by Steve Wands
Almost afraid to answer, Frankie said, "not sure, nobody's been talking much today."
"That blows, I sure could use some more smokes..." as if nobody knew what he wanted when he came over in the first place, grubby bastard. "Any of you boys got," he continued.
"C'mon Ricker, you know neither of us smoke just like we know you don't drink...yet." Eddie chimed in. He was halfway done with his Budweiser, trying to savor it but not really being able to.
"Ricker, you old leech, I got a few!" shouted Dawn. Dawn was a chain-smoking waitress with a mouth like all the other chain-smoking waitresses that worked at Pete's Pit Stop Diner on Route 9.
Ricker made his way over to her with one hand out and the other fishing for a light in his pocket, but there wasn't one in there. He was convinced his fingers were lying and that one of them would eventually come clean. As if she knew he didn't have a light on him, she used the lit end from the smoke she had hanging off her pinkish-orange lips and lit it for him. She gave it to him and it had her colors around the end of it. Either not looking or not caring, he put it into his mouth and puffed away. He nodded his head in thanks, looking her over as he did; she wasn't bad looking...so long as she didn't talk much. Ricker hated any woman who talked too much. Eddie cracked open another, his pace just behind Frankie's, making sure he didn't jump ahead on his pal's stash.
He had just swallowed his first swig when the dead things crept up on the group. There weren't many of them, but it's never good to be caught off guard by a dead thing that wants to eat your skin, no matter how many. It looked as if most of them were kids, scouts by the look of their uniforms. Out for a retreat at the campgrounds, one from which they never returned home.
From behind them charged Gerty, short for Gertrude, brandishing a very used Louisville Slugger baseball bat. She had no remorse as she bashed in the first child's head. A brute of a human, let alone a woman. Frankie jumped to his feet pulling his shotgun from behind the passenger's seat. Eddie grabbed a bat from the bed of the truck. The three of them took care of the small group of scouts. Their scout leader staggered out from the same patch of woods alongside another gentleman, clearly older, and another youngster. Gerty turned to swing, knocking the older of them off to the side, where Frankie blasted his face clear off, getting gristle and chunks of grey matter all over his shirt and arms as the noise of the blast echoed through the woods. Gerty kept swinging. Eddie was batting clean up with a splintered bat that had gore dripping from it. The three of them had the same look of intensity in their eyes. The same look of thirst, blood thirst. Eddie knocked the last youngster's jaw into oblivion, screaming like some wild savage. He continued bashing the freckle-faced Cub Scout into the dirt, grinding his face into a puddle of dark red mush. The savagery pulled noises from the child's body that contradicted the thudding of the wooden fury. The sounds made those who watched gag, and as inevitable as it was, someone puked.
Someone always does.
This time it was Eddie's slightly younger brother, Joseph, who, hours earlier, was doing the same thing to a man old enough to be his father. It hadn't been easy for any of them to kill. They did it because they had to. The smart ones lost themselves into the necessity of the action and were able to pull themselves out when it was over.
The viciousness ran its course and everyone walked away, except Scott and Judy, who went to drag the bodies to the burn pile. They both used what looked like ice picks of some sort, hooking the bodies just under the ribs. They did it as if they had always done it. The killing three walked back to where they had been before the violent scene, in an odd state of utter disgust and acceptance at what they had just been capable of doing. None of them cared to wipe the blood or gore off, though they probably should have. It was as if they temporarily shut down.
Joseph went up to his brother putting his hand firmly on his shoulder. He turned to look at him with an exhausted stare. They looked at each other, and it never felt so strange to him as it did now. It felt like he was looking behind a plate of streaked glass.
The night carried on, it was quiet and the stars were bright. There were no electrical hums, no cars beeping, no stupid cell phone jingles--only the crackling and blistering of dead flesh. It smelled horrendous, but everyone seemed to be getting relatively used to it, especially Scott and Judy, who were roasting marshmallows. Most of the group thought them to be sick in the head. Almost everyone had heard the Cliff Notes version of their story; husband and wife, ran a funeral home in North Amber and had bodies year round in the home they slept in. Scott supposedly ate, off of a plate of course, sitting on the chest of his cadavers if they so happened to be delivered during, and interrupting, his mealtime. If you were to ask him about it he'd have a different take on the story every time.
