by Steve Wands
At the edge of town near the North roadblock, the sky grows dim. Fires burn in the distant city and smoke chokes the light out of the day. There are only three police cruisers and six officers at the North Roadblock. No one is permitted into town without clearance from the Sheriff. There hasn’t been any noise on the ham, and nothing worthwhile on the radio. A car drives up from behind the roadblock: it’s Susan Kemp. Susan owns the corner deli on Main Street, appropriately named Main Street Deli. She parked off to the side of the road and got out, holding three thermoses full of coffee.
Officer Dane Kelly walked over to her. They had been together for the last few years. Both were divorced, Dane’s was a messy one while Susan’s was mutual. Her husband became very distant and as a result she looked at their relationship and came to the conclusion that they should have never been married to begin with. Susan met Dane, they made each other laugh and that was that. They weren’t up each other’s asses, and both having gone through one marriage had no intentions of suffering another. One thing led to another and now she was bringing him coffee, it was a love like so many others.
“Brought you and the boys some coffee. This one’s French vanilla, the other two are regular. I brought some powdered creamer and sugar. No milk though,” she said, her brownish red hair blowing in the wind.
“You are awesome. The boys will love anything at this point, but I’m taking the French vanilla for myself,” Dane said as he put his hand on her hip.
“When are you getting off?” she asked. They were staying at her place, and still trying to figure out what to do. They talked about it every day and made no moves other than standing still.
“As soon as I get relieved, Davis took almost everybody up to the cemetery to inspect it. So once they get back we’ll be breaking up into shifts.”
Susan and Dane walked over to the rest of the guys who looked tired as hell. The scent of coffee gave their eyes a tiny bright spot, as if a cup of coffee somehow meant that all was not lost. They opened the thermoses and sipped slowly: this was the highlight of the last few hours and they were not about to gulp it down and be left with nothing.
As if they needed to be reminded that all was not well, a stench rode in on the wind. It smelled like sulfur, or sewer steam, it was faint, but in the air all the same. The scent didn’t go away either: it hung over them, it clung to them. They wondered where the stench came from.
The thought was answered as Dane, without realizing, began spilling his coffee onto his shoes. His mouth was agape, as was Susan’s. The chubby cop, Sal, jumped up and grabbed his rifle. His eyes peered through the scope seeing what the rest could only guess was slowly coming up the street. It was a grey, decaying, mob of things that used to people. It was the walking dead: the kind of dead that shouldn’t exist but did regardless, the kind that stood upright, craving living flesh. And there they were, making their way to New Haven.
Dane grabbed his talkie, “We’ve got more coming! Requesting immediate backup!” His voice was thick with panic.
“Sal, how many are there?” Asked Jones, shotgun in hand.
“Don’t know, must be a hundred easy,” he handed Jones the rifle. “Take a look for your self and let me know I’m not loosing my mind.”
Jones reassured him. There were at least a hundred dead things shambling toward town. They stayed close together for the most part, with only a few smaller clusters off to either side, and a few trailing behind. Jones could see that one of the creatures was dragging its intestines on the ground, foot upon foot of ropey innards, with not so much as a scowl. He nearly vomited. The sheer number of them was surreal. They had encountered the dead things a number of times, but never like this. This was an army of the dead.
“Shoot at will! We’ll be there when we can!” Sheriff Davis snapped, “Over.”
“Make it quick! Over and out,” Dane replied.
Sal started picking them off one by one. They were too far away for him to be accurate with their shots. The wind, coupled with the distance the bullet would have to travel made it tough for even a trained sniper to accurately hit his mark. Dane rushed Susan to her car. He told her to get home, lock all the doors and windows. Then he promised he’d be there just as soon as he could. She reluctantly got into her car but drove off in a hurry.
Dane and the rest of the men grabbed their guns. Dane hopped into his cruiser and took off down the road to get closer and no one objected. Sal thought it was a good idea and did the same. They got close enough to make their shots count, and began picking them off at a decent clip. But they still kept coming. They knew they had fewer bullets than targets and if backup didn’t show up before they ran out, they’d be fucked.
They held their position and kept firing. Dane wasn’t nearly as good a shot with a rifle as Sal, so he opted to grab his shotgun and drive in even closer. Sal was stunned to see Dane do such a thing: he’d never been the type to pull cowboy stunts, and Dane was far more cautious than that. He watched in awe as Dane got dangerously close to the dead things, close enough to blast three of them in the face with his shotgun.
As he headed off-road to loop around he nailed one with the front end of his cruiser. The foul-smelling creature was struck at an angle that dragged it below the underbelly of the car, popping its head like a bottle under the wheel. He did this a few more times, eventually thinning the heard by seven. After Dane was finished with his unusual antics he headed back to the roadblock and positioned his car where it had been previously. Jones never left his spot and had only fired a few shots. He was on the walkie-talkie with Davis. They were only minutes away.
