Survive

by Todd Sprague

  “Go on inside, sweetheart. Get some lights on and open some windows. I’m just going to bring a few things in. We’ll get the rest in the morning. I don’t want to keep my folks waiting,” John said as he pulled a duffel bag out of the car.

  Sara nodded and followed Princess inside. Turning around back onto the porch, she addressed her husband, “Hey, John? Speaking of open windows, are we sure this thing isn’t airborne?”

  “Well, it doesn’t seem like any body’s sure of anything. But I don’t think so,” he said.

  Sara looked pensive for a moment, and then turned around and headed back in the cabin.

  John came a few minutes later, dumping two large, green canvas duffel bags on the floor inside the door. He took his AR 15 off his shoulder and set it down, leaning it against the wall. He made another trip, bringing in two more bags as well as the tactical rifle case he’d taken from the dead State Trooper’s car. Sara was taking stock of the items they had left in the cabinets from their last weekend away, pasta, soup, a bottle of white zinfandel. She smiled as she remembered the two of them wading in the pond and visiting the farmer’s market. It was a shame this time wouldn’t be as restful.

  “That’s enough for now,” John said, breaking Sara from her reverie. “I’ll get the rest in the morning. Let’s go see my parents.”

  “Alright. Let’s get this over with.” She gave John a smile that almost looked genuine.

  “Oh come on, it might be fun. I mean, it might not suck too badly.”

  The couple walked, hand in hand, with a bounding Princess somehow managing to not trip them while running between them to the elder Mason home. They entered in to the cozy living room and followed the sounds of conversation to the brightly lit kitchen. As they walked in, they saw John’s father and mother sitting at the table across from Patrick and May Mason. Everyone had a steaming mug of coffee in front of them and there was a sizable plate of homemade donuts sitting in the middle of the table. Next to the donuts, an untouched dark brown pie sat, somehow managing to look both dangerous and forlorn at the same time.

  Patrick yelled in his best indoor voice “John boy! ‘Bout time you got here.”

  May got up and gave both John and Sara a hug. John then bent down and gave June a hug as well.

  “Sit down, son. Sara, can I get you some coffee?” June asked, already pouring a cup for John. “Let’s keep it down a little. Jen, Kelly and Jacob got here earlier. They’re sleeping upstairs.”

  “I’d love some.” Sara said, smiling as she sat beside her mother-in-law.

  There was a comfortable silence as everyone settled themselves again. John gobbled down a donut quickly, then grabbed another one, eating this one a bit more slowly. He smiled contentedly.

  Harold finally broke the silence. “Son, just what the hell is going on?” He sounded exasperated.

  “Dad, I don’t know if you’d believe me. Anyway, it’s just speculation. You’ve been watching the news too, I’m sure.” John said around a mouthful of donut.

  “Yeah, but that don’t mean shit. You’re the one with connections, don’t any of your cop buddies know what’s happening?”

  “I don’t have connections like that anymore, and the ones I do have aren’t saying much.” John’s memory flashed back to the message from his friend in the New England Constitutionalists. He frowned slightly, but said nothing about it. “All I know, Dad, is that these infected people attack and kill people, and then those people seem to get up and join them.”

  “You mean like them zombies in your science fiction movies?” Harold asked, frowning.

  “Well, sometimes science fiction, other times horror, and then still sometimes they are considered their own category...”

  “We get it, John.” Sara said, sipping her coffee and rolling her eyes. “Don’t you know by now not to ask him questions like that? One time, I accidentally mistook Captain Picard for Captain Kirk. He didn’t shut up for two hours.”

  The four elders collectively sighed as John and Sara bickered for two or three minutes about why nearly every Star Trek ship is called the Enterprise. She just doesn’t understand outer space, John thought.

  Finally, Harold broke in with a sigh, “So, is that yes?”

  “Is what yes? Oh, yeah, that’s yes. Zombies. Undead. Ghouls. Whatever you want to call them, I don’t care. I think I’m just going to call them Zeds. I like that better.”

  “What are you, Canadian?” Sara asked, grinning.

  “Can we focus for a minute?” Harold asked. “I don’t watch your stupid movies, so maybe you can tell us what we’re lookin’ at?

  “Dad, from all the movies and books I’ve read, and from what I can pick up from the news, we’re looking at outbreaks in California, Texas, New York, Massachusetts, Florida, Georgia, and who knows where else in the U.S., as well as Mexico. I don’t know where else, but you can bet anywhere they evacuated wounded to. I think it’s the bite that transmits the infection, or bodily fluids, at least that’s how it works in the movies.”

  John paused for a minute. “On the way up, we saw a car accident. A police car was parked behind the wreck. The trooper was dead in the front seat. It looked like he’d been mauled by a bear. Most of his arm was missing. I checked for a pulse, but he had none. Zero. And he was already cold. A few minutes later, he got up and ran at us. He was fast too.”

