by T. W. Brown
“Otherwise I would still be there,” Erin said, shooting an angry glare at Peter.
“I couldn’t save everybody.” Peter kept eye contact with Kevin as he spoke. “I would’ve if it were possible, but I’m not a soldier or a movie action hero. I’m just a med student from Cleveland.”
Kevin felt himself liking this guy. He knew exactly how the man felt in some ways. The last four months had wiped away just about every illusion he’d held about how cool it would be if the whole zombie apocalypse thing happened. He’d come to realize that bad actors—or probably even the good ones—could not convey the pain of seeing a friend die. There was no way to show how the nightmares haunted your sleep, tormenting you with the guilt of committing murder; even if it had been a demented pedophile who absolutely deserved it.
“So what about Darrin and Mike?” Shari asked.
“Darrin was shot by those guys the night you were taken.” He went on to explain the rest, including how Cary had showed up. Peter seemed particularly interested when he heard about the possibility of immunity and kept noticeably studying Heather’s bite scar, chewing on his lower lip absently as he did so.
Kevin explained how he’d figured out where Shaw had taken the Bergmans, and how he, Mike, Cary, and Heather were actually planning a rescue. He avoided talking about his main reason being Ruth, a strange voice in the back of his mind told him that would not be a good idea.
“So,” Peter said once Kevin was finished, “what do we do next?”
“I still think that heading someplace remote is our best bet,” Kevin offered. “But having been here for a week and seeing so little zombie activity, I think we can really take advantage and load up on supplies.”
“What happenes when we hit the road and reach some of those stretches that are clogged?” Peter asked. “How do the five of us move all these supplies you are talking about? Also, I’ve got Erin pegged as due to deliver any day now.”
“We avoid major populations and travel the backroads. Nobody’s gonna bitch if we drive through their yard.”
“True, but I crossed most of Northern Ohio, and I can tell you that there are places in the middle of nowhere with five mile long traffic jams. Also, these things are travelling in packs that number in the hundres if not the thousands, and they can show up anywhere; not just in the cities,” Peter explained.
“Why can’t we find a place not too far from here then?” Erin asked. “Why do we need to go someplace like Montana?”
“South Dakota,” Kevin corrected. “It has a sparse population, and…” he trailed off. Erin had a point. Time and again, things that he’d assumed to hold up from the movies and countless zombie books that he’d read were proving to be only halfway accurate at best. Why should they travel several hundred miles, constantly putting themselves at risk of drawing unwanted attention—living or dead—if they didn’t need to?
“Also,” Peter was nodding at something else Erin said that Kevin had missed during his internal monologue, “we are swapping the devil we know for the devil we don’t know.”
“I don’t understand,” Heather said.
“This guy Shaw,” Peter replied, “we know who he is. We also know that he just got his ass handed to him. From where we were hiding, we saw a dozen vehicles storm the area. I only actually counted four in their retreat. Plus, we watched a few of his men try to escape on foot. It wasn’t pretty. His numbers have to be way down, and it’s not like he can just open up a recruiting office or put out an ad for replacements.”
“The right location could be defended against the living and the dead if we set up in the anticipation of having to deal with both,” Kevin continued Peter’s line of reasoning. “That’s the thing I never considered when we used to talk about this sort of scenario.”
“You used to plan for this?” Peter asked incredulously.
“It was sorta like a hobby,” Kevin said with a sheepish grin. “Trust me, nothing seems to have worked out like we planned.”
“He was kind of a geek,” Heather said with a laugh.
“Then, since you probably have the majority of ideas that we could use immediately,” Peter announced, “you should lay them out for everybody to sift through. I’ve been flying by the seat of my pants these past few months; it would be nice to have a plan of sorts.”
“You asked for it,” Heather quipped.
Kevin shot her a dirty look, then began laying out his plans. Everybody listened intently, occassionaly interrupting with a question or request for clarity. After almost an hour, blessedly uninterrupted by zombies, they had the outline of a plan. And Heather had an idea as to where they could implement it.
* * * * *
2
Home Sweet Home
I keep having the same dream.
I’m back in my apartment in Seattle. I’m sitting on the couch with my Basset hound, Pluck, and I am watching television. My buddy Bill Wright is sitting in my recliner drinking a beer. He’s yelling at the ineptness of our team’s quarterback. Then, out of nowhere, he looks at me and shakes his head.
“How you just gonna leave Thalia and Emily, man?”
“I didn’t just leave them,” I snap back. “I led that herd away from the camp. I saved them like I was supposed to.”
“Is that right?” Bill was starting to change before my eyes. He always did this. That would mean—
“Just like you left old Pluck there to get his guts torn out baaa…” Bill’s transformation was complete. He was a putrid mess, and a dark, mucousy liquid dripped from his open mouth. His eyes were filmed over and bloodshot in black. For some reason, he was wearing a field utility jacket. I couldn’t recall if he’d been wearing it the entire time. The name on the breast stitched in white read “Ed.”
Looking down—God, do I always have to look down in this dream?—I see my loveable footwarmer of a dog. He’s on his side, his belly torn open, its contents spilled out on the couch in a stinking wet pile. His tongue hangs out one side of his mouth, all black and hideous looking. That’s when, almost on cue, the banging and pounding begin on all the doors and walls.
