Least Likely To Survive

by Lisa Biesiada

  Chapter 1: The Beginning of the End.

  I ran out of weed last night… it was time to go. I sat on my balcony peering around the bursting leaves of April smoking a cigarette and watching the pretty girl I often saw walking her Dalmatian who lived in the building across from me chewing on what was left of her dog. A few other neighbors had joined the party and my stomach turned each time one of them pulled away with a ligament as what was left of its blood soaked into the grass.

  3 weeks. I had been sitting alone in my shithole apartment for 3 weeks watching the world fall apart around me. To be fair, I wasn’t just watching, I was waiting for the shitstorm to die down enough for me to get the hell out. I knew when things started to go sideways that just running off screaming into the sunset was a great way to get myself killed and although I wasn’t much of a human being, decidedly didn’t want to die. At least not yet. The only guarantee life makes to any of us is that it ends. Unfortunately no one thought it would end for all of us at once.

  It started out innocently enough, just some new super flu, then talk of patient zero, blah, blah, blah, Africa…pretty much the starting sequence of every B zombie movie ever. The irony was that this time it was very much real, and very much happening in the courtyard below my 3rd story apartment.

  When news of the flu began, I kept track of its progress across the world at first, but when everything in my normally quiet Denver suburb went to shit, decided it was time to hunker down. Lucky for me I was a hoarder and the food supply was just now getting low after a few weeks of hiding out. For the first time I was truly grateful I was a hermit with no friends, so sitting alone in my shoebox with my PS3 hadn’t exactly been a hardship, plus the time in isolation had served me well, as I had what I considered a workable plan and no one who gave a shit about me to worry about.

  I’m not particularly crazy, or much into ‘disaster prep’; I actually had a somewhat normal and boring life. I got up in the morning, go to a job I can’t stand but would never leave since my feet had sunk into the carpet and grown roots; somewhere along the way I’d become a Lifer in a cubicle farm and the idea of greener pastures never even occurred to me.

  The difference is that most people have friends and loved ones who made the days a little brighter; I on the other hand had no such luck. I’d been a loner most of my life; no family; a couple of friends, but none I would consider close. I had virtually no love life to speak of (unless you count my computer, which some days, I do). I suppose this detail would come in handy, as the apocalypse was now at hand, I had no one to distract me from my getaway. I had no special skills, or talents, or anything remotely remarkable to lament on whatsoever. I was as average as they come, excluding my video game badassery and ability to function while stoned as fuck.

  I took a drag from my cigarette and considered my options. I had witnessed all of my neighbors try running with little to no results. I knew that waiting until the population was more or less zombiefied would be better than trying to navigate a sea of frightened people who were bound to become zombie food. That and I was really crowd-phobic.

  I put my cigarette out and crawled back through the blackout curtains I had hung over my patio so that no one below would see the light. Closing the door behind me, I stood up and stretched, turning to survey my backpack that was leaning against a wall waiting for me.

  When I had first decided to wait it out, I had blocked the front door, which was the only feasible access point to my roach motel and had covered the windows. I knew that light and sound would draw the hordes to me so I had been as quiet as possible, which had served me well. Not so much as a Mormon had knocked on my door, although that wasn’t too surprising; I doubted they knocked anymore.

  The internet had held up well and I had spent countless hours studying maps, learning to read nautical maps and watching YouTube videos teaching me how to sail. I had every intention of driving down to the gulf, commandeering a boat and sailing to one of the islands for sale in the Bahamas. There were private islands there complete with luxury accommodations, water filtration systems and solar energy. I figured I could live like a king while waiting for the dust to settle, or to die of old age; I didn’t really care which.

  The hard part was getting to the gulf. I had a few essentials lying around, but my only choice of weapons was a kitchen knife from Dollar General and a tent pole. The knife was questionable at best, so I was forced to go with the tent pole.

  I sat down on the worn sofa and started to put on my socks and DC’s. The time for waiting was over and without power I couldn’t cook to eat anymore, not to mention the lack of mind altering substances.

