Sven the Zombie Slayer

by Guy James

  A thought dawned on Sven as he began to push the shopping cart nonchalantly in the direction of the glow. Then he stopped, screeching the cart to a halt. He was suddenly certain of what was going on.

  It was a trick. The glow was a distraction to get him away from the entrance, so that whoever was trying to get in could get past Sven. It was a group of marauders, come to kill them and take over the supermarket. Sven was sure of it. His mind kept flashing on a zombie movie where a gang of raiders on motorcycles broke into a mall to dish out havoc on the humans hiding there. Their purpose was anarchy, destruction, rape, murder.

  All of that was happening now, already, this early into the zombie outbreak.

  People are crap, Sven thought, knowing it to be true.

  He shifted his grip from the cart’s handle to the shovel, but remained careful not to make any sudden moves. He turned around slowly, surveying all that he could in the moonlight. There was no sign of the rest of the marauder pack.

  Sven looked down at Ivan. “What do you think?”

  The cat was silent.

  Now Sven wasn’t sure what to do. If he approached the glow, he would put enough distance between himself and the entrance to let someone inside. Then again, Jane and Brian were in there, and they weren’t exactly unarmed. Maybe the irregular glow was just a firefly, or a group of them. Sven kept the corner of his eye fixed on the glow, trying to be subtle about his vigilance.

  It was time for a decision. Creeping around in the darkness in a world now ravaged by zombies was not something to belabor.

  Sven decided.

  He would neutralize the threat at once, return to the entrance to secure it, and proceed from there.

  With one hand gripping the shovel and the other gripping the shopping cart, Sven pushed the cart slowly toward the glow, glancing back every few paces at the Wegmans entrance.

  When he was close to the far end of the parking lot, within twenty feet of the glow that he now made out to be moving and flitting about—just like a firefly might—Sven let go of the cart.

  He held on to the shovel, scraping it off the top of the cart. Sven walked toward the glow, no longer trying to be subtle about it. The glowing thing pitched suddenly, and Sven saw the outline of a man, then Sven was running toward him, intent on one thing only—killing the intruder.

  Sven leapt over the curb into the wooded area where the glow was. The shovel was down to his side, ready to be swung. The blow was going to be lethal, he was set on that.

  Then he saw the man clearly, trying to crawl backward, trying to get away. He looked like a lookout, like a diversion. The man was small, frail, and haggard, and he was exactly what the marauders would use to deflect Sven’s attention from the break-in. The man was too small to do any damage on the offensive.

  Sven wasn’t going to let him get away.

  Sven swung the shovel, aiming at the lower part of the man’s head, at the jaw area.

  He swung with all of his strength.

  The impact of the shovel blow jarred Sven as it traveled back up the haft of the shovel, dissipating in his arms and upper back.

  The glow had been extinguished.

  98

  The vegan’s body lay in the dirt, motionless. The cigarette he had been smoking—the cigarette that had given him away—now lay snuffed out and bitten through next to his leg.

  The carnivorous man must have realized then that he had struck only the tree behind which the vegan had been hiding, because the carnivorous man raised the haft of the shovel upward, its point over the vegan’s heart.

  The vegan reacted, rolling sideways just as the point of the shovel ripped into the earth where he’d been lying less than a second before. He scrambled into a backward crawl toward the parking lot, scraping his hands against the rocks and twigs in the dirt.

  The carnivorous man wheeled, face flushed, lifted his shovel once more, and began to pursue the vegan.

  “Stop!” the vegan’s hoarse voice cut through the air. “Stop. I come in peace.”

  I come in peace? That was a weird thing to say, the vegan knew, but he couldn’t think of anything else. “I come in peace.”

  The carnivorous man slowed in his pursuit, seeming to consider the statement.

  The vegan took this opportunity and got to his feet, still moving backward. He stepped down into the moonlit parking lot, and the carnivorous man followed.

