Scavengers

by Nate Southard

“Sure that leg’s okay?” Morris asked.

  “Thought I wasn’t supposed to be thinking about it.”

  “Right.”

  “It’s driving me bugfuck.”

  “Dr. Martin will look at it when we get back.” The big man stooped beside the bodies of Jeremy and Eric. “With any luck, he won’t have to break it again.”

  “Again?”

  “It happens sometimes. Broken bones set bad, heal wrong.”

  “It’s only been an hour or so.”

  “Then maybe you’re okay.” He tossed the sheet aside and scooped Jeremy into his arms. “Christ, I hate this.”

  “He shouldn’t have even had his name in the pot.” He wondered how Holly would have done in Jeremy’s place. It was a pointless question, but he suspected she’d do just fine. She was stronger than any of them, and he knew it. She knew it too. Jesus, he couldn’t wait to see her again.

  Morris groaned. “Should, shouldn’t. Neither one of ’em adds up to much of anything right now.”

  “Right.”

  The big man placed Jeremy on the truck’s tailgate, slid him deeper into the bed until he rested next to the meager collection of food. Morris and Chris had managed to grab maybe ten boxes of supplies. Maybe it would last long enough for new crops to take hold. He hoped so. He hated the idea of having to make another run. He’d rather die.

  “You want some help with Eric?”

  “Can you even bend down?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “Fuck it. We’ll get Chris to help.”

  “Where’d he go?”

  Morris gave him a grin. “Probably sulking somewhere.”

  “He helped save my life, though. I’ve lost count of how many I owe him.”

  “Right. End of the day, he’s still human. Even if he is a prick.”

  Blake chuckled. It felt impossible to even smile, but he did it anyway. Morris was right. They were all human, and maybe that was good enough.

  “Want me to go find him?”

  “Naw,” Morris said. “I think I’ve got a better idea.”

  ————————————

  Chris felt like laughing. He imagined the looks on Morris and Blake’s faces when the killbillies swarmed through the shelves, and he felt a cackle boil in his stomach and then rocket toward his mouth, ready to spill. Clenching his teeth into a rictus grin, he refused to let the laughter escape. It was all so funny, though. The hicks would wonder what the hell had gone wrong, and then the dead would just swarm them. Fucking beautiful.

  He dropped into a crouch and slowly pulled the bolt at the bottom of the door. The wood began to move back and forth the slightest bit. One more throw, and the killbillies could enter freely.

  When he closed his eyes, he saw Danielle’s face, her smile. He saw the way her golden hair bounced when she ran, heard her giggles as they danced on the spring breeze like butterflies. She’d been so beautiful and precious, so perfect and wonderfully human. He’d been part of a failed marriage that had twisted into a Cold War, but Danielle had been the one good thing to come of it.

  But now Danielle was dead, reduced to a pile of bones in a shallow grave not a hundred yards away from a log cabin that contained the bodies of three rednecks. It wasn’t fair, and it wasn’t right. Why the hell did he deserve to keep going when Danielle was dead? He didn’t believe in that Everything Beautiful Must Die bullshit. Save it for the people who needed to feel better about themselves. The truth of the matter was three hicks had murdered his daughter, and he’d returned the favor over a stretch of hours, spitting into their faces while they screamed and bled.

  His fingers clawed at the door, and then his hands curled into fists and he was pounding at it, screeching through clenched teeth as tears rolled down his face and snot bubbled from his nose. It wasn’t right! His daughter had died for no reason, some stupid cosmic joke without a punchline.

  So he’d open the doors wide and let the killbillies take him before they finished off Morris and Blake. And then the hicks back in Millwood would starve, and maybe just maybe it would be enough to make up for the murder of his daughter.

  He opened his eyes and watched the killbillies shift against each other, every last one trying to force its way past the others. He searched their faces, regarding the mindless efficiency. They existed only to eat. Hunger was all they cared about. Fear and loss and even love meant nothing to them.

