This Plague of Days Season One (The Zombie Apocalypse Serial)

by Robert Chazz Chute

  “Get back or I’ll burn you alive!”

  When angry, Jackson was not a listener. Instead, he swung again and barely missed.

  Too stupid and mean to live, thought Oliver.

  Jackson, one eye squeezed shut and spitting gasoline, stepped close to his captive, too close to miss with his next swing. The boy raised his weapon over his head. In his left hand he was still gripping the lantern. That’s what saved Oliver. Despite his age and his pain, he had another hand free to fight.

  Pulsing with adrenaline, the old man grabbed Jackson’s crowbar. Expecting a tug of war, Jackson yanked back to free the weapon. Oliver was no match for the younger man’s strength and couldn’t resist the pull. Instead he fell forward. His greater weight fell on the boy as he toppled backward. More by luck than design, Oliver brought up an elbow to fend off blows to his injured ribcage. The meat and bone and blade of his forearm smashed across his attacker’s throat.

  The savage blow shocked and choked Jackson. The lantern dropped to the floor, its light a small circle. They were shadows moving in dim light, both wracked with pain and gasping for air. Oliver used all his weight, pushing through the burning, spreading pain. The crowbar clunked to the floor. The boy pushed away, got up and tripped over Oliver’s legs. He spun and twisted and tripped and fell into the pile of gas cans.

  Oliver’s first instinct was to run, but when the boy gathered himself up, he’d be on him again before he made it to the stairs. He knew he was lucky Bently and the twins upstairs hadn’t been drawn to the noise yet. More likely, the men were content to drink and listen to what they presumed was his brutal beating and slow murder.

  Oliver ignored his pain and groped through the dark to find the crowbar. His need for time left no room for pain.

  Or so he thought.

  The next moment proved what an arrogant idea that had been. As Oliver bent for the weapon, something hitched in his breathing and something in his back and ribs gave another horrendous crack.

  Oliver couldn’t simply push the pain away. Pain pushes back. He fell to his knees too heavily. The bare, cold concrete felt like knives driving into his old kneecaps. Pain rocketed up through his bones. It made him shriek, gasp and cry out again. Dropping so heavily to his knees felt almost as horrific as the pain through his chest.

  He’d heard getting gut shot was bad, but few things could compare to knee pain. He was too old for this fight. He was sure he wouldn’t have the chance to get any older.

  Oliver could hear Jackson moving, finding his feet, scattering the gas cans. In a just world, the kid would have been knocked out in his fall. In a movie, the boy would be out cold on the concrete and Oliver would have time to plot something clever for the men upstairs.

  Instead, the boy would pounce on him again and this time, Jackson would finish him. As he sought the crowbar, he imagined the sickening sound and the burst of pain if Jackson found the weapon first and brought it down with both hands, with all his strength, on the back of his neck.

  Yes. His captor would paralyze him first. Somehow Oliver was sure of that. It was cruel, so he was sure the boy would do it. Then the boy would take his time.

  Jackson was up, scrambling against the plastic drums. Thumping. Liquid sloshing. Scrambling in the dark, eyes still burning from the gas.

  If Oliver had been thinking clearer, he would have grabbed for the lantern first. But he wasn’t thinking. He was panicking. When he did scoot forward to grab at it, it was to throw it at the boy.

  He threw the lantern as hard as he could but, with broken ribs, it hurt to raise a hand past his shoulder. Oliver had hoped the lantern’s glass would shatter across Jackson’s face. Instead the boy caught it neatly, as if Oliver had given it to him in a gentle toss.

  Jackson let out a triumphant cackle. “Old man, you are a tough old fool, but you’re a dead fool.” Jackson raised the lantern high. The circle of light expanded and there on the floor, just out of Oliver’s reach, the crowbar emerged from the gloom. He snatched it up and got up on one knee before the boy ran forward.

  Jackson came at him, ready with the lantern to smash it down on Oliver’s head.

  The old man didn’t have time to draw back the weapon. He’d meant to swing it like a club and kneecap the boy. He was too slow for that. Instead he thrust it forward like a sword. The sharp prying end jammed in deep, just below the boy’s kneecap.

