Brutal Planet: A Zombie Novel

by Sean P. Murphy

  Okay, so I made a hard right, jumped the curb, and moved through the less crowded section of the roadblock. At maybe five miles per hour, I gave the crowd plenty of time to get out of my way. People started banging on the car and yell at me. I began to hyperventilate and the already copious sweating went into overdrive. I needed to stop and help. Should I stop and help? By now, I could see what the family was looking at; some kind of sedan with a camper trailer attached and lying unmoving next to it was a man. His body faced the underside of the trailer with some tools next to him. There appeared to be a large wet stain coming from the body down the short driveway, not blood. He did not move, and the family did not move. They seemed to be studying the body. A body. It really was a body and I can do nothing. How? Heart attack? Stroke? The vehicle behind me was not so interested, and with horns blaring, hit me from behind. Yesterday this was a fender bender, but today it is a wakeup call, telling me that it is time to get my ass moving.

  I decided to swing out and around Bangor rather than going straight through. I did everything I could to keep moving; avoid the main roads, screw stop signs, ignore red lights, curbs, small hedges, lawns, accidents, pedestrians, and anything else that would slow me down. If the other lane or sidewalk was open, I took it. Just keep moving. There was one slight deviation. In front of some nondescript house, by the walkway that led from the driveway to the front door was one of those jockey statues holding a ring. I hate those damn things. By now, my mind was having some issues with reality and it seemed like running this over was a good thing to do. Besides, it probably came with a black face and nobody is coming to your fucking suburban house on a fucking horse! This will at least be some stress relief. It was just then that my GPS found its voice, reminding me to make a left turn. This was just enough to bring me out of my brain fog and realize that most of these statues are made out of concrete, and who knows how serious the owners were when they planted the thing. Screw slavery and the equine class, keep focused. By now, my Tom Tom was helping me along, not just with direction, but giving me the false impression I was not alone. Man, I don't know who pressed the panic button, but it seems like everyone got the message at the same time.

  It was during a shortcut, in some new suburb full of McMansions and immaculate emerald green lawns that I saw my first one. There was smoke from a side street and I glanced over. Nobody was behind me so I slowed down. About three houses up, a car had hit a utility pole, smoke and fire rising from under the crumpled hood. A woman was lying in the middle of the road with a small figure on top of her. Oh good. At first, I thought he was giving her CPR and I should stop and help. Suddenly, the child, probably around ten, looked up at me. Even from fifty yards or so, I could see blood running down his face and covering a grey New England Patriots t-shirt. In his hand was some grayish pinkish ropy material that I instantly knew was intestine. He jumped up and started running at me. Time to leave, so I hit the gas and in my rear view mirror, I saw him round the curve. Seeing them on the computer or TV is one thing, but in real life, wow! The kid ran like a sped up version of Forrest Gump with his head straight ahead and arms pumping away at his side. All that I could think of was how determined he is. A large black SUV bolted by me in the opposite direction doing at least sixty. The kid ran right into it. He disappeared from my rear view mirror for a second and then, thud! It was as if someone had dropped him from the sky. The force must have propelled him right over the SUV. As I pulled away, I caught a brief glimpse of the kid standing up.

  Chapter 7 ~ Shopping

  June 7th

  I opened my eyes and tried to focus at the wood above me. No way can I make out the grain. Note to self, glasses are a major pain in the ass during an apocalypse. My eyesight has been going south since my mid thirties, without them I can’t read. It was a major relief to score a pair in Tenents Harbor, an almost identical prescription. It was nice just to lie there, the gentle rocking of the boat, comfortable, safe, still sated from the night before. I began to see Bill’s point of view. Why don’t we hang out for another week or so and rest some more? I wasn’t certain when hurricane season began, but we surely had time to get some place south for winter. I mean, shit, it’s only June, or is it? What day was it? Thursday? It felt like a Thursday. If I got a calendar, I was fairly certain I could reconstruct the past couple of weeks. I wondered how long I could do this. Do I really care? Eventually, I heard Robert grunt, move around, and fart.

  I stood, stretched (God that feels good), looked out a small side window (I guess you don’t call them windows on boats) and glanced at my watch; six, and yet another clear ‘hey gang let’s broil on the boat’ day. Robert entered from his cabin, yawned, scratched himself, and looked at me.

  “God, John, you are some ugly in the morning.”

  “Well, with at least a little cleaning, my ugly goes away. Hung over?”

  “A bit. I need a shower.”

  We started up to the house to get some real coffee, clean up and say goodbye. As soon as we got topside, the roar from the town began. The undead were generally quiet during the night, but upon seeing us, they got about as excited as I did slow dancing with Mary McCarthy in the eighth grade. It was kind of like they remembered, ‘Oh yeah, that’s why I am hanging around.’ We entered the kitchen and surveyed the damage from the night before.

  “Did they go through another bottle of wine?”

  “Who cares, we didn’t buy it. What do you want for breakfast?” I was motivated to cook, and eat.

  “Coffee, black.”

  “Omelet it is! Who knows when eggs are going to come our way, let alone cheese I can’t pronounce.”

