The Zombies: Volumes One to Six Box Set

by Macaulay C. Hunter

  The bullet hadn’t ripped up his intestines or sliced through a major artery. That was plain to tell by the fact that he was riding a bike, however badly, a day later. Either it had just gone through his skin and muscles and fat, missing all the important parts, or it had nicked them and he was dying slowly. The wound was pretty far over on his side and he couldn’t remember from biology class the particular constellation of his internal organs.

  The light from the headlamp was so dim that it wasn’t helping him to see anything but the road immediately ahead of the front tire. He didn’t want to stop and play with the controls. There weren’t any streetlights out here by the mountain, and they weren’t likely to work if there were. At a split in the road, one going southeast and the other north, he turned to the latter. Two one-footed pedals later and he braked. Bright lights were coming out of the trees to the road farther ahead.

  Austin wheeled around and went to the other road. That was the wrong way to reach Arquin. Trees rose up high, crowding up to the street and overhanging it like they wanted to swallow the intruder in their midst. His stomach rumbled and he thought nope to it. Not just yet.

  Gunshots cracked and ferals called. The road swung northeast, but east was still the wrong way. A trail led off the road, but he didn’t switch over to it. After days of trails, he was only too aware that what looked north didn’t always stay that way. Zaley had tried so hard to keep them away from trails that looped or meandered off course, and she had still failed now and then for all her work.

  She’d gone bonkers from the shock and blood loss until Micah slapped her. Austin wasn’t going bonkers, but everything in the world about him felt unreal. This was a videogame landscape and he was just an avatar passing through, someone else determining his speed and checking for obstacles coming up. The road weaved all around until he wasn’t sure which way he was going. But he didn’t care. The end of the level would come up eventually.

  Why did the chicken cross the road? Now he knew the answer.

  The surreal sense continued when he came to another split. Hadn’t he seen a map of this? His brain wouldn’t let him flick back to that screen. His stomach squeezed. When he didn’t hear any ferals or gunshots, he stopped in the road to eat. The soundtrack to the game was frogs, croaking out their personal ads to win love.

  The woman who had startled him at the gate could have been fake. Her body had evanesced when his back was turned, the ground swept clean for the player. None of this could be real. He chomped down on his crackers and gently returned the backpack to his shoulders to spare his side. It was strained regardless. Then he rode on. The others could be around any curve, their tents hidden in the trees and Micah soothing the baby to sleep. When Austin staggered inside, she would cry out quietly to have him back.

  Traveling in one big loop around some portion of the road, he selected an offshoot to a path and steered the bicycle over bumpy ground. A body was stretched out on it, a man that had been providing meals to animals for days. He had a top and a bottom, but his middle had been cleaned out. Austin had to dismount and heave the bicycle over the mess. Something squished under his shoe.

  He couldn’t ride for long. The trail was narrow, so rocky and filled with tree roots that he ended up walking the bike along. Should he leave it? He didn’t want to do that. The bike was all he had for companionship.

  Leaf litter was thick on the ground. The path wound around, usually going down and Austin following it. He never could see anything but the curves ever coming up ahead. Creeks rushed under bridges, but he didn’t go down to them. The thirst was gone, and there were bodies over the rocks. He still had the sodas and some of the water bottle.

  Time passed, Austin largely unaware of it. Just going forward, he just had to go forward, and the solution would present itself. The tents would appear, or he’d come across a sign saying ARQUIN THIS WAY. Dimly, he understood that neither of these things was going to happen. But he had to believe it for now.

  Ferals were calling again, a hoot and silence, a bay and silence. When one screeched too closely, Austin swung off the trail and hid in the trees. He flicked the switch on the headlamp and the light was doused. The feral screeched and cackled, and answering calls came from others. For all of those hunters at the campsite, this area was still heavy with zombies. That was because the infection was spreading without Zyllevir to stop it. Austin had his emergency bag of pills in the backpack. When he caught up with his friends, he’d have to thank them for their foresight. It had been Micah or Corbin’s idea to have pills on everyone.

