I Kill the Dead

by Tony Urban

  “I’ll be a son of a whore!”

  In my entire life, I’d only seen one arm that possessed such impressive girth.

  “Bundy.”

  I picked up the piece of arm which was slimy and dripped maggots. It must have weighed thirty pounds all by itself and the skin felt like it was going to slough of in my hands. I was very glad to be wearing gloves. There were no identifying birthmarks or tattoos, but I knew.

  “We had our differences, but I wouldn’t have wished this on you.” I chucked the dismembered chunk of limb into the pit.

  Whatever happened here was over and done and I was never big into crying over spilled milk. I retreated to the Jeep, did a U-turn, and drove away.

  I didn’t stop driving until I came upon another road block. One too perfect to have been caused by a random pileup in the dawn of the apocalypse. This was manmade.

  There sat Wim’s Bronco, all the doors hanging ajar but with no sign of him or the others. All the many guns Wim had possessed were gone too. I thought they might have abandoned ship (or truck as the case may be) and walked around the bizarre mashup of abandoned vehicles, but then I spotted several aerosol cans scattered across the roadway.

  I lifted one and saw it was bare of writing or markings of any kind. I brought it in closer, caught a whiff, and my eyes immediately began to water. I pitched the can aside where it bounced twice then landed in the bushes.

  I had no idea what had gone down here, but last, I checked zombies didn’t use tear gas or chemical weapons or whatever shit that was. And I had no intention of finding out. I hoped the others hadn’t met an end as grizzly as big, old Bundy, but this situation was well above my pay grade.

  I was on my own, and it looked like it was going to stay that way.

  4

  July 23

  I spotted the pitcher first. At least I assumed the man was a pitcher because he clutched a baseball in his fist like it was stuck there with superglue.

  I’d been driving aimlessly since realizing my one-time companions were gone in the wind and I thought I was somewhere in North or South Carolina, but I’d lost track. Part of me knew I should get a plan together, to figure out my next move, but I was having trouble finding the motivation. Story of my life.

  My main goal of late had been stockpiling as much gasoline as I could find. I was up to twelve red plastic containers in the rear of the Jeep, but went through three or four of them each day. The Wrangler was a beast, but a gas hog. On the positive side, one of the good things about the current situation was that there was almost an endless supply of abandoned vehicles from which to siphon fuel. I’d even got good enough that I could spit out the tube before I got a mouthful of unleaded.

  I was filling a five-gallon container when I saw the pitcher. There was small-town baseball field ahead and a row of four-foot-tall shrubbery lined the outfield. The pitcher bounced off the green wall and gave a frustrated growl that caused me to look up from my gas heist adventure. I watched as the pitcher made an awkward 180 and headed toward the infield.

  Once the can was full, I placed it in the Jeep, then decided to check out the diamond. Before moving that way, I grabbed one of the conduit spears and the axe.

  Lately, I’d mostly been ignoring zombies or running them down with the Wrangler. Its steel bumper acted like a sort of battering ram that slammed them to the pavement before the knobby, 37-inch tires ran them over. Now was as good a time as any to see whether these tools could really replace my wonderful, murderous hockey stick.

  Rather than climb over the hedge, I decided to stroll through the entryway to the stadium. I had to unlatch a pair of metal double doors, but after that, admittance was granted - no ticket needed.

  I crossed through a small corridor which lead to the stadium. I guesstimated it could hold a few hundred fans, maybe a thousand at the most and that would probably be standing room only. There was a scattering of trash in the bleachers, empty popcorn boxes, half-eaten hot dogs. What a bunch of pigs. And there were no undead janitors around to clean up the mess.

  But my interest wasn’t on the stands, it was on the field. It turned out that the Cy Young wannabe wasn’t the only player to spend his afterlife on the diamond. A full roster of players, still decked out in their blue and yellow uniforms, wandered about.

  To me, they looked like teenagers. Or like they’d once been teenagers. I still wasn’t sure how that worked now that they’d ceased living. Were they perpetually the same age as when they died? Or do you count the time that passed. Ten years from now would these players still be teenagers, or would they be twenty-somethings in rotting, teenage bodies? I’d had too much time to think about such nonsense lately and was eager to fill my head with some good, old-fashioned killing.