  Jackson shrieked and fell back. Lantern light caught the sheer pain. The boy’s face a topographical map of agonized surprise and white shock.

  Oliver heard voices upstairs. He couldn’t make out what they were saying, but by their tone, he imagined a drunken, confused debate. If one of those guards overcame their laziness to check out the ruckus, Douglas Oliver would be made very sorry.

  He stepped forward and grabbed the gas can he’d perforated with the little screwdriver. He made for the stairs in the dark.

  The old man left Jackson crying and writhing in the lantern light, his eyes rolled up so only the whites showed. The crowbar stood up straight, bisecting the boy’s knee. Oliver would have taken the bloody crowbar for a weapon, but he was afraid that if he paused, the men upstairs would come rushing downstairs at any second.

  A trail of gas from the leaking can followed Oliver up the stairs. He had to go by memory and feel, but in another moment he was at the back door and out into the cool air. He escaped into the dim angles and shapes described in the moonlight. Oliver limped away with a leaking gas can and his silver lighter gripped in a tight fist.

  Say farewell to your comfortable home

  As the goons from across the street jogged up behind Marjorie Bendham, Jack pushed Anna and Jaimie down the hall toward the door to the garage.

  Theo swayed toward the front door, threw the deadlock and pulled Mrs. Bendham into the house. He thought he had more time, but the man in Bermuda shorts and the man in his wife’s wedding dress were on her heels, shotguns at the ready. They breathed hard from their sprint, their white surgical masks puffing in and out with each drag of breath through the fabric. Theo could tell by their eyes they were smiling.

  Theo tried to slam the door but one of them got the barrel of his gun in before he could close it.

  “Get to the garage,” he whispered to the old woman and leaned against the door, determined to buy his wife and children time. Mrs. Bendham kept going without looking back.

  The men outside didn’t push at the door but didn’t let it close, either. “Hey, we’d just like to have a chat,” one of them said in a reasonable tone.

  “Go away,” Theo said, gasping. It wasn’t his strength but his weight that held the door. He was sure that if they really wanted in, he couldn’t deter them. However, Douglas Oliver had already packed the van. He heard the van start up in the garage and a small smile came to the edge of his mouth.

  The wolves at the door heard it, too. “Open the goddamn door or I’ll blast right through,” one said. His voice was so calm that Theo had no doubt the threat wasn’t an empty one. He turned and slowly opened the door.

  “Hi,” the man in his wife’s wedding dress said. He held his shotgun’s muzzle level with Theo’s chest. “We’re a couple Jehovah’s Witnesses. We wondered if we could come in and chat about your everlasting salvation for a minute? We don’t miss a house, so you may as well open up.” He let out a delighted cackle.

  His companion snorted and gave a high, grating laugh. “You better yell to whoever’s in the garage. Tell them they aren’t traveling anywhere without you. Tell them quick!” He held up his shotgun for emphasis, as if he was giving a toast.

  Theo stood before them, swaying and weak. “That’s my wife’s wedding dress you’re wearing.”

  “So?”

  Empty-handed and at their mercy, Theo struck at them with the only weapon he had. He coughed, long and hoarse and wet, into their faces.

  They wore masks, of course, but still they turned away, cursing. Theo had hoped that anyone still left alive wo
uld have seen enough death. He hoped they’d run from him, that he’d be dangerous enough that both men would retreat. Instead, they nodded at each other, stepped back two steps each and raised their weapons.

  “It’s not murder if you’re already dead, compadre,” the one in Jack’s dress said.

  Theo closed his eyes, taking one last, ragged breath. How fitting, after carelessly killing Kenny with the blast of a shotgun so long ago, that he should die the same way.

  That long ago meadow seemed close again. Theo had held his friend in his arms and watched the stars come out and listened to each halting, hitching breath get slower. The space between each breath stretched until it reached forever.

  The men hesitated when they heard Jack rev the motor. Jack waited for Theo to race in — as if he could run at all. She prayed her husband would throw himself in the van’s open side door and they’d make their Butch and Sundance escape.

