Box of Zombies: Rise of the Dead Volumes 1-3

by Burgess, Donna

  The next jar contained what appeared to be tongues, going brown and shriveled.

  Sam did not stick around long enough to look closely at the other two jars. He spun around and took off down the aisle and back toward the front door.

  “Come on back, Sammy,” Mr. Tanner called to him as he ran. “Come on back, you weak little fuck and put me out of my misery! I ain’t man enough to do it myself!”

  ***

  Sam was driving up Cemetery Road away from town when he spotted the girl walking along. She had a deer rifle slung across her narrow back. He recognized her shape immediately and smiling, he skidded to a stop alongside her.

  “I’d know that ass anywhere,” he said to her through the open window.

  ***

  It was an amazing thing, finding Ellie out there, alive, heading back to her old home as well.

  Ellie Johnson was his only real girlfriend before Katy, and the first love of his life. She was the girl he would have married if her parents had not been so determined to keep them apart.

  It had been almost five years since he had last seen her, but she had not changed one bit. A green-eyed beauty, high cheekbones and a full, expressive mouth. Her mocha skin was flawless and still unlined.

  They had gone together through most of their high school years and into college. Until her parents decided enough was enough and sent her to France to study art.

  Of course, he knew his own parents were relieved when Ellie went away, though they never allowed him to see it. He knew. All in all it was best for Ellie to end things with him. He was barely sliding by in school and heading to nowheresville fast.

  She rode next him in the Jeep, her rifle across her lap now. Her clothes were dirty. Her curly hair was tangled and wild. He had never seen her looking less than perfect, and again the awareness of the situation was forced home once again.

  “Been to your parents already?” he asked.

  She nodded. “They were gone. All I found was this.” She pulled a folded slip of paper from her jeans. “Says they went up to Charlotte to check on my grandma.” She shrugged. “I doubt they made it,” she said, a bit too matter-of-fact for his taste. It made Sam’s heart ache, although he knew that the Johnson’s never liked him.

  “You don’t know that—”

  “What about your family, Sam?” she interrupted. “Your real family. Katy wasn’t it?”

  Sam turned and pretended to look out the side window a moment. He bit his lip and pinched back the hot sting of tears. Saying what had happened would make it real. It would make it final.

  “I can’t talk about that yet,” he whispered.

  Ellie touched his shoulder gently and they drove on in silence until they reached the house where Sam grew up.

  ***

  Going back home for Sam had always been sweet because his mother always ran out to greet him.

  Today, there was nobody to greet him.

  His home was a big farmhouse, over one hundred years old. His parents had restored it with all the modern conveniences they could afford on the modest salaries of an elementary school principal and small-town newspaper reporter. White clapboard siding, blanketed along the front porch railing in sweet, fragrant jasmine that was home to more than a few snakes in the summer months. Azaleas lined the base of the house along all sides, bloody reds, pinks like cotton candy, lacey white.

  He had always missed the sweet smell of home as much as anything else. The shrubs, the grass, even the dirt from the recently tilled fields of cropland that surrounded his parents’ land.

  “Anyone here?” he called as he climbed the front steps. Ellie followed, her rifle ready in her hands.

  The house was as silent as a tomb, save for the drip drip of the faucet in the kitchen. It had always dripped, even after the remodel. His mother claimed it was their poltergeist. It only helped remind him of the horrors of the morning back at the beach cottage.

  They moved from room to room, Sam now gripping his own gun and praying he would not have to use it on his own parents. But he knew in his heart that he had already done the most difficult thing he would ever have to do in his life.

  In through the foyer and living room, then the kitchen. It appeared they had only gone out to the market for a loaf of bread or some milk. The downstairs was empty.

  They moved upstairs, the boards creaky and lonesome under their feet. Sam moved from room to room, growing more relieved with each passing moment. He couldn’t begin to decide what would be worse—finding the half-devoured corpses of his parents or his parents coming to devour him. But it was beginning to appear that his parents had fled just as Ellie’s folks had.

