K. T. Swartz

by Zombie Bowl

  She needed a place mostly underground or a location with a wood-burning stove and thick walls; then she’d need a whole lot of logs to keep it stoked. She grimaced. Winter was absolutely the worst. Cold, shivering, and never warm. The only good thing was that the zombies had no body heat, so they froze quickly, making them much slower and easier to kill. Not much consolation, considering. Some of the older houses downtown would have wood-burning stoves; they were probably her best bet. Now, if she could just get there without too much of a fight, she’d be all right.

  She opened the truck door. Stopped with the rustle of bushes. Her 9mm was in her hand as she slowly turned. She steadied her aim when the rustling stopped. A small orange and white tabby cat stuck its nose out of the brush. Ears perked, it stared at her. It was the first living animal she’d seen, except for the vultures. No other birds flew overhead. Though the cat was no threat, she couldn’t lower the gun, even when it turned tail and ran. Her eyes followed it. Strange that it had survived so long. Food had to be scarce with people no longer around. What did it eat now that all the other animals were gone? Why was it still here?

  On the long trek from Columbus to Danville, she’d seen a few animals, mostly chewed up by the undead, but never a zombie animal. When the Out-Break first hit, there were a few scares where the disease seemed to jump species, but no. Only humans succumbed. She climbed behind the wheel; started the truck. And put the cat out of her mind. She had enough to think about without a small feline distracting her.

  Home:

  One house met her specifications, a bed & breakfast on the corner of 4 and Lexington Avenue. It had a large front yard that ran all the way to the street. Old, thick oaks spread their branches over the two story building. The Black Swan, the sign read, as she pulled the truck up onto the driveway. A cobblestone walkway led to white columns and a long front porch. The pillars were spaced evenly apart, perfect for the sheet metal she planned to wrap around the porch. In fact, she could use the wrought iron fence next door for support. The yard was large enough to bury a few mines too. The houses around the B&B were close enough so she could attach rope ladders to the roofs – and several consecutive homes after that – for her escape, should the B&B ever become overwhelmed.

  Several chimneys pockmarked the roof, hinting at more than one wood-burning stove. Hopefully one of them worked. If the B&B’s she and Jeremy had stayed in – pre Out-Break – were any hint, they probably did. And if so, the B&B would have its own supply of firewood saved up for their guests, including food, toiletries, and sheets. The only problem was she’d never been inside the building before. There was no telling how many temporary occupants had become permanent. A little caution and her refreshed supply of bullets would take care of that.

  She stopped herself.

  Such a mentality only cultivated a mindset for recklessness. Overconfidence would kill her quicker than a hungry zombie. No matter how many times she’d done this before, each home-raid now and in the future absolutely had to be like the first: just enough fear to keep her alert; steadiness to make her shots count; and caution to expect an attack from the most unexpected of places.

  ‘Fear, steadiness, and caution. My mantra. To do none of them, or leave one out, is a death sentence. Jeremy would still be alive if we’d only shown more caution. Why didn’t I think of that? Just a little bit more caution, a simple “Wait, Jeremy. Maybe we shouldn’t” might have changed so much, and I wouldn’t be alone. I wouldn’t have to lie on the floor or in a bed by myself. I wouldn’t have this gaping, bleeding wound inside me. He was everything I had. I couldn’t imagine a day without him, even when he was overseas. But I live them now. And that will never change. I lost my high school sweetheart because we forgot to use caution. I’ve lost him forever, but I swear I will make them all pay. No matter how long it takes.’

  • excerpt from August 31 entry

  She sat in the truck for a moment, considered the building in front of her, the years it had seen, what it could say if it had a mouth. Most of the buildings in this part of Danville were old, holding memories several hundred years old in their timbers. To see the city like this – polluted with the dead, scarred and empty because of them – made her sick. All this preparation made her antsy, because she should be out hunting down these things one at a time, until her bullets ran out and she was too weak to lift a gun. But she’d get herself killed that way. Instead, she had to wait, to gather her supplies, her strength, until the greatest weapon against the zombie hordes could be constructed. Then, it was only a matter of time until the city streets were free again.