  His side wasn’t bleeding any more. It was just hurting. Zaley bent down in front of him and offered to teach her physical therapy exercises. Just as Austin reached out to take her hand, he woke up. The ferals were gone. The sky was gray, too gray to travel without his headlamp. He turned it back on, had a breakfast of water and crackers and soda, and climbed up to the trail. Corbin hated Pizoom. Austin wanted to offer him a can just to see his disgusted face. It did have a weird taste.

  By the time the sky was pink, the trail had dumped him out into a community and he was riding his bike on a road. There were houses on one side of the street, palatial ones on big lots. His brain wasn’t firing on all cylinders, and he’d gone several blocks before he remembered his stamp. Stopping abruptly, he covered it in fresh foundation.

  He debated whether he should stay in one of these homes to rest and clean off his side. But none looked overtly abandoned. A lot of them had pools, and chlorine water seeping into the bullet hole made him wince preemptively at the sting. One house definitely still had a person inside. A light glowed in an upstairs window.

  BEWARE OF DOG. OWNER IS ARMED. NO TRESPASSING. KEEP OUT. The houses had signs. One had to be a joke from before the breakdown. BEWARE OF CAT.

  The street came to a dead end that hadn’t been marked. He cycled through an empty lot to join a road going east. It soon let him out onto a main road of whatever this city was. The houses grew less glorious, some in scorched shambles from a fire, and then they stopped for a shopping district. All of the shops were dark, the windows broken, and the lots empty. The following block was destroyed. A car had plowed through a window of a restaurant, knocking a portion of the wall out, too. Chunks of rubble were all around. Fire had taken out other stores, leaving them black and gutted. A feral hunkered in a corner of one, almost invisible in the shadows. A dead one was in a parking lot.

  A sign indicated a road that went north to San Anselmo. He turned onto it, recognizing that name from the maps. San Anselmo was good. Without any moving cars to get in his way, he rode in the middle of the fast lane.

  You’re being an idiot.

  It was too dangerous for him to ride through cities. The thought teased at the edge of his mind. This was a strip-mall kingdom, full of looted Tic-Tac-Tacos and Shor-Bee’s, a Mr. Foods grocery store and a Dabey’s and a Clothes Horse. In ten blocks, he passed three Caffeine Highs with posters of steaming coffee still in the windows that were whole. The traffic lights at each intersection were vertical lines of black circles. This road wouldn’t go all the way to Petaluma, but it was going to help him knock off a few miles.

  As the daylight grew, he began to pass people. Shuffling along behind packed grocery carts, coming out of tents between the trees, car doors were opening and legs poking out. Austin wasn’t too alarmed. You should be alarmed. Unless he was dressed up like a Value Eats truck, he didn’t appear to have anything they wanted.

  Dressed up. Mars would be a ghost for Halloween. Austin wanted to take him trick-or-treating, especially when he was a little older. Mamma had swung back and forth through Austin’s childhood between celebrating it and believing it came from the Devil to steer kids away from Jesus. It was just a holiday to Austin, and this year the candy in the plastic pumpkin would be his. Mars was too young to eat it.

  That wasn’t nice. Austin would eat the candy and find Mars a new Pocket Animal to make up for it. Another Birdipus to call Mama so he had two.

  The
road was so much faster than traveling on trails. He peeled out mile after mile, swerving around bodies and cars that had been abandoned in the lanes. Twice the intersections held accidents that no one had cleaned up, cars bashed together and glass sprayed out. He gave those a wide berth to spare his tires. There was a sign for a hospital. Sure that he needed one, he was equally sure that it was either closed or hostile to people who happened to have Sombra C.

  His left leg only pedaled weakly. Something felt wet. Fresh blood was seeping into his clothes. It wasn’t enough to be worrisome. Be worried. A voice pulled his attention away and he steered onto a side road hastily. A brace was coming up. Even without cars on the road, Shepherds were out here. A sign hung from the rope they’d slung along between streetlights. SAN ANSELMO LAND OF PEACE.