  Finally, he made it to his old room. It hadn’t changed any more than Ellie had. He plopped down on his bed and sighed, then laughed nervously.

  “They haven’t touched a thing, have they? Looks like they were expecting you back,” Ellie commented, stretching out next to him.

  “Then it looks like they were right.”

  ***

  They locked the house well and then returned to Sam’s room. They crashed and slept fitfully. Sam wept in his sleep and Ellie held him and whispered into his ear that things would be all right, though they both knew nothing was ever going to be all right again.

  It was storming when they woke, and well into evening. The darkness of the country was startling after being away for so long. People claimed it was quiet out there, but that wasn’t the case. It was noisy, but in a different way. A natural way.

  Sam climbed from the bed and groped around blindly. “I can’t see a fucking thing,” he muttered.

  Downstairs there was a sudden THUNK, as if a door slammed. Sam stood stock still a moment and the only sounds were the wind and rain and their frightened breathing.

  Then another THUNK. This one was softer. It was followed by footsteps on the warped floorboards.

  “Oh shit,” Ellie whispered. “What do you think that was?”

  Sam found the flashlight he had taken from the kitchen and suddenly the room was illuminated with a soft yellow glow. “Maybe the wind,” he offered, “blowing a door shut.” Wishful thinking, but Ellie knew better. She picked up her rifle and moved to the door. She opened it an inch or so and peered out into the dark hallway.

  There was a big window at the far end of the hall and when lightning flashed again, she could see the stooped silhouette walking slowly toward them.

  “My God!” Ellie whispered, “I think it might be your father.“

  “What? Really?” Sam quickly yanked the door open brushed past her. “Dad?”

  “No, Sam. Wait!” Ellie cried, grabbing at his shirt. “You don’t know—”

  “Dad? Where’s Mom? Is she all right?”

  Neil Clark moved closer. He was bent, lumbering, his face shrouded in shadow. Sam opened his arms to embrace his father and as Mr. Clark leaned in toward his son lightning brightened the hallway again. Stark light touched the man’s face only a moment, but that was all Ellie needed. Face as pale as a blank page, dark lifeless eyes that appeared dusted over. Dried blood crusted his lips. His clothes were stiff with gore and Ellie could smell him, the stench of decay, the hot stink of death.

  He bared his teeth and his dirty eyes rolled back into his skull as if he were in ecstasy as he drew his son to him. He was going to sink his dirty teeth into Sam’s neck.

  BAM! BAM! Two shots and Neil Clark’s entire head was gone.

  Ellie stepped closer, her rifle still up and still ready. Sam was sprawled on the floor on his ass, as if he had been shot himself.

  “Goddamn! Ellie?”

  Blood misted down, putrid and crimson-black onto Sam’s legs. It splattered the floor, the walls behind them, the smell of something spoiled.

  Sam sat a moment, staring at the remains of his father. He began to tremble violently. Ellie kneeled beside him and cradled his head against her breasts. “Shhh. Sam, we’re going to get through this.” He cried a while and she cried with him, her face buried into his warm ha
ir. She knew Sam was identified by those he loved. He was nothing now.

  They both were nothing now but fresh meat. And the world was starving.

  ***

  Ellie wrapped Mr. Clark in a sheet and comforter from the master bedroom. She had removed the man’s belt and had clinched it tight around the covers. He was as tightly wrapped as a Cuban cigar.

  Sam watched her—emotionless, methodical. She was stronger than he ever realized. She would survive this if she stayed immune. If anything, he was slowing her down, putting her in more danger.

  “Just don’t look at it, Sam,” she told him.

  Together, she and Sam carried Neil Clark down the stairs and out to the back porch. Blood had soaked through the covers where his head should have been, patches like oil on cloth.

  “And don’t think of it as your father. He wasn’t in there. You know he wasn’t.”