  A snatch of an old Simon and Garfunkel lyric entered his brain, something about never loving and never crying. But wasn’t it better to have loved and lost than to never have loved at all? Maybe. He wasn’t sure he believed either sentiment. He knew the things on the other side of the door didn’t cry. They didn’t miss their daughters so much it made them want to scream.

  The mass of decayed flesh parted for a split second, and something caught his eye. It was just a flash of color, something that had once been gold but had faded and grown dirty. His breath caught in his throat. The color reminded him of Danielle, of her hair that used to bounce.

  He pressed his face closer to the porthole. The killbillies clawed and snarled at him, but he didn’t notice. He looked past them, searching for that filthy golden color. The dead parted once more and he saw it.

  She wasn’t Danielle-he knew that-but she’d probably been the same age when she died. The hair was too short, the T-shirt different. What remained of the girl’s feature looked nothing like his daughter. It didn’t matter.

  The dead girl’s pale eyes zeroed in on him, and she charged the door. Her face disappeared from view, and then fingers scrabbled over the window as the doors pressed inward a little more. He watched one of her nails break off against the plastic, and he stepped away from the doors.

  Mindless, careless. Pathetic. Danielle could have turned into something like that, something with no thoughts, no feelings but hunger. She wouldn’t love him or even remember him. She’d see him as nothing but food. His daughter’s body would be up and moving, but it wouldn’t be Danielle. It would be something else.

  And he knew. Finally, he knew. Brian and Joe and Dave hadn’t done him a favor, but they’d given his daughter a kindness. It had been a cruel service, but one that had needed doing. He couldn’t bear to see Danielle like one of those things. He wanted to remember his beautiful daughter as a person, not a monster.

  “Fuck you,” he told the killbillies. “Find your own meal.”

  “Stevenson?”

  He turned, flicking on the flashlight. Its beam illuminated Morris, his form nearly filling the hallway’s mouth.

  “Hey, Morris.”

  “You okay?”

  “Yeah. I think I am.” He clicked off the flashlight and walked to meet the big man.

  “We’re ready to head out. Thought we could grab a couple of beers first, toast the fact that some of us are still alive.”

  “Sounds good,” he said. “I think I could really go for a warm beer right about now.”

  “That’s what I like to hear.”

  He closed his eyes for a second, steeling himself. “Hey, Morris?”

  “Yeah?”

  “I’m sorry. I mean, I’m just sorry.”

  The big man gave him that one-shoulder shrug. “Okay.”

  “My daughter died. I never told any of you folks that.” His voice hitched, but he didn’t give a damn. He wanted to get it out. “She got bit, and a couple of guys put her out of her misery. I took it out on a lot of people, and I really should have pulled my shit together sooner.”

  “Jesus…”

  “I’m serious. I’m sorry, okay? About everything. I know I’m an asshole.”

  “It’s all right,” Morris said. “I’m sorry about your daughter.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Let’s go, okay?”

  “Yeah.” He took a step forward, and then the sound of splintering wood made his heart jump. He froze, his breath refusing to come, and then wood behind him splintered.

  He heard the hungry snarls and hisses, t
he spitting like angry cats. It snapped him out of his daze.

  “Morris, go!”

  The big man waved for him.

  “C’mon!”

  But he knew he wouldn’t follow Morris. Somebody needed to buy them time. They’d never get Blake in the truck or get the door open otherwise.

  “Just go! Get that food back to Millwood!”

  “Chris, get-”

  “Fucking move! Take Ellis back to his girl!” He shook the flashlight in his fist, hoping Morris noticed he wasn’t unarmed.

  Morris nodded. “Thanks.”

  Chris gave him a smile. “No problem.”

  The big man ran off, heavy footfalls bouncing through the stockroom.

  Chris turned to face the cracking wood. He raised the flashlight’s beam and saw the double doors break and finally blow open. Corpses poured through the doorway, each one crying out in hunger. The dead girl led the charge.

  “Love you, Danielle,” Chris whispered.

  ————————————

  “Where’s Chris?”

