Valley of Death & Zombies

by William Bebb

  Most of the men around the car, beat at it with bloodied hands and were missing large patches of skin. A few of them with some semblance of intelligence, used rocks and pieces of metal to beat at the windows. The windshield cracked, in a spider web pattern, when a piece of cinder block was thrown at it.

  A dead man, with a growing colony of maggots infesting his skull, rammed the passenger side window with his head. As he hit the glass, first a few then dozens of maggots fell from his torn scalp. On the last hit his head shattered the glass and he started to climb through the window. Mrs. Remlap stared at the bloody headed man, dribbling maggots and gore on the passenger seat, and realized two things. Maria had been right when she said they were monsters and secondly the car's upholstery was going to be difficult, if not impossible, to clean. The car idled roughly when she put it back in drive.

  “Out of my way, you dirty fluckers!” she screamed, as her upper dentures flopped loose again. She stomped on the gas pedal and the rough idling engine seemed, for several agonizingly slow seconds, too stunned to realize what was expected of it. Then the carburetor greedily drank the gasoline and the engine roared as the tires spun leaving a pair of twin tracks of rubber on the dusty street. The old Chevy Nova surged forward crashing into and driving over several men.

  When the car hit a fat man he exploded like a giant water balloon filled with grayish red paint. What was left of his body was splattered across an old swing set. The fat man's head, swung back and forth from the top as it, continued to open and close his mouth. A small boy, a little smaller than Billy, landed sprawled atop either the badly deformed tricycle with faded pink tassels or an ingeniously designed piece of modern art depending on one's perspective.

  The maggot infested man grunted and reached across the seat for the old lady, but was unable to get further into the car as most of his body was being dragged along as she drove faster. His hands fumbled and grabbed across the seat as he tried to climb in. One hand grabbed a knob on the stereo and turned it back to full volume. As Jerry Reed started to sing again, Mrs. Remlap saw the exit was not completely blocked and turned the car in a wide circle to try and drive thru the gap between the wrecked cars. She grunted in frustration when steam billowed out from under the car’s hood. A white light was flashing on and off from the Colonel Lester's trailer a few hundred feet away.

  “Sum ov a bitsh” she swore, with her floppy dentures making her speech somewhat awkward. Turning reluctantly away from the exit, she drove toward the trailer as the car began to cough and buck more violently. The speedometer dropped steadily, as she headed for the shining aluminum trailer with it's bright metallic finish gleaming with first rays of the morning sun.

  “Did I hear Jerry Reed singing a minute ago?” Josey asked, seeing the colonel staring out the kitchen window toward the park's entrance. Rubbing his eyes he crossed the living room to the kitchen window where the old man stood.

  “Hell yes. It's got to be Phyllis Remlap. That crazy old woman is too tough to eat and they'd probably get indigestion if they tried.” The colonel said, holding a big black flashlight in his hands. He aimed the beam of light toward the car, they could just make out through the early morning mist, with it's lone headlight.

  He flicked it off and on as Josey asked “Want me to go wake up Billy, so we can all pile in her car when she gets here?” Deciding to go get the boy without waiting for an answer he started limping back to the bedrooms. He stopped when he heard the old man start to swear.

  “Yes! She's turning this way, she must have seen my light. Go get- uh aw shit! Well, fuck a duck!” The colonel swore.

  Josey turned and looked out the kitchen window as the car came slowly closer with steam billowing out from under the hood. The car was bucking, and the engine was screaming, as it slowed even more.

  Well, at least I can let Billy sleep, he thought limping to the front door carrying his crowbar.

  Sweat dripped into his eyes as Billy laid on his stomach clutching the leg of the terrified dog while it whimpered pitifully. He's going to fall into this dumb well. This is all my fault. Billy thought. Pulling with all his strength he only succeeded in straining his back and felt the dog's fur grow more slippery as he held on tight.