  Where would she go after Danville was clean? Would she stay? Would she leave? Her eyes closed, head leaned back against the headrest. Where would she want to go? Something wet slapped the passenger side window. Her eyes flew open, locked on the short, elderly female pawing at the glass. Arthritic fingers had lost the ability to uncurl, forcing her to stroke the glass with her knuckles. Steel grey hair was matted to her scalp, stained the same color as her rotting flesh. Deep, jagged holes cut up her face, showed bone along one cheek. A gaping hole had taken the place of her nose, but her eyes were so clear. They watched her pull out her gun. Open the truck door. Only a bullet through the forehead shut those eyes. She looked around but the old female was alone. Well, no more time to waste.

  She pulled up her collar, zipped her leather coat all the way up and stuck a few extra clips in her carpenter’s belt. Gun in hand, she started to lock the truck but stopped. Shook her head. Sometimes old habits had a tendency to pop up when she least expected them. None were left in Danville with the capacity to pull a door handle open. There was no point in locking the door. Leaving it unlocked, she walked the cobbled path to the front porch. She peeked through each of the windows, but the curtains were thick, probably for their occupants’ privacy. She hopped off the porch, walked the building’s circumference. A two door garage sat against the back of the B&B, with one door open, showing another truck abandoned by its owner. Looters had come and gone, cleaning out the shelves. She hopped the low picket fence to check each window facing the backyard.

  In the kitchen was a teenaged zombie in a tight tube-top and low cut jeans that were as black as her skin. With pigtails that hung down to her chest, she stood by the kitchen sink, cloudy eyes locked on nothing. With no reason to move, the zombie stayed in place. She left the thing there; finished her walk around the building to again stand at the front door. She was going in practically blind, with the curtains closed in all but two rooms. She tried the doorknob. Locked. Not wanting to jeopardize its integrity, she headed around back, into the garage, to the back door. The handle turned all the way. One hand on the knob, the other holding her gun, she let the door swing open. Nothing moved inside.

  Flashlight leading, she stepped across the threshold. Grimaced with the soft squeak from the wood floor. The long hall was empty. Two doors to her left, one on her right, and a large room at the end. She took another step. The floorboard squeaked again. She froze with the shuffle of footsteps from the room ahead. A middle-aged male in a suit jacket and slacks rocked back and forth in the doorway. Cloudy eyes focused in her direction. She held still, her finger on the trigger. The flashlight beam tightened on his chest as he dragged himself toward her. She adjusted the angle of her shot. Squeezed the trigger just as another zombie stepped from the room closest to her. The top of his skull blew off, spraying blood and brain matter across the ceiling and white walls. He fell, face-first into the wall; slid down it to become a speed bump in the other zombie’s way. She backed out of the door as the well-dressed male stumbled over the sudden obstacle. Like a toppled pillar, he slammed into the floor.

  Not bothering to rise, he clawed his way toward her, finger bones punching through his rotted skin. She swapped the gun for the hammer. Let his fingers close around her ankle. She dropped to one knee, puncturing the crown of his skull with the hammer’s claw. His brains sloshed like liquid in a glass. The zombie sagged to the floor, his grip easing off
her leg. She stepped over him, checked the rooms in the hall. A laundry room, supply room, and a mudroom. No other zombies. She crept to the end of the hall and looked around. A table large enough to seat twenty dominated the dining room; decorations scattered the glass tabletop; a flower vase lay in pieces, the flowers dry and rotting. Movement out of the corner of her eyes made her spin.

