Unhappy Endings

by Chris Philbrook

  At this point I know beyond a doubt that it's survival of the fittest. If I don't take one of these fucking cabs by force, I'm going to die today.

  There were still about a dozen cabs there. I grab the driver of a white cab. He looks to be a middle-aged Hispanic man and he has this nervous look in his eye. Like he just shit in his pants and is worried everyone can smell it off him. Or maybe just that he couldn't fathom the events happening. When I tried to talk to him all he could do was mumble Spanish under his breath and kiss the cross on his necklace. As far as I was concerned, he was a goner. Most cab drivers keep their cabs running even when they're standing outside of them. Such was the case. I pushed him aside and got in his cab. He looked at me in disbelief.

  I said, "Shut up.” That’s all that I could think to say to the guy, nothing personal. He lifted his shirt and pulled a gun on me and started screaming in Spanish.

  Fuck, I pick the cabby that's packing a gun. I put my hands up over the steering wheel. I had no idea what he was saying, but I think he wanted me to get out. I was about to, I really was, but I looked past him to the section of the city I'd just come from and noticed there were hundreds of undead shambling our way. I pointed and yelled at him to look. He looked quickly and angrily. He then looked back at me and his face was pale. He fell down on his ass and started sobbing violently. For a moment I had pity, but as I looked out the window I noticed the dead were getting oh so closer. A lot of them mind you. I looked at the ID tag in the cab and it read, Jorge Gonzales.

  "Jorge, get in the fucking cab!"

  He looks at me and tilts his head a little. I know that look. You know that one, where the mind is sufficiently overwhelmed and all sanity exits back stage. The kind of look you would get from a father who just lost his daughter or from someone who just lost their legs on a land mine. The dead were creeping closer and Jorge was blanking out of existence. In 45 seconds the cab would be surrounded. I reached my hand out the window, grabbed Jorge's gun and took it. He didn't even notice.

  I could smell something awful headed my way. I could hear their heavy and deathly, ominous footsteps. I was transfixed for a moment as I looked upon them. Where was the zombie sound? Why was there no sound? They should be making a moan sound or something. Was I going insane? It didn’t matter; I would have died just sitting there. Worrying about the noise a zombie makes isn't appropriate when they're THIS FUCKING CLOSE. Gear; Drive. Gas pedal; down... I was off. I didn't want to go fast because that could lead to being T-boned. I looked into the side view mirror at Jorge. Poor Jorge. The mob attacked him in the same way you’d expect to see a bunch of ravenous loonies attack a psychiatrist at an insane asylum. Strange to see otherwise slow moving dead people operate at light speed when they're devouring their prey. I puked out the window. Fucking Zombies…

  I had to drive carefully. I skipped going to the apartment after all. I felt that if I did go there for my stuff, I’d just get myself into trouble, possibly dead. If I could make it to the outskirts of town then I could hit the back roads and avoid the highways. They'd probably be jammed in a time like this. Last thing I needed was to be stuck in traffic during a zombie apocalypse, as if people weren't crazy enough just in a jam.

  The rear view mirror of the cab had a plastic cross hanging from it. I don't know why, but I got the feeling, we were being punished. Like Judgment Day was upon us. I was hopeful for my friends and family up in the New England area, hopefully they’ll be okay. There was no way I was trucking there though. By the time I ended up getting there it’d be too close to winter and if the zombies don’t get you, the cold will.

  Jorge kept a clean cab. Right on the floor of the front seat he had a cooler with water and a couple of sandwiches. I guzzled some of the water right away. He had a box of 9mm ammo and a flashlight in the glove box. Now that I thought about it, I had just scored really big. The odds of finding water, a car and a gun all at once were pretty damn awesome. The positive thinking thing might not be totally out of the question.

  Driving out of town wasn't as bad as I thought it would be. The side streets were relatively clear and I made my way outside the city proper in less than 15 minutes. It's a mess though. The way out of the City was like watching a movie about a world that suddenly loses all government. Chaos everywhere. There was so much bang and holler from the exhilarated looters that it hid the horror of the zombies. It would of course only be a matter of time before the initial sense of liberation fades and the zombie horror starts to overwhelm.

