by Zombie Bowl
“No shit?” Tommy asked. “Well, this must be our lucky day. Your wife said there’s still gas in the pumps. We ain’t seen any z-bags either.”
“All right, let’s get everyone inside and refill our supplies,” Michael said.
Tommy nodded over Michael’s shoulder. “Looks like they beat ya to it.”
Behind him, Marleen and Rae led the kids across the lot. “Tommy said everything’s all clear,” Marleen said. “How’s the store look?”
“See for yourself. It’s perfectly clear,” he said.
A smile split his wife’s lips. “Oh,” she said suddenly and pointed over her shoulder. “Max spotted a fire engine on that hill over there. If we’ve got time I’d like to let him see it.”
Michael shrugged. “Let’s get our supplies together first, and then we’ll go.”
Marleen pecked him on the cheek; she grabbed a cart and started shopping. Michael leaned up against the outside wall as everyone else went inside. His breath curled in the air. Maybe this was a bit presumptuous of him, but it seemed Canada wasn’t as far off as he thought. Danville was an unexpected gem buried in a mound of horse dung. They had everything they needed. Gas and food. Roger’s actually sat between two strip malls. Either one they could clean out and fortify. For awhile they’d be safe, fed, and warm. But this wasn’t his choice to make. He could ask them if they wanted a temporary reprieve from their journey or whether they wanted to keep going.
In silence, he watched them shove as much food as they could into their trunks. As promised, Michael drove his wife and son up the road to the gleaming fire engine sitting parallel with the firehouse. It and another building were connected, with the first story windows heavily boarded up. The better to keep anything out. While Max climbed into the driver’s seat, he walked the building’s perimeter. Grabbed the boards on the windows and tugged on them. If the scrape marks and black stains were any hint, the fortifications held up well. He circled around behind the firehouse, spotted a rope ladder curled up by the roof. A single cord was tied to it and ran down the building, to a few inches above his head.
“Marleen,” he shouted.
Marleen ran around the corner, her gun in her hand, with Max trailing behind. As he had taught her, with both hands on the weapon, she held her gun down by her side. Her eyes reflected fear. When she spotted him, she slowed. Frowned. “What’s wrong?”
He pointed to the rope ladder, then gave the cord a sharp tug. The rope ladder unfurled, dropping within reach. “Cover me.”
She nodded, watched the slope as he climbed to the second story window; he pushed it open. One quick look around confirmed his suspicions. He stuck his head out the window. “Come on up. It’s clear.”
Marleen and Max joined him inside. He nodded to the stacked bottles of water, the folded clothes, and carefully made beds. “Somebody was using this as a safe-house. He even cut the stairs off to the prevent attack.”
Marleen ran a finger along one of the shelves that held bottles of labeled chemicals. She held up a clean fingertip. “Someone is still using this place. No dust.” She looked at him. “There are survivors in this town.”
“We don’t leave people behind, right, Dad?” Max asked.
“That’s right,” he said. “We have to find them.”
“Honey, we don’t have room for anyone else,” Marleen protested.
“Then we make room,” he said and leaned out the window. “We better get back.”
Marleen exhaled loudly but followed. By the time their SUV pulled up beside the camper, everyone was already inside. Aluminum can lids popped. The smell of beer and fruit juice created an unusual odor that had him wishing he could walk back out.
“Hey, Mikey’s back, just in time for the party,” Arti exclaimed, saluting him with an upraised beer can. A round of cheers filled the room before he waved for silence.
“It looks like Danville may have some survivors in it,” he said. “The firehouse has been reinforced as a temporary base, with enough supplies to feed a small group of people for a month.” He looked at everyone. “We need to find these people and help them.”
“If they got this store and a fortress, they don’t need help,” Rob said. “We do.”
“We don’t leave folks behind,” Cherise said, “or did you forget how we found you?” Rob glared at the woman. Tommy crushed his beer can in his hand, his eyes on Rob, who looked away.
Michael held up a hand for silence. “Since we haven't seen any tracks – or any sign of anyone coming through here in the past few days – they probably have other fortifications just like that fire station, which means they’ll probably be easy to spot. Danville doesn’t look that big, so we can probably cover it in less than a day. If we don’t find anyone after that, we assume they’ve moved on and we do the same, unless you want to stick around longer.”