  Sam nodded, sick to his stomach. Ellie mentioned burying the body and it first it seemed a good idea. But then Sam wondered if the bright glare from the flashlight, the noise and movement might draw more like his father to the house. They decided to leave him for the night.

  ***

  They found nails in the drawers of Mr. Clark’s workshop at the back of the garage and they nailed the first floor windows closed. They nailed two-by-fours at the base of the doors, making them impossible to open from the outside.

  Exhausted, they crawled into Sam’s small bed. He could not bring himself to use his parent’s room, although the bed was much larger.

  Ellie found several candles downstairs in an emergency pack, and stood them on his dresser, nightstand and along the windowsill. She lit them it they illuminated his old room in wavering orange and yellow.

  Sam crawled across his bed to the shelf that was braced on the wall above his headboard. “I think I may have something here that’s fairly valuable. Unless of course my parents discovered it.” He laughed, remembering that his mother and father did indeed enjoy weed on occasion.

  He thumbed through a stack of old paperbacks. Horror stories—Stephen King, most of them. Little did he know back when he first read them, he would one day be living his own horror story. He chose The Stand, his favorite of the bunch—a big fat volume, well read by the look of the split spine. He flipped through the pages slowly.

  “Ah,” he said, smiling. He produced a flattened, crooked joint from the center of the book. “Look at that.” It was a pretty sad looking thing, but it would serve the purpose.

  He fired it up with one of the flickering candles and then took a long hit. Holding a breath, he passed it over to Ellie.

  ***

  It wasn’t long before they were pleasantly high. Ellie didn’t know it if was the exhaustion, or just the simple need to have their minds shut down for a while, but she could not remember ever feeling the effects of marijuana so quickly.

  “Remember how we’d huddle by the window and smoke, thinking how clever we were?” She laughed and touched his chest. “You’d always stuff a t-shirt along the bottom of the door so the smell wouldn’t seep out.”

  “I was so afraid my parents would find out,” he told her. “Turns out they had a bigger stash than I did. Old hippies, you know,” he whispered wistfully. Then, sounding shy he added, “You know something? They could hear us in here making love.”

  Ellie felt her face grow warm with embarrassment. “Shut up!”

  “Yep,” Sam went on. “Dad told me after we broke up. Said he couldn’t understand it, considering how well we seemed to get on.”

  Ellie thought of Neil Clark again—handsome, a bit flirtatious. Hilarious. Then the image of his stained teeth parting against Sam’s neck, his jaundice-yellow eyes rolling back like the eyes of a feeding shark, invaded her mind. She shook her head quickly, as if that would erase those thoughts from her mind.

  For an instant, lightning brightened the hazy room and she caught Sam staring at her dreamily. He was just as cute as he used to be, she thought. She wondered a moment what if...

  She smiled and breathed out a thin stream of smoke. The smell of the pot disguised the stench of decay left by the mess that had been Sam‘s father.

  “I suppose it doesn’t matter how much noise we make now,” she said.

  “I suppose not,” Sam agreed. He pinched the joint out and left it on the nightstand.

  “For old time’s sake?” he asked.

  “For old time’s sake,” she whispered.

  ***

  Outside the storms continued. In the dancing light from outside, Ellie looked lovely as she began to undress. Sam realized he had forgotten what a true beauty she was.

  He smiled up at her, a bit dazed, a bit stoned. He giggled, unable to help himself.

  “It’s been one fucked up twenty-four,” he said.

  She moved over to the bed and he slipped his hands around her waist. He took one of her nipples into his mouth.

  “Mmmm,” she sighed. Then she shoved him back down onto the bed and climbed on top of him.

  Sex was clumsy and out of synch, as if they had never been lovers. At one point Sam called out Katy’s name, then apologized quickly.

  “It’s all right,” Ellie told him. “Neither of us really want to be here, do we?”

  Images of his lost wife and daughter refused to leave his mind’s eye and he wilted. Ellie rolled away with a frustrated little groan.

  “Sorry,” he whispered, pathetically.

  She stretched out next to him and lit the remaining twig of the joint. “It’s no biggie,” she said.

