Haven From Hell: Surviving The Zombie Apocalypse

by Won, Mark

  Getting everyone settled was next on the agenda. There were a lot of hysterics. I had to take a moment here and there, myself. It’s not every day you lose a world. Eventually, though, I got everybody situated. I kept in constant contact with Irwin and made sure he kept an eye on the security camera monitors.

  I made sure to learn from my family who might be left alive. We had another round of tears but I learned all I needed. It was real bad. George’s boy, Issac, was dead. Just stopped breathing. A similar thing happened to Tony’s granddaughter. Nate’s wife had turned into one of the monsters, and he’d had to smash her skull in with a frying pan. All in all, the whole situation was shaping up to be a disaster of biblical proportions.

  -

  Come morning, I got everyone organized into watch groups. I know I had Irwin on the job, but that boy couldn’t find his butt with both hands and a flashlight.

  Then I had to go out and feed the animals. It may seem strange to think that anything so ordinary would occupy my mind after the human race had faced such an unprecedented cataclysm. Maybe you have to be a farmer to understand. Come sunshine, come hail, the animals must be fed, every day, without fail. Only a clear and immediate danger can change that simple fact, and farmers who think otherwise generally don’t keep their animals very long. Back in the day, after I’d had to off load my land, I’d made damn sure I could keep whatever farm animals I wanted, and to the devil with any city ordinances. And I’d wanted chickens, ducks, geese, turkeys, sheep, and Zilla, my pet pig. Those sheep were great for mowing the lawn and Spot especially loved playing with Zilla. Those two would herd the sheep for me. I got the idea of a herding pig from an old movie, but it really worked. Of course, I didn’t have time for any horsing around that morning so I just let everything loose in the yard and dumped some food in the feeders, careful not to spill any of the chicken feed.

  Whenever I did spill any, Zilla would be on it in an instant. Just as Spot knew that anything that fell on the floor was his by right, so Zilla felt anything that fell on the ground belonged to him. And it’s hard to argue with a thousand pound pig, especially one with tusks. Of course he’d never hurt anyone, on purpose or otherwise, he was such a sweetheart. So much so that I used to let Deborah ride him around like a horse. They got along great, Spot, Bee, and Zilla, and Zilla was always so delicate when taking apple cores out of her hand.

  My yard was about four and a half acres, mostly woods all around. I had the house, a barn, windmill and a silo. Mostly I used the silo as a platform for an antenna and my civilian style remote gun turret. I believed every home needed one, and I was right.

  Once I’d taken care of the flocks, I walked through the woods a bit until I came to my wall. I called for Irwin to cut the current to the razor wire, then I climbed up the steep berm on my side and looked over the fence.

  There were a few of the monsters lumbering about to the south of my property but they were at a healthy distance. I used to own a small lake just on the other side of my wall, about ten to thirty yards away. The city had been really hot for that, I can tell you. They’d turned my private fishing hole into a swimming pond for the neighborhood, and the bigger half of it had even been given over to canoeing. That part was about one hundred yards by fifty. What a waste.

  The east side of my property faced the street. There were only about a dozen or so monsters malingering about. I made sure not to attract any attention. On the north and west side of my yard the woods were on both sides of my wall, not just my side, so visibility was limited. It all seemed clear though. I called Irwin and told him to turn the electricity to the wire back on.

  He told me there was a message on the control screen telling him the emergency generator had come on. I told him to cut the power again. That fixed the problem. The city’s electricity was off, the power grid must have finally failed. It had to happen, I supposed. Fortunately, my wind and solar back up could easily handle the requirements of the main house. I didn’t have a gas line (those things are way too dangerous); I believed in burning wood. That’s why I had so much of it.

  I left Zilla and Spot to their own devices while I went back into the house to check on communications. I’d left Delphi and Eric in charge of keeping in contact with family and friends. Also, they had Elizabeth there monitoring the shortwave and citizen band radio. A boring job but at least it was something to do.

