Even though I’d mumbled the words, my voice echoed eerily in the dark, silent store. I certainly hoped I was alone because, otherwise, I’d likely just attracted some walking corpse. After a moment of listening for any telltale rustling or groaning sounds, I still couldn’t hear anything but my own breath and the blood pounding in my ears. So, though I hadn’t had much luck yet in finding any helpful supplies, I decided to continue combing through the store. Figured I might as well take a look around, just in case I spotted some tool or material I could use to repair the hole in the radiator.
By the time I reached the far side of the store, I no longer needed the flashlight. The sliding doors leading into the outdoor garden center were ajar, and plenty of natural light spilled across the threshold. As with every other branch of Home Depot I’d encountered, a fifteen-foot-high, chain-link fence surrounded the garden center, so unless someone had breached it in a spot I couldn’t see, it seemed like the place was secure.
Standing on one side of the open doorway, I shoved the flashlight into a plastic bag hanging from my wrist, held out the shotgun, and poked my head into the garden center. Although looters had obviously picked through that section, too, I still observed rows of potted plants, stacks of soil, and racks of various gardening tools — items apparently less tempting in a crisis. The metal roof of the building extended over the space, a few feet above the fence, creating a pleasant outdoor area, protected from the city’s frequent rainstorms.
To be honest, if you had some food and water with you, Home Depot wasn’t a bad spot to wait out the zombie apocalypse. True, looters had depleted some of its resources, but it still housed a slew of useful supplies, including a shitload of generators and propane tanks, which could run necessary items like lights, grills, fans, and heaters for quite a while.
It also had fewer entryways to barricade than a typical shopping mall. In addition, that particular branch was close enough to the adjacent strip mall that, with a makeshift roof-to-roof bridge, survivors could easily access the nearby restaurants and their food stores, particularly any nonperishable items.
Naturally, I had no intention of camping at Home Depot. I needed to get back to Azazel — and find a way to reach Clare. Still, I couldn’t help but wonder how someone might fortify the place.
As I shook off my curiosity and tried to formulate a new plan for fixing my van, I noticed a fiberglass extension ladder dangling from a thick rope. Tracing the rope, I realized someone had snaked it through two of the roof supports and attached it to an ultra-expensive ATV parked near the open entranceway. Seemed as if previous looters had also considered creating a bridge to reach the adjacent shopping complex — and perhaps someone had interrupted their project midstream.
Despite my hunger, thirst, and fatigue, I was still full of adrenaline from fighting off and running from zombies all day — and alert enough to feel my “spider-sense” tingling. Instinctively, I ducked my head just as a sledgehammer swished past my peripheral vision and smashed into the door frame beside me. My momentum caused me to tumble forward into the garden center, crashing into a planter containing a thorny rose bush and losing my shotgun, crowbar, and extra ammo in the process.
“What the fuck!”
My inadvertent outburst attracted the notice of some of the zombies between buildings. Their heads turned toward the garden center, their groans loudened, and a few of the more eager creatures shook the chain-link fence. It wasn’t my smartest moment, but I didn’t care. The thorns from the rose bush had penetrated my jeans and punctured my thighs, shooting bolts of pain throughout my legs.
Still, I didn’t have time to focus on my latest injury. From the sound of footsteps behind me, I sensed the person who’d swung the sledgehammer had followed me into the garden center. Quickly, I rolled away from the thorns and onto my back, pulled the .38 from my hip holster, and aimed it toward the entranceway.
“No, don’t shoot,” a young female voice cried from the shadows to my right.
Glancing from side to side, I couldn’t see the owner of the voice — or my assailant.
“Pawpaw,” the unseen woman said, “he’s not a zombie.”
Suddenly, the scene came into focus, and I realized a wizened eighty-year-old man, wearing khaki pants and a long-sleeved Oxford shirt, was standing just inside the garden center, the sledgehammer raised above his head, ready for another swing. His slender arms trembled as he tried to keep the weapon aloft, but the determination in his eyes made it clear that, though not an easy feat for him, he would do what he could to protect himself and his loved ones from the walking dead.