  A young woman her age stared back at her, a flashlight and hammer in her hands. She blinked; so did the woman. A reflection. Was that really what she looked like? Her clothes were almost as black as the rotted bodies in the hall. Her hair had gotten long, hanging past her ears; she was going to have to shorten it soon. She stepped up close, barely recognized the haunted features staring back at her. Dark eyes that at times refused to sleep because of the nightmares that kept her awake, or the cheekbones she never knew she had. Somewhere along the way, she’d lost weight and hadn’t realized it, making her eyes seem larger, her already small frame that much smaller. She was a skeleton playing at being human. She turned from the mirror. Maybe she’d break it after she cleared the house out.

  Through the doorway was the kitchen and a life cut much shorter than it should have been. The zombie reached for her, moaned softly, almost piteously, as if lonely. She swatted the female’s hands aside and smashed the hammer into her temple, knocking the zombie off her unsteady feet. Her skull smacked into the fridge, left a trail of black blood down the side. She pushed through the swinging door, into the hall lobby. Half-eaten up to the thighs, a female body hung from the staircase. Deep tracks in the skin showed where something had clawed at it, trying to pull meat from the bones. The floor was a sticky, stinking mess of dull blood that had soaked into the wood floor. A zombie stood under the body, his hands raised, fingertips making the corpse swing lightly, but unable to reach higher.

  Her grip tightened on her hammer with the surge of anger through her chest. So many people dead; so many lost hope, lost the desire to live. Alone, terrified of the monsters outside their door and inside their homes, they saw no escape. The world was beyond saving, much like this woman who had taken her own life. There was no peace, because peace – like safety – was a poison. There was nothing but the struggle, and sometimes that was too much. How long would she go before it became too much for her?

  She swung on the zombie. Hit him on the back of the head. He stumbled. She hit him again. This time his skull cracked. The wet slap of his brain against bone filled the hall. She caved in his skull and kept pounding. Chunks of bone flew on impact. The end of her hammer flung liquid across the walls, the ceiling, and the staircase until his head was nothing but a rotting smear on the floor. One cloudy eye stared up at her, the last remaining identifiable part of his head. She rested her boot on it. And squashed it.

  He was the last zombie on the first level. She searched the second floor, the attic, and basement. The supplies this B&B had stored up were more than enough to reaffirm her decision to stay here, although she had one hell of a mess to clean up now. The building was a defensible location, with thick outer walls and narrow doorways. She could tear up the staircase, cutting off access to the upper floors. And she found the honeymoon suite, with its kitchenette and fireplace. Perfect.

  She opened the curtains on the second floor, pushed the window open to let in the warm breeze and to wash away the stink of death. She climbed out onto the porch roof. The shingles were warm from the sun, and heat seeped through her leather coat. She sat down, rested her elbows on her knees, and let the breeze tease her hair. She’d always wanted an old two story house with some history to its walls. Although she never thought it would be here in her hometown. It was a nice place to be – or it would be when she cleaned it up. And hey, the Danville library was just around the corner, so she could catch up on her reading.

  Huh. The world was dying from a disease with no cure, and she was planning a cozy read by the fireplace. What was she thinking?

  Snorting, she climbed back inside and unloaded the truck. With the rooms lit by kerosene lamps she’d found in the basement, she dragged the zombies to the garage, dumped them in a heap. Back inside, she cut down the woman’s body. With no other place for her – because burying her would only attract zombies – she hid her body under the dead, to disguise the smell. The garage door clicked and groaned as she hit the manual release. Darkness consumed the interior, was as good a tomb as she could make it.

  ‘Leaving the woman there isn’t a decision I enjoy. She deserves a proper burial beside her family and friends, with loved ones to mourn her. Now, there is no one but me. I don’t know her name. I don’t know what she liked to do or what reasons brought her to the B&B. Did she want to be cremated or buried? Was there a particular song she wanted played at her funeral? I have nothing for her except undignified storage in the garage. But the truth is she’s dead. I’m alive, and I can’t waste my time where it isn’t productive.’

  • excerpt from the August 31 entry

  Now to fix up the rest of the house.