“They’re gonna get in.”
I look up and see Jack standing in front of the television, one side of his head has a neat bullet hole; the other is a gaping mess. Only, that seems normal, I’m more concerned that the game isn’t on anymore and what looks like a bunch of home videos are playing. It is scene after scene of me telling Thalia that I would always watch out for her.
“Is it my fault that you died, Jack?” I ask.
“Absolutely.” Jack comes and sits on the couch with me and Pluck. He starts scratching the undead hound behind those big floppy ears. “Barry is your fault, too. But if we are gonna make a list, do you want me to go alphabetical or chronological?”
“Are you gonna recite them?
“No,” Jack says with a conspiratorial grin. “But I will go over the highlights. It started with Mary Kinnet, the girl at the gas station. You shot her and left her to be torn apart.”
“She was bitten,” I protest.
“Are you gonna make me skip ahead to Steve Johnson, the guy you took out into the woods and shot in the head?”
“That’s not fair, he asked me to.”
“How many others, Steve?” Jack picked through Pluck’s bloody entrails.
“Why don’t you just say it?”
“You mean this?” Jack plunged a finger into a hole that suddenly appeared in his head. A hole I’d put there. “Actually, you did the right thing, I was gonna turn.”
“Really,” I gulped.
“No,” Jack said without emotion. “That was just a tiny kernel of your conscience dying, so you could feel better. I would’ve been okay actually.”
“Really?”
“I don’t know, Steve.” Jack got up and walked to the door. “All of this is going on in your head. However, if I were Jack, I’d tell you that you did the best you could for everybody. You’re the leader of the group, like it or not. But most of
all…Thalia needs you. NOW!” Jack left my apartment, slamming the door.
I opened my eyes. Light flooded the hallway. I was in the supply closet again. Alone. Hmm, I thought, that last part was new. I climbed to my feet, every muscle and joint in my body protested…some audibly. My stomach began its immediate symphony of gurgles and groans in a twisted harmony with those creatures outside.
I stepped out into the hall. I couldn’t believe it, but the smell was actually worse. It was like every foul odor in the world had been poured into one bottle, shaken vigorously, and dumped on my head. The problem being…I think I’m getting used to it.
“So…what’s for breakfast?” I rubbed my hands together. “Jack? When you get out of the bathroom, would you make us some bacon and eggs?” I called. The moans ourtide rose in volume.
I sauntered up the hall and knocked at the bathroom door. “Yo, Jack…you gonna be outta there anytime soon? A bunch of your friends are outside and want to see you. Plus,” I leaned my back against the door, “you’ve been in there like, forever.”
I chuckled at my own sick sense of humor and walked out to what had served as a game room. There was a ping pong table, a pool table, and a dart board. There was also a wall of stand-up video games. But those weren’t gonna help me pass my day.
First things first, I reminded myself. Walking through the room, I checked where everything had been boarded and nailed up. Everything was still holding up. My saving grace was that whoever had first stayed here, even before Billy and Ian, had cut off the stairs leading up to the deck in back. There would’ve been no way to secure that expanse of glass and sliding doors. Habitually I stopped in front of the vending machine. The glass had been busted out long ago, leaving empty racks. Not even a pack of gum.
I looked out back, a sea of dead bodies were packed in between the lake, and probably all the way up against the cinderblock exterior of the building. Once again I was thankful that the storage room downstairs had no windows. Of course I’d spent hours feeling my way around down there to no avail. Well, that’s not true…I sliced three of my fingers on my left hand on something large and metal and sharp. The only thing I was absolutely certain of was that there was no food down there.
Sipping from a bottle of water, I pulled open the sliding glass door. The stench equalized, it made me think of a diving bell, only it was the reek of dead bodies outside, balancing with the permeated stench already inside.
“Ahh,” I cooed in a mock falsetto, “my public.” A chorus of zombies made various sounds to indicate just how desirable I was to them. It was not unlike those film snippets of young girls going into hysterics over Elvis or The Beatles. Only instead of tears, they wept pus, and the caucophonous roar was several octaves lower. Although, to their credit, it was almost deafening; punctuated with a nursery of baby-cries.
“You like me,” I clasped my hands under my chin after wiping away an imaginary tear. “You really like me.”
I walked to the railing of the deck and stared down into the sea of faces. None of them looked familiar. In other words, I couldn’t spot Lee or Jason in the crowd. Of course, while I was certain Lee had joined the ranks of the undead. I could not be certain when it came to Jason. Hey, maybe I could add them to the names my dream version of Jack hurled at me when pointing out all the people I was responsible for killing.
Walking back inside, I sat down in one of the hard, folding metal chairs. Wow, I marveled, that wore me out. Walking that little bit, opening the heavy sliding glass door, then closing it again. Of course, I preferred this total sensation of exhaustion over the stomach cramps of the first few days. I’d already vetoed the idea of taking a stage-dive into the masses waiting hungrily below. Starving to death, while unpleasant, easily won my vote over being torn apart and eaten alive. Once the water runs out, this whole miserable experience might come to a fast ending.
