by DeWitt, Dan
Lieutenant Dave McMillan's words came back to me: Don't let them bite you.
I jumped back and instinctively put Marcy behind me. I felt her hand on my shoulder and heard her screaming for her friend, but she let herself be guided, thank God.
Then the shit really hit the fan.
People who only moments before were celebrating whatever the occasion for the party was now attacked the person closest to them. Glenn himself was the first to die; the guy who owned the local landscaping business tore his throat out with his teeth.
I've seen people die before, but that was in combat. This was just a slaughter. A living nightmare.
I wanted to help people, I really did, but everything happened too fast. A few people got away, but by the time my inertia broke, most everyone was dead, and some were getting back up. They all had one common goal: me and Marcy.
I grabbed her by the hand and we hauled ass across the street, those things hot on our heels. I blasted through the front door, practically threw her into the living room, and hit the deadbolt just as some bodies hit it hard enough to make it shudder in its frame.
"Omigod, omigod," was all Marcy could say.
The poor kid was scared shitless, but I didn't have time to baby her. "Hey! HEY! If you want to live, listen up! Help me find my fucking keys!"
She snapped to. "Wh-what do they look like?"
I tore apart the room looking for some weapons. The things were trying to get in, but fortunately they were all still at the front. The back door looked clear. "They look like keys! Five keys on a metal d-ring! Check the coffee table!"
She started throwing stuff aside. "They're not here!"
"Shit!" Without the keys, we were as good as dead.
“Keep looking!” Then I remembered that I’d moved the truck before playing ball with Ethan, so the keys were in my truck. I was pretty sure. Well, if I guessed wrong, I wouldn’t have much time to feel stupid. “Wait, forget the keys. Go into that closet and cover yourself up!”
She looked down at her revealing top. “What are you, my Dad?”
“Are you kidding me? Cover up so those things don’t bite you!”
“Why would they bite me?”
I had no time to explain, so I settled for, “Biting’s bad! Trust me!” That seemed to convince her, and she threw on a fleece jacket. She threw on a pair of sweat pants, too. I put on a filthy flannel shirt and a pair of rawhide work gloves. I patted my pants pocket and made sure that me cell phone came with us.
The only suitable weapon I could find was a souvenir baseball bat from some minor league giveaway years ago. Still … it was a baseball bat, and it felt good in my hands.
I told her my plan to get to the truck, and I thought she was going to faint. “You’re going to let them in?”
“If we want to have any chance of getting to my truck, we have to. When I say the word, you throw the front door open and haul ass out the back.” The door wasn’t going to last much longer. If we waited long enough, they’d just get in on their own, anyway, but I needed to control them as much as I could. If we waited too long and a few wandered into the back yard, it was over.
She gamely walked to the front and put her hand on the handle. She engaged the metal door latch; I'd installed it after Ethan had grown tall enough to open the door and wander out into the front yard one day. It would only hold for a few seconds, but that's all we would need. She looked back at me. She was terrified. I didn’t need to see the tears to figure that out.
I tried to reassure her. “Listen to me; I’m not going to let anything happen to you. I still owe you that birthday beer, and I always pay up.”
That actually elicited a little smile. “R-ready.”
The cacophony from outside almost drowned her out. It felt like we were the only people left alive in the neighborhood. Sadly, that might have actually been the case. I cracked the back door and made sure we were alone. That was good, but we wouldn’t be for long.
“Keep quiet.” I readjusted my grip on the bat. “Go!”
I don’t know how fast she was under normal circumstances, but fear made her move like lightning. She was out the back door by the time the first … thing … ripped the latch away from the frame and came through the front. I stepped out, closed the back door, and huddled in a blind corner with Marcy. I chanced a look into my living room. They quickly filled it, and I was pretty sure that I’d never see my home again. Five seconds ago, all they’d wanted was to get in. Now, they couldn’t get out.
Marcy slipped her hand into mine. I whispered, “Good job, great job.”
“How many of those things are there?”
“I don’t know. The only thing that matters is how many are between us and the truck.” We slipped along the back wall to the corner of the house. I tried to pull my hand out of hers, but she held it in a vice grip. “Marcy, I need it to…”
“To what?”
I looked around the corner. I saw what I hoped was a manageable number of things. “To fight.”
“Oh, God.”
“Listen to me. Your job is to get in that truck and start it up. You stay on my hip until you see a clear path. You keep your distance and dodge your ass off. Leave the fighting to me. Understand?”
She nodded rapidly.
“And if … you know … take off. Don’t wait.”
“No way. You’ll make it.”
“Just in case.”
I rounded the corner and went after the closest one. It was just good sense that made me go for the head; that’s always been where you can do the most damage. I got off a solid hit and the thing’s head bounced off of my house, but it didn’t go down. It turned to face me. A mask of blood already covered half of its face. I swung again and destroyed the other side of its head. This time it went down.
I told Marcy to follow as I jogged along the front of the house, swinging as I went. I managed to shut the living room door, effectively giving up my home to cage as many of those things as I could.
