The Mike Beem Chronicles: 6 Tales of Survival, Hope, and The Zombie Apocalypse

by Anthony Renfro

  “They’re alive, Mike,” Captain replied, as he looked down at the harbor towards his boat. Sure enough, he could see his son and his wife standing on the deck.

  “What?” Mike asked, now leaning against the booth for support, digging in his boot heels as the zombies continued to horde and push on the door.

  “I can see them on the deck of the boat. They look like they’re okay.”

  “That’s good, but we’re not,” Mike replied, failing miserably trying to hold back the horde. The booth was slipping slowly forward even though Mike was putting all of his weight into keeping it against the door.

  Captain turned away from his boat, and looked at the picture window. He saw that there were two smaller windows on either side of it. He rolled over, and busted out one of the small windows. He then stuck the gun out for as far as he felt was safe. He began to open fire on the horde pushing against the door, not worrying about head shots, just trying to do what he could to thin out the horde.

  For a moment, the pressure on Mike’s legs eased, and that’s when he let down his guard, relaxed a bit. It was more than enough for the zombie horde to gain the advantage.

  The booth slid away from the door, sending Mike sprawling onto the floor. He scrambled to his feet, as Captain pulled his gun back inside and started shooting at the zombies flooding in through the open door.

  Both men now side by side, started making their shots ring true, determined not to go down without a fight, but their ammo supply was going fast and the zombies weren’t dying quick enough.

  +

  On the deck of the boat, Lee saw the door to the restaurant fly open and the zombie horde explode inward. She looked at Mitch, who looked at her, and then she looked at the dock. She’d shot a bunch of zombies, but there were still too many of them lurking for Captain and Mike to get down to the boat safely. She shot two more zombies to help clear her mind, and watched them tumble into the water with a heavy splash. She had to think, had to think, had to think, had to –

  “Flares!”

  “What?”

  “Give me the flares and the gun!”

  “Why?”

  “I got an idea.”

  Mitch handed the items to her. She loaded a flare, aimed the flare gun at the restaurant, and fired. The flare sizzled and popped as it flew through the air before making contact with a zombie and exploding. The torch zombie started to burn, and as it did the other zombies started to scramble and move out of its way, trying to get away from the heat and flames, but they were horded together so the fire started to spread from zombie to zombie. And then the fire caught hold of the rotten exterior of the restaurant, and the building started to burn.

  “Shit, shit, shit, and double shit,” Lee replied, as she loaded the last flare and aimed the gun.

  “Save it!”

  “What?”

  “We might need it later.”

  “But,” she replied, holding her shot.

  “My old man’s tough. If there’s a way out of there, he’ll find it. Let’s get below deck. We’ve done all we can do,” Mitch replied, noticing the zombies on the dock were now crowding around their boat, grabbing at the rails, trying to get on board. It wouldn’t be long before they were swarmed.

  Lee took one last look at the restaurant, the fire consuming it, and the zombies on the dock. She hated to do it, hated to give in without a fight, but they were outnumbered. So retreat was the only way to stay alive. She followed after her husband, and locked the door to the cabin when they were safely below deck.

  +

  Mike and Captain backed away from the fire as it consumed the zombies and the restaurant. Both men coughed on smoke as Mike looked towards the picture window. He realized they were almost beyond it, and would be trapped with no exit if he didn’t use it for their escape.

  “On my back! Quick!” Mike screamed, turning around so Captain could climb on.

  When Captain was holding tight, Mike picked up the wheelchair and tossed it through the picture window. The glass shattered into a million twinkling pieces as the chair sailed through it and bounced across the porch, tumbling through the rail to the sandy ground below. It came to a stop on its side and lay there, waiting for its rider to return.

  Mike didn’t hesitate, as the fire raced towards the open window. He jumped out and made his way across the porch to the opening on the rail. He lowered Captain to the ground, as a flaming zombie gripped his arm. Mike managed to push the zombie away and jump to safety while it stumbled backwards. He put out the fire on his sleeve as Captain hobbled over to his wheelchair, tilted it onto its wheels, and quickly dropped into the seat. Mike gripped the handles, and was about to start pushing Captain towards the dock, but there was a problem.