“I’m not a zombie,” I assured him, aiming my pistol toward the pavement.
Slowly, the elderly man lowered the sledgehammer, his eyes still squinting with suspicion. “You’re not?”
The smart ass in me wanted to remind him I was armed and having a conversation with him — not typical practices of the undead — but at the last second, I thought better of it and simply shook my head.
“Well, son, you don’t look too good,” he said, resting the head of the sledgehammer on the ground.
“Yeah, you really don’t,” the unseen woman agreed. “Are you alright?”
The old man shifted his eyes from me to the shelves beside him. I followed his gaze to a slim, dark-haired woman in her early thirties, sporting denim overalls, sandals, and a lopsided ponytail. Nimbly, she climbed down from an upper shelf, where she’d likely been hiding since my unexpected arrival.
Movement in my peripheral vision made me look back at the old man. An older woman, about his age, stepped from behind him. Dressed in woven loafers and a denim dress, she wore her gray hair in a tidy bob, carried an old-fashioned pocketbook, and seemed altogether less rumpled than the old man and the young woman. As she scanned my gore-covered clothes, her eyes widened, and a small shriek escaped her lips.
Chuckling, the old man released the sledgehammer, stepped forward, and extended his hand, as if to help me up. “Sorry I scared you, but you would’ve tried to kill you, too, if you’d been me.”
Letting him tug me to my feet, I was surprised by his strength. “The shotgun didn’t give you pause?” I asked, leaning down to collect my fallen weapons and ammo.
He laughed sheepishly. “I admit, my eyesight ain’t what it used to be. We heard the truck outside, and knew someone had opened the doors, but the way you were creeping around in there, we couldn’t take any chances.”
“Besides,” the old woman added, “have you seen yourself? You’re a bloody mess.”
“Yeah,” the young woman said, waving a hand in front of her nose, “you don’t smell too great either.”
Now, it was my turn to chuckle. “Not surprised to hear that.” I held up the plastic bag still hanging from my wrist. “That’s why I grabbed some sanitizer and a few air fresheners for the road.”
“Maybe you should just change your clothes,” the young woman suggested. “Or better yet, burn them.”
“Not a bad idea. That’ll be next on my to-do list. After fixing my radiator. And my mirror.”
The old man chuckled again. “Well, now that we’ve cleared that up… I’m Alvin Summers.” Pointing to the old woman, he said, “This here’s my wife, Ellen.”
She smiled at me, and I nodded in return.
“That young lady,” Alvin continued, thumbing toward the dark-haired woman, “is my granddaughter, Jenny.”
“Nice to meet you all.” I almost added how refreshing it was to encounter people not dressed in Halloween costumes or skimpy lingerie, but I managed to keep my snarky side in check. For once. “My name’s Joseph Daniels. But most folks call me Joe.” I nodded toward the dangling ladder. “So, what’s happening here? Looks like I interrupted some kind of grand plan.”
Chapter 25
“Itʼs nice to see that youʼve all bonded through this disaster.”
– Steve, Dawn of the Dead (2004)
In a lucky turn of events, the four of us had one major trait in common: we
all loved non-human animals, to the point where we preferred most of them to people. Although none of the Summers trio currently had any pets, Alvin and Ellen regularly cared for the feral cats around their Bywater home, while Jenny enjoyed walking the neighbors’ dogs in her Uptown neighborhood.
Once we’d moved our conversation into the main building (away from the aroused zombies), it didn’t surprise me to learn the three of them had been volunteering their time for a pet adoption event in the nearby Pet Mart when the proverbial shit had hit the fan.
“We were helping the local chapter of the Humane Society,” Jenny explained. “To find forever homes for a bunch of rescued cats and dogs.”
Not a bad way to spend Halloween. Certainly more charitable than pursuing the holiday’s typical debaucherous activities. I almost said as much, but didn’t want to interrupt Jenny’s tale.