  I strolled around the protective netting behind home plate, then hopped over the small rail that separated the fans from the field. A pudgy boy wearing a catcher’s mask was the closest to me. He didn’t even see me approach from behind and I didn’t make my presence known before swinging the axe.

  The blade hit the teen square in the neck and I’d worked up enough force that the tool tore straight through. The catcher’s head flew a few yards, rolling down the first base line and landing at the feet of #33 who looked down at the head, then up at me.

  It was game on.

  The first baseman stumbled toward me, his cleats catching in the dirt as he shuffled along. He was tall and blond with a muscular build. I thought he looked like the type of asshole who’d made my life hell in high school and, by the time he reached home plate, I was jonesing for the kill.

  The axe caught the teen in his cheek, shattering the bone as the heavy blade smashed through his face before ripping out the opposite side. It looked like a four-inch channel had been burrowed through the player’s pretty face, but I had no time to admire my handiwork before the zombie hit the ground.

  This felt good. I looked out to the rest of the team which had started to amble my way. I got into a batter’s stance at home plate and worked up my best announcer’s voice.

  “Now batting for the visiting team, Mead Myers. Mead’s been on a hot streak lately and shows no signs of slowing down.”

  The uniform of the next player labeled him #17. He had a mop of drab, brown hair that poked out from under his cap and he dragged along a wooden baseball bat as he walked. I thought about what a terrible weapon a bat would be when it came to fighting zombies. Too short first of all, plus the handle was bound to break at the worst possible time. But #17 wasn’t using the bat for anything more than a walking stick though so I guess it didn’t matter.

  I was ready to show him what a real weapon could do. I held my axe like it was my own Louisville Slugger and when the boy was within reach, I swung for the fences.

  Yep, this was exactly what I needed.

  5

  July 28

  I wanted to see the ocean. That was something I’d never done. Instead, I ended up in Baltimore and I was none too happy about it. I’d been trying to avoid D.C., cutting through small towns and suburbs on the west side of the Chesapeake Bay, but when I hit Hawkins Point, I made a left instead of a right and - boom - next thing I knew, I was in the middle of the Charm City

  It was my biggest mistake so far and I wanted to get out of there as quick as possible. Staying safe in a city of this size would be impossible. There were too many road blocks. Too many places to get trapped. That was why I’d avoided the cities in the previous weeks. Safety was in the rural areas and that was where I wanted - needed - to go.

  In the parts of the city where high-rises and skyscrapers filled the landscape, the zombies were everywhere. The seemed to be in a sort of daze until they heard the Jeep approach. That snapped them to attention and they moved out of the stoops, off the sidewalks, and came toward me in the road.

  It made me sick to see the sheer number of them, to realize the odds against me. But, now wasn’t the time to kill. I was one man in a city of millions of the undead. On that day, in that place, I w
as no longer a fighter. I was a runner.

  I stopped the Jeep on a section of Martin Luther King Blvd that looked reasonably deserted and rummaged through a pile of junk food wrappers and drained energy shot bottles in the passenger footwell until I came up with my tattered roadmap. I tried to take in the street signs around me, then match them up with the corresponding place on the map, but had no luck. The city was just too big, and I hadn’t a clue where I was.

  Then the zombie hit the door.

  I don’t know how I didn’t see him coming, how I’d lost so much of my situational awareness as I focused on the map, but it didn’t matter because he was beside me, reaching through the nonexistent window, and grabbing onto my shirt.

  I tried to pull free, but the zombie, a stocky, musclebound black man with a shaved head, wasn’t letting go. He was tall enough that his head and shoulders extended above the door frame, even with the Jeep’s massive lift. I could smell the rotten death emanating from his jaws as he snarled at me.

  The axe was in the passenger footwell, but leaning against the far door. No matter how hard I strained, I couldn’t reach it. Nor could I reach the spears in the back seat, not with this hulk holding me. Instead, I took the atlas and used it to slap the zombie in the face. That only pissed him off even more.