  I could see helicopters and small planes all over in the sky. The city has a few large military bases so who knows what they're doing about all this. There were a good number of army vehicles, but too much confusion for them to be effective.

  I don't know where I'm going or what I'm going to do, but I survived getting out of the city. So we're off to a good start.

  Only a few things I wish I’d done differently.

  Grabbed as much free shit from Starbucks as I could.

  And put a bullet in Jorge’s head before the zombies got to him.

  PART TWO:

  Less than a week ago, I stole a cab and headed outside the city of San Diego. I made it, but wound up running out of gas in the middle of nowhere. I think I made it about 200 miles. It’s good I took the back roads at first, but eventually I hit a dead end and had to get on the highway. Highway 8. The amount of crashed cars is pretty intense. People just don’t think before they act. I’ve seen a few zombies, a few people running from zombies, a few people killing zombies, a few zombies killing people. Sigh. I’ve seen some crazy shit just in those 4 hours of driving than I ever cared to. People are stupid. The hysteria has set in and no one is acting sensible. I probably should have tried to help this one unfortunate guy who was stuck in his crashed up car, but his legs looked mashed up pretty good. Which means he would have been useless and probably died. I don't need anyone in my company dying and biting into me as I sleep. I’m safer on my own, I told myself as I left him to face a horrifyingly lonely death. What's wrong with me for that anyway? I can't figure out how I can be so horrible as to let people die in such awful ways. I have a gun, I could have shot Jorge and the mashed leg man. Both would have been better for it. I didn't though. I feel bad about that. I gotta keep thinking positive thoughts though. Maybe mashed leg man was rescued by a doctor and maybe Jorge... well never mind about Jorge, but leg man... he had a shot.

  Before I abandoned the taxicab I made sure to grab the gun, bullets and bottled water which is all I had left when the taxi ran out of gas the other day. The last sign I saw was Yuma, which is in Arizona. “310 to Yuma,” with Russell Crowe. Boy I miss life the way it was already. Movies were my favorite. When I finally get settled somewhere I’m making damn sure I hit a Best Buy first and grabbing all the movies I can.

  I was on foot for almost 2 days in the sweltering heat and I was feeling pretty hopeless especially when I ran out of water. Starving and thirsty I shambled on. The highway was empty and the world was still. I stopped to catch my breath and as I wiped the sweat from my forehead I realized that my body reeked like shit. So this is what it’s like to be homeless. I knew I was ruined if I didn’t find some food and water and if possible, some clothes that fit me. I was really starting to regret not hitting my apartment now. I also didn’t want to be stuck on the highway for the rest of my life. There was an exit 14 miles ahead to a rest station. They have those little snack machines and bathrooms. Great fucking plan I thought. So I walked and five long hours later I was walking up the ramp in this exceptionally hot night to get to the rest stop building.

  I heard a gunshot. Man what the fuck I just want some Twinkies and water.

  I took the gun out of my cargo pocket and got the flashlight in my other hand. I slowly tiptoe up the road until I can see what is going on. At first all I see are a few cars, a pickup truck and one of those giant Mack trucks. Then, another gunshot sounds off. It was particularly loud because the night was so quiet. The lights from the building showered down
into the small lot where a few bodies lay on the pavement. I didn’t see the motherfucker with the gun though and that had me anxious as hell. I crept up a little closer and paused for any kind of movement. Then, coming from the inside of the open building I saw him. He was about my height, almost 6 feet and he was training a rifle around every corner until he got to the lot. I also noticed he had a pony tail. And that's about all I could make out about him because of the damn light. He was stabbing the bodies with the barrel of his rifle and kicking them I guess to make sure they were good and dead. Well, another survivor I thought and I may as well try to make friends. Pony tail or not. I get up from my crouch and signal my flashlight down at him and say, “Hey there”.

  BANG! Something whizzes right by my skull.