  Zombies.

  Forward, behind, or to either side, they were surrounded by zombies.

  Mike looked at Captain and Captain looked at him. They both knew they didn’t have enough ammo to shoot their way through. They had no way to escape. They were trapped, but both men wanted to go out on their own terms. Guns blazing, killing as many zombies as they could before they died.

  They were about to start shooting when gunshots started going off and zombies started falling to the ground. Both men watched, as a path through the horde emerged. They didn’t hesitate as they hurried down the sidewalk towards the dock. When they reached the dock, the zombies started coming towards them, but one by one their heads started exploding, clearing a path to Captain’s boat. The men hurried down the wooden dock, and when they reached the boat, Captain hopped off the wheelchair. He hobbled over to the rope that held the boat in its slip, untied it, and scrambled aboard.

  The door to the cabin flew open and Mitch stepped up, ushering them to hurry.

  Captain led Mike down the steps as the gunshots died away. When the two men had reached safety, Lee closed and locked the door.

  Mike and Captain took a seat on a small bench and tried to catch their breath.

  “Nice shooting guys,” Mike replied, looking at Lee and Mitch.

  “Wasn’t us,” Lee replied.

  “Then who?” Captain asked, as he looked out one of the small windows. He could see survivors just like them, holding weapons reflecting the sunlight, now moving back into their hiding places.

  “Guess people still care for one another even in this new world,” Mike replied, turning away from the window to face Lee and Mitch. He was surprised to see Lee in the state she was in. “How far along are you?”

  “We think about 8 months. Name’s Lee, you got one?”

  “Mike Beem.”

  They shook hands.

  “I’m Mitch by the way.”

  Mike shook his hand, and then turned to face Captain. “How are you?”

  “Good. I’d be zombie food or burnt bacon if you hadn’t saved my ass. I can’t thank you enough.”

  “I’m just a survivor and we survivors have to stick together. Just glad I could be there to help,” Mike replied, thinking about all the people in Carolina Beach who had saved their butt a short time ago.

  “So, you along for the ride, Mike?” Lee asked.

  “Got no place to be,” Mike replied.

  “We were planning to head south. Maybe find one of those Out Islands in the Bahamas,” Captain replied. “Hopefully it isn’t over run. Can’t imagine it would be.”

  “Can you drop me at Myrtle Beach?”

  “Any reason?” Captain asked.

  “My family and I used to go there all the time on vacation. It was our favorite beach even though it was overrun with commercialism. Just kind of holds a place in my heart. Might be nice to see it again. Might erase some bad memories.”

  “Should we get going?” Mitch asked.

  “Probably,” Captain replied, glancing out the round windows again. The afternoon sun was starting to set on the world. It wouldn’t be long before darkness set in, and in this world darkness was true darkness. There was no light left that could completely cut through it.

  “Ho
w can I help?” Mike asked.

  “Just find a seat,” Captain replied, standing up. “I’ll get her out of the slip. We can then find open water after that.”

  “You okay to sail?” Lee asked.

  “Honey, as long as I’m breathing I’m okay to sail. Nothing going to keep me from the wheel,” Captain replied.

  “Let me check out the deck first, make sure it’s clear,” Mike replied.

  “Be my guest.”

  Mike opened the door, and looked up the steps, He didn’t see any zombies on deck and when he made his way onto it, he saw the same thing. The boat was zombie free. He looked at the dock, which had moved a little further away because the boat was drifting backwards. The zombies were thick again, but thankfully couldn’t reach the boat. Mike leaned down and gave them all the thumbs up.

  Captain emerged from below and made his way over to the wheel. He fired the engine, and then carefully guided the boat out of the slip. Before they started moving forward, they scavenged a row boat for a just in case moment. With the row boat attached, they hoisted the sales, caught the breeze, and left Carolina Beach behind.

  Part 2: Mike and Myrtle Beach

  The zombie Mike was about to shoot was an ugly sucker, and staring right up at him from the sand below. The zombie had the majority of the left side of his face torn off, huge holes in his neck and arms. He was dressed in pink and green blood-stained golf pants, spiked shoes, and dirty black golf shirt.