  By the light of the moon, the vegan now saw that his pursuer was not armed with tire irons, but with long, ancient-looking knives. For a reason that the vegan couldn’t place, this made him feel better about the man that had just tried to decapitate him with a shovel.

  The vegan shrugged. “I’m just looking for a place to hide from those things—from the ghouls.”

  The carnivorous man came closer, looking past the vegan toward the Wegmans. Then he lowered the shovel to his side.

  The carnivorous man looked the vegan up and down. “From the what?”

  “The ghouls, you know, the…”

  The vegan pointed to the center of the parking lot. “From those things.”

  “Oh,” the carnivorous man said, “right.”

  “Wh—what are you doing out here in the middle of the night…with a shovel? If I may ask, of course.”

  The carnivorous man seemed to hesitate a moment. “I was about to bury someone…a boy. There was an accident.” The carnivorous man hesitated again. “And then I saw you…and I thought you were part of a pack of looters…but I don’t see any looters now. Maybe I…”

  “It’s just me. And it’s understandable. I should’ve just knocked, but I got spooked when I saw you coming, and then of course I forgot to put out my cigarette.”

  “And you forgot your cigarettes on the stoop.” The carnivorous man pointed to the Wegmans entrance.

  “Oh, yeah, right.” The vegan extended his hand. “I’m Randy—not a ghoul.”

  The carnivorous man looked at the hand, then shook it. “Sven. Sorry about trying to kill you, I was sure…”

  “Hey, no worries. But can we get inside? I’ve been walking all day, and I was attacked…earlier I mean, I’m a bit injured, and I’m starved about to death.”

  “You can go inside if you want, but be careful, there are some jumpy people with guns in there—big guns.”

  “You won’t come in with me?”

  “I need to do something first.”

  “I’ll wait, if you don’t mind. I’d rather be introduced than surprise anyone else this evening.”

  “Suit yourself.” Sven paused. “Oh, here.” He reached into his pocket and threw something at the vegan.

  The vegan caught the plastic-wrapped bar and looked at it—a protein bar. “Thanks, but I’m a vegan…I don’t eat animal products. I’ll wait until we’re inside and find something.”

  Sven gave the vegan an odd look. “You don’t…even today?”

  “Even today.”

  Sven shrugged and walked to the shopping cart. He pushed the cart the rest of the way to the edge of the parking lot, close to where the vegan had been hiding. He removed the blanketed bundle and set it down at the edge of the wooded area, in the dirt. Then Sven took a few large strides into the woods and began to dig.

  The vegan stood and watched, feeling light-headed. He glanced back at the Wegmans entrance a few times as Sven dug, wondering if he should take his chances with the big guns inside. The vegan’s stomach felt all dried up, and his strength was completely sapped, but he decided he didn’t want to try his luck with any “big guns,” whatever that meant.

  He offered to help, but Sven refused, so the vegan got out of the way. He wondered if Sven felt guilty about the dead person, if Sven had somehow caused the death and was now forcing himself to do a kind of self-prescribed penance. The vegan could tell that Sven was injured from the way his body moved and the way he gritted his teeth with each shovelful, wincing as he strained to lift the dirt out of the deepening hole.

  The vegan wanted to ask about the cat that wa
s sitting and watching the scene unfold, its bright eyes shining like tiny green lanterns in the moonlight. He decided that now wasn’t the time. Cat-related questions could probably wait until after the burial, until after they were all safely inside.

  When Sven was done, he came over to the bundled body and picked it up, setting it down gently in the hole. Then he began to shovel dirt into the shallow grave.

  As the vegan walked up into the wooded area, he thought he saw something strange in the cat’s eyes, a sort of narrowing and shifting.

  99

  Ivan sniffed at the evening air, still wet from the day’s downpour. He knew that the big rain had come and gone. He knew that the boy was gone now too, along with the rot that had taken over the boy’s body. Ivan watched Sven now, putting the dead boy into the ground and making noises at the new man. The new man smelled like grass and fire and burning. Ivan liked that. Ivan sniffed at the air again, and he picked up a scent that had grown all too familiar that day. It wasn’t grass or fire or burning, and it was coming closer.