Apparently, while on an afternoon break, she and her grandmother had followed Alvin to Home Depot, where he needed to pick up a few gardening tools. Soon afterward, a mangled adolescent had wandered into the store, torn a chunk of flesh from an employee’s wrist, and jump-started total chaos. Once the employee had died, inexplicably returned as a zombie, and bit a concerned manager, the rest of the staff had decided not to take any chances.
Fortunately, Home Depot had had plenty of staff members and potential weapons, so with the Summers family and a few other customers lending a hand, they’d donned some waterproof rain ponchos and handily exterminated any zombies wandering through the automatic doors. As Jenny recounted the early hours of the zombie apocalypse, I silently applauded her and her cohorts’ resourcefulness: if I had thought to wear a poncho, I could’ve spared at least two sets of clothes.
As expected, some of the customers and staff members had disliked the idea of murdering infected humans. Hard as zombies were to fathom, though, seeing had definitely led to believing — at least for most of those present.
Once the waves of undead had subsided enough to secure all the exits, the survivors had tried to ignore the sounds of terror in the parking lot and the surrounding buildings and waited for help to arrive. When that didn’t seem likely, the remaining customers and employees had made a run for their cars, determined to check on their homes and loved ones. Some had reached their vehicles, some hadn’t, but eventually, only the Summers family remained.
“We’ve been trapped here ever since,” Ellen lamented.
“Yeah,” Jenny confirmed. “Plus, once our phones died, and the local stations stopped coming through on the TV and radio in the break room, we weren’t sure what was happening in the rest of the city.”
“But we figured it wasn’t good,” Ellen added.
“So, we’ve done our best to make this place home,” Alvin said. “Moved those unfortunate souls to the back, by the loading dock. Took advantage of the food in the break room. The couches, too.”
“And when the looters started coming,” Jenny added, “we just hid and watched and waited for them to leave. Knowing they’d break the glass to get inside, we kept the doors unlocked. So, until the power went out, they just opened and closed automatically. And luckily, everyone who came here seemed more interested in stealing supplies than destroying the joint.”
I nodded. “Home Depot’s not a bad place to hunker down for a while. I was thinking the same thing when you tried to hit me with a sledgehammer.” I glanced at Alvin, who shrugged sheepishly. “But why didn’t you all make a run for it, too? I mean, you can’t stay here forever.”
“Maybe not,” Jenny conceded. “But we can’t leave the animals behind either.”
As it turned out, the three of them desperately wanted to rescue the remaining animals from Pet Mart. Sadly, they realized all those who had already been adopted during the Humane Society event were probably dead, but they hoped to save the rest if possible.
“If this really is the end of the world,” Ellen said, “then the least we can do is make sure the animals are safe. Even if it’s just for a little while.”
“That’s why we were trying to lift the extension ladder,” Alvin explained. “To bridge the gap between stores.”
“Only trouble is I’m scared of heights,” Jenny confessed. “And Pawpaw, strong as he is, can’t do it alone.”
Son of a bitch. The big-hearted Summers trio certainly understood which buttons of mine to push. I might’ve created a blog to help a few people deal with the imminent zombie apocalypse — and to atone for a lifetime of selfishness — but in reality, I didn’t mind being selfish. I loved my wife, my kitty, my brothers, and my parents. As for the rest of humanity… meh. True, I had a few friends I genuinely cared about, but as a whole, I’ve always kind of despised most people.
Other animals, as I’ve said, were an entirely different story. Don’t get me wrong: I could never go vegan. Figured eating chicken, pork, beef, and seafood was all part of nature’s circle of life. Hakuna matata-type shit. OK, I might’ve mixed up my Lion King references — I was always a bigger fan of Kimba the White Lion anyway — but my point was still accurate. Despite being an omnivore, I had always loved non-human animals.
During college, I’d spent one summer as a nighttime security guard for a small zoo near the Michigan State campus, and every night, I would hang out with the animals. Well, that might’ve been a stretch. I didn’t enter any of the enclosures — I wasn’t totally insane — but I definitely interacted with them. I’d race alongside the wolf and lion exhibits, urging the mighty beasts to chase me back and forth. They never snarled or growled at me. Perhaps one or two of them had longed to eat me, but I’d like to believe they knew I was their friend.
