The End: A Post Apocalyptic Thriller

by P. A. Douglas

  Eric drove past several other gas stations that had way too much undead activity for the three of them to handle, deciding to stop at this one because it seemed to have fewer zombies wandering about than the rest, and because the car started sputtering only a block up the road from where the car now sat entirely out of gas, engine off.

  Cynthia stood outside the car, eyeing the creatures in the distance making their way toward them. There was only a handful of them out in the open. Without any lighting to illuminate the gas station’s small parking lot, she was unsure as to how many zombies might be lingering in the distance past her point of view.

  Eric had already released the gas cap on the car and inserted the pump nozzle. “I hope this station has a backup generator for the pumps.” He stood on the opposite end of the car as Cynthia also watched the zombies as they crept ever closer as each moment passed.

  Revolver in hand, Eric’s head constantly looked over his shoulder toward the gas station doors and kept a good eye on the action out beyond the parking lot.

  Eric had never shot anyone or anything that actually had a pulse. The idea of causing pain or inflicting an injury made him uneasy. Sure, it was very possible zombies no longer felt pain. Eric thought this as he watched a tall, thin man, obviously undead, walking toward them.

  The man’s right arm was gnawed up to the elbow, flesh and torn tendons still held his hand. His left hand reached out toward Eric while the other hand lay lifeless at his side holding the entrails.

  Even if those things didn’t feel pain, Eric was having a hard time getting used to the idea of pointing the gun and pulling the trigger. He had no problems with the bat and bedposts, but something about this still seemed to bother him.

  With the gun raised, Eric looked back over his shoulder again, first eyeing the storefront, and then meeting Cynthia’s gaze. “What the hell’s taking him so long?”

  *

  Kent had only been in the store for a moment and couldn’t see a thing. The room was dark, the moonlight not helping him to see inside. Shelves and food were scattered all over the place. Bottled soda and beer, along with chips and candy, lay everywhere. Kent crept quietly through the room watching his step, attempting to not crunch a bag of Doritos under his feet. He didn’t think there were any zombies in here, but the place smelled something awful, and that was a sure sign that there had been at one point.

  As he made his way across the entrance, passing the first few aisles taking a peek down each one to make sure it was clear, he noticed a body lying on the floor to his left. Only the lower part of each leg poked out, the checkout counter blocking his view from seeing the rest. Undoubtedly the source of the smell, he inched closer to it, the smell became stronger.

  He reached the edge of the counter leaning forward to get a peek at the body behind the counter, crowbar at the ready. It was the store clerk. Andrew Minner was written on the nametag attached to the right shirt pocket under a small shell emblem. The male was at least in his early twenties and had definitely seen better days. His lower torso was torn wide-open, revealing several broken ribs and an empty hole where guts had once been stored.

  The ribs looked as if they had been pulled back by hand. Guts and chunks of meat hung to one side of his body, spread out along the floor, most of which looked like it had been partially devoured. Blood-stained the walls and floor around him, along with scattered papers, and cigarette packs, cases still unopened. A shotgun lay on the floor next to Andrew’s corpse, loose in his hand. The barrel cocked open, two shells tossed along the floor beside it.

  Kent imagined a story of what might have played out in the store. Andrew came into work early, unlocking the place, and getting things in order. After a few unexpected cannibals let themselves into the store and totally trashed the place, he went for the gun, but fell to his doom before ever getting the first shot off. Poor guy.

  Kent heard a loud bang from right outside. It startled him. He jumped up from behind the counter and looked out into the parking lot from the gas station’s open door. He could see Eric holding his gun out toward the street. Cynthia instantly appeared at the door very disheveled and out of breath.

  “What’s taking you so long?” Cynthia asked, halfway leaning into the door, both hands up holding onto its frame.

  “Fuck, I’m on it. Just give me a second.” Kent glanced around sporadically until his eyes fixed on a set of buttons that controlled the fuel pumps.

  “Well, hurry your ass up. It’s starting to get crowded out here.”

  Another shot went off, causing Cynthia to look over her shoulder. She disappeared back into the parking lot. The only glimpse he got of her before going back to the register was her long flowing hair, still redder than ever in the pale moonlight.

  *

  Eric heard an engine fire up from behind the store. He instantly reached over and checked the nozzle on the pump. It worked. Kent had found the switch to the emergency generator. Eric motioned for Cynthia to take over. She quickly made her way around the front of the car.

  Eric stepped out, back into open view of the zombies heading their way. Two had made it halfway across the parking lot.

  “Shit,” Eric murmured to himself, bringing the gun up in both hands, and sighting in the lead zombie. He hesitated for only a moment, still uncomfortable with the idea of blowing out a human brain with the weapon. Target shooting had always been a pastime event with his father at the gun range, the thought of seeing blood spatter out the back of someone’s skull somewhat diminished the relished memory. With four shots remaining, Eric dispatched the third zombie making its way into their forbidden zone.

  The gun bellowed a loud blast, sending a single bullet rocketing through the air. Eric’s eyes, still sighted down the barrel, watched the zombie’s head kick back violently. Blood shot out the back of its skull, ripping bits of flesh and brain out along with it. A single hole dead center of its eyes lightly bled down the zombie’s nose. It fell to its knees and then to its face. It lay still.