I woke to what started out as a dull buzz, muffled and distant, but slowly grew to a whine, then almost a roar. It was coming from out back.
Climbing slowly to my feet, I could see that it had morphed into early evening. All the shadows were pointing the other direction. It’s amazing how observant you become when you have nothing but tedious boredom to occupy each grueling hour of the day or night.
Walking to the window, I stared out and noticed immediately that the zombies had all turned their backs on me. Literally. What the hell? I don’t know if I said that…or just thought it really loud.
Something low on the waterline flashed by; a rooster tail glittering in the late afternoon sun. I only had an armsbreadth view of the lake as trees on both sides screened off most of the vista. Once more the form shot past, this time going from left to right.
If it comes by again, I will concede the probability of this only being an illusion brought on by starvation-induced dementia. I walked to the sliding glass door, struggling just a bit to pull it open. It seemed heavier than last time. Of course the smell came in a rush, along with the obviously agitated sounds of the undead. The buzz grew, magnified by the now open glass door. And there it was…a small hydroplane flashed past again. Stepping out onto the deck I could see somewhat through the dense pines as the craft slowed, its roostertail vanishing, then a sheet of water as it turned back for yet another pass. Then I noticed something interesting; the zombies were pouring down to the shore.
I had absolutely no idea who this was, but they were giving me a chance. Maybe. I went inside, not bothering to close the sliding glass door behind me, and staggered through the building. I made my way to the room that I’d crawled through the window of when I first arrived. Did I dare to hope?
Peeking out from the side, I could see the long, two-lane avenue through the heart of this little town. Stragglers were still visible, but all of them were heading past this building! Then I saw two figures poke out from behind a big truck a couple of blocks away. Both were bristling with weapons. There was no doubt in my mind that they were heading straight for me.
I considered my options—which took less than ten seconds—weak and hungry, I would be no problem for at least two people packing serious weaponry. I pulled aside the bottom slat that I hammered into place, not that there was any chance of a zombie getting up and through a window as high above ground as this one. I’d done it mostly for peace of mind; even if I knew it was a placebo.
“Steve!” a familiar voice called as the two men closed in on me at a sprint.
“Aaron?” I stepped up on the box and tried to pull myself through the window. I heard the distinctive sound of a skull being cleaved, but was too occupied with my struggle now that I’d managed to work myself halfway out of the window. Kicking my feet and wriggling, my progress was anything but quick. I felt a tug which frightened me. I only realized in the split-second before I hit the ground that my pants were caught on a piece of aluminum window frame. That’s how I ended up facedown in the dirt wearing my pit-stained tee shirt and two-week-old underpants when Jamie Blossington rolled me over and extended a hand to help me up.
“Come with me if you want to live,” Jamie said in what had to be the worst ‘Ah-nold’ impersonation I’d ever heard.
Reaching up, I did my best to help get to my feet, al-though I don’t think I was being very helpful if the strained look on his face as he pulled me up was any indication. Looking past him, I could see the growing pack of zombies reaching and making their assorted zombie noises at the hydroplane.
“Let’s move your ass, old man,” Jamie chuckled as he led me away. “If we don’t get you back to the house soon, Thalia’s gonna take Emily’s offer on shooting lessons up and I’m not sure that zombies will be her first target.”
“What gives with the boat?” I asked, noticing that I was slurring my words just a bit.
“That’s Jason,” Aaron said, flipping up a plastic face-shield he wore attatched to a sturdy looking helmet.
“He’s okay?” I asked, more than a little surprised.
“Dude,” Jamie chuckl
ed, “he tried to catch up to you when you led that herd away. He found an irrigation or drainage runoff ditch and a huge concrete pipe with a grate. He hid out as the zombies made their way past. He caught a glimpse of you a couple of times, but he said you were a freakin’ animal…no rest, no breaks, stayin’ just out of reach.”
“But the hydroplane?”
“Yeah, he found it when he was trying to find a way to get to you,” Aaron replied. “Problem was, he needed help getting it running and down into the water. He ran back to the house, filled everybody in, then the three of us took off. It took longer than we expected.”
“How’s he gonna get back?” I asked, gratefully accepting a stale protein bar from Jamie.
“There’s a landing about a half mile down,” Aaron said. “He’ll beach it and catch up.”
We were at the on- or off-ramp to the highway—I wasn’t sure which in my dazed condition—and began hiking up. I glanced over once to take a look.
“Jesus,” I breathed. “I’ve never seen so many.”
The edge of the lake was a hundred bodies deep in some places. The zombies disappeared from view due to the woods, but I saw that one house Melissa and I had searched in the last supply run. It was completely engulfed by the walking dead.
“Yep,” Jamie said without looking, “that’s a lifetime supply of fucked down there.”
Before long, we were in the trees and angling uphill. I knew we wouldn’t be home in one day, but it didn’t matter. I was alive, safe—as much as could be expected these days—and fed for the first time in a while. They had a plastic jar of peanuts, powdered Gatorade drink mix to shake up in a bottle of water, fresh jerky, and two cans of mandarin orange slices. It was the best meal I could remember eating in a long time.