  Out of options, I hit the gas. The Wrangler lurched forward, and I felt the zombie lose his balance as his feet slipped out from underneath him. That transferred all his weight to my arm, and my entire body was jerked sideways where my shoulder hit the frame with a pained thud.

  I could hear his feet dragging against the pavement and pressed the pedal to the floor, swerving side to side, trying to shake him free. The Jeep felt like I was riding on a wave and I realized that any too sudden movement might not only shake off the zombie, but cause a roll over.

  Ahead, I saw a postal drop box waiting at the corner. I decided it was my best hope and, with my free arm, steered the Wrangler toward it. Even through my denim shirt I could feel the zombie’s fingers digging into my skin, the weight of him straining my shoulder joint. I wondered if it was possible that he could tear my arm off. In movies dismemberment seemed relatively easy and I hoped, in real life the limbs were affixed more permanently.

  As I closed in on the mailbox, I wanted to slow down, to somehow brace for the coming impact, but I wouldn’t allow myself to do that. I lined up the zombie with the big, blue box and the two connected at forty miles an hour.

  The zombie disappeared in an instant, like something out of a magic act. When I checked the mirror, I saw him sprawled on the sidewalk beside the crumpled and now askew mailbox. I didn’t know if he was dead and didn’t care. My arm and the Wrangler were free of him.

  When I turned my gaze ahead, I found three zombies clustered together in the middle of the road. There was enough room that I could have avoided them, but the adrenaline was coursing through me and I headed for the trio.

  As I closed in, I realized they were grouped together so tight because they were eating someone. Their mouths tore away stringy strips of flesh. Their hands dug into the victim’s skin and ripped it away greedily. The Jeep hit all of them simultaneously.

  A woman wearing a black, semi-transparent skull cap careened to the right. An old codger fell the other direction and I felt his bones crunch under the weight of the Jeep. And straight ahead, a crouching zombie with cornrows took the blow straight on.

  I expected him to fall because that’s what all the other zombies I’d rammed with the Wrangler had done. But he didn’t fall. His upper body burst through the push bar and the whole Jeep shook as his torso hit the grill.

  Looking out the windshield, I could see him stuck in there. His legs flailed in midair like he was trying to swim. I slammed on the brakes, expecting him to pop free, but he remained wedged amongst the bar and grill.

  “You stupid fuck nugget!”

  I didn’t want to leave the Jeep. I felt safe inside, or as safe as it was possible to feel in that hellhole of a city. But I couldn’t imagine driving around with a half dead gut muncher protruding from the front end. I grabbed the axe, opened the door and stepped foot in Baltimore for the first time in my life.

  I heard a low gurgling behind me and looked back to see the man who was being eaten moments ago was now crawling on the pavement, his mouth agape in the typical zombie leer. I must have crushed his legs in the impact because he dragged himself along the roadway using only his arms. His progress was sloth-like and I wasn’t worried about that prick.

  The cornrowed hanger on was another matter. When I came around the front of the Wrangler I saw his upper body was twisted and contorted through the push bar. His face and shoulders were smashed against the grill. One of his hands had disappeared inside the distinctive Jeep slats and I could smell its skin sizzling against the radiator.

  He saw me coming and its body writhed helplessly as he tried to simultaneously free himself and get me. It looked like a lost cause, but I didn’t want to wait and see if he somehow managed to pull a Houdini.

  I set the axe aside and grabbed his thrashing legs, pinning them under my armpits. It reminded me a bit of a childhood game we played once at church camp, something about a wheelbarrow. I didn’t remember many of the details because I rarely partook in the festivities since I never had luck finding a partner.

  I pulled on his legs, trying to squeeze him free. He didn’t budge. I took a deep breath and jerked harder, throwing myself backward. Still, there was no progress.

  “Motherfucker, get out of my Jeep!” A third attempt ended in equal failure.