  Theo knew he wasn’t up to a Hollywood escape. He knew Jack knew that, too. She should have already jammed her foot on the accelerator.

  “Go! Just go!” Theo yelled. “Don’t wait for me!”

  He would be blown back by shotgun blasts. At the sound of the twin blasts, Jack would know what had happened. She would step on the gas and the van would shatter the garage door as she drove off, far away from these wolves who only looked like men.

  Theo had expected to die on Douglas Oliver’s couch of the wretched virus. He had waited for it for many hours. He’d had time to consider Death and taste it. He’d waited so long, he was impatient for it.

  Then Theo heard the creak of a hinge behind him. He felt as if he was swallowing a stone. Even before he looked over his shoulder he knew that his son had come back for him. Jaimie stood looking at his father, one hand held out, offering it to be held.

  Theo’s last words were, “Run! Go!”

  Jack blasted the van’s horn.

  The man in Bermuda shorts cursed and started for the garage as the man in the wedding dress stepped forward, teeth gritted, aiming his weapon, his finger tightening on the trigger.

  A deafening roar erupted as, across the street, the Spencer’s house exploded in orange and red wrath.

  Goodbye to tea, clotted cream and scones

  Douglas Oliver’s pants were on fire and he could barely breathe. Fire and debris rained down around him. He rolled and swatted at the lit cloth with his bare hands. Bending made his ribcage worse, as if all his nerve endings were on fire as well. He rolled until he’d strangled the fire and snuffed it out.

  He wanted to fill his lungs with the goodness of the cool air, but he couldn’t. The bellows of his lungs were still working, but in shallow, painful gasps. He wanted to shout for help but the effort was too much. Pain shot up his left leg. It was more than a burn. His knee worked but the ankle protested with a sharp signal of agony when he tried to move it.

  Still immortal, Oliver thought. No one ever died of a twisted ankle. Not yet.

  His gas can was empty before he was halfway across the Spencer’s back lawn so he flicked his Bic there, too close to the house for his liking. By then, the wounded boy by the furnace had regained his voice and was shrieking.

  Oliver ignited the gasoline just in time. As he watched the trail of light race toward the house, he stood, too tired or more likely, too dumb with shock to run or even cower. The explosion blew him backward and off his feet.

  Someone else screamed. If he could shut his ears, he would have. The wailing might belong to Bently, but it was impossible to say. For its pitch, it might have been a woman or even a small child’s voice. Still, in his mind’s eye, Oliver saw Bently engulfed in flame, trapped under a burning beam. Though Bently had betrayed him, Oliver thought he was dying too horribly and far too slowly.

  After what seemed like a century, the agonized wail stopped. “I’ll remember that for the rest of my life,” he said aloud.

  He struggled to his feet. The Bendham’s roof, Sotherby’s house and nearby bushes were alight. Oliver would have moved left toward the Bendham’s backyard if he could. Marjorie’s pool would have soothed the raw burns on his arms and face. However, the heat of the flames pushed him back.

  A high hedge behind him was already on fire from sparks, landing like huge fireflies. Bits of burning paper ignited the long grass in the yard. The only way out was over the fence, on to Sotherby’s property, the absent pilot. Oliver limped toward what he hoped was Hell’s exit.

  He fell over the fence. If not for his enormous pain, he might have stayed where he’d fallen, enjoying the cool grass at his back and taking in the stars that emerged amid smoke and trails of fleeing clouds.

  Instead, he forced himself to get up and move. The Spencers would be leaving and he had to leave with them if he was to survive.

  The fire to his left spread, but not so fast that he couldn’t get around the destruction. So much for my gasoline cache, he thought. He’d stored enough gas in the Spencer’s basement to get them a long way toward the safety of Theo’s father’s farm. He’d planned to find another truck for carrying the fuel so he and the Spencers could merrily convoy all the way east.

  Something to his right and behind him creaked, cracked and crashed. He guessed a burning floor joist gave way. He couldn’t bring himself to look back. No matter the circumstances, he had just killed at least four people. Oliver didn’t want to think about that.

  The pain in his ankle and ribs helped crowd out most thought. It was as if his various pains competed for his attention.

