The End: A Post Apocalyptic Thriller

by P. A. Douglas

  Willy shrieked, releasing a single shot into her skull, blood spraying up and away from him simultaneously. “Stupid bitch!”

  He quickly shook it off and moved toward the door.

  Gus repeatedly slammed all of his weight into the door, only stopping momentarily to bang on the door with his fist, shouting, “OPEN THE FUCK UP!”

  Both Bo and Willy stood guard picking off stragglers. As each moment passed, more and more of the undead hoard that had been gunned down began to rise, even crawl in their direction. Each shot both men fired was precise, taking down the lead zombies each time with single shots to the head from their 9mm pistols.

  One went down in front of the chopper, shot right between the eyes. Another’s right eye caved in as the back of its head erupted in a fire spray of blood, bone, and brain. One by one, zombie after zombie was quickly dispatched by their stunning marksmanship.

  “How’s it coming, Gus? We don’t have unlimited ammo in case you were wondering,” Bo said.

  Willy took a few steps back, joining Gus at the door, and put his weight into it.

  “Nine o’clock, boys! We’ve got trouble,” Bo said.

  Gus and Willy stopped for a moment and looked. A swarm of the undead poured out from the corner of the building. More and more of them each second spilled out from the alley. All three men aimed their weapons toward the growing numbers. Shot after shot, zombies went down. With every zombie that fell, another took its place, gaining yardage to the front door in the process.

  “Come up with a plan, Gus. We need to do something,” Bo said, still in mid-aim, releasing single bursts from his 9mm.

  “Just keep firing.” Gus holstered his pistol and went back to slamming on the door with everything he had. “Time for a little front line action!” Gus took three steps back and crouched, putting all of his weight into his legs. He jolted forward hoping to smash all 280 pounds of his weight into the door, but suddenly slipped when he lost his footing. The piles of bodies underneath him prevented him from getting any solid tracking on the ground. He fell forward and landed face first into a heaping stew of rotten flesh and guts strewn out on the pavement. He came away chest covered in chunks of muck and bile. Still on his knees in front of the door, Gus began to shout as loud as he could, slamming both fists against the door over and over again with all that he could muster.

  In the distance, more zombies began to appear. They made their way from down the street corners and along the sidewalks previously attracted by the flying black object. Their moans grew louder and louder as they drew closer to already alarming numbers of undead that fell upon the men in the station’s parking lot.

  “Cover me, I need to reload.” Willy dropped to one knee, pulling a magazine from a pouch attached to his ankle. Reloading, he pressed the release on the pistol and chambered a new round. They were no longer making their way from the alley, which was a good thing, but the bad news was that Willy, Bo, and Gus were almost totally surrounded. Several zombies managed to get past the firing line and in front of the chopper.

  “Shit, how many of those things are out here, and where the hell is the welcoming committee?” Willy said.

  The zombies were getting closer now. Almost too close for firing range. A zombie grabbed Willy’s arm. He pulled the creature in and shoved it away into a cluster of other zombies, firing three shots into its neck and face. Blood spewed out from its throat and cheek. The final shot sent it to the ground.

  The double doors to the radio station suddenly swung wide open, sending Bo and Gus back a few steps.

  Bo lost his footing when his leg tangled in the mess of bodies at his feet, sending him to the ground on his back. A male teenage zombie wearing an anarchy T-shirt covered in mud and dried blood knelt over him instantly, taking hold of his face and hair with both hands. Bo let out a blood-curdling scream as the creature’s fingers ripped into his cheeks and right eye. Blood poured out, covering his face and mouth. Kicking and screaming as he laid there on his back, the zombie landed on top of him, tearing into his throat with its rotten teeth. As it pulled away massive chunks of flesh, Bo’s screams turned to muffled, watery gurgles. Blood bubbled from his mouth and throat as another zombie took a chunk of Bo’s hand, removing several fingers.

  “Fucking hell!” Willy opened fire on the creatures that now covered Bo’s body. Shot after sporadic shot landed in every spot but the one that mattered. Shoulders, spleens, kneecaps, and chests erupted as the fire from his pistol tore through flesh and bone.