They closed on me, but I knew the terrain like the back of my hand and used it to my advantage. I ran wide of them and into a copse of trees and drew them to me. I kept moving, using my relative agility to keep them away. They were idiots … they tried to run through the trees I was behind, rather than around them … but they were also relentless, and there was a lot more of them than there were of me. It was only a matter of time before they surrounded me.
Marcy proved she wasn’t a stupid girl. She sprinted to the truck at the ideal time and got behind the wheel. I experienced a moment of panic then, because all of a sudden I was sure that I’d left the keys in my other pants. I knew it for a fact.
Then the engine roared to life.
I trusted her to not leave me.
All I had to do was get there.
I moved around the trees, keeping them at bay with the bat, my work boots, and even my fists if they got too close. I congratulated myself on wearing the gloves, because I knew about the biting, and I bet that punching them in the teeth with my bare skin would have been just as disastrous.
I dropped off the retaining wall and into my driveway. The … fuck it, I know now they’re zombies … zombies did too, but with even less grace than I did. They all hit the ground, but got up fast. I really had no place to go, as I was trapped between the ones already at my place and some brand new zombies that had just come back to life across the street.
Marcy rocketed backward and cleared out the driveway; I got out of the way just in time. I ripped open the door and she was already sliding into the passenger seat.
I locked the doors and we hit the road.
All I wanted to do was drive hellbent for leather until I hit downtown and the hair salon, but Marcy begged me to take her to her house to check on her parents because they hadn't answered their phone. She told me where she lived; it
was pretty close. As soon as the zombies spotted us, they swarmed. I didn't see a human anywhere. It was like the outbreak happened everywhere at once. I couldn't fathom what downtown was like.
I handed my phone to Marcy and told her to dial my wife's phone. "Voicemail," Marcy said.
I told her to try again, but she was already redialing. She shook her head. "Hey, where'd you say she was?"
I told her the name of the hair shop. She pulled out her phone and scrolled through her contacts. "I got my hair done there for a wedding last year. The 'do lasted longer than the marriage." She held it to her ear, "No answer."
I gave her Ethan's number, and I almost swerved into a tree when Marcy told me that he'd picked up. I snatched the phone out of Marcy's hand and practically yelled into it. I swear I did what I could to keep him safe, but as soon as he asked me how far I was, I knew what he was going to do. It's what I would have done in his place. And where Ethan goes, so goes Rachel.
The phones cut out in the middle of my rant, and I realized that I hadn't even found out where he was. "Fuck! Fuck!"
"What happened?"
"We lost the fucking phones!"
She was confused. "Already? Oh, God..."
We arrived on her street. Marcy hit my arm and yelled, "Look!" I saw the first survivor since the party went to hell. He was running for everything he was worth, and I floored it to meet him. Neither one of us was fast enough, as the zombies closed on him and took him down. I didn't look at her, but I heard her sobbing gently.
I slowed to a crawl when we reached her house. Then I saw movement through her picture window, and mumbled as much.
That's high up on the list of shit I've said but wish I could take back. I took it as a fait accompli that she'd stay with me. Before I knew it, I felt her soft lips on my cheek and heard a choked, "Good luck, Mr. Holt."
She opened the door. I lunged for that girl, and my fingers brushed hers, but my goddamn seatbelt locked and kept me from getting a good grip and making her see some sense. She slammed the door and sprinted for her garage. The zombies noticed her and went after her while she entered her code on the keypad. She snuck under, and the door started to close, but there was no way it would drop far enough to keep those things out. I floored it, cut across her lawn, and slammed on the brakes right in front of that door as it closed. The zombies crashed into my truck and pounded on my windows.
The garage door close with a thump and I drove. Even if I'd wanted to go get Marcy, I literally had no chance to help her out now.
That's when I got angry.
And I haven't stopped being angry since.
I headed back to Main because I figured that those things were everywhere, so I might as well take the most direct route.
Bad call.
The closer I got to downtown the worse it got. New England tourist spot known for its shopping, a beautiful summer night, lots of activities to bring people to the streets, and the dead walking around. I made it to the hospital and research center and was brought practically to a standstill. It looked like the locals were making a stand. Whether by choice or necessity, I didn't really care. All I know is that I'd gone as far as I could go, and I'd do whatever I could to help the living stay that way. At any rate, the hospital would be a good place to regroup. I held out hope that my family was there, too.
Hope was pretty much all I had at that point.
I looked at my gas gauge and decided to get my money's worth. I'd already lost my house, so saying goodbye to my truck shouldn't have been too big of a deal. I won't lie: I know that every one one of those things in my way had recently been human just like me, but that didn't stop me from taking great pleasure in mowing those fuckers down. If I had unlimited gas and a bigger ride, I'd still be doing it. I would have gladly run every last one of them down.
My truck seized and I was forced to go underneath it for safety. When I saw that ... monstrosity ... jammed in my wheel wells, I realized just how much trouble we, the survivors, were in. How comparatively fragile. How fucking doomed.