  After turning around my apartment in a bizarre flutter, like a drunken ant, I made a few more circles, and the mental light bulb saved the day. I grabbed the backpack and started to stuff in a few more things I knew would come in handy; things like clean underwear, socks, and of course, Chapstick. You just never know how much you miss Chapstick until you don’t have it. Staying true to my ultimate plan, I also grabbed a couple of books I knew would be put to good use, including the Atlas that hadn’t seen the light of day since a random road trip to Oklahoma some years back and a can opener. Yes, I would probably need the can opener even more than clean socks.

  Shouldering my pack, I grabbed my keys while looking around the place for anything I might have missed that I may need. The fact that it was the same thing I did every morning when leaving for work floated across my mind. “Guess I really am a creature of habit,” I said to no one as a palmed the tent pole and headed for the door.

  Before turning the deadbolt, it occurred to me I needed to make sure the coast was clear. I stood there with my nose pressed against the door and stared intently out the peephole. Of course my brain took this moment to get existential. “Am I really going to do this? Can I really do this? I’m about to go out into the world, and kill innocent people. Do I have it in me? Is it possible for me to survive this? If I do; then what?” These thoughts swirled through my consciousness all at once, with no witty retort on the horizon. I took a deep breath, and decided that this was my moment; the moment that would define me as a person, and justify the mediocrity of my life, or some equally deep shit like that.

  Unlocking the door, I burst into the hallway, and went into 007-mode; much like I did when playing laser tag. With a sigh of relief I discovered the hall was empty, so I made my way to the stairs as quickly and quietly as humanly possible. As I flew down the first flight I came to an abrupt halt at the second floor landing, and there he was. Jorge, the mechanic who lived on the second floor was stumbling by the doorway.

  Jorge wasn’t a big guy, perhaps 5’10” or so, and lean, but he was well-muscled from his line of work. Still in his blue Dockers, grease-stained blue and grey striped shirt, he was also dripping with blood. His eyes were bloodshot, and his usually tan skin had taken on a sick, green pallor. You could see blood starting to clot in his veins, just under the surface of his skin, like necrosis was already setting in. He was a full-fledged fucking zombie, and he spotted me just as I had spotted him. I wanted to think it was a classic Wild West showdown where we both glared intensely at each other before drawing our guns, but this was not the case as he quickly decided I was food. Ambling in my direction, eyes red and unfocused, it was the worst thing I had ever seen up close.

  Now, we have all seen zombie movies; I had even been to Zombie Crawl and watched thousands of people dress up as zombies and parade down the 16th Street Mall, but this was far scarier. Probably because it was real and it was covered in bits of flesh and smeared in blood; standing right in front of me.

  Without conscious thought, I leapt into action, deciding an offensive stance would be my best bet. I charged at him full-thro
ttle, battle growl and all, raised the tent pole like I was preparing to launch a lawn dart, and stabbed him through the eye with it. A gut-wrenching screech was let loose from his mouth and he fell to the ground.

  “Huh. It really does feel like cutting butter,” I couldn’t help but comment to myself as I used my laughable might to free the tent pole from his skull. In all honesty, I wasn’t sure if they could be killed with any fatal organ shot, as I didn’t really know the full effects of the virus, but I figured a headshot would take anything out, and considering it worked, filed that tidbit away for future reference.

  “Dude, that’s fucking nasty,” I thought as I glanced at the grotesque flesh now covering the chrome-finished pole. I didn’t stop to stare and think about what I had just done as I wanted to, but continued on my hasty mission to the parking lot instead. I stepped over his body, glancing down to ensure he was really dead. No one needed that moment of the horror movie where the heroine, mistaking the villain for dead, turns her back and gets gutted; I liked to think I was a little smarter than that. I raced down the remaining stairs, and clearing the last flight, I bolted out the front door and made a beeline for the car.