  As the door slammed closed in front of him, entirely unaware that he had been dragged into the building by Gus, the last thing Willy saw of Bo was his boots, the rest of his body consumed by a plague of the undead.

  8

  Eric, Kent, and Cynthia circled the radio, discussing their options. The radio had suddenly stopped broadcasting again less than a moment ago. The ravenous horde of undead desperately attempted to make its way into their fortified, underground stronghold.

  “You heard what they said. Those things out there are slow and easy to get past when there isn’t that many. I really do think we have a chance outrunning them,” Eric said.

  “Ha, not too many, he says. You’ve got to be out of your freaking mind, Eric. There has to be a hundred of those things above us trying to get in,” Cynthia said, her bright red hair tussled in every direction.

  “Eric does have a point, woman. Our window of opportunity is limited,” Kent said.

  “Oh ya, then why did they just shut off the transmission, Kent?” Cynthia said, stressing the situation even more.

  “Who cares why they shut off. All I care about is what was said before they did. You heard it clear as I did. Armed men and a helicopter means people. People with guns. And lots of them. I don’t know about you, but that sounds like the place to be. If we’re going to make the party, we need to get, and ASAP.”

  Eric rose. “Yeah, and ever since that helicopter flew above us, there haven’t been as many zombies as before. You can tell because there isn’t as much moaning. Instead of sitting here while you two argue like a married couple, I’m going to get some things together. I’m heading out. That station is our best bet. If we leave now, I know that we could be there by nightfall. It’s a risk I’m willing to take, because it sure as hell beats sitting here waiting to die.” Eric made his way over to the bed and gathered up the few belongings he had with him. His cell phone that did nothing but produce an annoying beep when he tried to dial out, a pocket knife, jacket, and his wallet. There wasn’t any money in it. Eric smiled a little as he pushed it into his back pocket, thinking to himself, Not like any money is going to do a bit of good anyhow.

  Kent followed suit snatching up his shades, checked his pocket for his lighter, and picked up his crowbar. The weapon was covered in dry blood and had a few unidentifiable chunks on one end.

  “Will you two hold on just one minute? If we are really about to do this, what’s the plan? Do we even know where this stupid radio station is? Last I checked, Kent is the only one with any kind of a weapon. How do we know they’ll still be there if we make it?”

  Eric threw the sheets and pillows from his bed, then flipped the metal frame over. “We improvise.” He kicked one of the metal leg posts, and after a few solid kicks, bent it enough to pry it free by force. He tossed the makeshift weapon across the room toward Cynthia and proceeded with breaking free another one of the legs.

  “We’ll use Cynthia’s bag to bring some water bottles and anything else we might need that’ll fit,” Kent said. He and Cynthia hurried to fill the bag. Once filled, he said, “I’ll take it.”

  The three gathered under the door and looked up. Moments passed without anyone saying a word.

  Eric finally broke the tension, “That lady bag matches your eyes.”

  Kent glared up at him, crowbar in hand, shoulder bag tossed to one side. “I’ll get you to tell me how it feels slammed against your balls if you don’t shut up.”

  “Are we seriously doing this?” Cyn
thia asked.

  The three of them peered up into the small glass opening in the door overhead. Small bits of lights periodically shown through, suggesting the sun was still out, which was a good sign. Last thing they felt was needed was to be taking this situation on in the dark. Hands, teeth, various fluids—mostly blood, and the occasional faces could be seen on the other side of the glass, blocking most of the sunlight.

  “You guys ready for this?” Eric asked, attempting to come across with a laugh and smile but only sounding scared to death in the process.

  “As ready as I am ever going to be,” Kent said. “And besides, I’m out of smokes. Going to have to go out and get some sooner or later, right?”

  Both men looked over at Cynthia, who held her weapon tightly gripped with both hands close to her chest, obviously nervous as hell. She just shrugged her shoulders; Eric and Kent looked back at one another having no words to say.