  “How we doing?” Eric said to Cynthia.

  “Good enough, I’m sure.” She ripped out the nozzle and spun on the gas cap.

  There was no way the tank was full, but there was enough in there to get them where they planned to go. The Hathaway Bridge was only a few miles out.

  Cynthia darted around to the passenger side of the car and craned her head looking back at the store.

  Eric raced back into the driver’s side, and Cynthia got in too.

  “What in the world could that boy be doing in there?” the worried red head said.

  Eric honked the horn twice looking past Cynthia toward to open door of the store.

  Nothing.

  He honked again looking over his other shoulder, unconsciously picking at his slowly swelling knuckle. Half a dozen zombies had breached Eric’s unspoken forbidden zone making him a little uneasy. He honked the horn again. The passenger door slammed shut startling Eric so much that he jumped up bumping his head on the roof, eyes still fixed on the zombies outside.

  “Sorry I’m late. Got us some goodies.” Kent sat in the passenger seat straddling a shotgun and lighting a cigarette. A brown bag landed in Cynthia’s lap with a few candy bars, numerous packs of smokes, and a handful of shells to go with the shotgun.

  Slacking back in his seat, smoke from the very first inhale of the day breaking into the air before him. “What’s the holdup? Let’s make like a show and gig the hell out of here.”

  Cynthia popped him one good slap on the back of the head as the car took off, passing the handful of zombies in the parking lot.

  Eric’s outstretched hand gesturing a middle finger salute as they passed making their way into the street.

  “Ouch. What the hell was that for?” Kent said.

  “You had me worried. I didn’t know what happened to you in there. Why don’t you try being a little more considerate next time?” Cynthia shoved her back into the seat, both arms tightly crossed, and hands under her armpits.

 
“Cheer up, honey. I got you a Milky Way, right?” He reached into the brown bag on her lap and pulled out three candy bars. Not one of them a Milky Way, one was sugar-free. “It was dark in there, what can I say?” Kent pulled up the shotgun and aimed it out the window. The wind blew his hair about above his aviator shades.

  “I’ll take one of those,” Eric said after glancing away from the road for a moment to look down at the bag of treats.

  Cynthia had unwrapped a chocolate bar and was about to devour it.

  Zombies in small clusters littered the road ahead. Two or three here, and one or two there, scattered about along the side of the road, in the street, and sidewalks. Stiff walking bodies temporarily lit up in their headlights as the car passed. Wrecked and abandoned vehicles were obstacles that had to be avoided as well.

  With his sight down the long neck of the shotgun barrel, Kent eyed the dark street corners as each adjacent street passed by. They had just passed Jinks Avenue, which meant that the bridge would be coming up within a few more blocks. Kent watched as the zombies relentlessly attempted to reach out for the passing vehicle, pretending to shoot each one in the head with his newly acquired gun as they passed.

  “Thanks, Andrew Minner,” Kent mumbled to himself, right after making a POW sound with his mouth mimicking the backlash of an actual shotgun. The gun jerked up a bit in his hand a few more times, synchronized sound effects with each jolt of the gun in his hand.

  “So assuming this rescue crap does go down, what do you think we’re going to do next, just go on living our lives like none of this stuff ever happened?” Kent asked, gun still out the window.

  “I’m going to look for my family,” Eric said.

  “Oh yeah, and your friend Tyler, too? Dude, I hate to break it to you, but chances are they ate the shit. Fucking zombies, dude,” Kent said.

  Eric instantly slammed on the brakes. The car slid a little to one side, jarring the three of them in their seats. No one had buckled in. Eric opened the driver’s side door and stepped out.

  “Dude, I’m sorry,” Kent said. “Get back in the car, man. They could still be out there somewhere. It’s just that—”

  “No… Look!” Eric said and pointed.

  Before them, hundreds of lifeless zombies laid in the street. The car’s headlights showed countless bodies burned black. Smoke rose into the air; the stench gut wrenching.

  “What’s that awful smell?” Cynthia asked as she pulled her shirt up over her nose.

  The bridge was on fire. A dozen cars scattered across the bridge had been totally engulfed in flames. Now only a remnant of those flames existed, black smoke billowed out from each of them.

  A few zombies lingered in the street alongside the lower part of the bridge, partially on fire, and moaning. The stench of burnt skin and rotting flesh mixed with something else was just too much.

  Cynthia was still gagging. The shirt offered little filtration.

  “Who or what could have done this kind of damage?” Eric said still standing between the open car door.

  “Your guess is as good as mine. Something tells me that whatever it was, it’s on our side, and we need to catch up with it,” Kent said.

  “You think it could be the people the radio had talked about? The ones coming to help?” Cynthia asked.

  “Could be… and if it is, I sure as hell don’t want to miss the first train outta here. So let’s get,” Kent said.

  Eric agreed with Kent on that one and didn’t take any time to think it over. He hopped back into the car and slammed the door, putting the car back in drive. Numerous zombies staggered about in the roadway in flames lighting up the night as the car cautiously made its way across the bridge.

