Valley of Death & Zombies

by William Bebb

  The colonel had decided the zombies could be divided into two distinct groups- the Dead Heads and the Screamers.

  Dead Heads were ones that moved slower and had started to bloat up in the heat over the last few days. He was certain they were the truly undead. They had at some point become infected and after death they reanimated. In addition to bloating, they seemed to be capable of little more than an occasional grunt and a slow walk.

  Pulling his tattered notebook closer he looked over his observations he'd been making since the first day. Having fought in the war he knew the importance of knowing his enemy and made notes regarding their numbers, locations, habits, strengths, and weaknesses. The exact number was unknown, but he estimated no more than eighty. He had nearly given up trying to keep tabs on their locations after realizing they seemed to have incredibly short attention spans and would wander about seemingly aimless until something caught their attention then converge on the object of interest. They were in many ways like school children who were badly in need of some sort of attention deficit disorder medication. In his notes, he theorized that their brains were deteriorating just as rapidly as their bodies. They also tended to stay close to the entrance and the trailers they used to live in.

  The much faster Screamers roamed everywhere and reacted much faster to any commotion or distraction. It could be anything- a wounded bird screeching as it was attacked, a rabbit running for its life, or any loud noise seemed to attract them.

  The truly dead zombies would often just stand or sit in the dirt, unmoving until something happened then they would wander over to see what was going on. They were much harder to tell apart when a Screamer became a Dead Head. It seemed when a Screamer died it came back in a fairly short period of time and for the first several hours were almost as fast and relatively smart as they used to be while alive.

  The Dead Heads were nowhere near as fast as the Screamers who didn't appear to be dead or undead at all, just violently insane people. Their habits were also far more alarming than the Dead Head zombies. They could run extremely fast, sometimes used objects as tools, and seemed to have some way of communicating. He watched as first one and then more of the fast moving zombies would pick up and throw things at the birds or other animals. After knocking them down they would tear them apart and eat them.

  Their speed was a major strength, but a close second he realized was their apparent intelligence. He knew they'd never fit in at a cocktail party or a Mensa meeting, yet they weren't stupid either. The only weakness he could think to write down was, they die permanently without their heads. Which wasn't much to be happy about, knowing he'd die too if he lost his head.

  Stinky, as he had nicknamed one of the smallest zombies, paced outside the trailer's fence. He would sometimes try to climb over it, usually when Billy said something too loud or had the music on the radio cranked up too high. He had numerous scrapes and scratches on his arms and blood continued to flow from some of the deeper gashes. The colonel decided that Stinky was most definitely still alive after two days of observing him. Stinky sometimes, chewed at some of the bones of his beloved dog Gretchen or, managed to kill some of the birds that had been plaguing the park for the last few days. Plus, he'd seen him drinking water from the ditch that ran alongside the road. Stinky also would scream and sometimes fight with some of the other people who he once considered neighbors.

  Two other things convinced him he was still alive. He saw a gleam of intelligence in his eyes as he would sometimes stare at the trailer that was absent from most of the others. Also his pants were moist in the front occasionally and brown in the posterior constantly as he continued to do his business without the ability or desire to drop his trousers. He could always smell Stinky at a hundred feet and he was much closer than that now.

  He lit another flower scented candle his late wife Barbara always had scattered around the trailer. When she'd light some she’d say that the aroma of wildflowers made her think of some exotic gardens. But he knew she only lit them when he was in a farting mood which invariably followed after he made his infamous Inferno Chili, complete with two whole onions diced and minced.

  He looked over at her picture resting on top of the darkened television. She was still in her early twenties, sitting behind the wheel of a 1957 Chevy Bel Air, sipping on a milkshake while waving at the camera. She had been ten years younger than he was when the picture had been taken and she always loved being with him. They went to parties, danced and would see a new movie every week. Together in the dark they'd hold hands with an occasional make out session, but never when it was a horror movie. She had loved all the scary movies and never missed a second of the action. That's why he had always tried to take her to see westerns or comedies anything, but horror movies.

  Of course, they saw them all anyway because she always loved being scared and holding on tightly to his arm in the dark. Whether it was a very young Steve McQueen in The Blob or just a really badly made film where the aliens could be seen to have zippers on the backs of their costumes she had loved them all- well almost all of them.

  He remembered watching movies years later while they laid in bed. None scared her as much as George A. Romero’s Night of the Living Dead. She had nightmares for a few days after they had watched it and he inevitably had to swear to her zombies never had or would exist when she'd wake up screaming.

  He smiled as he rubbed the scar he had over his left eyebrow and remembered just how much she had hated that movie.

  It was a few days before Halloween 1973 and decorations were all over the trailer park- pumpkins, fake gravestones, a couple of trailers made up to look like haunted houses with scarecrows and all kinds of spooky, yet fun things in the yards. It was late evening and the sun had already set when he spotted Barbara, doing some gardening kneeling by her flower bed. On a spur of the moment he decided to give her a good scare since it was almost Halloween.