Marleen relaxed the pinched expression on her face.
“Everybody agree?” Michael asked. Nods all around. “All right, let’s get started. Keep an eye on your gas tanks. Radio in if you spot anything, and above all: be careful. We’ll meet back here two hours before dusk. Any questions?” No one said anything. Again they split up into three teams; took three different directions.
Marleen jumped when Arti’s voice burst through the radio. “Holy crap! I can’t believe this – over – you won’t believe what we’re looking at – over – it’s like a freakin’ slaughterhouse over here – over – somebody had a freakin’ party and forgot to invite the living – over.”
Marleen looked at him. “She really likes to irritate you with all those ‘over's, doesn’t she?”
Cherise’s voice came through the radio. “What are you looking at?”
Liz’s voice replaced Arti’s. “It looks like a car lot, but most of the cars have been torched. Gas fire, it looks like. The concrete has more zombie speed humps than a swinger’s convention.”
“Mom, what’s a swinger’s convention?” Max asked. Marleen slapped a hand to her forehead.
“Seriously – over,” Arti said into the radio. “There’s gotta be at least fifty or sixty of ‘em out here – over – in pieces, that is – over – when you get a chance, Mikey – over – you might want to check this out.”
Michael took the radio from his wife. “Are there any fortified buildings out there?”
“Nope,” Liz said. “Just this car lot. Looks like its isolation may have been the reason it was picked for whatever this is.”
“Just keep looking then,” he said.
“What do you think?” Marleen asked. “I mean, about all of this?”
“I think we’re dealing with a highly organized, educated group of civilians,” he said. “Although why they’d pick this town is beyond me.”
“I don’t know. If we lived in a small town, I think I’d want to stay and protect it,” she said. “This is where their memories are, their homes. Maybe they got married here or went to school here, or maybe they lost their husbands or wives here.”
“Sentimentality will get you killed,” he said.
“Maybe, maybe not,” she said. “We haven’t found the survivors yet.” Michael didn’t say anything. Marleen lightly squeezed his arm. “But we will.”
“You’re awfully optimistic.”
“They have something worth fighting for,” she replied. “They won’t go down easy.” Michael glanced at her. Her smile was lopsided. “Isn’t that what you told me about that group of terrorists in Afghanistan?”
He couldn’t argue with that.
At a crawl, the SUV drove down street after street, but only undisturbed snow met his gaze. The sun emulated their slow pace through the city. But eventually Danville’s shadows lengthened, its main street deserted but for a handful of frozen undead, and they were quickly dropped with bullets in their foreheads.
“Mike, we need to find someplace to spend the night,” Marleen said.
He nodded, picked up the radio. Tommy’s voice crackled across the radio waves. “Ladies and
gentlemen, one seriously tricked out fortification has been located. On the corner of 4 and Lexington Avenue.”
Marleen unfolded the map. Her finger tapped paper. “Got it.”
Michael punched the button. “Tommy, we’re on our way.”
He took Main Street to 4 Street, passed an old bakery on the right side, and followed Marleen’s directions to a two story building more metal and wood than siding. Its windows were barred, the front door boarded shut. Sheet metal enclosed the porch, reinforced with metal posts. The only reminders that it used to be a house were the upstairs windows and roof. Michael pulled the SUV beside Tommy’s camper. Arti braked on its other side. Tony’s whistle disturbed the silence. “Wow, look at that place. It’s like a freakin’ battleship.”
“It used to be a B&B,” Cherise said, stabbing a thumb at a small black sign so pockmarked with dents that the name was almost impossible to read. She angled it to the fading light. “The Black Swan.”
“Looks more like The Metal Swan,” Arti joked. “Let’s see who’s home.”
“Hold on,” Michael started, as the woman stepped onto the property. From under the snow came an audible click! Arti froze. So did everyone else. Michael’s throat went dry. He couldn’t avoid Arti’s eyes when she looked at him.
“I think I stepped on something,” she whispered, her eyes wide.