  “Wait, I thought zombies were slow?” Patrick said, chiming in.

  “Yeah, well, nobody ever wanted it to be fast zombies. We’re kind of screwed with the fast ones.” John said ruefully. “Anyway, they attack and kill, and the dead join them. Their numbers go up exponentially as the living die.”

  “How are they going to stop them?” May asked.

  John looked at his aunt, so different from his mother, but still they shared a family resemblance. His mother, June, and his aunt, her sister, had married brothers Harold and Patrick Mason. It apparently wasn’t all that out of the ordinary back then, John thought to himself. June and May’s other sister, Sally, married Harold’s best friend, Walter Sanderson, or Uncle Walt. That’s probably part of why the Mason clan was such a close knit family. John smiled a little at the musing going on inside his head. He snapped back to reality.

  “They? What they? Watch the news. By the time the government accepts the reality of the situation, there won’t be anyone left to do anything about it. Half of Massachusetts is already a lost cause.” John lowered his voice as he saw Sara stiffen. “New York City is on fire and no one is putting it out. These things spread as fast as a man can run. Sometimes faster.”

  “Oh John, it can’t be that bad.” June said, pushing the pie towards John.

  John looked skeptically at the pie. He continued to stare at it as he said “Well, not as bad as that, but it’s definitely bad. You’re going to have to trust me on this.”

  Silence reigned for a few minutes. Everyone seemed lost in contemplation. It was again Harold who broke the silence.

  “Your Aunt Sally called just before you got here. They had no electricity. She said people were killing each other in the street outside their house. Walt was nailing the doors and windows shut, barricading themselves in.” He looked directly at John. “Then the line went dead. We called back, but there was no answer.”

  June and May both had tears in their eyes at this, but neither allowed themselves to cry. Not yet.

  “John, I admit I have no idea what to do here.” Harold said. Patrick stared down into his mug in silent agreement.

  “Dad, I don’t know either. My plan so far is just to hole up here and ride out the worst of it. We’re pretty isolated up here. We have food and water, weapons, and whatever supplies we need. The electricity is still on but who knows how long that will last. We have wells, and plenty of game to hunt and fish for. Effectively, we can hide out here for however long it takes.”

  “That ain’t much of a plan, son, but I don’t have anything better.”

  They picked up their cups and headed in to the living ro
om. June turned the television on and found a news station. CNN was reporting outbreaks in Europe and Africa. Australia had closed its ports and airports to all visitors. Video of New York City on fire was shown over and over again, along with highlights of the National Guard battling crowds of infected on the outskirts of Boston, taken earlier in the evening.

  June changed the channel to a more local station. News from Burlington, Vermont, was similar to everywhere else. Bleak.

  The announcer was just starting a new story as they changed the channel.

  “Breaking News from Montpelier. The Governor is missing. As the state government reported to an undisclosed secure facility, one interesting thing happened. The Governor did not show up. Calls to his house went unanswered. Has he abandoned us in our time of need? We will keep you informed as find out more about this disturbing event.”

  “Great. Just great.” John muttered.

  “Well, that’s one less politician telling us what to do.” Patrick said, sounding almost happy.

  “It’s getting late. Let’s talk about this more in the morning. The twins are coming over tomorrow,” Patrick said, speaking of his daughters, Franny and Nancy, and their husbands Kurt and Roger, as well as their children. “We can get this sorted out then.”

  They all agreed to reconvene in the morning. John and Sara hugged May and June goodnight, then walked back to their cabin, Princess dutifully following along, only occasionally stopping to sniff at this or that.

  Sara and John got ready for bed. Despite the long, terrifying day, or perhaps because of it, they made love that night, a frantic, hurried kind of love that left them both exhausted. They drifted off into uneasy sleep to the sound of Princess snoring like a freight train.

  * * *

  Sometime later, still pitch black outside, they were awakened by a loud crash, followed by the sound of a car horn blaring. John jumped out of bed, throwing on his shorts to cover up his nudity. He stepped in to his shoes, and headed out the door, grabbing his carbine on the way out. Sara followed as quickly as she could, tucking her little Beretta into the pocket of the bathrobe she hastily threw on. They ran toward the road, just beyond John’s parent’s driveway. As they drew closer, both Harold and Patrick caught up with them. Patrick had a double barreled shotgun over one shoulder. Across the road, a beat up old Ford F 250 had driven into the ditch, and now the rear wheels where up in the air, spinning impotently. The horn was still blaring, engine running.

  Patrick shined a flashlight in to the cab of the truck. They stared in stunned silence as the saw a form slumped over the steering wheel. Another form was hunched over that one, moving rhythmically, slowly. As the light filled the cab, a woman jerked up and revealed herself. Her face, especially her mouth, was covered in blood. A chunk of gore hung from her mouth as she chewed.