  Eric reached for the latch and pulled the lever, releasing the locking mechanism on the door. All three of them found themselves looking back toward the room they were about to abandon, their sanctuary for the past two and a half days. It lasted only a moment. The thought of Tyler flashed into Eric’s head. If his dad was at the radio station, then where was Tyler?

  “Here goes nothing.” Eric twisted the handle to the shelter door. The latched door swung open.

  MOVE

  1

  The double doors came crashing closed, both Gus and Willy had landed on their backs in the center of the lobby. Boards, tables, and chairs, along with a single desk, lay scattered about in the room along the front. A little boy hid behind a fake tree in the corner, crouched behind its woven container, mostly exposed. The child smiled right at Gus. He couldn’t have been more than ten years old.

  The two soldiers surveyed their surroundings for a brief moment while standing to their feet, brushing themselves off. Chunks of gray, matted meat covered with blood fell from their black on black attire.

  A large hunk of rotting skin was stuck on Willy’s ammo belt, and he had to remove it with his bare hand. It was part of someone’s face—the ear still attached.

  While Willy spastically continued checking his gear and assessing the remaining ammunition in his guns, obviously shaken up a bit, Gus stepped toward the two men slinging boards to the front doors using makeshift hammers and bent-up rusty nails to re-barricade the room.

  “They got Bo, man. What the fuck are we supposed to do now?” Willy said.

  Gus immediately turned back to Willy, who had lost all the color in his face and his eyes looked glazed over.

  “Stay tight, soldier. Stay tight! We’ve got to keep our heads in the game.” Gus turned his attention back to the two men fast at work on the barricade. The door shook like crazy. Incessant moaning and banging of fists and limbs violently shook the doors on their hinges.

  Gus grabbed hold of the large desk, and in one solid motion, yanked its heavy wooden frame in front of the doors—shoving it flush. “Got anything I can use as a hammer?” Gus said as calm as he could, given the situation.

  “Look around and grab anything that’ll work,” Seth said while he feverishly worked.

  “There’s a box of nails on the floor next to that tree over there,” George said.

  Billy popped out from behind the tree, grabbed up the box of rusted, worn-out nails, and stepped out into the center of the lobby holding the box up high, excited to see the men in uniform. He always wanted to be a cop one day, because that’s what his dad was and he loved his dad. He was so brave, at least, until he went missing.

  Grabbing a heavy brass lamp, Gus ripped off the shade and headed for the door. “Let’s see if this will do the trick,” Gus said as he stepped past the little boy, taking several nails in hand as he did.

  Billy’s eyes never veered from Gus, not once.

  The three men continued throwing up board after board, nailing in each piece quick and sloppy. Luckily, there were no windows in the room, leaving the doors to be the only thing worth worrying about when it came to barricading the place.

  “Let’s get these in, and then go back and reinforce it after,” Seth said, pulling his long dark hair out of his eyes, sweat making it cling to his face a little.

  Willy perched himself against the wall opposite of the doors, sat on the floor, and watched the three men hastily work. Looking confused and unable to focus, he had elbows propped up on knees with both hands covering his face. Several reloaded weapons tucked at his side. Two 9mm pistols, a mini machete, and an M-4 rifle all set ready to fire, safeties off.

  “Your friend over there going to be all right, Mister? He doesn’t look so hot,” George asked, hammer in hand, swinging it as he spoke.

  “Ya, he’ll be fine. He just needs a minute,” Gus replied. “We just lost one of our own out there. They were close friends, and besides, what the hell took you guys so long to let us in anyway? You do realize that we were getting run down out there, right?”

  “You’re looking at it, man. We had this whole thing boarded up. We saw you guys landing and immediately ran down here and started taking all of this crap down,” Seth said.

  *

  Once upstairs, the five of them rewarded their hard labor with rest. The front entrance was once again boarded up and as secure as it would ever be, given what they had to work with.

  Zombies pounded at the newly reconstructed blockade, ever persistent in quenching their hunger.

  Willy sat next to Billy on one couch, Billy’s age really showing. He sat wide-eyed and giddier than ever as he asked question after question about what it was like to fly in a helicopter.