But I was still alive, and I was determined to stay that way. Jackie and Ethan would never just give up on me.
I heard a voice bellowing instructions over a megaphone. It took me a moment to realize that he was speaking to me, telling me how to get out of there alive.
I had to trust the guy with the megaphone. I sprinted (I felt like I'd been running all out for hours), jumped over that hood, and lost a few minutes of time. That boot I my head landed on knocked me for a loop.
When I regained all of my senses, I saw people in a life-threatening crisis acting like it. Pushing, showing, screaming, crying, fighting, panicking ... if they'd bothered to pull their heads out of their asses and think of someone other than themselves, they all might have lived.
I know that sounds harsh, but it's what I thought then. It's what I think now. I've seen what a handful of unselfish people can accomplish.
Right then, I didn't care about any of it. I just wanted blood.
I saw the security guard trying to separate two guys who were scuffling near an old woman. The kid was actually doing an admirable job of controlling the situation, but he was distracted. I got a good look at his holster; it wouldn't be a problem. I didn't even have to sneak up to get behind him. I just reached out, flicked the thumb break, pushed forward, and it was mine. My hand immediately recognized the Baretta. It had been a long time, but it felt right. I drew on the two idiots fighting and they stopped immediately.
The guard yelled, "What the fuck?" but immediately shut up when I put the gun in his face and said, quite calmly, "Give me your spare magazines, son."
Outside, I amassed a horrifying body count in a short time, but I didn't feel any better. If anything, I felt worse about losing control the way I did, and taking risks I didn't have to take. As much as I wanted a moment to get centered, it wasn't going to happen.
Mutt … the guy with the megaphone … and I bonded quickly, because he seemed to be the only person I was willing to listen to. When he asked me to back him up, I was both annoyed and honored. I had no choice but to help him, though. He kept his head about him, and I believed him when he said that anyone who didn't toe the line could go take a hike. .
We got the crowd under control, and I allowed myself a moment to think that we might actually get through it. Then I heard that dinging from the elevator, and I just about shit myself.
It went downhill quickly. The speed with which the infection moved was ridiculous. Some people were bitten and turned within seconds, some didn't immediately turn and were just torn apart.
I'd never been in circumstances as desperate as those. Once again, there was nothing to do but run. We made it to the stairs ... barely. We left living people behind, but there was just no saving them.
We barricaded the stairs, trapping the undead on the first floor. No one said much until we pulled up chairs in the abandoned cubicles.
I ... we ... finally had a chance to catch our collective breath and relax for a few minutes. We started chatting and formulating plans.
I'm a first impression guy. I try to make a positive one on people, and I put a lot of stock into my initial impressions of everyone I meet. Having said that, I liked my ad hoc team right away, save for one Ricardo Anders. But I'm getting ahead of myself with him. Here's what I thought then. In fact, I was right on all of them.
First, there was Mutt. Sergeant Mutters, career island cop. I already told you that I knew I was going to be friends with him from the get. He carried himself well, treated people with respect, and I'm pretty sure he let me out of a ticket once. If you believe in karma, he'd banked a lot of the good kind.
My partner-in-barricading, Sam, was one of those guys who doesn't say much. When he does speak, people listen, because it's either going to be funny or pretty important.
&
nbsp; As quiet as Sam is, that's how quiet the security guy isn't. His last name is Salmon; he will tell you repeatedly his nickname is "Fish." Despite his young male bravado, he's a deceptively bright kid who lends a hand, takes orders well, and doesn't hold grudges against people who've pointed a gun at him. He's about Ethan's age, too.
Lena was the last one I had a chance to actually meet. The first thing I noticed was her ink, particular the elaborate sleeve on her left arm; it was impossible not to. I'll say she's sexy merely as a statement of fact. She's whip-smart, doesn't mind heavy-lifting (literally), and she's spunky. I thought she was going to tear Anders' face off at one point. I was still looking for an excuse.
Anders. One word: sociopath. That's really all that needs to be said about him. Our relationship won't end up well.
We decided to gather as many useful goods as we could carry and head upstairs. I was sure we'd contained the outbreak on the first floor. There was that nagging voice in the back of my mind that reminded me of how the outbreak seemed to happen all over the island at once, but I squelched it. The hospital was our only chance for survival. If we stayed on the second floor, we could only live off of vending machine food for so long. At some point, we'd each name the bullet we were going to kill ourselves with.
Fuck. Bad analogy. You'll understand why in a bit.
This might be the part that I most want to forget, but if I start cherry-picking stories I might as well stop writing this altogether.
We got the transmission from the people downstairs. They told us they were trapped in the bathroom. And I mean trapped. They had one exit, and it was surrounded by zombies. Worse, they didn't even have time to think of options, because the restroom door was one of the ones that just swung in and had no lock. From what I've seen so far, those monsters are pretty stupid. They wouldn't think to pull. But give them something to push through and they become a wrecking ball.