  So Robert went to shower and I cooked. This all seemed so normal; a frying pan, butter, toast, a spatula, a metal bowl, eggs, the smell of frying bacon. Halfway through, I just stopped and stared at all this crap spread out in front of me. Would I ever cook like this again? But just like thinking about today’s date, why should I care? Once we had finished eating, it was my turn to bathe. For a second, I actually think Robert considered cleaning up the kitchen, but only for a second. I yelled up goodbye when I left and closed the door. I think I heard someone holler something.

  We cruised along the coast, hitting up a couple of moored boats. Most of them had already been worked over. Occasionally, we did see some other boats in the distance, but only half-heartedly tried to make contact. We originally planned a nice easy score in Casco Bay, Ha! Fat chance. The bay is famous for its variety of small islands; unfortunately all inhabited and by now chock full of the undead. We talked about clearing one and moving down here. At least we would be going in the right direction. It took all of two minutes to realize that this would be a waste of time and seeing the behavior of Bill and Barbara, maybe not a viable option. After checking out a couple of locations, we came upon a restaurant on Seal Point. A descent size dock was next to it, the kind of place you could cruise in, eat, and cruise out. We were shocked to find no zombies around. The last place we looked, we had picked up three fans that were desperate to meet us. We inexplicably lost them a couple of minutes ago. Gated community? Staying as quiet as possible, Robert came around and dropped sail.

  “Let’s give it ten.” So we drifted around for a few. There were some decent looking condos further inland and a path along the shoreline with nice wooden benches every dozen yards. No zombies. Things were looking better and better. I might be able to do some shore time.

  “Any guess?”

  “I don’t know, John, maybe a gated community?” The minutes crawl by and still no zombies.

  “Okay,” Robert whispered. We docked and waited.

  “Well, what do you think?”

  “The quiet part bothers me, but this could be the goose that laid the golden egg. I don’t see any signs of looting.”

  We continued to scan and assess the situation. The dock was empty so we had a clear view and a nice kill zone should we get attacked. The front of the restaurant was all glass and looked to be the main dining area. Between the b
uilding and the water was a small service road that led to the back. I could just make out a set of concrete stairs and a yellow pylon with black bumpers attached.

  “Robert, that's got to be the loading dock over there, far end of the building, maybe a hundred yards one-way.”

  “That's a hell of a commitment. We cut ourselves off from the boat.”

  “Yes, but the water is right there if things get out of hand, and we can swim for those guys.” There were two small sailboats about twenty yards from shore. By small, I mean nothing but a glorified Sunfish. It would be one boat each and we would lose Providence.

  “Good point. I take the green one, let's go!”

  I put my string skills to use and tied off of the boat while Robert stood watch. I made sure my knots would hold, because coming back to find it had drifted away would suck.

  We crept up the dock. God, I was scared. It had been a while since I spent time on the mainland and I felt naked not having some tangible barrier between the undead and me. Every fifteen seconds or so, we would stop and listen. The wind, water, and some papers blowing about just increased the tension. Upon making it to the corner of the building, I peeked around. It was the loading dock. The stairs led to a metal door, and next to it was a large garage style door that the trucks would back up to unload. The layout of the stairs meant that we could not use our old routine, so it was up to me. I slowly went up and tried the knob. Oh, thank you, God, it was unlocked. It opened outward with a nice long squeal. Unfortunately, just inside the door was a series of long plastic strips. I guess this was intended to keep flies out, and I couldn’t see in. I had the big stick, so I went first.

  “Fuck it,” I whispered, and rushed in. Fortunately, no one was home because one of the plastic strips knocked off my glasses, and I was suddenly thrust between the conundrum of not stepping on them, or saving my life. I had to think about this one, but as I said, the place was deserted.

  Inside, was a large storeroom flanked on one side by a continuous row of windows. They were high enough so you couldn’t see in from the road. The various windows gave us plenty of light and a great view of the bay. It looked like the set from some sitcom; very clean, orderly, and a million-dollar view. Robert entered and we stuck together while we checked the place out. We knew right away that this was the golden egg. There were cases everywhere and a series of shelves, all well stocked and orderly. Knowing that the power had been out for a couple of weeks made not opening the couple of walk-in coolers a no brainer. I found a handcart we could use to transport our booty. There was a larger one, but this meant opening the main doors; they were automatic. We knew they would make too much noise, so we didn’t even try.

  On our first trip, we loaded up on pasta and sauce, probably enough for a solid month of the stuff. I worked the cart and Robert carried two cases of pasta. Every minute seemed like hours. Where are they?

  After storing the goods, we just looked around. It was eerily silent. The second trip went well and I relaxed just a bit. It was a nice haul of canned vegetables and soups. On the boat, we looked around.

  “This is just too weird.”

  “Yeah, John, I’m with you on that one. Where the hell are they? I don’t want to make ourselves noticeable, but this is just too good to be true.”

  I started to think that maybe there was a gate and we really did have this place to ourselves.

  “You know, if we are alone, this is some sweet ace in the hole, as long as no one else finds it.”