  “Got that right,” he attempted to joke.

  They lay there in silence, looking only at the smoke swirling up and up like thin ghosts. Sam wanted to ask Ellie about her life, but what was the point? Her life was gone, just as his was.

  Guns within reach, they dozed. At one point, they were startled awake by a loud thump. The wind had indeed blown the screen door open this time. It banged angrily back against the house, then closed again.

  “I am so afraid,” Sam whispered.

  “I am too, Sam,” Ellie answered in the dark.

  Hearts pounding and eyes roving the darkness for any moving shape, they waited for dawn’s merciful return.

  ***

  Days passed. The electricity was sporadic and things in the refrigerator began to spoil. The entire house carried that same sickly-sweet smell that had been with Neil Clark. Sam gathered the rotting food into a garbage bag and took it out back, far from the house. Ellie covered him, her rifle poised, a scowl on her face against the bright sun. They saw nothing.

  They buried Sam’s father on the edge of the soybean field beyond the lawn because the earth was easier to turn there. They said a few words and neither of them cried. Tears had run dry days ago, replaced by an odd no-feeling.

  That feeling, that numbness was somehow more frightening than the fear and the sadness.

  Sam found his eyes always drawn to the soft sloping hills at the horizon, watching for shuffling, stooped figures coming to find them.

  He wondered what had happened to his mother, but forced himself to think of other things. The “what-ifs” were too horrible to envision.

  Ellie began to have a cautious sense of safety and she tried to infect him with it. He wanted to humor her, but he knew things could change quickly.

  Supplies held for the most part, but Sam was sick of canned vegetables and fruits. The Clarks considered themselves a frugal pair, and they had visited the shopper’s clubs often. Sam had always teased their overbuying, but now he was certainly glad they had. Especially when he went to the cellar and discovered five cases of imported beer stacked in the cool darkness.

  They passed the time having sex, getting drunk and listening to music. His parents had one hell of a jazz collection and they had a constant loop of Coltrane, Davis, Parker, and an army of others. He had hated that music growing up, but it was comfort now. They slow danced like they were anywhere beside an old farmhouse waiting for the world to end.

 
Ella Fitzgerald and Billie Holiday sang them to sleep at night—”Under a Blanket of Blue,” and “Autumn In New York”—their dreamy voices echoing in through a tunnel created by paranoia and alcohol.

  ***

  On the tenth day, the cats began to gather. Sam did not notice anything unusual at first—one or two cats slinking around. It was farm country, after all. Cats always hung around and most times his mother or father would end up feeding them. But by dusk, it had grown to something much more than just one or two.

  The mewling, mournful crying was suddenly audible even over the music. “What the hell was that?” Ellie asked.

  Sam switched down the volume and Sarah Vaughn faded into the background for a moment. He peered out the living room window and could not believe what he saw. There were a thousand eyes staring back at him. Reflected silver and ghostly in the moonlight, unblinking. He nearly screamed, then realized it was only cats.

  Only cats.

  “You’re not gonna to believe this,” he said.

  Ellie came over, put her face next to his and looked out.

  They were everywhere, crowding the porch railings. The steps. The rocking chairs and the little side table out there. They paced the lawn, droves of them. Waiting.

  Sam and Ellie could hear light footfalls on the roof even, pawing at the upstairs windows. The crying was like that of infants alone and starving.

  Sam’s father had always kept a big bag of Kitty Chow in the garage, to feed those slinking visitors and he ran out to get it.

  “Are you sure that’s a good idea?” Ellie wanted to know.

  “We can’t let them starve to death.”

  When he opened the front door, the cats scattered like roaches in the light. He emptied the bag on the front walkway, fifteen pounds at least.

  The cats stampeded back and Sam rushed back into the house, surprised and startled. Ellie slammed the door behind him.

  “So, what happens when they eat that up?” Ellie asked. She had never liked cats, and Sam could see she was not thrilled with a herd of them just outside the door.