ZOMBIES: Chronicles of the Dead : A Zombie Novel

by Will Lemen

  "We got trouble, big trouble, it's those ambushers again," I said, scanning the horizon for more signs of danger.

  Everyone strained their eyes to see the distant bump in the fading sunlight.

  "What is it dad," Jacob asked.

  "It's a flatbed truck, and there are several men on it, but it looks like it's just setting there," I informed them. "Everybody down," I ordered.

  "What are we going to do honey," Gin asked, visibly upset.

  "They probably know we're here, probably saw our truck. They're most likely going to either wait till nightfall and come in under the cover of darkness, or bed down and hold off until morning, whichever way they decide they'll be watching our truck. They might even try to disable it," I asserted. "We need to come up with a plan, and fast."

  "We could leave the truck here and take off on foot," Jacob interjected.

  "That will be our last option, if we run now we won't get five miles and they'll catch us before sunrise. That is if we're not a midnight snack for the eaters," I maintained.

  Gin looked around, her eyes were wide open and she looked like she was almost to the point of panicking.

  "We can't stay here, if we get trapped inside we'll be doomed for sure," she said.

  "You're right, we can't stay here, but we might be able to make them think that we stayed here. I have an idea. Follow me!" I ordered, ducking down and walking to the roof hatch.

  Back inside the jail again, I laid out my plan.

  "We need some glass bottles and some kind of cloth," I instructed.

  We found the bottles in a soda machine in the officer's break area, and tore strips of cloth, from some of the inmate's jump suits that Jacob found in a closet.

  "Billy and Jacob, we need some gasoline, can you two go out on the street and poke a hole in the gas tank of one of those cars out there and drain some out?" I asked, not really wanting to send them out alone, but seeing no other option.

  "Sure," Billy answered. "But we'll need something to drain it into."

  "There was a janitor's bucket in the closet with the prisoner's outfits, I'll get it," Jacob said, as he hurriedly walked back to the closet.

  "What do you want me to do," Gin asked, still wide eyed.

  Breaking the front of the soda machine with the butt of my AK, I pulled a bottle out, and handed it to Gin.

  "Take these bottles out of the machine, and empty the soda out of them," I said.

  I looked around and handed her a trashcan that was setting beside the desk.

  "Empty them into this, I have another idea," I boasted. "I'm going to go with the boys and cover them from the doorway, get that done as fast as you can, we don't know how much time we have."

  "Okay honey, I'm on it," Gin responded, as she popped the cap off the first soda bottle.

  "Lonnie!" Russell summoned.

  "Yeah Russell," Lonnie answered quickly.

  "Make sure the men get fed, and that their guns are fully loaded. Post some sentries, as usual, and I want somebody watching that truck every second, I don't want them slipping away during the night. We're going to wait until just before dawn to attack," Russell said, staring toward the jail as the last fading rays of the setting sun disappeared below the horizon.

  With the janitor's bucket half filled, the boys returned to the jailhouse with the gasoline I had sent them to get.

  "This should be enough; it's for Molotov cocktails isn't it?" Billy asked, voicing his uneasy confidence that he already knew the answer to his question.

  Confirming his supposition, I answered. "That's right son, that should be enough, and it is for Molotov cocktails, let's get it to your mother."

  When we joined Gin in the office, she was sitting at the desk with the trashcan on the floor beside her, and emptying the last bottle of soda into it.

  "You want to tell me this brilliant idea of yours? What are you going to do with all of this soda?" She asked, setting the bottle on the desk.

  "Well, first we're going to get busy and fill all of these soda bottles with gasoline, and stuff the strips of cloth into the tops," I explained.

  "Yeah, Molotov cocktails, I get it, but what are we going to do with all of this soda?" She asked once more, expecting an answer this time.