“Everybody but Arti, back up,” Michael said, waving them away. Tommy grabbed his girlfriend and kids. Liz moved in the opposite direction, toward Arti. Michael grabbed her. “Don’t. You could set off another one if you get close.”
“But–”
“Back. Up,” he snapped. “You’re just going to get in the way.” Anger flickered through her eyes; in his grip, her bicep was taut, ready to jerk away. But she didn’t. Fear had her looking back to Arti. Michael lightly pulled on her arm. “You won’t do her any good staring at her like that. Help Rae move the vehicles back. I’ll get Arti.”
Liz closed her eyes. “Don’t let her die, Mike.”
He just squeezed her arm, let her go when she pulled away. Marleen put a hand on his shoulder. “Mike…”
He touched her fingers. “I need some room, Marleen. Take Max and the SUV down the street. We don’t know what kind of explosive this is.”
“I’m not leaving you,” she said.
He turned to face her. “Yes, you are. If something goes wrong, Max’ll need his mom.” Her eyes glistened in the fading light. He pulled her fingers off him. “Go on, Marleen.”
She took a couple steps back, then spun, grabbing their son. Only when everyone had moved several houses down did he kneel on the sidewalk. He lightly scraped away the snow around Arti’s foot. Instead of grass, a squat metal disk sat on the ground, a homemade mine. If the sign was any clue, it probably contained a small explosive and possibly bb’s: hundreds of tiny projectiles meant to inflict as much damage in as large a radius as possible. Its pressure plate sat on top.
“So,” Arti laughed nervously. “You do this often?”
“Once,” he said. “Don’t move.”
“Wasn’t planning on it,” she replied. “You know, I used to live in a small town like this. Of course it was farther south, and in South Carolina, called Goose Creek. I hated it. There was never anything to do–”
“Arti,” he said, looking up at her.
“Yeah?”
“Shut up. You’re distracting me.”
“Oh, right, sorry,” she said. “I tend to ramble when I get nervous. I’ve always done it.”
Michael closed his eyes.
“Sorry,” she said again and this time stayed quiet. He pulled out his knife and unbuckled this belt.
“Whatcha doin’ there, buddy?” she asked.
“I’m going to try to slip this knife between your foot and the pressure plate, then tie it down with the belt,” he said. “We’re lucky it’s not buried, or this would be a lot harder.”
“Cuz this is so much easier,” Arti commented.
Michael turned on his flashlight. “Just watch my back, ok?”
He angled the light to illuminate the gap between her boot’s instep and the mine’s pressure plate. His metal blade scraped her sole. He grimaced. Angled the knife a bit more, with its edge sliding across the mine. Arti flinched with the scraping sound.
“Don’t move,” he warned. She froze. The knife tip poked through, under her shoe. He wigged his fingers through the small gap to put his weight on it. He looked up at her. “When I tell you to, left your foot straight up, and then run.”
She nodded. He shifted to compensate for her weight. “All right. Run.”
Arti jerked her foot straight off the mine – Michael leaned forward, felt the rush of air from Arti as she sprinted across the road. His breath caught in his lungs, but the mine didn’t explode. He laid his belt across the sidewalk. Keeping his weight on the pressure plate, he dug his fingers into the dirt under it. Scooted it across the hard ground, onto the leather. He looped one end through the buckle, pulled it with his teeth to tighten it over the knife. His blade shifted with a soft scritch!
He froze, his belt still in his teeth. Then he exhaled around it when nothing happened. He looped the belt around the homemade mine again. His gut twisted in a hard knot with the thought of lifting his fingers off the pressure plate, but he couldn’t hold this damn thing forever. He stood. Shuffled down the sidewalk, to the street corner. Looked in all four directions. A large brick house sat on the other side of the road. As big as it was, it would offer enough protection should the bomb go off. He stepped softly across the snow, flinched with the crunch of each step, but he kept moving, past the wrought iron fence with sections missing.
A garbage bin sat on the building’s far side. He set the edge of the mine on it, and lightly pushed it across the angled lid. One hand he removed. And froze. The mine didn’t explode. He sucked cold air into his lungs until they pushed against his ribcage. He held it. Lifted all but three fingers off the pressure plate. As long as he kept them on the mine, it wouldn’t go off. He was betting on the belt and the knife to hold, but actually putting his faith in them – at that moment – just wasn’t happening.
