by Zombie Bowl
Supplies:
The parking lot of Morrow’s – Danville’s largest home improvement store – was a ghost town of abandoned vehicles and fluttering banners. The breeze plucked at the outdated, ratty, plastic 4 of July flags that proclaimed amazing deals for the holiday. The Out-Break hit the USA six years ago, spreading quickly. Considering the banners, it was just in time for the holiday in Danville two years ago, if the outdated calendars were any clue. She wondered how many survivors had made it out of town, how many had died before fear became too much to live with. With a population over 14,000, there was the potential for all of them – not counting the Ceton University students, any visitors, and passers-by – to have been turned.
Danville was the largest small town she chanced staying in. But she couldn’t leave. She and Jeremy had tried for so long to get here, to save her mom and dad because they hadn’t been able to save his. To leave now would make his death pointless. That thought made her sick. So, she stood in front of Morrow’s, between an SUV and a rag-top, and simply watched the warehouse-like building. In the past ten minutes, nothing moved around the store or the chain of stores connected to it. The glass doors weren’t broken, and the many pots of leafy bushes and evergreens had grown wild, surviving where humans had not. Maybe the fruit trees had as well.
Her goal in coming here wasn’t fruit, but the opportunity was too good to pass up. Her arms hanging, shoulders hunched, with the scent of a freshly slaughtered zombie still soaking into her coat, she shuffled across the parking lot. Took her time. A vulture soared by, under thick, dark clouds. Those scavengers were never far off. Three massive clouds of them wheeled high in loose circles where the blood bags hung. In a way, their clustered appearance was a good thing. As long as the dead collected in certain areas, so too did the vultures. And as far as she knew, they didn’t succumb to the disease.
She shuffled past the garden-center gate, into a jungle of overgrown bushes and trees and perennials. The contrast between the emptiness she was used to and the wild beauty of nature just beginning to reclaim its territory made her stop. Give this city a few more years, and where man had paved over her, Mother Nature would lift her green hands high again.
She took a deep breath, inhaled the many scents of fresh greenery. Her feet stopped by a lilac bush; its leaves were green and healthy, but she was too late to see its blooms or stick her nose in its blossoms. Her favorite flower, and she’d have to wait another year to see it. She moved deeper into the garden center, to the fruit trees in the back, to the ripening apples, pears, cherry trees, and blueberry bushes beyond. She pulled an apple from the tree and bit into it.
‘Considering I haven’t had an apple in years, considering that my supplies consist of canned goods, dried meat, dehydrated foods, processed crap with long expiration dates, and vitamins, biting into a fresh apple was like fireworks going off in my mouth. Sweet, juicy, and just a little bit tart. And I didn’t even care that it wasn’t peeled.’
• excerpt from August 29 entry
She scoured the trees for all the ripe fruit she could find, eating as she went. Even pears, and she didn’t like pears. In a plastic bag she gathered up her treats and stuck them in her pack. Overhead, faraway thunder rolled across the sky. She looked up. The thick blanket of slate grey clouds hung low. Lightning flashed within their rain-bloated bodies. A cool breeze rustled the fruit trees’ leaves, carried the scent of rain with it. She looked out over the parking lot. Debris and dried leaves rolled across the cracked blacktop, disappeared down the slope to the bypass.
She ducked under the shed as rain slammed into the metal roof, like thousands of marbles spilling from a jar. Lightning flashed much closer, illuminated part of the dark store. A rotting face stared out at her. Bloated hands pressed against the glass, left smeared handprints behind as the female employee clawed at the door. May pulled out her gun. Held it steady. A low rumble of thunder started in the distance and built up power as it rolled over Danville. With a jarring crack, the sky exploded; at the same time she pulled the trigger.
A spider web of cracks blossomed around the bullet hole. The zombie fell. She lowered the gun. Where there was one, there would be more. In the shadows of the warehouse, figures moved. Dragging, shuffling steps, and dead, cloudy eyes stared out. They pawed at the glass, stepping over and on their fallen friend. Their moans mingled with the thunder. There was no point in hiding now. She ran for the towering steel and wood shelves that reached for the ceiling. Pallets of fertilizer and lawn equipment, pots, and plastic water-fountain bases were stacked high. She dug her nails into the wood to boost herself up.