  "All right, here's the whole plan. We're going to lock the back door and somehow secure the roof hatch. Then we're going to pour the soda all over the floor making it slippery. Right before we exit the building, we'll open the cell doors and let out the eaters. We then leave the building with our bottles of gas, close the front door to keep the eaters from leaving, and we'll sleep in the truck. You and Jacob will anyway, Billy and I will keep watch from under the truck. That way we'll be there to protect the vehicle and watch the front door at the same time," I told them.

  "What about eaters, you're going to stay out in the open all night with eaters prowling around?" Gin asked, not sounding too happy with my plan.

  "One of us will be awake the whole time, we'll be able to take care of any small group of eaters, and if a large horde shows up, then I guess we may have to jump into the truck and make a run for it," I explained, offering up the best answer that I could.

  "What about the cocktails, when are we going to use them?" Jacob inquired.

  I looked straight at him, and said. "If everything goes as planned, those men out there will think that we're inside the jail and not look too closely at our truck. When they charge through the door with guns blazing and are greeted by the ravenous eaters inside, the soda will make the floor slippery, thus making it harder for them to stop and turn around, and get back out of the building. That's when we toss the gas bombs through the front door and trap them inside. And we shoot any stragglers or rear guard that didn't enter the jail. That's the plan anyway, and only a thousand things can go horribly wrong," I maintained. "So we're all going to have to be alert, and when the time is right, we're going to have to get just plain downright mad dog mean, meaner than those men, meaner than the eaters, even meaner than a pack of feral dogs, just plain mean," I lectured, hoping to raise the bar on their fighting spirit.

  We broke the lock on the back door to the jail, sealing the door closed; the roof hatch had been nailed shut by Billy and Jacob with tools that we found in a maintenance closet. As soon as it was completely dark outside, we unlocked the cell doors and quickly spilled the soda onto the floor, we then ran out of the building as fast as we could. The trap was set.

  Once outside, Gin and Jacob quickly and quietly crawled into our postal truck, and Billy and I, took our place under truck armed with our edged weapons, pistols, AK's, and Molotov cocktails.

  The night passed slowly, neither Billy nor I could sleep as we waited for the impending attack.

  Then a little after midnight Billy whispered.

  "Dad, eaters, they're coming this way."

  "We need to draw them away from the truck," I said, quietly crawling from under our vehicle.

  Billy followed, and we ran across the street, the zombies hadn't seen us yet, so we were able to maneuver into a position that put us at a ninety degree angle from them.

  This pack consisted of five zombies, three females, and two males.

  "I'll take the women, you take the men," I ordered, pulling out my tomahawk.

  We crouched low, and silently walked toward the wandering zombies under the cover of darkness, waiting to stand erect until we were within striking distance of them.

  My first kill was a middle-aged woman of medium build, medium height, medium weight, in fact, everything about her was medium. She was wearing a light blue sequin dress, which sparkled somewhat in the dim pastel moonlight, making her easy to see in the dark.

  I placed the blade of my weapon squarely between her eyes with such force, that the sound of her skull splitting echoed back to us off some of the surrounding buildings.

  Out of the corner of my eye, I could see the method that Billy used to assault his first kill of the night. He leaped a few feet forward into the air before making c
ontact with the zombie, using his weight to enhance the downward force of his swing; he brought the point of his sickle down on the crown of the zombie's head, performing a classic zombie kill.

  Both of our zombies dropped to the ground at the same time, and we pulled our weapons from their split craniums in sync. With the bodily fluids dripping from our weapons, we turned our attention to the remaining three hungry night stalkers.

  I dispatched the other two female zombies in a similar fashion, as Billy finished off his lone male maniacal night prowler with a horizontal swipe of his sickle across the monster's eyebrows, detaching the top of its head and cutting its brain in half. We wiped the blood from our weapons on the zombie's clothes, before hurriedly returning to our hiding place under our truck.

  Once beneath our vehicle again, we both felt a sense of security, however, we both knew that feeling was false.

  We waited out the rest of the night under the truck, anticipating the ambusher's attack.