Some of the group started falling asleep, mostly the younger kids who were exhausted and scared out of their minds. Not that everyone else was taking the new world order in stride. Everyone was scared to hell, but you couldn't survive like that; some people had to step up and the lead the way, while others simply followed. Luckily for this group, many of the folks had stepped up. They had a few good people helping to get everyone safely to their destination. Boone, who was practically running the show, Gerty, Eddie, Frankie, Alexis, Jon-Jon, and Big Cups were all doing a lot to get them to Titan City so they could be with their families and close friends. They did more than they could handle. And that was how they handled the new world, by keeping busy and finding something to do and someone to help.
Titan City seemed like a world away. It was everything they needed it to be. It was a destination, it was hope, it was the green grass on the other side of hell that surely had to be better than the grass they were standing on now. They were almost out of Middlesex County, near rural towns like Sheffield, Perch, and New Haven.
They had wanted to be out of Middlesex County yesterday and find a place to get some solid walls around them and rest. They needed rest something fierce. Good rest, not the sleeping on the road kind of rest that they had been getting. The campgrounds were a step in the right direction but it had still been hell on them. The woods had been both a blessing and curse, not being seen was great but not being able to see what lurked in the darkness of the brush was not.
Everyone of a decent age took turns keeping watch while others slept. It was only fair to share the responsibilities of keeping the group safe. Along with traveling they had raided strip malls, convenience stores, and gas stations to get what they needed and be on their way to where they needed to be. They did their best to stay off the main streets and highways, which, for the most part, were lethal and impassable, but every road held a hidden danger.
Jon-Jon groggily climbed out of his van. It was an old blue Chevrolet Astro Van with rust spreading out from its wheel wells. It had dents and dings on all sides. The front grill was spattered with blood and chunks of skin. Jon-Jon wore a trucker cap, maroon with piss-yellow letters that spelled out Milf Hunter. It was the kind of hat that nobody else could have gotten away with wearing, but he did. He also sported a brown vest over a two-day old flannel, he snatched on the last raid, though it could've just as easily been something hanging in his closet.
"Does anyone have any fuckin' toilet paper," he yelled more than asked. He waited a moment, took off his hat and scratched his forehead, put it back on and closed his eyes. "None of you fuckers got--"
Before he could finish his next few words Gerty rifled a four pack of Angel Soft at the back of his head. "Quit yer yelling faggot! Pop-a-squat and let's raid that Mal-Mart we passed on the way here."
"Yeah, yeah," he said, picking up the bucket on the side of his truck. "If you hear me screaming I may need help wiping my ass, so hurry over."
"If that's the case, your fucked, don't be too long. I'll round up some of these other faggots," she shouted, then continued to tie up her shit kickers and put on her finest insulated flannel which was a hell of a lot older than two days.
By the time Jon-Jon got back with his empty bu
cket and upset expression, the group had been rounded: Eddie, Joseph, Frankie, Dawn, Big Cups and of course Gerty. No one in the group was put off by the thought of going out on a raid. To them it had become fun, dangerous---certainly, but an adventurous necessity to cling to their old way of living and their new way of survival. What they had experienced fleeing their homes were the things of nightmares. Running into a few lurkers while on a raid was expected and worth the risk for the things they needed (even though most of the stuff they had been taking wasn't out of need). It was out of habit, desire, and plainly because they could.
Big Cups was on walkie-talkie duty for the group, and it was Joseph's turn to scout for batteries, bandages, and aspirins. Frankie had been given the pleasure of looking out for new wheels. Dawn had to get a new outfit because her diner uniform just wasn't cutting it anymore: it was torn up and stunk to high hell, and everyone could certainly agree on that. The rest were just along for the ride.