Of course, my pride and joy was Sharie, an African elephant who’d previously been in the circus. After being rescued and brought to the zoo, she’d never gotten along with the other elephants. I’d told her they were just jealous because she could dance — which she really could — and no matter what, she would always be my girl.
Every night I was on duty, I’d punch my timecard and start patrolling, and every night, Sharie would be waiting for me. Once she’d performed her dance, we’d play toss with an empty, two-liter Diet Coke bottle — sometimes for what seemed like hours. Although I’d visited with all the animals at least once each night, I’d mostly hung out with Sharie.
So, it had understandably saddened me when the staff abruptly transferred her to a zoo in Kentucky, where she would live among other circus-trained elephants with whom she might be more comfortable. I’d wanted her to be happy, but still, I missed her, and it hurt that I hadn’t even had the chance to say goodbye.
Since then, I’d been the papa of two rescue kitties (the first of whom had died a couple years before we adopted Azazel). If I could’ve afforded it — or my current cat had allowed it — I would’ve cared for a lot more than that. Consequently, Jenny didn’t need to ask me twice to help her and her grandparents rescue the animals from Pet Mart. Still, we needed to accomplish the mission quickly. I wanted to be back on my way to Clare as soon as possible.
Once the zombies had ambled away from the fence surrounding the garden center, I’d merely needed to stand outside and listen to the mournful meows and barks underscoring the moans and groans of the undead that surrounded the pet store — and I was a goner. A dog howled, and I sighed. Jenny and her grandparents probably knew an easy mark when they saw one.
After checking on my vehicle — to ensure no zombies had breached it and gone for Azazel — I helped the Summers family gather some clamps, bungee cords, and sheets of plywood. Then, Alvin and I climbed up the fifteen-foot fence, carefully straddled the top bar, and laboriously extended the fiberglass ladder to the rooftop across the access road. It was so heavy and awkward we almost dropped it a few times, but eventually we were able to clamp the ladder to the metal roof of Home Depot.
Via a set of stairs in the rear storage area — which, sadly, looters had also picked clean — we accessed the roof and cautiously secured the ladder to the other rooftop. Not an easy task, es
pecially given the curious zombies below, but with patience and by taking turns (for weight considerations), we were able to stabilize the ladder on both ends and tie down the pieces of plywood to it as well. In the end, we’d created a relatively sturdy bridge that would allow us to move safely between buildings.
“OK,” I said once the four of us had congregated in the break room for some much-needed water and snacks, “the first thing we need to do is get into Pet Mart and get rid of any zombies that might be inside.”
When I’d initially driven into the parking lot and surveyed the scene, I’d assumed the front doors of Pet Mart were closed, but that didn’t guarantee the store was devoid of the undead. Luckily, the cats and dogs up for adoption had been resting in locked crates, so even if zombies had invaded the store, the animals were likely safe. I’d yet to see a zombie turn a doorknob, let alone undo a latch and open a cage. Then again, hunger and determination could be huge motivating factors, especially for the undead.
“Once we secure the store and rescue the animals,” I continued, “I can take you all somewhere safe.”
Shaking his head slowly, Alvin grasped his wife and granddaughter’s hands atop the table in the break room. “We’ve talked it over, and we’ve decided to stay. Now that you’ve helped us with the bridge, we can make this home for a while.”
“No doubt you’ll find enough food, water, and other supplies to keep you going, but still… You sure?”
Ellen’s face lit up with a warm smile. “We’re sure. But thanks for the offer.”
“What about you?” Jenny asked, her smile as friendly as her grandmother’s. “You’re welcome to stay with us.”
“I appreciate the invitation, but after we take care of the animals, I need to push on. Can’t keep my wife waiting much longer.”
For just an instant, I saw Ellen and Jenny exchange a furtive glance, perhaps implying what they really thought of my plan — and the possibility I’d ever find Clare alive. But I couldn’t afford to think that way, especially since I had to keep my head straight for what I needed to do at the pet store.
Zombie Chaos Book 1: Bloodbath in the Big Easy Page 13