Fists punched the glass; a finger wiggled through the bullet hole, dripped brackish blood and skin onto concrete. She slung a leg up and rolled over the bags of fertilizer. But one shelf wasn’t high enough. Lightning scarred the shadows; another crack of thunder had her teeth vibrating. Blowing rain made the metal slick, slid down her leather coat to soak into her jeans. She grabbed a fountain base as the glass door shattered. Cut and bleeding zombies poured from the store. She watched them spill like angry ants from their hill. No more time. With her toes against the frame, she pulled herself higher; fell into the fountain.
Below, the zombies spread through the garden center. One clawed at the sky, let loose a moan that attracted the others’ attentions. They looked up into the driving rain as lightning flashed. Only one gripped the shelf’s frame. The zombie’s moan floated through the air. She aimed, fired when another clap of thunder tore the sky. But it wasn’t enough to hide the sharp retort from her 9mm. The shambling dead reached for her. She put her gun away, pulled out her bow. Arrows were easier to come by than bullets.
She aimed, let her arrow fly. A zombie dropped, an arrow sprouting like an absurd headdress from his skull. One by one, she lined up her shots. Took a deep breath. Only when her hand steadied did she release another. With careful aim and a careful shot, she began picking them all off.
Behind her a foot thumped loudly against plastic. She spun as the zombie dragged his fingers across her back. Her bow fell out of her hands, clattered against concrete. Her crowbar caved in the side of his skull. She pushed him over the edge, ignored the crunch of bone. Another zombie head popped up over the edge of the shelf. She slid by the water fountain, toward the grasping fingers. Trying to climb up, they left streaks in the wood shelf; the piled fertilizer bags on the ground provided an easy ramp for the climb up. She flipped the crowbar around, buried the pointed end in the female zombie’s forehead. The undead toppled back.
But one more quickly took the zombie’s place. She pulled out her machete, swept the blade across grasping fingers, like a scythe through wheat. Black blood spurted from nubs, coated the bags of fertilizer and the metal frame. One zombie slipped on the gore, slammed into the concrete. She brought her machete down like an axe, splitting open a skull, showing the decaying brain within. She gagged at the stench, tore her machete free to gouge out another’s throat, not that the open wound was enough to stop him. He grabbed her boot. Jerked her foot toward him. Her crowbar struck the back of his skull, popped his eyes from their sockets. His fingers slid off her; with a fading moan, he sagged to the floor, the last one to fall.
She dropped back, leaning against a water fountain, and gasped for breath. No more moans filled the air or mingled with the thunder. Lightning illuminated the gory mess below, revealed no lingering threats. But she didn’t move, just sat there and closed her eyes as rain drummed a steady beat on the metal roof. It would have been soothing if she wasn’t coming down off an adrenaline high. Opening her eyes, she wiped the crowbar on her coat. She did the same with the machete. She’d have to clean it better later, but for now, she still had a goal, still needed their gore to hide her scent, particularly in this rain. She wouldn’t be able to leave the building until it stopped.
Only when her heart wasn’t pounding as loud as the thunder did she move, to hop down the slippery slope that the pile of fertilizer bags had become. One of the zombies mo
aned, grabbed her shoe. She jerked back, her hiss escaping her teeth, and kicked the female as hard as she could. The zombie’s head snapped back; her jaw clacked when it bounced off the concrete. May kicked her in the face; the toes of her boot sank through the nasal cavity, into the sinuses and eye sockets. She stumbled, hopped on one foot to regain her balance. One more time she kicked, and the skull flew off her foot. Like a bouncing ball, it skipped across the garden center and knocked against one of the shelves.
She looked down at her boot, tried to shake off some of the goo. And shuddered. She grabbed her bow and moved for the door. Lightning flashed, throwing her shadow across the store’s floor, across a display of hummingbird feeders. But nothing moved within. She stood at the door to listen. The sky rumbled overhead. Shoulders hunched, arms swinging, she shuffled into the store. Let her eyes get used to the darkness, to the soft pitter-patter of rain on the roof. She looked at the patio furniture, the display of hammocks and fun summer games Morrow’s sold.