  This sounded easy enough in theory, but there was a good hundred feet of open space between me and my sensible 4-door sedan and of course, chaos was ensuing around me. I had to pause to assess this situation as fast as possible. I noticed that there were mostly just zombies milling around looking for a meal, but knew as soon as they saw me I would turn into said menu item.

  As inconspicuously as possible, which happened to be my only great talent, I dashed towards the car faster than I had ever run in my life. A runner, I was not. Slightly overweight, with glasses and a penchant for books, track was not a sport I would have even considered in high school; although in retrospect, wished I had. As I ran, I pulled out my keys and pushed the unlock button on the key fob; grateful for power locks. The lights flashed on my little blue accomplice assuring me it too, was ready to get the hell out of here.

  Finally reaching the vehicle after what felt like a scary-ass eternity, I yanked the door open and threw myself into the driver seat, just as a zombie that had escaped my notice was closing in. It reached my door just as I managed to get it closed, and slammed into the glass. It looked like the old cartoons where someone runs full speed and slams into a plane of glass, and you can’t help but notice all their features smashed in shock as they slowly slide to the ground.

  A giggle escaped thinking about this comparison as I put the key in the ignition and tried to spark the engine to life. Nothing. “What the fuck?!” I kept trying to turn the key, until I remembered my interlock. I had forgotten about the fucking interlock that prevents me from starting my car without a breath test. I hurriedly plugged the handset into the cord hanging from the dash and watched frantically as it did its little startup dance. I could do nothing but sit and watch as more hungry and pissed off residents of my complex closed in on me; I was a Happy Meal already encased in a little box they just had to figure out how to open.

  I stared at the device in my hand and couldn’t help but think: “So this is supposed to keep me and everyone else safe, and it’s going to get me killed. Seems legit.” There’s some fucking irony for you. And I thought the DUI was bad; no, being eaten while I tried to blow-start the car was a far worse scenario.

  The little bastard finally finished it’s warm up and was ready for me to blow. ‘Abort Early’ it beeped at me as I tried the first blow. “Goddamn fucking piece of shit!” ‘Abort Hum’ it laughed at me as I tried to blow again. “Fuck you, you little cock sucking son of a bitch!” This was yelled as I slammed it against the dash a couple of times for good measure. By that point the car was surrounded, and a maintenance guy had climbed on top of my hood trying to claw his way through the windshield. I hummed and blew like my life depended on it a third time; because, well it fucking did, and it finally gave me the pass I needed to start the car. I slammed the shifter into reverse, and proceeded to plow into the group of extremely agitated neighbors covered in blood that had decided to join the party.

  Running over humans was akin to hitting a high curb too fast: it’s jarring, and you cringe at the damage your shocks may have endured. I pulled out of the parking lot, and made a left onto the street, running the stop sign, and took a deep breath as I congratulated myself at having lived through the first half of my escape.

  I made a right onto Explorado, and continued north to my next destination: Salvatore’s Pawn and Gun. Now this wasn’t the reason I had picked this specific locale to move to, but damned if it wasn’t convenient. About 8 blocks down the way, right off 88th Avenue, sat the gun store, which was also opportunely located next to a cigarette store/Mexican grocer. A gun store and a Mexican grocer next to each other made living in Thornton Colorado a beautiful thing. I also had a pseudo friendship with Salvatore and although he didn’t sell ammo, I knew the old bastard kept a mighty supply in a safe under the counter.

  I reached the stoplight at 88th and couldn’t help but pause to ascertain how to proceed through traffic. Should one obey traffic laws during an apocalypse? I thought not, and ran the red light, although instinct caused me to use my blinker. Okay, probably not the best idea to let the zombies know which direction I was heading, but I figured I shouldn’t lose all road courtesy, considering the cops here weren’t exactly friendly and may still be breathing.

  I pulled into the little strip mall and stopped the car so I could figure out what to do next. I didn’t see anyone around, save for a couple of cars that were still parked and decided to go ahead and risk a little theft for the sake of survival. I knew the cars might signify that people could still be in the shops, but also knew I would have to take my chances.