  The one armed man crawled closer and seized one of Billy's boots. Shrieking, the boy pulled his legs up at the knee with his feet shaking in the air. Glancing over his shoulder, he saw the man had somehow gotten tangled in the rusty chain that he had fallen over. The zombie couldn't crawl forward any closer, but Billy would never leave Boris. He was his friend. Friends don't run away when they need help, and Boris needs me. But what can I do? I can't hang on forever and he's too heavy to pull up. Billy thought.

  He looked down into the gloom of the well, and saw the dog's chocolate brown eyes. The dog clawed and scrabbled at the side of the well trying to find a way to climb out. The walls of the well offered no place for the dog to get any traction and as he struggled Billy felt his leg slide thru his hands.

  “Stop Boris! Stop!” he shouted, to the terrified dog. “You’re gonna fall if ya don't hold still.”

  The dog cocked his head, licked Billy's hand and softly howled. The echoes coming from the well made it sound like several dogs were in trouble. Feeling helpless, unable to think of any way to pull out his four legged friend, he blinked back tears and held on tighter. The early morning sun peeked over the rim of the valley, in the distance, and as Billy looked up at it he tried something that had never worked before in his life. It hadn't worked on spelling or math tests and never seemed to help with anything else before, but he was out of any better ideas.

  Looking at the sun, slowly rising over the rim of the valley, he cleared his throat and softly spoke. “God? It's me Billy. I know you're busy with a lot of stuff, but we're in a little trouble. Well, actually a lot of trouble. I know I haven't prayed as much as I should have and I'm sorry about that.” Boris's leg slipped, in his hands, and made the last part come out more as a shout than a prayer, but he couldn't help it. “Help us! Please!”

  He didn't consider the wisdom of shouting in a place crawling with the undead, as his voice echoed back, but felt better regardless. Most of him felt better anyway. He was stretched out on the dirt in a straight line, with his arms reaching down into the well where he clung to the terrified dog’s leg. Billy's legs were aching from having them up in the air so the one armed man couldn't grab him again. More sweat dripped into his eyes and he felt more tired by the second hoping for someone to rescue them. He looked up at the brightening sky for any sign of angels, but the only things he saw flying were big black birds. His left leg fell back to the ground and he felt the man grab it tight and pull almost instantly.

  He yelled in terror, as the man behind him pulled on his boot. Feeling himself being pulled backward, he kicked without thinking using his other boot to break the man's grip. When his feet were free again Billy was shocked to realize the man had not only pulled him a few inches, but had also pulled the dog along with him. An idea struck him and he didn't like it.

  Billy held his legs up as the man continued to grab for him. Looking at the sky, giving one last chance for an angel to appear, he felt his skin grow clammy as goose bumps broke out all over. If this doesn't work, I'll be worse than dead. What's it like being a zombie? Will it hurt? I can't do it. I just can't. Oh God! Be a man, just do it! Billy's mind swirled in a dizzying spiral as he wondered if his idea was going to work and if he had the guts to try it.

  He heard the chain the zombie was tangled in clinking and whispered to Boris “Wish me luck, buddy.” He then dropped back his boot for the man to grab again. The undead man instantly clutched the boot tight and pulled on it. Feeling his shirt slide up on the ground, as rocks and dirt scratched his stomach, he felt tears leak out of his eyes mixing with sweat and held on tighter to the dog.

  Billy wanted to kick back with his other leg more than anything he'd ever wanted in his life, but managed to hold the impulse off by looking down as the dog's head and l
eg rose from the well. If the man had both arms he would have had him in a matter of moments. But as it was it was like a tug of war between gravity, a dog, a terrified crying boy who was being used as a tug of war rope, and a one armed horror bent of killing the crying rope.

  The car galumphed and bucked slowing from ten to five miles an hour then with a last enormous fart of a backfire stopped with a final shudder. The small plastic hula dancing girl figurine on the dashboard shook slower then stopped. Mrs. Remlap pushed the maggot headed man, who was still hanging halfway in the car, on the back of his shirt pulled on the passenger side seat belt with her free hand and strapped it down over his torso and head. Even through his shirt she felt the nastiness and coolness of his skin, and did not like it at all.