They all hopped into the back of Frankie's truck. He drove and Joseph rode shotgun, ironic now because there actually was a shotgun behind the seat. They had their guns, bats, knives, and gloves. They noticed nothing on their trek, not so much as an abandoned car. The streetlights were still on; Joseph wondered if there was a group of diehard JPG Electric & Company employees keeping it running. Frankie's truck was running low on fuel. They had slightly more than an eighth of a tank. Someone would be getting the honorable duty of siphoning out an abandoned luxury SUV, or, if luck should have, a larger vehicle.
Finally, they reached their destination. The truck, barely at a snail's pace, rounded the outer rim of the parking lot. They scouted for lurkers, survivors, anything that could complicate things before committing to the raid. It was clear except for a few cars, some shopping carts, and two bodies that were not getting back up. They drove around the building, getting in closer with each sweep, like a vulture circling its prey. Around back were a few shipping trucks. The docks were locked except for one truck backed in to a loading bay. The garbage containers were waiting for a garbage truck that would never show up. There were pallet stacks and a lonely little power jack next to a wall full of milk crates. They took one final lap and ended up right in front of the main doors.
The doors were locked up with a chain on the outside; the glass was spider webbed from top to bottom. Beyond the initial doors was a smaller area filled with vending machines, quarter eaters, and tiny benches. Not much more was visible from where they stood. Gerty grabbed a crow bar from the bed of the truck. She popped the chain.
From inside the heart of the consumer's discount paradise were the moans of dead things. They were on an all night shopping spree, looking for the last bits of warm flesh. It was a sound the raiders knew all too well. They could tell there were a lot more of them than there were bullets, and bats, and hands to hold them. It was time to step back from the door and work in reverse.
Frankie headed to the left side of the parking lot to check out a vehicle he spotted when they pulled in. Joseph grabbed the gas container from the bed of the truck and picked out the closest SUV (they usually had plenty of fuel to share). Dawn followed him, siphoning was a two-man job: one to siphon and one to act as lookout. Dawn took the job with ease, it would give her time to take a few puffs, which wasn't the best idea, but Joseph didn't really mind.
Eddie hung around the door, keeping an eye on the dead things. Gerty was keeping him company. Jon-Jon looked like he was going to cry; the poor bastard hadn't been able to shit right since this would-be-apocalypse started. Big Cups was just plain nervous. He was biting his nails and scratching at his crotch. He skittered over to Dawn and they split a cigarette. Having his shaky hands taking and passing a lit cigarette while Joseph was siphoning gasoline was a terrible idea. Joseph was thankful that he'd filled his canister as Cups was pulling his first drag.
Frankie's first choice of a new set of wheels didn't pan out, but he eventually found a decent station wagon---it had room for six and plenty of storage with roof racks. The gas tank was nearly full and the tires looked to be in great shape. He drove it up alongside his Dodge. He was almost embarrassed to see the two of them next to each other, like his truck had feelings. Regardless, Frankie was loyal to his Dodge and he would stick with it till one of them died.
Everything outside was set. The Dodge had been refueled and the gas can was full. They got a new set of wheels for their traveling band of felons, and were prepared to venture inside. Big Cups would stay behind with a walkie-talkie and a .38 special Smith & Wesson handgun. His nerves turned into a rubber-band ball collection and though he went on every raid, he could never muster the fortitude to go into any of the stores they raided. His duty was to guard the door and make sure there were no surprises coming or going, and that was about all he could handle.
Most of the group thought it best to keep all walkie-talkie communication minimal. Less noise in these situations was for the best. Once the deaders spread out they entered the store, passed the main doors, and noticed the secondary doors were locked too. Gerty looked around, spotting lurkers, and planning accordingly. She then broke the lock, and the raiders were in. A few lurkers were close by and turned toward the noise. Or perhaps the scent of fresh meat on the sales floor, no one could be certain. They weren't sure how the deaders knew when a living person was around, and most of the time they didn't care, but now they'd rather not find out. They moaned and raised their arms to the best of their inability and lurched forward. These few would be a breeze for them; they were in bad repair, and slower than the freshly dead.
Gerty used the crowbar she already had handy. Hollering like a cowboy she began her battering of one of the lurker's head. It caved in with one bash, like a soggy pumpkin slamming against the street. Its blood didn't gush out. It was coagulated and dripped slowly from the gaping hole. The dead shopper dropped to the ground. Just to be safe, she continued to pulverize the dead man's head. His brains and skull looked like a finger-painting on the white tiled floor. By the time she finished, the remaining lurkers had been taken care of by her companions.