  “Fore!” Mike screamed, and then shot the golfer zombie right between the eyes. The top of its head exploded, splattering blood and rotten brains all over the pristine white sand. He looked from the dead zombie to the ocean, and then to the left and right. The gunshot had been loud, but it hadn’t sent the few corpses on the beach shambling in his direction. They seemed to be scattered, not hording together, trudging along with difficulty. A couple of zombies had even gotten stuck and as the water rushed in and around them, they found themselves in a hopeless situation where sand kept burying their feet and ankles over and over again.

  Mike hopped down from the once white lifeguard tower where he had spent the night, and looked at the buildings around him. He didn’t see what he was looking for in the high rises and few beach homes that lined this part of the shore, so he moved on, reloading his pistol, eyes focused and ready for trouble. This pistol was the only firing weapon he owned, scavenged from a dead body he had found lying near the water’s edge (he had lost his rifle when he leaped from the fiery restaurant on Carolina Beach and had left his nearly empty pistol with Captain and his crew). His ammo was drastically low, but he had his knife, which was great for close quarters.

  Mike walked down the beach, kicking through the sand with his combat boots, thinking about Captain and his crew. How far had they made it since they had dropped him off three days ago? Had they made it to the Bahamas? Sailing in the warm Caribbean breezes, enjoying the safety and shelter a boat provided? They’d told him about the rumors of pirates resurfacing again. Plunderers of boats and shorelines up and down the coast from Florida to Canada. Had they run into a bunch of those people? He had no clue, and there was no use pondering on it as his stomach growled and his throat burned from thirst (the little bit of food and water Captain had been able to spare finished off a day before). He had stripped off most of his cold weather gear, leaving only the camo pants and long sleeve shirt to cover his body. It was a cool December day, almost January now, almost a new year, but the sun beat down out of the cloudless blue sky, making it seem hotter than it actually was.

  Mike paused when he saw the beach shack, boarded up and unviolated. The small place looked like a Tiki Hut complete with a palm frond roof. It couldn’t have been more than 500 square feet if that. He trudged up the sand, grunting and sweating, finally stopping at the small faded brown door that led into the hut’s interior. He looked behind the Tiki Hut, and saw a motel he thought might work for his needs. It was a grey two story building with doors on the outside and not the inside. It would be easy to investigate, clean out, and maybe fortify if he could scavenge the right material. He looked away from the motel, as a couple of gulls cried out in the distance, and turned his attention back to the Tiki Hut door. He knew the answer before he tried the handle that led into the shack.

  Locked.

  He stepped back and kicked the door as hard as he could. The lock snapped with a loud pop and the door opened up before him, revealing the stuffy darkness of its interior. He took out his pen light, slipped inside, and closed the door.

  Inside, there was a counter and a rusted shuttered opening above it that faced the beach, along with a solid wall and another counter filled with all kinds of dead machines. Underneath the dead machine counter, Mike found bottled water, chips, crackers, popcorn bags, ice cream cones, and soda. He quickly grabbed a red plastic chair (one of two in the small space), plopped it down in front of the cabinet, and gorged himself on the stale water and chips, both of which were long past their expiration date. Belly full, thirst quenched, he put his feet up, and in a few minutes was fast asleep.

  +

  Mike woke up that night to a cold Tiki Hut and a breeze tearing across the beach that sounded like a thousand angry demons screaming all at once. The breeze shook the hut and rattled the metal gate protecting its one and only window. The sound of the wind was made even worse by the buildings around him that had broken windows and open doors. They were now noise machines, amplifying the sound, making the demonic sounding scream sound even louder.

  Mike stood up, stretched, and stepped up to the door, which was rattling as it fought to stay closed against the angry wind. He tried to listen for anything moving or shuffling nearby, but with the wind howling and the shack shaking, he couldn’t hear anything. He turned on his pen light with his left hand (thankful he had turned it off before he fell asleep), and with the gun cocked and loaded in his right hand, opened the door.