  Unfortunately, as a result of that particular funny prank she wouldn't speak to him for a week and had nearly poked his left eye out. He had sneaked up behind her and said in his deepest voice, “They're coming to get you Barbara.” and grabbed her shoulders. The prank was somewhat successful. She let out a window rattling scream, which had neighbors come over to see what happened, but he hadn't counted on her swinging around with a metal gardening trowel she had been holding. When the neighbors ran over to investigate her scream they found him, groaning on the ground, holding his bleeding forehead which required twelve stitches to sew up.

  He shook his head and was grateful she wasn't alive to go through this living nightmare. “I miss ya honey, but I'm glad yer not here for this mess.” he muttered. Stinky had been staring directly at him and grunted loudly as he yanked hard on the chain link fence as if he'd heard him.

  He tried counting the creatures again. It was hard to keep count because they moved around so much, and as racist as he knew it sounded many of them looked alike- especially now that they seemed to be undead. After counting silently, carefully trying not to count them more than once, he lit a cigarette and estimated maybe seventy more or less undead monsters were wandering around outside. Looking at his estimate from yesterday in the notebook, where he had counted seventy-five, he wondered if the truck driver had killed some of them. He smoked the cigarette and coughed and wheezed for breath. Holding the burning cancer stick, he watched the bright red glow at it's tip burn into ashes.

  Josey heard the coughing coming from the trailer inside the fence and then caught a brief glimpse of smoke drifting from a window. So, not only is someone alive in there, but they have cigarettes too. Smiling, he clicked his tongue at the dog which was still hiding behind the door.

  “Come on Boris, they got smokes over there.”

  The dog looked up at him doubtfully.

  Josey started up the steps then reconsidered. Looking at the doorway leading below he tried to think of a way to secure the door in case it was needed later. It would be very bad to run down there thinking you were safe when a n
asty surprise was waiting for you. He looked at the metal railing on the side of the steps and the padlock hinge on the door. While he didn't have anything to secure the padlock hinge with he did have some clothesline. After pulling it out of the toolbox, within a minute he'd tied one end of it to the padlock hinge and the other to the railing post and then checked it to make sure it was secure. That will have to do.

  He glanced around again to see if it was it was safe to make a fast walk over to the trailer. There was a very short man wandering around by the trailer and another one between the trailer and the laundry building and his truck. He looked at his truck shining in the midday sun. It looked beautiful- well, as beautiful as a septic tank draining truck could look. There were too many zombies around the truck. Plus, it was also in the opposite direction from the trailer anyway. He breathed deep several times and tried to psyche himself up. Holding the long crowbar bar in his right hand and his toolbox and lantern in the other he whistled softly for Boris to follow and limped slowly toward the trailer.

  Billy had just gotten out of the bath and was squeezing toothpaste onto his toothbrush making a soft squealing noise that his mom often wondered about. He began brushing when he looked in the bathroom mirror and saw a big man through the window limping toward the trailer. At first he thought it was just another bad guy but he was carrying stuff and much bigger than any of the other men, maybe over six foot tall. And then he saw him turn and a dog came trotting after him. He ran out of the bathroom shouting, with streams of toothpaste flowing out of his mouth and down his chin.

  “Grandpa! Look there's someone outside! Look! Look!” he yelled running into the living room wearing only his underwear and a T-shirt with a picture of a monster truck on it.

  The old man turned to look out the window with the binoculars shaking in his hands.

  “Is it the police? Is he here to save us? Does he have a gun to shoot the bad guys? Can we go n-” Billy asked excitedly while pulling hard at his grandfather's elbow, making him shout something he would never say under normal circumstances to anyone let alone his own grandson.

  “Shut the fuck up and let go of my arm! And sit down! Now!”

  Billy shrank away looking up at him as if he were a stranger, and giant tears filled his eyes almost as soon as the last word was spoken.

  The old man's nerves had been raw for nearly seventy-two hours, and he felt horrible for what he'd said to the boy who ran back to his room crying and heartbroken. He wanted to go after his grandson, but couldn't just leave this stranger to come up and have no one here to meet him. Grabbing his cane he stood up and felt his heart racing. There was a slight pain in his chest as he made his way to the front door. Breathing hard, he moved the chair he had propped under the doorknob. He leaned against the wall by the door, and unlocked the deadbolt with his shaking hand.

  The short one was still watching the trailer, but the other one had heard Josey whistle for Boris and was quickly sprinting toward him. It was one he hadn't seen before, wearing blue jean overalls and no shirt. His face was expressionless except where his teeth were already opening and closing and his hands were reaching out in an almost comical way, as if he were a redneck sleepwalker. Flies buzzed around his head like a hideous halo, and he could see big sections of his muscular arms had been ripped free of skin.

  As he got closer Josey threw the kerosene lantern at him hoping to set the man on fire. It bounced off and rolled in the dust.