With her crowbar and hammer in hand, she walked the first aisle. Seed packets, watering cans, gardening tools. She stopped, picked up a three-pronged claw, but its range was too short for killing, shorter than the hammer. She kept moving, passing the shower stall displays, the faucets and sinks. Some of the showers were barely big enough for one, much less two. In Jeremy's book, that would never do. She kept going, as the lightning briefly illuminated the warehouse. Her boots stopped with the steady dripping further up the aisle. The smell of rotten blood reached her nose. No shuffling footsteps, though.
With her hand over the plastic face, she turned on her flashlight. Instead of zombies, she spotted a small forklift. Its two prongs were lifted high above the cabin and buried in Styrofoam almost two stories high. On either prong, a zombie bled, had been bleeding for a very long time. They were skin-wrapped bones leaking the very last of their energy. Too weak to move, they hung in silence, stared at nothing with their cloudy eyes. Below them, in a shallow, wide puddle that reached in every direction, their rotten blood had stained the concrete, leaching out the grey in some places. She stepped around it, shone her light at the lumber.
This was exactly what she needed. Thick, sturdy 2x4s to secure whatever permanent locations she found. Finding those locations was another matter. So was moving all this lumber out of here. She left the dead where they hung, stepped through the hanging plastic to the back of the store. Morrow’s-branded trucks were parked side by side. All locked, but better for hauling wood than her bike. She’d have to find the keys, and that meant going back inside. The plastic shuffled behind her. She held still as the zombie stopped, with strips of plastic hanging around his shoulders and head. He was a tall one, broad-shouldered and hulking.
Clear eyes swept the back lot, as his breath rattled in his chest. This one was still alive. She watched him drag his lumbering body outside. He searched the gentle rain for movement; she couldn’t help but tense when he took a step toward her. Her crowbar was still in her hand, but as tall as he was, reaching his skull would be difficult. And if she moved, he would be right on top of her, so she did nothing while the breathing zombie shuffled another step. The stench coming off her clothes should have been enough to fool him, but though the disease was rotting his brain, synapses still fired. Some measure of intelligence showed in those clear eyes.
He reached for her. She back-pedaled, pulling her gun from its holster. He surged forward, his shambling gate pulling at his decaying muscles. Fresh tears in his skin had his black-tinged blood staining his pants. They spread quickly, but he only moved faster. She aimed, fired. The left side of his face exploded, showing white bits of bone before his blood ran like tears down his cheek. His tongue flapped against his jaw, and he moaned. Something cold slammed into her back; she looked over her shoulder. A truck bed. She opened fire. Emptied the clip. Cartilage shattered, collapsing his nose, his sinus cavities. One of his eyes splattered. Her last bullet kicked his head back as he grabbed her shoulders.
The zombie stumbled. She jumped to the side as he slammed into the truck, left a reddish-black streak as he slid down it. Her hands shaking, she reloaded her gun. Four bullets. Four bullets to put down one zombie. What on earth was this one made of? She kicked at his waist. Keys jangled. On one knee, she dug through his pockets, grimaced at the warm blood between her fingers. She wiped them on her pants, then stuck the lanyard and keys in her pack.
Crowbar leading, flashlight pointing the way, she stepped inside the store. There were more undead in here than she expected. A store that sold no food or guns had little to help anyone unless they planned to stay in Danville for awhile. So, why so many? She slid into another aisle. No undead. She kept moving, toe-to-heel, flashlight forward. The light froze on a creature crouched in front of a light bulb display case. Clear eyes lifted; pupils dilated in the bright beam. The zombie rose, dropped a skeletal hand on the floor. She slid forward, crowbar over her head.
Blood still stained his lips, his teeth. The scrawny punk, with a skullcap and sagging jeans, moaned and reached for her. His flesh still showed patches of pink on his cheeks and hands. In life he might have been attractive, with his long hair and angular bone structure, but he was dying, so far gone that he knew nothing else but hunger. She slammed the crowbar into his skull; his forehead collapsed, squirting blood and brain matter around the iron weapon. His skull cap soaked up most of it, but streams of bright red blood still ran down his face, into his eyes. A gurgle escaped his lips as he fell. Wide eyes stared straight up at the ceiling when he hit the floor. Motionless. Finally at peace.