  In this residential area, all of the streets came to dead ends. That didn’t bother him too much. His mind idly traveled back to the V-6 when Micah had slammed over those lawns. The world had gone to hell while he was high on nitrous at the dentist. He wasn’t sure the hygienist had even finished cleaning his teeth by the time Micah dragged him out of the chair. It was hard to tell what was going on when he was in his happy place, so he’d just gone along with her, giggling about vampires and placid.

  He ended up on a trail through the trees, and came upon people so fast that he almost ran them over. They were young, a trio of guys who weren’t wearing patches but were blocking the trail from end to end as they walked. Hitting the brakes, Austin mumbled an apology and waited for them to break apart and let him pass. All of them were armed with handguns in holsters.

  “Where are you going?” one of the guys asked.

  “To the end of the trail,” Austin said.

  “Dude, he’s bleeding,” said another one.

  You’re in trouble.

  Austin blinked at them dully and rolled his bicycle off the path to go around. The third guy tugged at the backpack and said, “You here stealing?”

  The zipper had busted on the pouch, leaving it half open, and the guy pulled out some of the items in there. “Make-up? He’s got make-up! You a fag or something?”

  Gay beat zombie, but he didn’t want to cop to it in front of three people all looking far too keen on his answer. “It’s my girlfriend’s. She leaves it in my bag.”

  “What else you got in there? Panties?”

  Austin couldn’t demand the makeup back when he was outnumbered and outarmed. Piercing through his spaciness was an awareness that he was in danger. Wrenching away from the hand returning to his backpack, he said, “Leave me alone! What the hell are you bothering me for?”

  The world upended. One of them had shoved him off the bicycle. He crashed to the ground, the headlamp spilling off. Hands seized at his backpack. They couldn’t get it off his shoulders, but fabric tore and the outer pouch was broken entirely.

  His Zyllevir had been in that pouch, weighed down by a little food. Why had he done that when the zipper wasn’t holding the whole thing closed? It wouldn’t take long before they realized what the pills were. His side stabbed as he scrambled up and bolted into the trees, leaving the guys to search through all that had fallen to the ground.

  Get away, Aussie. Get away fast. It was Micah in his head. It wasn’t real, but she was right. He came to another part of the trail and sprinted down it with the cry of shit, he’s a zombie coming after him. They had found his Zyllevir. That should have been in his pocket, or in the closed big pouch of the backpack. Too late now, it was too damn late now . . .

  They were coming after him, and calling to each other about where he was. One fired and he ducked. Houses appeared beyond the trees. There had to be one in which he could hide. He couldn’t run for much longer.

  Dashing into the road, he spun left and darted for a two-story white house. A fence blocked off the left side of the backyard, but a bumpy walkway made of rocks rounded around to the back. He flew over it. Behind the house was a fence blocking him in, a tree too skinny to conceal him, and a kids’ playhouse bleached from years of sunlight. It was flush to the fence, preventing him from going behind it.

  The guys had made it to the road. “Is he there?” “Hey, do you see him?”

  Austin let himself into the playhouse, closed the halves of the door, and ducked under the windows. Each had a plastic play latch that one punch would break off. Cobwebs covered the ceiling, and the drawings taped to the back wall had dates from seventeen to twenty years ago.

  This wasn’t going to hide him for long. He shut his eyes tight and waited for discovery. The backpack was squashed under him. Wrestling it out without opening his eyes, he scrounged around it for Mars’ Pocket Animal. He wanted to hold that when they killed him.

  A door banged at the house and a woman yelled, “What the hell are you doing in my yard?”

  She had seen him. But a male voice replied, “A zombie just came through this way! Did you see him? He’s black and wearing-”

  “Get the fuck off my property!” the woman shouted. “I’ve been staring out my window for the last ten minutes and no goddamned zombie came into my yard. Now get out before I shoot you!”

  “Don’t be such a bitch-”

  The door opened again, the bang twice as loud as the first time. “What did you just call my wife?” a man said in a calm yet dangerous tone. Footsteps thumped down the walkway and the guys shouted in the road to split up and check the other houses.