  “Damn it, that would have worked in a movie.” he said, and set down his toolbox and gripped his crowbar in both hands waiting for him to come close enough for him to knock his ugly head off. The man ran faster and closed the distance as the dog growled deep in his throat and ran forward barking. Boris leaped the last few feet toward the man, knocking him over spread eagle to the ground. When he hit the ground a small cloud of dust flew up in the air around his body. Boris growled and barked, leaping about him, as he tried to stand. While he was distracted by the dog Josey swung the crowbar like a golf club. The tip of which shattered the man’s head. He did a quick victory dance, holding the crowbar up over his head. He retrieved his toolbox, as a small part of his mind recoiled in disgust at what he'd just done. But for the most part he felt great. In fact, he felt more alive than ever before.

  He noticed several men were starting to head toward them, attracted to the dog's barking and all the activity. There were more than he expected, and some of them were screaming and moving much faster than he thought possible- almost running. I thought the fast fuckers all chased after the damn rabbit. The brief feeling of exhilaration abandoned him as he limped away from them, faster.

  In the distance, the door to the trailer opened and he saw an old man in the doorway waving for him to hurry forward. The short man by the trailer turned, howled, and ran at Josey. As he started to run, his pants (which held three days of accumulated human waste) slid slowly down his legs. His speed dropped significantly, as the heavily soiled pants slid past his knees, but he didn't stop his charge until they dropped around his ankles. Losing any semblance of balance he tumbled into the dirt, grunting and tearing at his filthy pants, only a few feet from Josey.

  Under other circumstances, such a sight would have probably made him laugh but the screams he made were being answered by a chorus of other howling cries back where his truck was. He glanced back at the cellar steps and wished he'd stayed put. As the short one was shredding and tearing at his pants he decided not to see how long it would take for him to finish his extremely unappealing striptease and detoured quickly around him as he struggled.

  Within twenty feet of the fence the old man shouted “Get down!” while pointing a gun at him. Some people might have hesitated or looked behind to see what was behind them, but the old man’s voice was powerful and commanding as it competed with the screams which seemed much closer. Hoping his knee wouldn't mutiny, he dove down into the dirt road. Three loud gunshots rang out momentarily silencing the screamers. Clutching his crowbar he rolled onto his back and saw two men fall right behind him in the dust.

  “Run damn it! I'm out of bullets!” the old man yelled.

  He used the crowbar to help him stand up and felt his knee trembling as he tried to limp faster. Josey felt dizzy and was breathing hard as he staggered along the fence surrounding the trailer's front yard.

  “Look out! Stinky's coming back!” the old man shouted.

  Josey turned and there was the short man running at him naked except for a torn dirty gray shirt. It's amazing what the human mind will think of when confronted by a running, nearly naked, screaming, homicidal maniac sporting a noticeable flapping erection. In his case, he had to bite his tongue to keep from singing out loud the song that was playing in his head. The classic Ray Stevens’s song The Streak. As he closed the distance he saw Stinky had a rat-like face, a long nose and his teeth seemed unnaturally large and pointed.

  Since Boris was busy, barking at the other group of men approaching from behind, he set the crowbar aside his chest intending Stinky to run himself into the tip. Watching Boris from the corner of his eye he saw the dog was getting several of them to chase him around in a circle, while barking and leaping around excitedly. But two of them ignored or just weren’t interested in the dog and were quickly moving up on his left side.

  The short rat faced man leaped forward screaming and the crowbar tip missed it's target area. He had been aiming for his stomach, but instead it hit very painfully low. The scream changed to a different pitch as blood poured out of his badly torn crotch, and he fell over on his side holding himself grunting. He saw the little man was of no immediate danger and turned back for the trailer only to see the two other men were within striking distance. He didn't hesitate and rammed the crowbar into the closest one's face as hard as he could. Broken discolored chips of teeth fell to the ground as the man stumbled around badly unbalanced by the long crowbar imbedded deep in the back of his throat with almost three feet hanging out of his heavily bleeding mouth.

  As the f
irst man stumbled around, he swung his toolbox at the other second man like a club. There was a loud clang as it slammed into his head. The designers at Craftsman undoubtedly had not designed the toolbox as a blunt object to be used in a battle against the undead so the fact that the latches sprang open and everything in it fell out can probably be forgiven.

  While not crushed his head was badly dented and a blob of bright red blood oozed out of his ear and now coated the open toolbox where he had hit him. He seemed dazed for a moment, then staggered and fell into the road tripping the one stumbling with the crowbar impaled in his throat. The man with the crowbar jammed in the back of his throat finally lost the battle for balance and fell face first down ramming the crowbar completely through his head. Josey bent down and pulled the crowbar out of the back of his shattered skull as his knee trembled and the world seemed to spin. He felt near exhaustion as he tried to catch his breath.

  Boris yelped and ran toward Josey while being chased by a few dozen of the nastiest looking men, undead or alive, he'd ever seen. Feeling this was the longest walk of his life, he limped backward to the trailer calling “Boris come on boy! Fun times ov- Argggh!” Josey screamed, feeling fingers pulling down on his bandaged knee and hopped on one leg as Stinky held onto his bad leg. He struggled to keep his balance as he whacked him with the crowbar to get away.