  Divers cousins, aunts and uncles were hunkered down waiting for an opportunity to move and a place to move to. I had informed them of the conditions on my street, and told them that I imagined that things were just as bad everywhere else. They were advised to only move if the mob thinned out some. It had been my hope that the monsters might disperse over time, spread out into the country. The ones around my yard seemed to prefer the street but occasionally I’d seen one or two wandering through other peoples’ back yards. Time would tell.

  Chapter 3: Child’s Play, Mi Casa es su Casa, and Psalm 37:37

  The next day I made sure everybody understood the importance of remaining indoors. We couldn’t afford to attract any attention. Without the razor wire electrified, I wasn’t at all confident of the security of my yard. I’d seen with my own eyes that some of those things could climb straight up the sheer outward retaining wall and right over my fence. I considered planting my land mines as a secondary defense but disregarded that notion. I had too many people around for that. Someone would probably set one off by accident. Also, I’d have to lock Zilla up, and I prefer to have him running loose.

  When I said ‘everyone’ had to remain indoors I didn’t mean me, of course. Someone had to feed the flocks and take them in at night. It’s almost impossible to tell a six year old that kind of thing. They never go for the ‘do as I say, not as I do’ line. I don’t even think they understand it.

  Anyhow, I was out that evening, just closing the barn, when I faintly heard my honeybee squealing in laughter. I looked about to try to find the direction, but I couldn’t see her. I was reluctant to call out for fear of inciting the monsters. Without a more timely option I called out anyway, and she answered with another of her infectious laughs. I could tell she was to the west, in the trees.

  By the time I got over there I could hear her playing with Zilla. I saw her up on the berm, sitting on Zilla’s back, looking through the concertina wire. As I watched, she threw a stick down at something on the other side. There came a series of low moans from the that side of the wall. I called Zilla back so sharply Deborah looked like she might cry. I’d have to talk to Irwin about keeping a better eye on her. She could have been killed.

  I climbed up the slope and looked down at a mass of monsters. My little honeybee must have been at it for a while. I didn’t have enough bullets with me to get rid of them all, so I had a word with Deborah.

  “Bee, be a good girl and go get your cousin George. Tell him to bring his rifle.” She cheered up at that, dug her heals in Zilla’s flanks and off they went.

  Then I got to work cutting down the masses. The range was close and I took careful aim so as to maximize efficiency. I’m not as good a shot as when I was in my youth, but they were closer than fifteen feet away. My biggest problem was trying to lean over my own wire to get a clean shot.

  I radioed back and made sure George would bring my halberd, too, and lots of spare ammo. The more I killed the faster they seemed to find a way over to me. Eventually another fast moving one showed up. He ran straight for me with his crazy long tongue flapping in the breeze. When he hit the wire he became entangled momentarily. That let me get a good point blank shot in, finishing him off. The razor wire was still good for something.

  George showed up with his dad, Peter, and Greg. Greg had armed himself with my combat shotgun. He’d loved that thing when he was a kid. Peter came empty handed and empty headed.

  Peter said, “What are you shooting at?” I wondered what he thought I was shooting at.

  “Come up here and see.” He preferred to remain where he was.

  Greg and Georg
e helped with the killing. As we slaughtered them more would show up. Eventually, we moved along the length of the wall as the bodies started to pile up. I actually got concerned that they might pile up so much they’d be able to breach the wall. We ran into eight more of those fast ones but not all at once. They attacked much like animals, except without the brains. My wall was only twelve feet high and that was about the limit of their vertical jump. Once caught up in the wire they were easy enough to hit. Until then, however, they jerked this way and that, spoiling my aim.

  We got a nasty surprise when one of the normal looking ones came up to the wall, and instead of ineffectually battering her hands on the brick facing, she swept one arm right through the bricks! A three foot section of brick wall was compromised, just like that. George was on the ball, though. He went full auto and emptied the drum on that thing’s head before it could do more damage. We still had the berm in place but my confidence was shaken. I had us move down the wall and keep at it. Peter was kind enough to go back for more ammunition.