  An hour before dawn, just as Russell promised, the word went out around the ambusher's camp.

  "Saddle up boys, we're going in, everybody up," Russell yelled, ordering his men to their feet.

  Their plan was simple, they would ride slowly toward the jail making as little noise as possible. When they were about a half a block from the jail, the driver would speed up, and they would use their truck as a battering ram against the front door. The assault force which was everyone but the driver, would jump off the truck just before they smashed into the jailhouse door. The driver would then back up their truck, giving the assault force enough room to enter the building. At that time they would use their superior number of men and weapons, what Russell called a force multiplier, run into the building and kill everyone is sight. Their plan was simple, direct, and to the point.

  The ambushers boarded their flatbed truck, and began their slow trek to exact their misguided revenge upon me and my family.

  "You feel that dad?" Billy asked. "I can feel a vibration, like a deep rumbling."

  "They're coming," I said, tapping lightly on the undercarriage of the truck to alert Gin and Jacob to the impending danger.

  We heard a dull thump as Jacob kicked the floorboard of the truck, signaling that they got my message.

  We curled up behind the large truck tires, making ourselves as small as possible, and shook the gasoline cocktails to moisten their wicks with the flammable fluid inside the bottles.

  "Here's the lighter, after the first one is lit, use it to light the others," I whispered, holding the lighter next to one of the gasoline bombs.

  "We wait until they go inside, right?" Billy asked, trying to confirm the plan.

  I answered his question with a quick nod of my head.

  We watched as the ambushers rounded the corner, their truck began to gain speed, and the rumbling got louder.

  "They're coming right at us," Billy said. "I think they're going to ram us."

  Thinking he might bolt from under the truck and give away our position. I grabbed his arm tightly, indicating to him that I was not going to run.

  The speeding truck came within forty yards of us, then it abruptly made a hard right turn toward the front of the jail.

  The turn had been so sudden and sharp that it threw two of the attackers from the bed of the truck. When they finally stopped rolling, they were so close to our vehicle, that it was a miracle that they didn't see us hiding there.

  Not wanting to be left out of the fight, the two men got to their feet quickly and ran to catch up to the truck that had ejected them.

  The sharp turn their truck had made decreased its speed considerably, giving those men that had managed to stay on the flatbed, a chance to bail from the truck at a much slower speed.

  However, the momentum the truck carried as it slammed into the front door of the jail was more than enough to do the intended job.

  As the driver backed the truck up, the rabble of men that were fixated on our destruction scurried into the jail led by Russell.

  "Now," I said, lighting one of our gas cocktails.

  Billy reached over with a bomb in each hand, and a gentle puffing sound was heard as both wicks caught fire at the same time.

  As I climbed from under our truck, I could see the passenger door open as Jacob emerged from the vehicle toting his carbine.

  "Give me one of those," he said, holding his hand out.

  I didn't have time to argue with him, those bushwhackers were already inside the building, and it wouldn't take them long to see that they had fallen into a trap.

  "Here," I said, handing him one of my flammable cocktails.

  Billy had already begun to run toward the front door and was several yards in front of us, and Jacob easily passed me as we ran, leaving me to bring up the rear.

  The crackle of gunfire was now the dominant sound coming from inside the jail, heard over the shouts of "zombs" being called out by the panicking men as our would be attackers fought off the hungry monsters we had released.

  Billy ran past their truck and hurled one of the Molotov cocktails into the doorway of the jail. We heard the glass bottle break and a low swooshing sound as the jailhouse doorway became swallowed up in flames. He tossed his second bomb into those flames, and as we heard the glass bottle break inside the building, the sounds of roaring flames and of men screaming pierced the night.

  Billy turned around, only to see the driver of the bushwhacker's truck had opened his door and was taking aim at him with his pistol. The man was aiming his gun at Billy through the gap between the door and the cab, but before the driver could get a shot off, a glass bottle slammed into the metal frame of the cab above him, and16 ounces of ignited gasoline rained down on his head and shoulders.