  100

  “May I say a prayer?” Randy asked, walking over to stand next to Sven over the grave.

  “You religious?” Sven looked at Randy, remembering how close he’d come to killing a man who now seemed completely innocent.

  “Yeah, some.”

  “You think it’ll help?”

  “Can’t hurt.”

  “Alright.”

  Sven looked past Randy as he said the prayer, checking that the Wegmans entrance was still clear. It was. Evan’s burial was almost done, and soon they would both be inside the relative safety of the shuttered supermarket.

  “Look out!”

  Sven spun, certain that the exclamation wasn’t part of Randy’s prayer.

  In the dark woods, like woken monsters stumbling groggily toward their prey, the zombies were approaching. They were coming through the patches of trees, bumping into trunks and limbs, completely non-reactive to the branches that stuck them in the face and tore at their clothes.

  One was a few feet away, reaching for Sven, and Randy ran away from the zombie, toward the parking lot.

  Stepping backward and getting his bearings, Sven gaped at Randy as he began to fumble with a book of matches and pack of cigarettes, frantically trying to light up as the zombies drew closer. He succeeded, jammed the cigarette into his mouth, and resumed moving backward, out of the trees.

  “Come on,” Randy said through his cigarette, “we have to get inside.”

  Sven tightened his grip on the shovel, feeling the rough haft against his callused fingers and palms. Then he lunged forward, stabbing the point of the shovel into the reaching zombie’s throat. The zombie’s head slumped sideways on the torn, broken neck, and it fell into the shallow grave, on top of Evan’s blanketed body.

  There were four more closing in now, and Sven advanced to cut them off before they could stumble into the grave on top of their dead friend. He sliced with the shovel twice, and finding it an ineffective substitute for stabbing, resumed stabbing. He stabbed two of the four zombies in the face, always aiming for the area around the eyes.

  Their skulls gave way under the blows, and they fell like kitchen appliances disconnected from an outlet. Sven missed the next stab, and settled for pushing the third zombie backward by sticking the point of the shovel into its chest. The fourth zombie he hit with the butt of the shovel’s haft, awkwardly missing his target and caressing its neck more than striking it a blow.

  As the two zombies that Sven had failed to kill stumbled backward, he had a moment to recover. He backed away, careful not to fall into the shallow grave, and saw for the first time just how many of the things were shambling out of the darkness—too many to count. This was not a battle Sven could wage by himself. It was time to run.

  Sven positioned the shovel horizontally and threw it angrily at the two zombies. Their approaching shamble slowed on the shovel’s impact, but they made no move to grab for it or pick it up. It hit them and fell to the ground.

  With the bit of time the flinging of the shovel bought him, Sven tossed the surprisingly light body of the zombie out of Evan’s grave, getting the idea too late that he should have thrown the body at the two zombies now reaching for him. Knowing that he was out of time, Sven hastily pushed the uncovered dirt into the open grave with his cross-trainers. It was a shoddy, rushed job, and he saw blanket peeking out from the moist earth, but there was no time to give Evan a more proper burial. It would have to do.

  “Let’s go,” Randy cried, “there’s too many now. Come on Sven.”

  Sven turned and ran into the parking lot. Randy was halfway to the Wegmans, beckoning to Sven and leading the way, a bright, moonlit fear in his eyes.

  Then Sven froze, chilled to the bone.

  Where’s Ivan?

  Sven whirled, looking in all directions, scanning the parking lot and wooded area from which he’d just emerged with a frenzied dread.

  “Ivan!”

  Nothing.

  “We have to get inside,” Randy said, but Sven barely heard him. He didn’t care about getting back inside if it meant leaving Ivan with the zombies.

  “You go in,” Sven said without looking at Randy. He was already running back toward the woods.

  101

  The vegan watched in disbelief as the carnivorous man—Sven—ran back toward the woods, toward the throng of approaching ghouls whose arms were so gnarled that they were barely distinguishable from the branches in the darkness.