  That’s how we spent the day. We must have killed thousands. Some fast, some slow, some strong. We made a point of not letting any get closer then we had to. It was the middle of the night before we were through. They were still around, one here, one there, but not the masses like there had been.

  On the way back to the house I told Greg and George that I’d need their help repairing the wall. While we were making arrangements I got a call on the radio.

  Elizabeth, my granddaughter, told me, “Grandpa, I picked up a call from some people east of here! They say they’re clearing an island of the monsters. You should talk to them!” I couldn’t have agreed more.

  The fellow on the other end went by the name of ‘Mark’ and had a lot of big ideas. Not bad ideas, but big. He was calling anyone who wanted to come to his island, to try and set up a safe place. I told him that I felt pretty safe right where I was, thank you very much. He said that was good for me, and that if I changed my mind he wasn’t going anywhere. He seemed neighborly enough so I wished him luck and told him to call back with an update anytime. We talked about the monsters. He had names for them. Zombie, ghoul, and ogre. He even named the changing of humans into monsters as ‘The Change’. I told him I supposed those names were as good as any.

  It was good to know there were other people out there, anyhow. I know everybody around me perked up at the idea. I decided that I would to keep abreast of Mark’s situation in case we could be useful to each other.

  -

  About three weeks later Irwin and I were having a conversation with Mark about the rate of decay displayed in the Changed. They seemed to have stopped decomposing, somehow maintaining themselves with the appearance and aroma of two week old bodies left out in the sun. Also, we discussed the metamorphosis of the ghoul’s Change. How they had gone bald, grown bony, claw like finger tips and had developed long prehensile tongues. It was all extremely disconcerting.

  We were also discussing the logistics of feeding all of Mark’s people (Irwin was a champ at that sort of thing), when Greg called me on the intercom to say a van was coming down the street.

  I left Irwin on the radio and headed out to see what kind of visitors we might have. Thanks to our earlier work there weren’t many ‘zombies’ left roaming the streets, so I felt comfortable letting our newcomers stew at the gates for a minute as I approached.

  They looked like a lazy, stupid bunch. Lots of tattoos and ear piercings. The women had some too. I never trusted anyone with a tattoo. Tattoos show an infirmity of character on anyone outside of the military or circus. Ear piercings on men (or should I say, ‘men’) show an infirmity of character, period.

  There were five of them. Three men and two women. As I approached, one of the men got out of the passenger side and tried to open the gate. He looked at me as I watched him struggle and said “Open this thing up, man, please!”

  I sighed. I couldn’t just leave them out there, even if they were weak minded simpletons. I took out my phone/remote control and keyed in the appropriate code. The gate rolled inward and they drove inside. I followed them back to the house.

  Once there I introduced myself and made them welcome. They were glad enough for a place of safety. The one of them that had been driving asked me if my whole house and yard belonged to me. I told him it was all mine. His friends called him Dylan. I could tell just by looking at him that I’d never get an honest day’s work out of him. His ear piercings were the size of half dollars. Put a bone through his nose and he’d fit right in any place on earth that hadn’t invented soap.

  Oh, well. Christian charity had its place, I suppose. I took them all inside for introductions and a hot meal (and shower). Then I asked them what they’d been through. It was about what I’d expected. They’d been on the road, heading toward Green Bay, when the Change hit their area. They almost crashed the van and had to turn around because a major accident. They’d been driving around since then, looking for a place to rest. Once they saw my wall they knew they were at the right place.

  We didn’t have any more bedrooms so I set up the couches in the living room. That plus the easy chairs would do nicely. I didn’t want to take them into the U-house. That first night they all slept like bricks. After that, not so much.

  -

  “Hey, guys, you want to turn that down, we’re trying to get some sleep.” That was from Peter, Emily’s husband. I was listening in from my bedroom, as usual. The Tattoo Crew were up late watching some canned nonsense in the living room. One of them must have brought it in. I hated reality TV.