  Shooting Billy now became much less of a priority to the man. As his gasoline soaked flaming head burned, his skin bubbled and the boiling blisters popped, his hair was quickly singed off, and his eyeballs boiled within the confines of their sockets. In addition, every breath the panicked man inhaled, served to ingest the petroleum-fueled flames into his lungs as he fell back into his truck screaming and slapping the living shit out of his face, in a futile attempt to extinguish the flames.

  Jacob, still moving toward the man at a steady run after tossing his bomb onto the truck, jumped up and drop kicked the truck's door closed, trapping the burning man inside.

  The sound of gunfire began to cease, as it was replaced by the sound of more men's screams as they were burned alive in the confines of the jail.

  Sprinting the hundred feet or so, I quickly caught up to my sons. I then walked up as close as I dared to the door of the jail and launched my single bomb as far as I could into the bowels of the flaming building.

  Another swooshing sound drowned out the fading screams of the roasting men inside. Fire sprang from every window in the building now, and it shot up into the sky from the roof, soon the building became completely encompassed in flames and the intense heat from the fire forced us to move back to our truck.

  "That guy that's on fire in the truck, when he finally burns out, he's going to be one ugly eater," Billy said laughing.

  "The upper part of his body, especially his head is going to be burnt to a crisp. I don't think ugly is going to be the right word for what he's going to look like," Jacob added, giggling.

  I knew they were laughing partly out of stress, and partly out of relief that they weren't killed, so I interjected.

  "That was a stupid plan they had, slamming their truck into the building, not knowing what was waiting for them inside, let's face it, we got lucky again, and they died because they were stupid."

  The sound of gunfire, along with the crackling and bright glow from the jailhouse inferno, had attracted some of the zombies that were patrolling the area in search of food. We kept a close eye on them while we watched the fire and tried to calm ourselves, and as we did so, we made a few less than politically correct jokes about the man burning in the truck, which we began to refer to as match head.
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  Soon we began to see zombies converging on the jail in greater numbers, and with that new and yet ever present threat upon us again; we decided to climb into our postal truck and continued our drive south.

  "One last thing," I said. "Everyone in the truck, I'll be right back."

  As my family boarded our truck and prepared to depart. I braved the heat of the nearby burning building, and ran back to the flatbed truck and opened the driver's door. What was left of the man inside had stopped burning, the fire had probably sucked up all of the oxygen in the cab, but he was still smoldering and releasing steamy vapors from his chard and blistered skin. He had not reanimated into a zombie as of yet, but I knew that it wouldn't be long before he did. So I ran back and joined my waiting family in the truck, and we continued on our journey, this time however, we traveled with the confidence of knowing that nothing capable of following us was on our trail.

  "I saw you open match head's door, why did you do that dad?" Jacob asked, shaking his head in dismay.

  "I thought it would be a pity to let such a lovely creation stay locked up inside that truck for the rest of eternity," I answered laughing. "I thought I'd let it out so that others might have the opportunity to enjoy that freak show at a later date."

  "That was kind of a dangerous thing to do just for a joke honey," Gin scolded. "Don't do anything like that again, ok?"

  "All right, but you've got to admit, at some point that thing is probably going to scare the proverbial holy living excrement out of somebody," I said laughing loudly.

  "No doubt about that," Billy agreed, laughing too.

  "I just hope it's not us, that get's the crap scared out of us," Jacob added.

  "Well I'm sure we're going to get the crap scared out of us at some point down the road, we always do, it just won't be from match head," Gin remarked.

  "Okay, enough banter, I've got to concentrate on the road," I stressed, while adding one more felony hit and run to my total, by planting the right front fender of our truck into the left hip of an unsuspecting zombie that had staggered onto the road in front of us. Thereby dislocating his leg and disassembling his lower spine, leaving him sprawled out, and thrashing violently around on the hard concrete surface of the road, awaiting the next felonious driver to come along.