  After it was secured she used a small bottle of hand sanitizer and cleaned her hands.

  Effectively trapped by the seat belt, the man grumbled and grunted face down in the passenger seat while his arms and legs flailed. She grabbed her umbrella and purse, climbed out of the car, and slammed the door shut.

  Steam poured out of the heavily dented, blood splattered, hood and made the old lady cough and gag on the fumes as she made her way toward a shouting young man who was limping down Colonel Lester's trailer steps. She walked briskly, not daring to run in the early dawn's light. There were all manner of junk scattered around on the ground and she knew tripping would be an extremely unhealthy move. Hearing the men loudly snarling and distantly screaming chasing after her she moved a little faster.

  Almost as loud as her pursuers was the annoying man, limping across the trailer's front yard, yelling for her to run, but she kept thinking Haste makes waste, as she stepped around a red bicycle and chanced a glance over her shoulder. She saw that most of those chasing her were not very fast and if they were all that slow she could have taken a leisurely walk the last twenty feet to the trailer. Unfortunately, a few of them were very fast and one was just passing the steaming remains of her late husband's car. With only seconds to act she turned and flicked the button on the umbrella. It snapped open with a whoosh sound, and it was no wimpy little umbrella either. It had a diameter of five feet and it's multicolored sections stood out brightly catching a golden ray of early morning sunlight.

  The man chasing her was agitated, angry, violent, and now extremely confused. What thoughts or impulses he had, before the umbrella presented a bright rainbow of colors, were at least momentarily wiped away. He stared in slack jawed fascination, at the bright colors that swirled as she spun the umbrella and continued her careful walk to the trailer. Spinning the umbrella she was reminded of a movie she saw where the dancers had twirled them in a similar manner. She wondered how the idea had come to her as she continued walking, but was unable to move very fast as she moved backward twirling the colorful umbrella.

  Reaching out a bloody hand, the man followed the swirling colors and made soft gurgling grunts that almost sounded like words. “Um um ooh um.” His fingertips were bleeding and worn partly away exposing sharpened tips of bone, as they slid along the umbrellas fabric, making a sound that made the old lady shudder. Other pursuers were surrounding the abandoned car. She heard them hitting it and making grunting noises. Her fingers were aching from all the twirling of the umbrella and she almost dropped it only a few feet from the fence, but managed to hold it.

  Mrs. Remlap reached the gate while Josey quietly unlatched it, pulled it open and whispered “Hurry, the others are still coming.”

  The zombie heard his whisper and growled, no longer content to stare at the pretty colors and run his fingertips over the fabric. Seizing the umbrella violently his fingers sliced through the fabric. He tore and pulled at it from her grasp.

  After helping her into the yard, Josey closed the gate and guided her quickly into the trailer. The door slammed shut as the rest of the undead arrived at the fence. They watched, in apparent fascination, as the one tearing and biting the umbrella wrestled it to the ground and ripped it to tiny shreds of multicolored fabric.

  Billy felt a shard of glass cut his stomach as he was dragged backward by the one armed man. He heard the chain, it was apparently tangled in, rattling and kept thinking Just a little more, as the dog’s right leg and head lifted above the rim of the well. He smiled while gritting his teeth as Boris looked behind the boy intently staring at the man pulling relentlessly him closer. Billy felt the dog trembling excitedly as he held it's leg in his sweaty hands. A soft growl rose while his hind legs scrabbled onto some broken board remnants that had not fallen into the well.

  Even if I die, or worse, Boris is worth it. He's a good dog and I don't care what happens to me as long as he makes it. I can do this. I'm no coward. I won't let go! I won't let go even when the man bites me! I will never let go! Billy thought, while shuddering uncontrollably. He felt his legs shaking harder and concentrated on not pulling away as he felt himself sliding backward.