“Let go, Michael,” he told himself. “Let go of the mine.”
A low moan answered him. He looked up. A zombie stood at the corner of the house, barely ten feet away. It held still for a moment, its body wet from the snow. Its shirt clung to black and pink skin. The zombie took a step forward. Clear eyes locked onto his. Michael looked down at the mine, then back up as the zombie took another step. Its legs moved like awkward stilts. The zombie stumbled suddenly, its back foot dragging, pitching it toward the trashcan. Michael ran. Looked back with the thunk of heavy plastic. The zombie leaned against the trash bins, unaware of the danger. The mine slid too half off the edge. And fell. Michael vaulted the iron fence.
From behind, a column of snow, dirt, and plastic rushed skyward. Mud and bits of the trash bins peppered his hair, his coat. He coughed as dirty snow began to fall. Eyes closed, chest heaving, he leaned against the house; couldn’t stop the flutter of nerves in his stomach. His laughter had tears rolling down his cheeks. He stood, dusting off his clothes. On his feet he leaned around the corner. Whistled at the crater in the ground. The trashcans were gone; so was the zombie and part of the brick house’s outer wall.
He looked down the street as his SUV took the curb to get back to the B&B. Tires squealed. His wife bolted from the vehicle, left the door open behind her. And threw herself into his arms. “You bastard,” she hissed. “I thought you–”
He grinned. “You can thank a zombie for that scare.”
Her eyes widened. She slapped the back of his skull. “Don’t ever do that again,” she retorted. Then pressed her lips to his. He melted in her embrace, let the warmth of her body spread through him. She pulled away slightly. “I love you, Mr. Torvo.”
“I love you too, Mrs. Torvo,” he said.
“Hey!” Tommy shouted, waving a hand at them. “You two might wa
nna wait til you’re inside before you rip your clothes off.”
“Why are you going to rip your clothes off, mom?” Max asked.
Marleen’s cheeks went beet red. Michael laughed, grabbed his son in a hug. “How about we worry about getting inside first?”
“How are we supposed to do that when the yard’s a minefield?” Rob asked.
“You all hold tight,” Michael said as he set Max down. “I’m going to scout out the place.”
“I’ll go with you,” Tommy said.
“Be careful,” Marleen called, her hand on their son.
Tommy fell in beside him as he walked the sidewalk. “So, what are we looking for?”
Michael shrugged. “My guess is the whole yard is booby trapped.” He jerked a thumb at the porch. “That explains the sheet metal.”
He stopped. Looked up at the roof, the two windows on the first floor. Through the bars over the window, 2x4s were visible, tightly stacked one on top of the other. They kept walking, to the short driveway and garage. Snow covered everything; a thick blanket that hadn’t been disturbed. No footprints, so sign of habitation. Could be the house hadn’t been used in a few days, because the back looked like the front.
“Hey, check that out,” Tommy said, stabbing a finger straight up. Michael looked up. To the rope bridge strung from one of the second story windows of the B&B to the brick and siding house behind it, to its balcony. The snow across the roof was disturbed by short skidding marks where footing was unsteady.
“Huh, smart,” Michael commented. “They stay off the ground. I bet the stairs inside the Black Swan are disabled.” He and Tommy followed the rope bridge, where it connected to a third house, this one made of stone. A rope ladder hung down the side, suspended away from the house.
Tommy jumped straight up, brushed the bottom rung with his fingertips. He grunted when his feet hit the ground. “How the hell?”
Michael looked around. The snow on the tree stump several feet away was disturbed. He backed away from it, aiming for the ladder. “Might wanna move.”
Tommy looked over his shoulder, gave him room. Michael sprinted for the stump and pushed off it. He grabbed the rope ladder, his boots slamming into the wall. Hand over hand he climbed up onto the balcony. He looked over his shoulder with the heavy thud of Tommy following. The large man pulled himself over the railing. He shook his head at the rope bridge leading back the way they’d come.