  Where could the damn cat have gone? Of course the vegan loved animals, would do almost anything to save them, and he wasn’t sure if he even drew the line at risking his own life generally, but he sure did draw the line at risking his own life in the face of ghouls. He was sure that was not unreasonable, and still in line with his vegan beliefs.

  But what was he supposed to do now? He wasn’t going to leave Sven alone...was he?

  With trepidation, the vegan took a few steps toward the wooded area through which the ghouls were now starting to seep. Sven was already gone into it, no longer visible, his movements no longer audible.

  The ghouls were in the parking lot now, their reaching arms and seemingly sightless glares trained invariably on the vegan. Their smell was there, strange and unnerving in its inexpressibility.

  Backing away, the vegan took a trembling drag on his cigarette and cursed the carnivorous man, though he had to respect him more for going back for the cat. Then the vegan limped quickly through the tightening huddle of ghouls, and dashed painfully after Sven.

  Just as the vegan got to the curb, prodding himself onward through a reluctance that he knew to be completely justifiable, he caught sight of the cat, stretched out in mid-flight. Then it crashed into his stomach, knocking him backward and clawing its way up over his chest and face.

  When it was off him, but before the vegan even had a chance to pick himself up, a voice said, “What are you taking a nap or something?” and then the vegan found himself lifted up high into the air. Sven—it had to be Sven, the vegan thought—hefted the vegan up onto his shoulder and began to run toward the Wegmans.

  The vegan almost dropped his cigarette during the ascent, catching it between his pinky and ring finger, then jamming it forcefully into his mouth. The journey was bouncy and uncomfortable, and from the vegan’s position, draped over Sven’s shoulder, he could make out a great many staggering feet—far too many—all in the parking lot now. Sven was dodging and dashing around them, doing an expert job of staying away from the outstretched arms.

  Then there was an abrupt stop and the vegan felt himself being flung downward. He winced as he tried to land on his good leg. Sven caught him as he stumbled, then knelt down and heaved the shutter up with a roar that didn’t work to hide the physical pain behind it. The vegan could tell that the carnivorous man was hurt and exhausted, but those were issues to be dealt with later, in safety.

  The cat darted inside as soon as there was enough clearance under the rising shutt
er. Then the vegan did the same, helping the carnivorous man brace the shutter so that he too could enter.

  From inside the Wegmans, in safety, they pushed the shutter down together.

  Panting, Sven slumped against the rattling shutter, and the vegan shifted his gaze from Sven to the dim parking lot, looking at it through the shutter’s openings. The advancing shapes were unmistakable. The ghouls were coming, relentless in their mysterious need to pursue and capture their prey.

  The vegan felt a particularly painful stab of hunger, even as he watched the approaching hell-spawn. “Is it okay if you introduce me now...so that I’m not shot by your friends? I really need to eat something.”

  Sven nodded, pushed himself off the shutter, and began to lead the way into the supermarket.

  As they turned down the row of checkout aisles, the vegan heard the shutter rattle—the first ghouls touching down. He and Sven both turned to look.

  The shutter swayed under the pressure, screeching as the joints slid and bent. Without another word, they turned back to the interior of the supermarket.

  Sven led the vegan down into the row of checkout aisles and to the right, into a small clearing next to and partially within the Wegmans section of books and magazines. There were sleeping bags and blankets arranged in the clearing. Large, open bags of potato chips, jugs of water, banana peels, and stacks of granola bars were all strewn about the sleeping bags and blankets.

  A man and a girl were in the clearing, and both got to their feet when the vegan arrived, shooting alarmed, searching glances at Sven.

  When the girl drew out a mean-looking knife with a jagged blade, the vegan stepped backward, knocking into a revolving DVD rack and almost upending it.

  Sven put his hands up in a calming gesture. “It’s alright. He’s looking for a safe place, like we are...he uhh...he helped me with the burial.”