  When the zombie bit his hiking boot he couldn't be brave any longer. He cried and screamed as it started chewing. The dog’s body trembled as it's rear legs struggled to find something to climb up on, in the well. Boris barked his fiercest, Hey you cat! I'm going to bite your head off!, bark as his claws finally found enough footing for his rear legs to climb out. While the one eyed man gnawed at the boot of the crying boy a furry dog, of unremarkable looks, one most people would skip over without looking twice at while visiting the dog pound, did not so much climb out of the well as erupt like a small furious furry volcano.

  Dogs cannot fly. Billy knew they couldn't, yet as the dog erupted from the mouth of the well he wondered if maybe under certain miraculous circumstances they actually could. Boris jumped from the edge of the well, over the length of Billy's body, and landed on the zombie's back. The hand and teeth, that had been holding his boot, were suddenly no longer there. He rolled away from the well and the battle of dog versus undead began in ernest.

  Boris was on the zombie’s back with a mouthful of his dirty hair and pulled on it, shaking his head from side to side frantically. The one armed man feebly tried to grab the dog as his head was shaken back and forth, while Boris pulled and growled through clenched teeth.

  Billy scooped up his BB rifle, and pumped it up, as the fight continued. When the rifle was ready he called “Boris! Come here!” The dog obediently trotted toward the boy, while still staring back at the man on the ground that was getting to his feet.

  His mom never him watch grown up TV shows or movies, but his grandpa was the coolest and would sometimes let him watch with him when he came to visit. He recalled a phrase he heard the hero of an action movie say. He aimed at the one armed zombie's milky white left eye and said, in his deepest voice “Sucks to be you.”

  Having managed to roll free of the chain while fighting the dog, the zombie grunted and only managed one step when Billy fired. The BB hit his left eye and it exploded and just like the time he had tried microwaving an egg a few years ago, and the explosive mess was no less impressive. Staggering and pawing at his eye, utterly confused, he fell to his hands and knees by the well.

  Billy knew it was probably a bad idea, dangerous in fact, but couldn't resist and ran toward the stunned one eyed man. Boris barked and the sun began to fully shine down into the clearing as his boot, with teeth marks and undead spit all over them thank you oh so very much, kicked him in the seat of his filthy pants.

  After the tremendous splash, he sat down on an old paint can with Boris sitting beside him and opened his backpack. They both celebrated being alive by eating a handful of cookies. They were delicious.

  Maria sneezed and went to the next box she'd found in the attic over the garage. After nearly an hour of searching, she'd found only three things of any interest amongst a lifetime of stored relics and treasures. The item she was most grateful for she carried in her bandaged hand. It was an ancient propane lantern that had probably last been used when Richard Nixon was president. A large knife, with the letters USMC engraved near the hilt, with a sheath was also reassuringly s
trapped onto her belt. The third item was potentially the best thing she could have hoped for- a heavy handgun. She couldn't even guess what kind of gun it was. All she knew was that it was heavy.

  She had cried with joy when she found it next to the knife in the old green trunk, but after starting back to the attic entrance she had a horrible thought and stopped to check the ammo clip. She stared in shock and nearly threw it away when she saw the clip was empty. Looking at the hundreds of boxes, of various sizes and shapes, she knew there had to be bullets up there somewhere. Somewhere.

  Opening another badly deteriorated cardboard box, she saw another enormous collection of pornographic magazines. She couldn’t help reading the cover of the first one, Naughty Norris’s nine inch knockwurst and the girls of Nebraska. Disgusted, she pushed the cardboard box full of magazines off a big wooden crate and they slid across the floor exposing women in all manner of poses looking enticingly up at her. Shaking her head, she looked for a way to open the large wooden crate. It was old and had some kind of stenciled writing on the top. It was covered in so much dirt and dust she had to wipe at it for awhile to decipher most of the words.

  “BERLIN to,” she skipped a part of the message that was badly stained, and continued to read aloud “New Mexico, care of Captain H. Remlap USMC.” Maria knew enough about World War Two to hope that in the crate there would be the bullets she needed. Using the large knife she'd found earlier she pried at the lid for a long time. The old nails and wood creaked and moaned as she pried whispering, almost praying “Bullets, bullets, bullets.”