to the campgrounds. A small cabin was on the road to his right, and the arrow told him it was the lodge of the forest ranger. It looked deserted. A winding dirt road led off to the left, about fifty feet ahead. It led to a large communal shower and restroom facility that campers that didn’t want to “rough it” could use. Paul remembered that there were vending machines outside the place with snacks and sodas. Perhaps he would check it out later. He pulled forward, straight down the road to the campground.

  Through the trees he could see abandoned tents and pop-up campers in many of the small camping lots. People had been here, but there was no recent sign of life. He slowed a bit as he came around a turn. There was a dead body lying on the side of the road with an axe buried in its head. The dead zombie was wearing a green uniform with an empty holster attached to a belt. Nearby in the ditch was a park ranger hat, shining gold badge displayed in the center and secured by a small brown leather strap. This was obviously not a bear attack. Someone had recently taken this one down.

  The asphalt turned to gravel as he reached the end of the road. There was nothing. No people anywhere. Paul shifted the van in park and cut the engine. The fuel gauge needle was hovering directly over the big red “E”. Overhead, vultures circled something dead or dying in the woods. He had come all this way and nearly been killed again following some damn letter.

  He swung open the door and stepped out, his boots kicking up some dust from the dry roadway. He listened hard and scanned the area for anything. Then he heard it. It was the laughter of a playing child, barely audible.

  Paul snatched his AR-15 and put his helmet on. The sound had come from somewhere just ahead of him, through a large clump of trees that bordered on the edge of Tyler Lake. Examining the ground, he could just make out what looked like a trail through the grass that had recently been used. Breaking into a jog, he headed down the trail and into the woods.

  He came into a clearing. There were 3 large RVs and some vehicles parked in a circle around a large, extinguished campfire. There was a small back road that led into the hidden area on the opposite side of the clearing. He removed a glove and felt the air over the ashes. It was still warm.

  Paul spun around quickly, weapon at the ready, when he heard the unmistakable sound of a shotgun being racked behind him.

  A big man wearing a button-up flannel shirt, jeans, and an orange trucker’s cap stood there, with a frown on his bearded face and a 12 gauge shotgun pointed directly at Paul. In the window of one of the RVs, he could see a woman pull a little girl away and close the blinds.

  “I don’t want any trouble!” Paul said shakily, still pointing the AR-15 at the man. Sweat began to bead up on his forehead under the hot motorcycle helmet.

  The man’s features changed. His frown was replaced with a look of concern and recognition.

  “I’ll be damned,” he said, in a deep, southern accent. “He ain’t no zombie.”

  The man smiled broadly and pointed the shotgun away. He waved his arms around in big spirals and gave two loud whistles.

  “W-what?” Paul stammered.

  “It’s ok, boy. Put yur gun down. Jesus. You gon’ shoot somebody swinging that thing around like that!” the man said, walking toward Paul with an outstretched hand.

  Paul watched as a man came out of hiding from behind one of the RVs. He was wearing a black bandana with skulls and crossbones, holding a weapon that resembled an AK-47. The man walked toward him, still pointing the firearm in his general direction.

  “Tim, it’s ok,” the big man said, making a motion with his hand, “He’s not infected…you ain’t infected, are ya boy?”

  “Ummm…no. I don’t think so, sir,” Paul replied, slowly lowering his weapon.

  Paul could hear something making a scratching, skittering sound from the woods on his other side. He turned his head and saw a woman climbing down out of the huge oak tree. She had a large rifle slung across her shoulder and had short red hair. Her pale complexion contrasted against the dark t-shirt she was wearing and black cargo pants. The woman looked to be in her mid-twenties.

  “How’d you find us?” the man tha
t had been identified as Tim said, in a threatening tone. He still had not lowered his weapon completely.

  “Well, you might find it hard to believe, but I found your note,” Paul said, eagerly stripping off the unbearably stifling helmet. “I live…or um, lived in the same neighborhood as you, over on Brookshire Drive.”

  Tim had a surprised look on his face for a moment before his expression hardened. Paul reckoned he had just remembered the note he had left for Linda, most likely his wife.

  “I…I left it for her. She was…” Tim started, “But…that doesn’t matter now.” He put his weapon down beside an enormous tree trunk and sat down on it, lighting a cigarette. “Damn, I can’t believe anyone else got out of town alive. Those things were everywhere. Must have been hundreds of em’.”

  “It wasn’t easy,” Paul said.

  “This here’s Courtney,” the big man said, pointing with two fingers over to the approaching red-haired woman with the rifle. “We jus’ call her Red, um, for obvious reasons.”