  “He ain’t coming. Now get behind the wheel and start the truck.”

  “I’m driving?”

  “You heard me.” Morris tossed the rifle and revolver in the Ford’s backseat. He could barely hear Blake over his pulse thundering in his ears. “You can’t get the door open and get back in the truck even with that tripwire. At least this way we know the truck will get out of the store.”

  “Fine. You better make it back to this truck, though.”

  “I plan on it. Now start the damn engine!”

  The truck grumbled to life. Morris stood beside the garage door as the smell of exhaust tickled his nose. He listened to the massive engine settle into a contented idle. Beyond it, he heard the sounds of battle. At least Stevenson hadn’t fallen yet.

  “Here goes nothing,” he whispered, and then he threw open the door.

  ————————————

  Blake thought he’d give anything to have his left leg broken instead of his right. He had to wrestle the splint around the truck’s pedals, and his left foot felt clumsy and weak.

  He wondered what had happened to Chris, why the man wasn’t returning to Millwood with them. The terror he’d heard in Morris’s voice told him most of the tale. He surprised himself by hoping Chris was okay.

  He looked to the passenger seat and felt the slightest bit of comfort that he still had the baseball bat. The thing had helped him survive what should have been a suicide trip. With any luck, it would help him get all the way home.

  The garage door opened with a rumbling sound, and then he heard a chorus of hungry cries. Glancing in the rearview mirror, he saw the first few zombies hit the rope and tumble to the floor. He wanted to cheer, but then Morris leaped into the backseat and slammed the door shut.

  “Hit it!”

  Here I come, Holly.

  He reached for the gearshift, and suddenly a fist shattered the window at his left temple. Safety glass peppered his hair and fell into his lap, and a pair of hands reached through the window to grab at him. He lurched away, covering his head with both arms. The smell of rotten flesh filled his world as dead fingers fought to get at his scalp, his face.

  He cracked an elbow at the hands, but the attack did no good. The zombie howled at him, and the sound mixed with the truck’s grumbling engine to kick his heart rate up a few notches. He reached for the gearshift again, but the zombie took the opportunity to grab his hair and tear a patch of it from his scalp. A bolt of hurt shot straight to his brain. Tears clouded his vision, and he searched wildly for anything he could use to defend himself.

  Why didn’t Morris shoot the thing? The answer came when he heard the back door wrench open. More cries filled the cab, and he knew one of the zombies was trying to get at Morris.

  He groped for the baseball bat, grabbed the instrument in both hands and jabbed it toward the window. A solid impact vibrated down the weapon’s length, and the hands fell away from him, disappearing from the cab. A gunshot deafened him a moment later, and then he barely heard the back door slam shut once again.

  He tossed the bat to the side and jerked the pickup into reverse. An angry squawk sounded to his left, and he looked to see a throng of decayed bodies rushing toward the truck, a cresting wave of rot and hunger. He didn’t plan to wait for the wave to break. The hunger in the zombies’ eyes gave him all the inspiration he needed.

  He stomped on the gas. The truck’s tires squealed against the concrete, and the smell of hot rubber reached his nose in the second before the vehicle burst into motion. Something bounced off the tailgate, and the truck jounced over a body as it cleared the garage door. He saw a mass of twisting limbs spin across the floor, but he never gave it more than a glance.

  Sunlight struck his eyes hard enough to make him squint. The Ford’s rear end swung toward the store, as he spun the wheel hard to the right. He stomped on the brake but missed, his left foot slamming down on the floorboards instead. The truck’s fender clanged against brick, and the sudden impact jostled him, whipping his head backward. His teeth clacked together, and he shook stars from his eyes.

  “Dammit!” Morris said from the backseat.

  “Sorry!”

  Zombies streamed from the garage door. More sprinted toward him from the parking lot and neighboring field. He threw the truck into drive and planted his foot on the accelerator again. He could only hope the impact with the wall hadn’t done any serious damage to the pickup.