The creatures weren’t discouraged in the slightest and continued to creep forward. It looked like they’d be past the roadblock any minute. Sal was still up ahead and shooting, but quickly got in his cruiser, as a few of the creatures began hurrying toward him. Their dead muscles tearing with every step, they got to the car just as Sal closed the door. He sped off and managed to knock them to the ground with the tail of his cruiser.
Jones squeezed off shot after shot with his shaky hands and somehow, by the grace of God he thought, hit his marks. But, with every walking corpse they put down, another came into view. The officers stood their ground in front of the roadblock, making as many shots count as possible. But the creatures continued to close the distance. The stench of their rotting bodies could make a garbage truck scream, or maggot-ridden chunks of beef smell like perfume on a stripper’s tits. They were close enough now to see the flesh being punctured by the spray of bullets. The muzzle flashes highlighted their grayish blue skin, illuminating the bullet-ridden flesh.
Dane wondered what had brought them to New Haven. Was it the fall foliage or the spacious fields? Had they devoured the rest of the county and come looking for more? Tires screeched behind the roadblock, shaking Dane from his thoughts.
Davis and his men drove up in a fury with guns blazing. He was driving his own pickup and the back was full of locals and their peacemakers. The creatures spread out, clustering towards the closest prey. The dead things seemed to be moving quicker now that a meal ticket was in reach. Davis was doing donuts around them, taking a few out with his fender every time.
One got wrapped up in the wheel well causing the truck to jerk unexpectedly. Jones watched the tail end of the truck in horror as one of the guys went flying out of the back. Two of the other guys tried to grab him but their attempt almost sent them out as well. Before he even hit the ground, vicious undead marauders were on him, pulling at him.
The poor son of a bitch was Roger, one of Davis’s fishing buddies!
Roger fired at blurry hands as he fell but was bitten at the waist. He screamed. The gang in the back of the truck fired as best they could. Then one of the men shot Roger in the head. Whether it was on purpose, or an accident, it put Roger out of his misery. He wouldn’t be able to feel the teeth and fingers digging out his guts and plucking out his eyes to feast upon. Once his warm flesh began to cool, however, the dead things let his corpse li
e, unable to sleep. Moments later, Roger, a pile of unrecognizable shredded flesh, complete with a hole in his head, got up and joined the ranks of the dead.
Dane’s expression grew grim. His only desire was to get home to Susan, pop on the television and watch nothing remotely interesting as the aroma of fresh coffee filtered in from the kitchen. Those daydreams came to a quick end when the gristle and gray matter started spattering on his cruiser. A scream came from the right of where Dane was standing. It was punctuated by the sounds of gunfire and the grunting of the dead, but it was a scream nonetheless. Dane couldn’t see who it was. His vision was blurred and he was close to passing out. So much madness in such a short time, it was hell and hell was getting really hot.
Most of the men never had to fire their weapons at anything other than targets and bottles, yet they were now putting holes into heads. Some found they enjoyed it, the violence was so addictive and enthralling. For most, though, death stayed a taboo, one big question mark at the end of a life. Killing was now a right of passage for the men of the new world if they planned to survive.
More screams broke the monotony of the gunfire. Someone else had fallen, another guy Davis had coerced into bearing arms against the living dead. There were few dead things left and with a few well-placed shots the numbers finally dwindled to zero.
Alan began torching the remains of the creatures and the few who fell victim to them. Thick black smoke rose from the ground. The smell was awful. Dane wiped his sweaty forehead, pulling chunks of flesh, and dried blood off himself. He wanted to go home and shower, wrap his arms around Susan and feel like a human being again. Instead he felt like a hollowed out husk, a rusty robot in dire need of oil and lubrication.
Davis grabbed his talkie, his leathered face covered in sweat. “South Roadblock come in.” He paused, waiting for a reply.
“Sheriff, this is south. What’s up?”
“How you guys holding up? We just had ourselves a helluva firefight.”
“What? Is everyone okay?” the voice from the other end asked.
“No, we lost a few guys…we’re going to need something more than a roadblock if more of these fuckers come to town. Get your guys and meet me at George’s lot,” said Davis.
“See ya there. Over.”
All the men at the North roadblock were either huddled together or else in their vehicles as Davis pulled up. He opened his door, standing a head above his truck while using the door for leverage, “Listen up,” he yelled, “Finish torching these dead fucks and everyone, and I mean EVERYONE, meet me at George’s lot! This shit’s only begun.”