Frankie was approaching another small group of more dead things while Dawn was drawn to the first sales bin they'd come across. The bin was full of cheap make-up and discounted DVD's. An odd tie-in, but there it was nonetheless. Frankie savagely attacked the next pairing of flesh eaters. The blood flowed toward a battery display that Frankie didn't see at first. It was nearly empty. He called Joseph over and then Frankie threw them all in to his backpack. Moans echoed throughout the building but most of the culprits remained out of view.
Standing in front of the men's section, which was bone-bare, like the rest of store, was a rack with belts and a few fanny packs. Everybody but Eddie grabbed as many as they could. Eddie stepped over to the sock and underwear racks instead. Once the others saw them, they did the same. Frankie grabbed some thermals, hats, and gloves. The bags they carried were already swelling up. Frankie and Joseph headed back to Big Cups where they tossed him the full bags. As they headed back toward the others, from out of nowhere a lurker's hand grabbed Joseph by his shirt. Joseph dropped right to the ground and Frankie mashed its face in. Joseph kicked at the creature, a woman who must have worked there. She was wearing a green vest with a 'can I help you' button on it. Frankie gave her one last whack to the side of her head. She was a small woman, possibly even attractive at one point, but now her deep blue eyes were a paste under Frankie's shoe.
"Spill in aisle 9," Joseph said with a smile.
Joseph got up and turned around to hear the others engaged in their own blood sport. The two of them took off in a hurry to join the others. There were at least fifteen creatures clawing at their friends. It was a scary situation in a tight spot but they had to act fast and carefully. There was no room for everybody to be swinging away with abandon.
Frankie cocked his tarnished, scratched, and bloodied shotgun and shredded two lurkers that were far enough away to not endanger the others. It was loud, echoing through the store, and l
eft cotton in his ears. He would have preferred using it as a bludgeon, the noise alone usually ended up drawing out more trouble than it was worth, but he needed the fastest solution to the problem. One of the two lurkers needed to be finished off, its head was left dangling by threads of flesh and brittle bone, its blood was like a thick dark mud. Gerty smashed it into the air, spewing muddy blood in its arching descent toward the bag section. What looked like fifteen quickly degenerated into less than a dozen. Eventually, with the help of Eddie and Frankie, they were able to put the dead things down for good.
Then, a gunshot echoed through the store. The gang stopped moving and stood staring at each other. It did not come from one of them.
"Where'd that come from?" Joseph asked.
"Don't know, let's check on Cups," Gerty said in a raspy out of breath voice.
They ran toward the entrance, Big Cups stood up and asked, "what's going on in there? Are we getting out of here?"
"Not yet, we heard a shot and it wasn't one of ours, we came to check..."
"Guess that means someone's in there with a gun or...one of those fucks has one," Eddie cut her off, "either way, I'm going back in."
Eddie ran back to where they were just a moment earlier. The others followed right behind him, everybody looking in different directions. Another shot echoed overhead, resonating in the high ceiling, curious brows were raised. Another, then another, they ran toward the noise, which brought them to a set of warehouse doors. They had bloody streaks and a window on each door about the size of a shoebox. The windows were too bloody to see through. Hearts raced furiously. Frankie came forward and kicked the door open revealing a loading bay full of lurkers.
The dead things turned, and though no dead things had ever expressed any visible emotions, they looked pissed. One had eyes so damaged they were completely red. They must've been truckers, vendors, or employees. They appeared fresher than the others that were in the store, cleaner, quicker. More shots fired from somewhere behind these creatures. The dead things moved toward the party crashers, but Frankie was faster and blasted them with his Remington 870 shotgun. He popped as many shots off as he could, and whoever else was behind the creatures was using theirs as well. The deaders came forward. Dawn took off running and Jon-Jon followed behind. Gerty took off too and grabbed Eddie, pushing him to follow her. These deaders were quicker and the area to fight them in was tighter.