  Fed up, I grabbed the axe handle. If this bastard wasn’t coming out whole, he was coming out in pieces. My only worry was missing and chopping the Jeep, but I aimed carefully.

  The first blow struck the zombie in the side, cutting open his love handle. Another chop went an eighth of the way through his midsection. I could tell this wasn’t going to be an easy job.

  It must have taken ten solid minutes of hacking away. and I was sucking wind so hard I thought my lungs might collapse. Chunks of flesh, bits of chopped up organs, and pints of blood covered the Jeep, the road, and me.

  Finally, I was all the way through the zombie’s torso. His intestines had fallen free, slithering and looping themselves around the push bar and bumper like gory streamers.

  Now, when I grabbed his legs and pulled, they extracted themselves easily. I dropped them to the pavement where they looked like a dirty, discarded pair of pants.

  During the ordeal, the zombie never stopped growling and groaning. If anything, his desperate cries seemed to escalate. I saw it watching me as I got closer with the axe. Its upper body was still entwined in the front end and his face twisted up in a snarl as I approached.

  “Fuck you too!” I smashed the top of the axe into its face and heard teeth break. When it opened its mouth, it looked like it had a maw full of partially eaten chiclets and that made me laugh a little.

  I hooked the axe head around its neck and pulled. It moved, slowly at first, but then the lubrication from the blood aided in the dislodgment and the top half of the zombie flopped onto the road face first. I didn’t bother with the axe. Instead I slammed my foot against the back of its skull and drove it into the macadam.

  Exhausted, I leaned against the hood of the Jeep to catch my breath. And that’s when a new zombie grabbed me.

  Fingers caught the back of my shirt, jerking both it and me upward. The fabric dug into my neck, hitting my windpipe and making me cough. I was already having trouble breathing and this wasn’t helping matters at all.

  I was dragged backward a foot, then two, and I could smell the rancid cologne of death as the creature pulled me toward it. I’d had the good sense to wear my helmet and I threw my head backward. I felt a jarring impact as the helmet collided with bone, and the hand that had been holding me let go of my shirt.

  When I spun around, I found a hulking zombie with long dreadlocks that hung past his shoulders. His dark skin had taken on an as
hen pallor and his eyes were a matching shade of gray. He was an easy foot taller than me and probably fifty pounds heavier. And he wasn’t just huge and angry. He was coming for me again.

  “Goddamn, I hate this city.”

  As soon as he was in striking distance, I pounded the axe into his face. The blade destroyed his jaw, but I’d swung a fraction of a second too soon and all the damage was superficial. Shards of teeth and gums tumbled from his mouth and onto the pavement. He groaned, but was ready for round three.

  I wasn’t. I didn’t even have enough time to raise the axe again before he was on top of me . All I could do was spin out of the way and let him stumble into the Jeep.

  I swung the axe, aiming for the base of his skull but couldn’t get enough height and buried the blade in his upper back instead. His arms flailed, clumsily trying to reach for the weapon but having no luck. I yanked on the axe, trying to free it from its newfound sheath but I wasn’t having much luck either and the handle slipped free from my grip.

  The zombie managed to turn around, the axe handle banging off the body of the Jeep, and he was on the move yet again. The only asset I had on my side was that I was nimbler, or at least, not a clumsy, undead bastard. I darted away from him, toward the back of the Jeep and grabbed one of the conduit spears.

  He was a yard away and closing in fast. I scrambled into the back of the Wrangler, ready to leap into the driver’s seat and speed away. Ready to abandon the axe, and the zombie, but I was annoyed, and I wanted to finish this fucker off for good.

  Inside the vehicle, I had the height advantage so when the zombie hit the tailgate, I had the perfect angle to drive the spear into him. I reared back, then thrust it forward, connecting with the center of his forehead.

  And the spear bounced off.

  That’s the thing with zombies. It’s not like the movies where theirs heads are made of paper mache. Their bodies aren’t any different from yours or mine. Their skulls are still really fucking hard. Sure, the spear opened a nice gash that would have taken an assload of stitches to close, but I’d be surprised if it made so much as a scratch in his bones. And it really pissed him off.