  I fall on my ass and drop the flashlight. I still had my gun, so I lied there on my back, in the dark gripping the pistol with both my hands, finger on the trigger pointed up. I waited. It seemed like I could have watched all the Lord of the Rings Movies in the time I was laying there but he finally came upon me. He is outfitted with just a pair of jeans, dark boots and a flannel shirt. He wears a slightly scruffy beard and his hair, is tied into a ponytail. He didn’t look pleasant. Standing three feet in front of me with his rifle pointed at me I felt beaten. I had the gun pointed at him, but I didn’t know if I had it in me to pull the trigger. At least not until after I talked with him,

  “Don’t shoot me man,” I said.

  He looks at me and slowly bends down, rifle still pointed at me, he picks up my flashlight and points that at me too. Now I feel like I am a deer caught in the headlights of the evil hunters.

  “Where you coming from?” he asks.

  I told him I was coming from San Diego and that my car ran out of gas awhile back. He moves the flashlight up and down my body looking for something and then he asks if I’d been bit or scratched by any zombies. I tell him no, been on my own since the shit went down.

  “What’s your name?” he asks in almost a friendly tone.

  I tell him I’d feel better if I could get up and talk.

  “What’s your fucking name MOTHERFUCKER?!”

  I take a deep breath and steady myself. This was going to be difficult; this man was obviously a little on edge. “My name is Michael, Michael Turner”.

  That seemed to calm him. He straps his rifle to his back, pockets my flashlight and extends a hand. I eye him for a few moments, put the gun in my pocket and grip his hand to be lifted up. I can't see shit. All I can see is the memory trace of the bright flashlight in my eyes.

  “Nice to meet you Michael my name is arrrrghhhh!”

  He screams bloody murder and I am promptly dropped on my ass back onto the hard pavement, again. His screaming is ear-piercing. I hear his body drop to the ground and his rifle clatter nearby. He went on and on with the screaming. This was bloody murder. Then I heard another thump. I can't see shit and swiftly I am back to being terrified.

  He was growling and struggling on the ground.

  “Help me!!! Get it off me!! Please man!! Help!!”

  “What the fuck, what the fuck?”I am saying, still blinded. “I can’t fucking SEE you! What’s going on?”

  “You mother fucker! You fucking motherfucker!” his voice is getting weak, “I’m a fuckin kill you, I’m a fuckin…” and then he was silent.

  My stomach turns on me and I get light-headed. I feel like I am dwindling into the gloom of an eternal misery drenched hell. I hear him now gurgling and bubbling and also the distinct sound of chewing and jaw smacking.

  My vision comes back to me and I can see now what has happened. A deceased lady had come up behind him -silent like the plague- and chewed into him when he was lifting me up. These fucking zombies are so quiet you can’t hear them. I look down and she is still chewing on his neck. Blood is flowing around her face, spitting into her hair and pooling on the road. I am frozen sick.

  Then she slowly looks up and stares right into me.

  She quietly and meticulously forces her corpse up and starts to walk towards me, ever so slowly. She has long, brown, bloody hair and looks to be no more than 20 years old. Her chest area is stained black like she’d been shot there. I wanted to cry out for help. I wanted to scream for her to go away. I was more scared then I’d ever been. I had thought it was scary to see a horde of these things in San Diego during broad day light. I thought with all the chaos of that day that I’d faced the worst, but no. This was the worst. The pale, blood soaked face of this monster staring at me with hunger and hatred in the still, dark night made my bowels let loose all the piss and shit I’d been accumulating for days. With my shaking hands I pointed the gun at her head and I pulled the trigger.

  Nothing happened.

  The gun is not firing. Her hand is grabbing my arm. The gun is not working. Her face is moving into my shoulder. The fucking gun won't go BANG and end this zombie from killing me. Her teeth find the center of my bicep. It doesn't make sense, it won't even make the click noise when I pull the trigger. There is pain jolting up through and down my entire arm as her teeth bite into my tender flesh. I know there are bullets, why hasn’t the fucking thing been firing?

  “Oh My Fucking Lord, I've been bitten!”