  The blood on the floors and walls was harder to get rid of, but that was what cleaning chemicals were for. She boarded up the interior windows on the first floor, nailed 2x4s over the front door, until nothing could push its way through. For the first time in months she felt like a normal person as she packed away her supplies, and again walked the empty rooms. This was the worst part of any new residence, the first night. But she’d get over the jitters, and learn to be comfortable here as soon as she destroyed the staircase. Step two was now complete. The blood bags no doubt had run out days ago. While certainly not fast, most of the shambling dead would eventually find their way back to town.

  She hoped to be ready by the time they did, but with August coming to a close, and the most difficult part coming up, she wondered if maybe the weather would change before she’d be ready. Kentucky winters were harsh and frigid, prone to ice storms and sub-zero temperatures. While both would definitely impair the dead, they would also impair her. They always did. She just couldn’t handle being cold. She headed for the stairs and couldn’t help climbing back out on the porch roof. The sun had set, throwing its last, fading rays across the sky. Tomorrow she’d hunt up some sheet metal and maybe raid the hospital again. Maybe make a few pipe bombs. She needed to improve her explosives selection if she really wanted to fortify her new home. Or, instead, maybe she’d go to the library.

  She opened a bottle of water, grabbed some fruit to munch on. As she watched the sun set, as twilight pulled its blanket of stars across the sky, she lay back and let evening’s chill work its way under her skin. The day had been a good one, all things considering. She was comfortable here, more relaxed than she’d been in a long time. Maybe now she’d be able to sleep for more than an hour or two.

  The Library:

  She stood outside the Public Library on West Broadway and considered the broken pane of glass in the door. The shards were long gone, giving her no hint of whether something smashed its way into the library or out of the library. Nothing moved inside – at least, not in the few minutes she’d been standing there watching the front entrance. The building, by all appearances, was empty, forgotten. But they all looked that way. As she stood there, watching the darkness, nostalgia wiggled its way up from the depths of her mind.

  She’d spent so many years as a kid in the library. Her arms full of books, she’d wobble up the steps from the children’s section and carefully slide them across the counter, where one of the librarians – Ms. Mallory – would scan each book’s barcode and restack them for her. Her mom had constantly enrolled her and her brother in the library’s summer reading programs, and the room these events took place in had a two-way mirror; she remembered putting her face up the glass and looking inside the room. Sometimes people were behind it, but most times not. If she really thought hard, she could remember the library before its second renovation. Its third incarnation stood before her now. She’d outlived the building, and that was an uncomfortable thought.

  There were no more peopl
e left to pull books from the shelves, no more people to absorb the overwhelming amount of knowledge – a timeline of humanity’s growth and creativity – captured on paper. And this was only what could be referenced. What about what existed within each person’s mind? How much was lost of this world and how much would never be recovered? The thought made her stomach roll. Earth would never be the same. It couldn’t, because there weren’t enough people to support the knowledge it once had. No library should be empty, left to rot were no one could appreciate its wealth.

  She glanced up and down the street. Further up, a solitary zombie loitered by a tree near a two-story brick house converted into a small-town lawyer’s office. The sign out front still hung from the lamppost: Crawford & Crawford. Brothers. They used to go to her church years ago, when she lived here, but that was well over ten years ago. Were the Crawford brothers among the other dead wandering Danville’s streets? Had she already killed them? How many other people had she killed that she knew?

  She shook her head. What a dangerous train of thought that was: empathy for the dead. Foolishness like that would get her killed. She pulled out a baseball bat she’d found at the B&B and walked inside the library. Clicked on her flashlight. Movement behind the counter had her light swinging toward it. A shifting shadow. Clear eyes dilated with the bright light. The zombie didn’t flinch; instead moaned. The librarian was still in uniform, with her nametag displayed on her lapel: Angela. Angela had long blond hair that hung halfway down her back. Her ponytail was too tight, and the rotted flesh of her skull was unable to hold up to the pressure.