  The night was black. It covered the beach, the shack, and the world around it in a thick lifeless darkness.

  Mike leaned out and looked down the beach towards the direction he had come earlier that day. He could see lights in a few of the high rise windows, and even a few of the homes showed lights and life among them. He gripped his gun tight, stepped out of the shack, and into a wind so fierce it nearly knocked him off his feet. He caught himself before he fell, and decided to trudge back to the lifeguard stand where he had spent the previous night in order to get his winter clothes he had stashed there. It was a tough walk and hard to find with such a tiny light, but somehow he found the lifeguard tower. He retrieved his coat, hat, and gloves, slipped them on after dusting off the sand, and turned to face the wind. It ripped at his flesh like a cold jagged claw, and the sand tore at his exposed skin. He sensed movement down by the crashing waves, movement behind him, so he didn’t linger as he hurried back as quickly as he could to his newfound home.

  After many laborious and frightful steps he found the Tiki Hut and paused at the door before going inside. He looked at the motel behind it and saw no lights, no signs of life in any of the rooms. It was just a cold dark empty shell, almost begging Mike to make it a livable space again.

  “You’ll be my new home,” he told the motel before going into the Tiki Hut.

  He barricaded the door with a chair, took a seat on the floor, grabbed a quick snack, and then somehow managed to get to sleep while the demonic sounding wind continued to scream.

  +

  Sunlight.

  It was streaming in through the cracks on either side of the shuttered window and around the edges of the door.

  Mike opened his eyes, squinted as he looked at the beams of light invading his small space, beams that weren’t there yesterday when he found the place. He pulled himself up, and stretched. His mid-fortyish body ached and groaned, complaining after a night spent sleeping on the floor. He took a moment to listen for anything out of the ordinary. The waves and the gulls were the only things making noise this morning. Thankfully, that demonic
sounding wind had died out sometime in the night while he slept and dreamt of better times.

  After having a quick breakfast, Mike decided it was time to check out the motel. He walked over to the door and pulled the chair away from it. He cocked his gun, inhaled, exhaled, and opened the door. He shielded his eyes from the bright sunlight, and when they adjusted, a zombie was almost on top of him. He shot it right between the eyes before it could trample into his small secure space. It fell back onto the ground and lay there unmoving, blood flowing onto the soft white sand.

  He caught his breath, looked down at the zombie (dressed like a tourist on vacation complete with camera around its neck), and then carefully stepped over it. He paused outside the Tiki Hut and looked around for a moment. Three more zombies were moving towards him. He thought about shooting them, thought about how the gunshot had echoed down the beach, his low ammo, and decided not to. The walking corpses weren’t close enough to do him any harm so it was best to just to let them be.

  Mike quickly made his way to the steps that led off the beach and up to the motel. He stopped for a moment to make sure they were safe to climb. There were six of them, wooden, rotten, and rickety. He looked up to the top and didn’t see any zombies. He looked at the steps again, and then, with a bandits ease, ascended.

  He stopped for a moment when he reached the top, standing beside a dead shower that used to wash sand off of happy people on vacation. He looked at the pool, and then up to the neglected motel, which sat long ways allowing the fourteen rooms (seven up top and seven down below) great views of the beach. He could see a window beside each door that led into each room, and window units below each window. Most of the doors were closed, but a few of them hung open. He saw no zombies lurking about on either level of the building.

  “That’s a good sign,” he told himself, as he decided to make his way down to the parking lot that lay between the fenced off pool and the motel. He paused on the asphalt when he reached it and looked at the pool. Everything in it and surrounding it had fallen into decay, and most of the non-plastic furniture had crumbled to the ground. He turned from the pool and eye balled the motel, looking for the lobby, which was at the far end of the building facing the street. He made his way quickly to it, and stopped when he reached the front door. He took a moment to look up and down what used to be a busy four lane road. He couldn’t see anyone human moving about, but he saw a lot of zombies. A couple of them started moving in his direction and for a brief moment Mike thought about ending them with his knife, but decided to go into the lobby instead. The door was unlocked, so he let himself in, locking it once he was inside.