  I was sitting right in front of the gun shop and after a quick look around, grabbed my tent pole as I exited the car. I stopped long enough to lock the door, thinking I didn’t want to find any surprises waiting for me in the backseat upon my return, and dashed into the store.

  The little bell above ‘dinged’ as I opened the door, making sure to let everyone know in a 20 yard radius where I was. Just my luck, Salvatore himself was standing by the counter to greet me as I approached. Of course, it was also my luck that the charming guy with a dark sense of humor was also now dead and hungry and heading right towards me.

  As fast as I could, I jabbed his face with my tent pole and drove it into his right eye; figuring this tactic had served me well previously and should do so again. His eyeball oozed around the spike and dripped down his face as he hit his knees. This halted his advance enough that I had time to lean over and grab a machete off the counter, pray it was sharp, and try to cut off his head. Now this was much more complicated, as decapitation is not nearly as easy as it looks in movies, but I did manage to sever most of his spinal column, causing him to be down for the count.

  Out of breath at that point, I retracted the blade from his neck and reaching down, unclipped the keys from his belt loop, while trying to not get anything gross on me. I then jumped over the counter, which at 5’4” turned out to be entirely ungraceful and humorous; landing hard on my ass on the other side. I jumped to my feet and began to unlock as many guns as I could, while opening the ‘key only’ safe and locating the correct bullets for said guns. As fate would have it, I had never actually fired or loaded a gun, but had played enough first person shooters to put a teenage boy to shame which made me confident in my ability to aim.

  Some years back I had worked in a pawn shop, which sold guns, so I had a good working knowledge of handling various rifles, shotguns and some hand guns. I knew about magazine clips and shotgun shells, which as fate would have it, was now coming in handy.

  Rapidly deducing that with my size I could carry quite a few guns, I grabbed the coolest looking holster I had ever seen and strapped it on. It was a black and an entirely too strappy contraption, with criss-crossed holsters in the back, two underarm handgun loops which reminded me of the kind you see on undercover
cops, and additional dual holsters along the waist, with various compartments for clips and shells. I couldn’t help but feel a little like Rambo; except in my mind, I ended up as a female punk rock version of Brutus, from Popeye.

  Grinning at my ridiculous imagination, I perused the inventory and spotted a few things I absolutely had to have. The first was a Mossberg Zombie Series 500 12 gauge chainsaw shotgun. I had to stop and drool a little; it was a sight for sore eyes. How apropos. I was going to be hunting zombies, so of course the logical girl side of me argued that we would need such a gun; especially one from the Zombie Series. I had to wonder if the makers of such a fine weapon ever seriously thought it would be put to use fighting its namesake. I grabbed it and as many boxes of shells as I could fit into my little compartments, and continued my oddly entertaining shopping spree.

  My next few “purchases” ended up being a Benelli Super Black Eagle II, which I thought somewhat lofty at 28 inches for someone my height, but strapped it on anyway. I worked my way over to the counter, where nestled under the glass was an array of handguns. I had four spots to fill. I ended up settling on two Smith and Wesson M&P Comps, a Ruger P95PR, and a Taurus 709FS. I was aware the shotguns were 12 gauges, which would make the shells a little harder to carry, but I was fighting against people trying to eat me; when I shot someone, I didn’t want them getting back up. I stuck with 9mm handguns just to make picking out ammo easier. Besides, I would run out of bullets at some point, and would probably have to ditch these guns for new ones later. I just needed these to get me to Texas, where surely I would find gun paradise.

  I stuck the Ruger under my arm, and filled every pocket I could with bullets and shells. “God Damn this shit’s heavy,” I muttered under my breath. With all the ammo, I must’ve been carrying about fifty pounds of weaponry. I was short, but stocky, and it was good thing I was. A smaller girl would collapse under all the weight. Being overweight, I might as well; but figured the muscle mass I had obtained from carrying my own extra weight everywhere would serve in my favor. One thing was for sure; I was about to get a lot of cardio, and if I didn’t die, would probably end up looking damn good after the apocalypse.