  There was another thought: He’d won. He’d lost his cache and God knew how many supplies, but Douglas Oliver, old and hobbled, had won the fight and escaped his captors. Victory, even a Pyrrhic one, was still victory.

  Wait. At least four. Four? There had been four men in the house. Where was the officer who had condemned him to death?

  When Oliver made it to the street, he dared a look left down Miseracordia Drive, afraid of what he might see. Orange flames blossomed down the street.

  The man in the wedding dress was a still form near Oliver’s front door. The corpse was on fire. Jack Spencer’s wedding dress was evidently quite flammable.The thug was beyond caring.

  That’s five I’ve killed tonight. The thought came at him unbidden, expressed before he could push it away. Killing people, even bad people who would have thought nothing of murdering him, was not the simple equation he’d convinced himself he should believe.

  The man in Bermuda shorts was alive. He lay on his side on Oliver’s driveway, trying to peel off his burning shirt with one hand. One arm was broken and useless, twisted up behind his head at a sickening angle.

  Oliver rushed on as best he could to the corner of his front yard, picking his way through the field of debris. The rocker from the front room lay on its side. Beside it, he spotted a tennis shoe. He did not pause to find out if there was still a foot in it.

  Oliver gasped for air and grabbed at his side. As he paused, he glimpsed someone in the street. It was the man who had sentenced him to death.

  Lieutenant Francis Carron stood dumb in the street, his gaze locked on the flaming pile of brick and timber and possessions that had been the Spencer’s home. Oliver’s eyes weren’t so sharp, but he was sure the man held a pistol in his hand. However, the man in camouflage stared, mute and numb, at the destruction. The heat and light bathed him in a red glow of shock. The old man hoped the officer’s brains were scrambled by the concussion of the blast.

  Every pane of glass at the front of Oliver’s house had shattered. Though it was at the edge of the blast radius, falling embers were already glowing on his roof. Soon, his home would be consumed, as well. Oliver pushed off the wall of his house and limped to the backyard.

  Each step was a jolt from his ankle and he gritted his teeth against the pain seething through his burnt arms. If he allowed a scream, though, he was afraid the pain from his ribs might make him pass out.

  Oliver lifted the gate latch. The hinge cr
eaked as the heavy wooden door to his backyard swung open. Oliver closed it carefully behind him.

  His yard seemed doubly large now after the field of fiery debris he had traversed. Oliver hobbled toward the porch, headed for the rear door. A flashlight popped on. The beam blinded him. Oliver dodged to his right as best he could but the pain through his chest almost drove him to his knees.

  He held up a hand to shade his eyes and peered. Jaimie Spencer stood behind the screen door. The old man’s tension loosened a fraction.

  “It’s okay, Jaimie. It’s me. Superman.” The old man wanted to scream as he stepped on the bottom step. He had twisted his ankle badly in the blast, but that was a concern for later. When things settled down, he would have a lot more pain ahead of him. That was the price of immortality.

  Oliver’s relief didn’t last long. He made it up the three short steps. As he reached for the handle, Jaimie locked the screen door.

  “Boy?”

  The old man tried the door. “Kid! Unlock the door!”

  The boy stared back at him. The boy gazed into the old man’s eyes.

  “Boy! Let me in! It’s me! This is my house! It’s Mr. Oliver. It’s me! It’s Superman! It’s — !”

  A growl rumbled from behind Oliver. He turned, seeing nothing at first. Then Jaimie shone his flashlight out, playing it over the yard.

  Five dogs, eyes bright.

  Oliver spotted the form of another dog coming in under the fence. It was the same passage his pet had dug. Then another dog came. Then another and another.

  The pack leader bared its teeth and bent to spring. A white froth dripped from its jaws. The alpha dog had been his German Shepherd. Douglas Oliver’s dog had finally returned home, but he was sick.

  “Steve?” Oliver said. “It’s okay, boy. You’re a good boy!”

  The animal leapt, its mouth a deadly trap of teeth.

  “Steve!”

  The dog’s jaws clamped tight around the old man’s throat, bringing him down with a crunch.