  Scared even more then I was moments ago, I rip her mouth off my throbbing arm and turn and run back down the ramp. As I'm running, I feel the two pounds of shit creeping down my leg and I'm worried I'm going to get some into my socks. Stupid thing to worry about because I end up losing my footing and plowing into the pavement hard. I knew if I lied there that fucking monster would be on my ass in no time. What difference does it make now though, I've been bitten! I'm going to die. All I could picture was her mouth. Her dreadful mouth chewing at my arm and then my neck. Then my neck bleeding into her mouth. I got up in a frenzy and continued running down the ramp. Whatever happens, I cannot allow her to bite into my neck. She got arm and that's fine, but there is no way she's getting my neck. By now my night vision was kicking in full force and I could see that I put a good distance between me and the zombie.

  I look up into the night sky and the clouds part to reveal the brilliant, full moon. The light is shining down brightly and I look upon my wicked gun of treason. I point it up into the sky and squeeze the trigger and get nothing. Why?? I examine the gun thoroughly for signs of anything broken and it looks fine. It has bullets, it just won't fire. Meanwhile the zombie is getting closer. I look at my arm as it drips blood and radiates its screaming pain to the treacherous brain who failed it. My brain. Then I ask my brain why it has failed my arm and it tells me that my eyes have failed us all. I ask my eyes, what didn't we see and look closer at the gun.

  And as she's 30 feet from me, like a fucking moron, I finally see my mistake. How incredibly stupid… Right near the trigger above the handle is a little switch called the safety. I hit the switch and it reveals a little red dot. I squeeze the trigger.

  BANG! The fuck…

  I need to protect my neck. That zombie is going to try and get my neck. She is only about 15 feet from me now. Not far behind her another form is sluggishly following. I knew who it was when I saw the silhouette of the pony tail.

  “Shoot it in the head man, shoot it in the head.”

  Dawn of the Dead, 1978. The swat guy is telling his swat buddy to shoot the zombie in the head in the section 8 apartment complex they just raided. All I had playing in my head as I pointed the gun at her lifeless face; Shoot it in the head man, shoot it in the head.

  I shoot her in the head. She falls. I walk up to Ponytail and shoot him in the head. I feel good now, despite my arm, I feel great. My neck is going to be fine. My arm is mad at me, but fuck it, my neck is going to be great and it's happy with me.

  I walk up the ramp and fire off the remaining shots. It doesn't matter now anyway, I've been bitten. I really need to find something to eat though. One last yummy snack before I turn. As I approach the building, I toss the gun into the trash. I hear the sounds of florescent lights and see cockroaches scurr
ying through the blood splattered floor. As I enter the building I see the vending machine is completely filled over in the far corner. I walk to it and break the glass. I have my choice of all the different types of candy bars, mints, chips and peanuts. I also see there is a soda machine I can bust open. I am thinking positive thoughts now, not long from now I'll be able to play a zombie in whatever new reality it is we have going. I hope I can eat as many people as possible before I'm shot in the head. Yeah, no one ever thinks, that maybe being the zombie is the more fun part of the game. I open a Reese's-Pieces peanut butter cup and start giggling. Yes, it won't be long now. Not long at all.

  Oh and what do you know, had I not been such a fucking coward and actually mustered the courage to kill Jorge and the mashed leg man, then I would have known about the safety. If I'd know about the safety, I wouldn't have been bitten, because I would have shot that girl in the head long before her teeth got into my arm. Yes, this is the price of karma. This is the price of not doing what's right, of being afraid, too afraid.

  Those are such negative thoughts though. I must see the positive side to this.

  I'm so tired. Positive thinking... yawn. I can't wait to eat people. Fucking Humans...

  In the Arms of the Dead

  Christopher MacDonald

  The humidity hung heavily in the warm June night. Alan pulled at his sweat stained t-shirt, trying to detach it from himself as he gazed up at the star filled sky, waiting. He had been watching her for several months, learning her after work patterns and habits. Emily was a petite, raven haired beauty with soft features who worked as a bartender at a popular watering hole in town. In Alan’s opinion, the place was only popular when Emily was serving drinks. She had this friendly and caring demeanor that--accompanied by her good--looks drew in large crowds. Men and women alike.