  The truck lurched forward as the gears caught. A dead woman slammed off the grill, her face smacking against the truck before she disappeared from sight. The pickup continued its acceleration as more corpses fell underneath its wheels. He grabbed the wheel tight and fought to keep control. His head came close to bouncing off the cab’s ceiling, and his ass left the seat more times than he could count.

  “Hang on tight!” he ordered, but he imagined Morris didn’t need to be told.

  He straightened the wheel as the truck gained some more speed, moving from a crawl to a steady roll. C’mon, baby, he thought. Let’s get moving.

  A face appeared in his window.

  ————————————

  Chris saw the sunlight stream into the stockroom, and he smiled even as he crashed the flashlight into a killbilly’s face. The truck’s roaring engine told him he’d given Blake and Morris all the time they needed.

  “Best of luck, guys.”

  Images of Danielle swam through his mind. They comforted him. A warmth spread through his chest, and the smile on his face grew.

  Hands grabbed at him, and he spun out of their grip. He swept the flashlight in a wide arc, hoping to crush a skull or two, but he only hit air.

  The sunlight filtered through the rows of shelves did crazy things to the shadows. He couldn’t make out any details. The killbillies were only dark shapes against the gray, coming closer and closer, screeching and spitting like feral cats as they swiped their claws at him.

  He swung again, roaring as he put all his strength into the blow. The steel in his hand crunched against bone, and a body dropped to the concrete. He laughed. Jagged nails found his cheeks and raked furrows in his skin. He fell back a pair of steps and then stopped. He would not give these dead rednecks any more ground.

  Refusing to wait for the next attack, he cocked the flashlight back and threw himself into the pack of corpses. He cracked the steel against a zombie’s face, punched another in the temple with his free hand. The world dissolved into a stew of soft, stinking flesh. Fingers crawled over him, found his face and worked past his jacket. Pain seared at him as the zombies ripped his skin. He cackled in their faces and kept attacking, arms and legs pummeling without mercy. Throwing an elbow, he struck a dead woman hard enough to send her jaw spinning to the floor. He fought with the kind of determination only a living creature could muster, and as he punched and kicked and clobbered his laughter became a bellow of hate.

  The first bite san
k into his cheek and blinded him with pain. His roar became a scream, but he kept fighting. He felt his jacket rip open and then the nails were tearing through his T-shirt, finding the soft skin beneath. He swung the flashlight, but most of his strength had evaporated, boiled away by torture.

  The Maglite fell from his grip, and he swung weak fists at the corpses that swarmed him. Slowly, fatigue and pain dropped him to his knees.

  A zombie tackled him, and he could tell by its small form that it was the girl. He chuckled as her teeth found his bare chest and tore away a chunk of flesh. He wrapped his arms around her and held her close.

  It felt okay.

  TWENTY-SIX

  Blake screamed. He couldn’t help himself. A face the size of a bowling ball shrieked through the pickup’s window at him, spraying him with terrible black spittle. An arm like a full garbage bag reached through the window for him. He ducked away from the thing’s grip and pulled the steering wheel with him. The pickup sideswiped Tandy’s brick wall, metal grinding against brick.

  “Straighten the wheel!” he heard Morris cry out, but he couldn’t. His terrified mind raced with pointless questions. Had the zombie had enough presence of mind to jump onto the truck’s running boards? How else could it keep up with the moving vehicle?

  Shards of brick rained down on his head. He shoved his foot at the gas, but the truck refused to accelerate. The steel and rock fought each other, dragging the vehicle at a steady rate. He wondered how much farther the wall continued. He hoped they cleared it before the truck slowed to a stop.

  ————————————

  Morris tried to squeeze off a shot at the monstrous thing attacking Blake. The zombie had bloated with death. It swiped at Blake with one arm while holding on with the other. Its attacks kept him from leaning over Blake and popping a round into its face.

  He slammed his elbow into his window, blowing the glass outward. His left arm went numb, and he realized he’d just performed an immensely stupid maneuver. He’d have to expose himself even more in order to make the shot with his right arm.