***
Jeff had just finished his sandwich, dipping his last bit of roll into some hummus. His father had a room temperature bottle of Budweiser lingering off his lip. The kids were eating peanut butter and jelly. Apart from everyone chewing, the only sound you could hear was the wind crashing against the boarded-up windows. Barbara and Maria were eating some pasta left over from the night before and Laura was having a bit of everything. Barbara was tense and wanted to say something, she actually wanted to breakdown and cry, but she kept herself in check. The adults had agreed to keep cool in front of the kids (there was no need to scare them more than they already were). And they’d be in bed soon enough, leaving the adults to talk and curse and cry all they wanted. Lunch was a late one and should have been called dinner.
Walter and Jeff went out to the porch, beers in hand, and looked up at the sky. It was almost dark.
Walter looked at his son. “Let’s take a stroll around the house. Give it one last look.” He put the beer up to his lip and kicked it back.
Jeff followed suit and they both took a casual walk around the house. All the boards looked good, and there was nothing in the distance besides the faint scent of smoke. A drop of rain fell, then another. A line of cars passed the road in the distance, Davis’s pickup leading the way. A rumble was heard in the sky, lightning struck and thunder rolled.
Jeff and his father finished up their walk around and ended right back on the porch. Walter looked up at the sky and Jeff looked at his father. Jeff’s son, Tommy, came out to the porch as well. Jeff put his arm around him and pulled him closer. He had no idea what was going on, but he sure loved a thunderstorm.
Everyone one was back in the family room with their stomachs full. The rain started to come down heavier, it wasn’t pouring, but it was more than a trickle on the roof. The kids were getting antsy, so Maria decided to bring them upstairs. She took a big flashlight and led the way. She lit a few candles on the way to the room as well, and another inside the room so the kids wouldn’t get too scared. Just for peace-of-mind she left the flashlight with them. Tommy grabbed it and gave it to Sandra, and then Sandra gave it to little Wally.
They weren’t quite ready for bed so they started building a fort and playing with their toys. Maria sat in the room and just watched. She loved them so much, and couldn’t bear to think about what may lay ahead for them.
They started building a fort around her as Sandra sat on her lap making goofy faces with the flashlight under her chin. Maria started laughing and crying at the same time. Maria wrapped her arms around Sandra and tackled the rest of them into the halfway-built fort and brought the sheets down with her. You could hear the laughter from the family room. The others smiled. The rain continued to fall.
Want more? Get it now: http://www.smashwords.com
About the author
Steve Wands lives in New Jersey with his wife and son. He’s a comic book letterer by day, and an artist and writer by night. He drinks massive amounts of coffee, and sleeps very little. He is the author of Stay Dead, Words Like Daggers, Modern Nightmares, Damaged, and plenty of short stories. He also co-edited and contributed to Dark: A Horror Anthology. Visit his blog here: http://www.stevewands.blogspot.com
Discover other titles (Stay Dead, Dark: A Horror Anthology) by Steve Wands at http://www.smashwords.com
Check out the Stay Dead blog:
http://www.pleasestaydead.blogspot.com
Nice words from nice people about the Stay Dead Series available from smashwords.com or for the Kindle at amazon.com
“…an interesting story. It has a fantastic plot and plays out wonderfully throughout the entire story. There are some very good, gore filled scenes that will make anyone cringe…”
Lyle Perez-Tinics of Undead in the Head Book Reviews
http://www.undeadinthehead.com
“…it’s a tribute to Steve’s imagination that my attention was held from beginning to end. I especially liked a sequence in which we find that zombies ain’t the scariest thing out there… encouraging moments of insight into how a kid might feel if life became a horror movie…”
Martin Gray Journalist
http://dangermart.blogspot.com
“…focuses on atmosphere and desperation…gruesome and really interesting, both stories oozing hopelessness…a really strong debut.”
Corey Graham formerly of the Midnight Podcast
http://www.midnightpodcast.com
“One of the most humanizing zombie stories since Romero’s Night Of The Living Dead.”
Bryan Wolford of the Drunken Zombie Podcast
http://www.drunkenzombie.com
“This collection of short stories is brutal and heart breaking. Steve Wands describes the state of the world in the midst of a zombie outbreak as if he were there. These tales will make you feel like you know the characters and are sharing in their plight.”
Mike Benedict of The Cadaver Lab Podcast
http://www.cadaverlab.com
“…one of the more intense and downbeat endings you will ever read… endlessly fun…nothing wasted…no pulling of punches.”
Desmond Reddick of Dread Media
http://www.dread-media.com
“…very well done…makes you want more…a great read… I couldn’t put this down.”
Darryl Pierce of A Little Dead Podcast
http://www.alittledead.com
Stay Dead: The Stranger & Tunnel Rats was also nominated for a 2009 Mail Order Zombie Dead Letter Award for Best Zombie Book/Fiction.
http://www.mailorderzombie.com
Table of Contents
CHAPTER 1: Dark days
About the author