  They were silent for a minute, then Dylan replied, “Sure thing, sorry about that.” As soon as Peter was back in his room the volume came back up again.

  In his bedroom, Peter was telling Emily that he did ask them to turn it down and she was telling him to go and reinforce the message. Honestly, what did she think Peter could do about it? Bottom line, it’s either worth fighting about or it’s not. I guess Peter thought it was better to get in a fight with five rude, ear pierced hooligans than face an angry Emily, because he went out to face them again. It looked to me like either of the two ‘ladies’ in the Tattoo Crew could have given poor Peter a whipping, all by herself. I turned up my volume, this was getting good.

  Peter reiterated, “Come on, guys, we’re trying to sleep here!” They turned the sound down again and then right back up as soon as he got back to his room.

  The third time Peter started to really get serious, “Cut that crap out! My wife is trying to sleep!” Again, they turned the sound down only to mock him. The Tattoo Crew were giggling like a bunch of little girls the whole time.

  Enough was enough. Peter was the kind of man who invited that kind of ridicule. I guess Emily liked him for his soft sensitivity. Whatever. That didn’t excuse the level of rudeness I was hearing. A little fun was one thing, but the fact was I had been about to go tell the Tattoo Crew to hit the hay, myself. Peter just beat me to it.

  I swiftly made my way upstairs to the living room, where this little drama was unfolding. There was poor Peter, looking stunned and afraid. The three men all glaring at him with arrogant sneers plastered across their faces. Their women were looking on, amused.

  I said, “Turn that TV off now or you’ll lose your television privileges. You’re waking up the whole household.”

  They all looked a little shocked at me. So did Peter, for that matter. I was in my boxers and a T-shirt, so I didn’t see what the big deal was. Then I noticed the women staring.

  “I’m so sorry for my appearance, ladies. I hope you’ll forgive me. I should have put a robe on.” I was guessing those women had seen a heck of a lot more than one old man in his shorts in their time. Still, that’s no excuse to be rude about it. I was a bit ashamed.

  Dylan regained his composure and said, “What you gonna do about it, Grandpa? Shoot us? You bring that cannon out here to scare us?” He pointed to my bed gun. It was a real nice revolver. A five shot .357. Very small. The perfect size
to take to bed, one would hardly know it was there.

  I was confused at first. “No, you nitwit. I always wear this to bed. If I’d come out here to scare you, one of you would be dead and the rest of you would be scared. I didn’t invite you into my home just to kill you. If I’d wanted to do that all I needed to do was nothing and you’d be dead at my gate. Now shut that TV off.”

  One of the women shut it off.

  I told them “I’m going back to bed now. Try screwing with me and just see what happens. Goodnight.”

  I said goodnight to Peter as I walked by. He went back to bed and all was silence for the rest of that night.

  -

  Two days later a bunch of us were enjoying a game night in the family room. Everyone was invited, but the Tattoo Crew said they didn’t want to intrude, and Deborah wanted to ‘watch TV’ with her mom and dad. We had a lot of her favorite cartoon movies in the cabinet. I had asked Irwin and Spring to keep and eye on the security cameras and radio that evening.

  I had just about gone bust to Greg’s third monopoly when my little honeybee came wandering in and announced to the room, “I know how babies are made!”

  Greg dearly loved his granddaughter and was as happy as I to play along. So he asked her how, indeed, were babies made?

  Her answer was offensively vulgar, if technically accurate. I knew for a stone cold fact who was responsible for her new knowledge. I mean, who else could it be? Upon hearing her descriptions, I might have lost my temper a bit. Sometimes I have a short fuse, or at least that’s what they tell me. Nobody, and I mean nobody, messes with the innocence of my little honeybee.

  The next thing I remember, I was back in the living room with my Mk-14 battle rifle in Dylan’s mouth and my finger on the trigger. An extensive collection of pornography lay under my feet and the TV had a bullet in it. It seemed that I was rather upset, after all.