  He was safe. But he’d lost the bicycle and the Zyllevir, and he was getting too dizzy to stand up. The man and woman were talking in the yard too quietly for him to eavesdrop. He wished they would go inside. In a few hours, he’d slink out.

  Or he would just stay here. This was all the energy he had had, and his body wasn’t going to take any more. He was through. Finished. Done.

  When the knock came on the playhouse door, he was too woozy to do anything. The woman called, “Hello?”

  A knife forced itself through the windows and slid the latch free. One cracked open. Standing in a halo of sunlight, a white dude with lots of graying facial hair peered in. He had a gun pointed at Austin. “You still talking?”

  “I . . . I can still talk,” Austin said. The hesitation made him sound like the doctor or Elania, fighting to find words. It was the pain and the fuzziness doing it.

  A knife undid the latch on the upper half of the door and another gun poked in at him. The woman was behind it. She was black. Crouching under the low porch, she stared at him and said, “How old are you?”

  “Eighteen.”

  “You so bad yet that the light bugs you?” the guy asked.

  Austin looked at him. “No. I’m only at 1%. But they took my Zyllevir pills on the path. I was . . . my friends and I were trying to get more, going up to Petaluma, and I got shot . . .”

  His life had led up all of those years for nothing more than an old children’s playhouse for a grave. They were going to kill him. He wanted them to stop asking questions and just do it. A tear slipped down his cheek and he squeezed the Pocket Animal. Then his fingers slackened and buzzed.

  The lower half of the door opened. His blood had dripped out to make a tiny puddle on the dusty floor. “I’m sorry,” he whispered as the woman crept in cautiously. Showing her the toy, he said, “Would you please bury this with me when you’re done? It belongs to my son.” His voice was fading to nothing. “It’s his favorite.”

  “Are they coming to San Anselmo today?” the woman asked.

  “Yeah. But not until the afternoon,” the man answered.

  Austin breathed in and out as they spoke, his gaze fixed to the Pocket Animal. He touched its brows and slid a buzzing finger along the bill. It was getting harder to keep his eyes open. He wanted to sleep. Voices boomed in and out, the rise and fall eliminating the words. Then something tapped his cheek and he returned. The man and woman were in the playhouse, their guns at their sides. He’s too heavy, you’ll have to . . . take the backpack . . . viral load can’t be too high if he’s wearing a backpack . .
. bring me a haz-mat suit and put down sheets . . . sterilizing this can wait . . .

  The man was a giant marshmallow. The light was blurring him. He dragged Austin out of the playhouse and through the back door of the house. The woman picked up his feet and they heaved him onto a bed covered in plastic sheets. Scissors flashed. His shirt was being cut and he raised a hand to push the scissors away.

  The woman pressed his hand down with no effort. “I have to look at your bullet wound. I’m a nurse.” Her eyes moved to the marshmallow man. “Will you pop out two Rahldone for me and get him a glass of water? There’s a lot of debris to pick out of this injury.”

  “You . . . you saw me run into the playhouse,” Austin said stupidly.

  “I was looking out at the birds when you streaked through the yard. We live by the woods, honey. You aren’t the first person with Sombra C who has tried to hide here.”

  “You’d be the third or fourth,” the man said from elsewhere in the room. “You can’t be in San Anselmo, son. If it isn’t Shepherds causing problems, it’s Sangre. If it isn’t Sangre, it’s just bored kids. It isn’t safe for anyone here.”

  They wouldn’t be inspecting Austin’s injury if they were planning to kill him. He turned his head and took in the rolling cabinet of medical supplies. The floor was covered in sheets. Pills slipped down his throat on a stream of cool water and the voices retracted to booms and echoes. The pain in his body grew duller. The couple swayed like palm trees over the bed, dipping and rising, shaking and stilling. Occasionally, their words broke through the haze. In-and-out injury . . . I can’t tell how bad it is . . . may need surgery . . . get the cart ready . . .

  The curtains were drawn over the windows and the lights above the bed were bright. The Pocket Animal was on the bedside table. He focused on the rocking world to try and pick it up. The woman said, “We won’t forget it.”