  “Don’t count your chickens just yet. Let’s hang for five or so and see what is what.”

  We both had binoculars and so far, our immediate vicinity stayed free of the undead. Further up the harbor, I could see a few scattered about but no one paid attention to us. On our third trip, we loaded up on a variety of foodstuffs of everything from green beans to peaches. It was time to get fat, again. Hell, another raid here, a few cords of wood, and we could survive the winter at the lighthouse. During the fourth trip, I started getting nervous, so was Robert.

  “Okay, let's not push our luck. I really don't like being on the mainland and this place just seems wrong.” You could easily hear the concern in his voice.

  “Just thinking the same thing. I am with you on the creep factor, way too silent. Alright, let’s make this the last load.”

  I started to wheel the handcart to the open dock door when I saw movement. She was young, maybe early to mid teens coming along the side of the building. Greasy blonde hair, shiny gray skin, and the tilt of her head were clear indicators that she did not bat for our team. The zombie hadn't seen us yet, but must have heard something, as she was moving in our direction.

  “Shit,” I whispered and froze. Robert instantly had his Glock out and a bead on the plastic strips, why they ever had these things is a mystery to me, but at least it would give us precious seconds before we were discovered. Then, there she was; a dark form in front of the dull opaque plastic. His shot would make the least noise, so it was his game. She stopped and her figure teetered back and forth. Although I couldn’t be sure of it, I knew she was staring at the plastic. I also knew that there was no way she could see us. This gave me a second to lean back and peer out the window. When it rains it pours, because now, at least three more were coming our way. I guess the cans of chocolate pudding and tomato soup were not going to make it on this run. Damn, I like tomato bisque.

  “More on the way!” I said loudly.

  Robert almost looked over, but maintained his composure. Good thing too, since at the sound of my voice, she came rushing in. As the strips parted, I could see she was wearing a summer dress, once white and cut low, now soiled and falling apart. Robert waited until she just cleared the plastic and fired a single shot. An arc of red mist sprayed over the strips. He had time to line up the shot and as usual, it was right on target, almost directly between the eyes. She dropped to her knees and looked at us. I mean she was still really looking at us. I thought for a second that this might be a new type of undead, and she was going to get up. It took another second before she fell on her face.

  “Robert, we got at least three coming up the lane.”

  “Okay, we go through together. You look right, and I’ll cover the rear,” then we charged the door.

  Going through those strips, you lose your vision for a second or two, but with homicidal maniacs waiting outside, those seconds seemed an eternity. I jumped the stairs and rounded the corner. There they were. The width between the building and the water was like that of a wide driveway or narrow road, and it made a nice killing lane. I charged forward to shorten the distance and fired. I don't know if it was a man or a woman, the body was so badly mangled and bloated. My shot hit it in the chest and lifted it into the air, arms and legs still moving as if running through space. I now realized that I had loaded slugs and not my usual shot. These suckers don’t spread pellets, so it is essential your aim is accurate, but when you do hit, the results are nothing short of spectacular. I had to be closer to be accurate. A chest shot would sever the spinal cord, not dead, but not moving very far or very fast.

  I could hear Robert firing and not in my direction. I had no time to look and see what was behind me, so I charged forward, fired, and missed. The next two were about thirty yards away, even with the dock. I fired again and caught one in the hip. It went down with a cartoon-like tumble. The next had once been a cop, its right arm hanging uselessly by its side. Then my pump jammed, so I did what every red-blooded American would do and started banging my loaded shotgun on the asphalt. I got it working and looked up for the second zombie. I did not have to look far. Running at me from about ten feet away was the cop. I went to the one knee stance a little too fast, lost my balance and tipped over on my butt. The aim was good and the monster very close, so as I fell backwards, I fired. The slug hit the upper chest with devastating results, but the zombie never slowed. He continued his forward momentum, passing directly over me, drenching me in decayed flesh and blood.

  I was now on autop
ilot, jumped up, and sprinted for the boat. Ahead, I saw more coming, a lot more.

  “Robert, get to the boat, NOW!” I screamed at the top of my lungs and shot at the group.

  As I approached the bow, I just blasted the line.

  I untied the port line and pushed off, giving the boat some slight momentum. By this time, the next zombie was in range. I went to one knee, took careful aim and fired. He was a portly fellow and I hit him where his once generous beer belly had been. Although it spun him and knocked him down, he was up again quickly. The next round seemed to clip his head and he went down and stayed there. I could feel the boat moving away from the dock, inch by inch.

  I saw another near me drop, so I knew Robert was on his way.

  Next in line was a small girl with long red hair and a leg brace. Having never had children, I was clueless of her age, so let’s just say six. She was ahead of the others and I could just make out what she was trying to vocalize. It was high pitched and melodic, almost like she was singing. She had a limp, but this didn't seem to have any real effect on her speed. She was a smaller target and by now, I should have known she was too far away, but I fired anyway and of course missed. I have to calm down and let her get closer. Having never had children meant I had no sentimentality when it came to shooting them. Watch my breathing. Come on baby, come to oblivion. At about ten yards, I pulled the trigger.