She knelt in front of the hand he’d been chewing on. From what skin and muscle were left, bright pink flesh still covered the knuckles and wrist. This hand was fresh, with no sign of necrotic damage in the fingertips. Did that mean someone around here was alive? Where would they be hiding? Morrows wasn’t designed for zombie fortification. And considering someone was missing their hand, they probably wouldn’t be alive for much longer. She moved down the next aisle, past the lamps and ceiling fans, into the hardware section. The smell of blood saturated the air. She peeked around the next aisle; spotted the door torn off its hinges at the very far end.
‘When I found the door lying on the concrete floor, my heart sank. I didn’t have to see the room to know I was too late. Where the doorway had been was nothing but deep gashes in the wood and drywall. Stuffing from chairs covered the room. The file cabinets were overturned. Even the poor potted plant hadn’t survived. It was split and drooping, its pot shattered. Beyond this room was a hall, redecorated to match the room I’d just left. Blood slid down the paint, to puddle on the floor, leaving Rorschach-like designs everywhere. Absolute devastation painted in red. I stepped into the hall, could see the employee break-room, and had no hope of finding survivors, especially when I noticed a couple zombies seated at the table as if on lunch. At the same time, they looked at me. One of them was missing a hand.’
• excerpt from August 29 entry
Pupils dilated in her flashlight’s beam. Neither one moved, just watched her as she slowly eased her crowbar back on her belt. She pulled her 9mm from its holster. The zombies stood, their chairs sliding back. Their skin still showed patches of pink. She fired as they moved. Faster than the truly dead ones, they walked instead of shuffled. Her bullets slammed into the guy’s skull, dropped him halfway between her and the table. The other one, a female, left a trail of shining blood behind as she bumped and stumbled into the chairs and table legs to get around them. The zombie’s jerking motion had the gun bobbing.
She backed up, kept the gun steady this time. The zombie moaned. Rushed her. She fired. The first round kicked the undead’s shoulder back, had her stumbling over her feet. The second punched a hole through her right cheek. The zombie dropped, her blood splattering the floor. Her chest heaved once, let out a rattling breath. May put her gun away, took out her crowbar. And caved in the zombie’s skull. Those clear, bright eyes faded, lost the light within them. She pulled out a chair; sat d
own. The woman on the floor was still mostly pink, with only faint signs of necrosis on her fingertips and around her lips. The woman was freshly turned.
She was too late. If she hadn’t spent those few days in that trailer, instead immediately starting the search for supplies, she might have been able to reach them in time. From what she knew of the disease, it killed very quickly. About halfway through, the body began to decay. By the end, the victim became a living zombie, much like these four she’d just killed. But honestly, if they were bitten, there was nothing she could do except put them out of their misery.
‘Jeremy used to squeeze my shoulder whenever we came across any of these living zombies. ‘No point letting guilt get to you,’ he’d say. ‘We can’t do anything for them.’ I knew that, but I still can’t help feeling guilty. What if there is a way to help them, to turn them human, and we just don’t know it? What if we are killing them when we don’t have to? Thoughts like that used to keep me up at night, but after awhile, putting a bullet through their skulls has become mandatory. It has to be because once the hunger consumes them, they can’t be reasoned with. No matter how bad I feel, it still has to be done.’
• excerpt from August 29 entry
She stood. Flashed her light around. The vending machines were busted into, their doors hanging open, their contents plundered. These people had been here for awhile, surviving off vending machine crap and soda. They’d cleaned out the cabinets, drank all the coffee and tea and water. She walked through the ‘Employees Only’ area, but there was nothing here for her. She headed back out into the store, combed the rest of the aisles. Her flashlight beam illuminated the kitchen displays – the color schemes and appliances set up to resemble corner kitchens. They hadn’t changed since the last time she’d been here as a kid. She kept moving, past the refrigerators and washers and dryers, to the tool section. She grabbed a cart and started looting.