  Seth sat at his broadcaster’s chair, discussing the situation with George and Gus.

  Gus kept turning his gaze toward the window, his jaw tight with an ever-growing scowl on his face.

  Even after the brutal display of fire from the sky and countless bodies falling to the ground, meeting their Maker never to return, never to rise again, the parking lot still managed to be just as full as ever. A hundred zombies, if not more, gathered below, with more gathering each minute from the adjacent streets.

  The hoard of undead shuffled atop the countless remains of their fallen brothers and sisters. Moans grew as their numbers swelled. The chopper was completely surrounded by the undead, only the top half showed.

  Gus abruptly rose and stood by the window, gazing out as if he were looking for something, someone. “Bo…” he whispered.

  Nothing.

  “Hey, are you listening to me, Mister?” Seth asked. “What’s the plan? How are we going to get back on that helicopter and get out of here?”

  Gus squinted his eyes and scratched his chin stubble, pulling himself away from the window. Barely fitting himself on the empty loveseat across from Willy and the boy, Gus’ arms found both armrests as if it was a seat built for one.

  “We aren’t getting back on the chopper,” Gus said very matter-of-factly.

  “And why? You were sent here to rescue us, right?” Seth said.

  “Bo was our pilot. He’s gone, so we are just going to sit tight for now. Pilots usually stay with the bird and don’t go on missions. We’re so shorthanded we didn’t have that luxury. And now we’ll have to face the consequences. Don’t worry, though. I’ve already radioed reinforcements. There’s no telling how long it will take them to gear up and be on the move. A lot of roads looked congested with zombies and wreckage. I imagine that might slow up the cavalry a little. Until they get here, we’re sitting ducks, and there’s nothing else we can do. And besides, even if we did have the pilot, we wouldn’t have enough ammo to get back out to the chopper anyhow. Sit and wait for the extraction is our only option.”

  “Why would you come here without enough ammo? Didn’t you know how bad things are out here?” George asked.

  “Bad intel. We were told we could land on the roof. Our primary objective was to shut down this signal, not fight an army of walking dead.”

  “What… you mean like shu
t down the station? Why in the hell would you need to—?”

  “Ccchhhsss… Blue Bravo, this is Red Tango come in…over…Ccchhhsss…” Willy’s radio chimed in, cutting off Seth. Willy unclipped the handset from his hip and tossed it across the room to Gus.

  The radio looked half its actual size clenched in Gus’ grip. He brought it up to his face with all eyes in the room on him. “This is Blue Bravo, what’s your E.T.A.? Over.”

  There was a moment of tense silence as the group eagerly awaited reply.

  More static.

  “O’four hundred. Civilian status?”

  Gus looked around the room for a second, then held down the button on the handset before continuing. “Three. Uninfected…”

  More static.

  The same voice came back over the radio from the other end but with a different tone to it; a less robotic more human one. “Sorry about Bo. I know you guys were close.”

  “Yeah,” Gus said locking gazes with Willy.

  The same man’s robot inflection came back almost instantly. “Red Tango out.”

  Gus clicked the receiver again, still holding it close to his face. “Blue Bravo out. Stay tight.”

  Gus slung the device back to Willy, whose obvious fatigue had intensified. As he snapped the radio handset back to his belt, a bead of sweat trickled down his right cheek. His eyes looked dark with eyelids that looked like half-open shades. His skin had turned slightly pale. Hiding a cough under his sleeve, Willy sat up and looked about, as if realizing he was the center of attention. “I’m fine, I’m fine. I just need to rest for a second. I’ve been up for the last forty-eight. Give me a break.”

  “You don’t look so good, Mister,” Billy said.

  “Why don’t you sit over here and let Willy lay down for a bit.” George motioned for the boy to sit on his lap, in front of all the colored lights and buttons.

  “Willy over there lost his lunch when we jumped. In all our time out, I’ve never seen him do that. You wouldn’t have anything to drink, would you?” Gus asked, standing to his feet, looking around in the room. “You’re not going soft on me, are you, Willy?”