  7

  General Baker, Lieutenant Foster, and two other highly decorated men sat together at one end of an oval desk. The room was small and very plain. The walls were bare. The conference room sat approximately 30 people but never occupied more than a handful. At one end, opposite the men, the brown leather desk chair placed at the head of the table was missing. In its place a video prompter faced the whitewashed wall. A projector screen hung across from it. The four men had already been together chatting alone in the room for several minutes, discussing various important topics of the day.

  “—and as long as there are no further delays, I think we should be expecting them back with the new arrivals in roughly zero-three hundred hours. All other reconnaissance teams and helicopters have reported back. The bombers will be going in Monday to start with the clearing,” Foster said.

  And exactly how many civilians are there, Lieutenant, with the delayed team?”

  “Three, sir.”

  One of the older men seemed a bit on edge about the upcoming arrivals. “What are we going to do with them? I didn’t expect there to actually be any—”

  “I already have a few men clearing out some space for them in the barracks. They will be shipping out first thing Saturday, along with Gibbs, and the other scientists,” Baker said.

  “To what location?”

  “We have a more secure area outside of the infected zone at one of the smaller bases. They will be working alongside Professor Simon and his team,” Baker said.

  “Oh, in Tennessee?”

  “Yes, orders from the White House are to evac the scientific team immediately, but Gibbs is stubborn. I reluctantly provided her with a little more time to continue her work. She seems to be on to something important,” Baker said.

  “Hell, all those science types are always on to something. That’s just their way of letting us know they are kissing their own asses.”

  Baker lit a cigar, triggering the other men to follow suit. The three older men all sat around puffing and huffing the room into a smog of secondhand smoke. Rob Foster sat there with eyes tearing.

  One of the other men reached into his coat pocket and nodded at Rob. The Lt. lifted his hand, and with the shake of his head, said, “Thanks, I’m all right.”

  Rob never was a smoker. Didn’t really care for it. His mom was a heavy smoker, and in middle school got picked on a time or two because his clothes smelled so bad as a result.

  “Any updates for me, son?” General Baker asked with one eye wincing from the smoke in his face from the cigar in his mouth, both hands locked together, elbows on the table.

  “No major updates to be too concerned with as of yet, sir. The media coverage has escalated a substantial amount, though.” Rob took his gaze from the General toward the other men in the room. “Higher ups have been working on a detachment story for the press. Word is the President’s speech should go live sometime tomorrow.”

  “Really?” Baker said.

  “Yes, sir, and I haven’t the slightest clue as to what he plans on saying.”

  “What has the press reported?” one of the other men asked, still enjoying his cigar while swiveling in the chair.

  “Just a bunch of nonsense, honestly. I think America is just getting tired of being in the dark on things. They want answers, and they still haven’t been given anything substantial,” Foster said.

  “Oh, and you think that what Washington is going to cook up and feed them from the President is going to be enough?”

  The man farthest from Rob suddenly stood from his chair, shoving an index finger into the air in Rob’s general direction. The cigar between two fingers, palm flush against the table as he leaned in, smoke steadily rising. “Wake up, kid. This is a war. If America really wanted to know, they would have already figured it out. This country feeds on being left in the dark. Leave it up to us to clean up the mess. Hell, don’t even bother them with what the mess is, just as long as it doesn’t get in the way of their happy little McMansions.”

  “Ha!” Rob shot both legs up, crossing them as they landed on the tabletop. His chair kicked back as he did this, throwing both hands behind his head. An aspect of Foster that Baker liked about the boy, making him see a bit of himself in the young man. Rob’s tone remained calm and unfazed by the older man’s
sudden outburst.

  Rob said, “And shutting down borders into three states isn’t getting in their way? A lot of people are being affected right now and the least we can do is—”

  The door swung open. The smoke that had collected above the men quickly shifted across the room as a light breeze blew in.

  “Just set it over there… Hi gentlemen,” Gibbs said as she stepped in. Her assistant trailed behind her, holding a small projector under one arm.

  “Where have you been?” General Baker said, and rose from his chair.

  “I know I’m a little late, and I am sorry for that. I just couldn’t break away. I really think I’m onto something substantial,” Gibbs said.

  The older man that had been standing as Gibbs entered the room sat back down, but not before giving General Baker a spotty glance regarding her substantial remark. The lab assistant readied the projector, plugged it in, and turned it on.

  Gibbs sat at the far end of the table away from the men, mostly because of the obnoxious smoke cloud that lingered over them, but also because she needed to operate the slides.

  “Well, if what you have is so vital, then let’s skip the small talk and get down to business. We don’t have all day. Do you have the written report?” Baker asked.

  Without a word, a manila envelope slid across the elongated table, not quite making it to the General. Rob kicked his feet back down taking hold of the folder while briefly glancing at Gibbs. She smiled and nodded. All business.

  The General opened the folder and quickly flipped the pages before closing it back; it was obvious he hadn’t bothered to read a single word in it.

  “Well?” One of the other men shrugged and lifted his palms.