  “Holy shit!” Patrick said, leveling the double barrels at the truck. John was faster, bringing his AR 15 up to ready position and firing one shot through the rear window of the truck. The woman’s head snapped back, blood spattering all over the front windshield. She slid slowly to the right and dropped out of sight.

  Harold opened the driver’s side door, allowing the figure inside to slide to the left and fall out onto the dirt road. They could then see that it was a male, covered in blood.

  “Amos Hopkins. That must be his wife Sissy.” Harold said, pointing back into the truck. “They live a couple miles up the road.”

  “Dad, get away from him.” John said, calmly. His carbine was trained on the dead man.

  Everyone jumped as the dead man suddenly sat up, even John, who thought he was ready for it. He fired at the same instant Sara fired from right behind him. The man’s head exploded from the simultaneous assault.

  “What the frig?” Patrick yelled. “He was dead! Holy hell, how did he just get up?” Patrick held the shotgun out in front of himself as if to ward off the twice-dead creature.

  “Weren’t you listening earlier?” John asked. He moved to the door of the truck, making sure the female inside was truly dead as well. She had a bandage on her left arm, as well as a hospital bracelet.

  “Damn. They’re already here. I thought we’d have more time.” said John, shaking his head slowly.

  They turned the truck off and put Amos Hopkins back in the truck with his wife, closing the doors behind them.

  “We’ll take care of them in the morning.” Harold said as they walked back to the driveway. “I think I’ll stay up awhile. No sense in trying to sleep now.”

  “Alright Dad. Just be careful. Holler if you need me.” John and Sara walked back to the little cabin. John took Sara’s hand.

  “You’re pretty damn good with that gun, little lady.” John said in his best John Wayne voice.

  “Ayup. Good thing you took me to the range all those times. And here I just thought you were trying to show my ass off to all your shooting buddies.” Sara gave said body part a little extra wiggle as she walked.

  “Oh most definitely that too!”

  * * *

  As he stood in the small bathroom getting ready for his second chance at bed, his phone chimed that he had a new email. Poking his head out of the bathroom, he made sure Sara was already sleeping peacefully before flipping open his phone.

  M, they’re looking for us. Two men showed up at my place in Maine today. They ransacked the place, looking for something. They left a list pinned to my door with a knife. It was a list of NEC officers. Some had been crossed out. Your name was on the list too. Be careful. They had a lot of firepower with them. Get me on the shortwave tomorrow. 1830 hours. I’ll be listening. -Jcon14

  John sent a quick reply, acknowledging his receipt, then deleted the message. He flipped his phone closed and climbed into bed with Sara. John kissed her bare shoulder, then closed his eyes. The nightmares started that night.

  Chapter 6

  September 22, Zed Year One

  Brattleboro, Vermont

  “Fire into the room! Pour it on!” John yelled, firing an AK 47 into the dark portal of the open doorway. Light from the muzzle flashes lit up hideously decayed forms inside, all struggling to get through the doorway and out into the open.

  “I’m out!” John’s father, Harold Mason, yelled, dropping the empty magazine from his rifle.

  Cries of “Me too!” and “Empty!” and “That’s it!” came down the line as the sounds of gunfire diminished until it was only John firing, trying to stem the tide of the undead all by himself.

  CLICK! John pulled the trigger again. CLICK! He looked down, frowning at his empty weapon. He threw the impotent gun down to the ground and ran for the door. Reaching it seconds before the undead, he slammed the door shut and tried to lock it. As he tried to slide the bolt home, the rusty metal squealed, but wouldn’t budge. Heavy bodies began smashing in to the door from the other side. John leaned against the door, pushing with all his might, but the door slowly began to open. Rotting fingers reached around the door, groping for the living.

  “Help me!” John yelled. He shoved harder at the door, bracing his feet against the dirt beneath him. The undead redoubled their efforts, and the door slid open more. An arm, flesh shredded and putrid, edged around and reached for him. John looked over his shoulder, seeking support.

  John’s family reached for him with decaying hands, bloody mouths working in unison as they moaned “Jooohhhnnnn.” The door smashed its way inward and John was pulled down by the incoming horde moments before his family reached him.

  John sat straight up, a wordless scream almost escaping his mouth. He breathed heavily, drenched in sweat. He sat there like that for a few moments, just staring into the brightly lit room. As his breathing slowed to a more normal level, he heard birds chirping outside the bedroom window. He looked around slowly. His carbine leaned against the wall next to the bed, his shoulder holster hung from the bedpost, still with his Sig Sauer nestled inside. The big bed took up most of the room, with his gun cabinet against the far wall. Two nightstands framed the old four po
ster bed, and a big dresser occupied the last wall. Storm lamps sat unused atop the dresser.

  He kissed Sara on her forehead, careful not to wake her. He stood up, pulled on the pants he’d dropped on the floor the night before, and padded quietly into the living room. Princess raised her head in greeting before flopping back down in a patch of sunlight on the wooden floor.

  Walking through the living room, John glanced at the clock on the wall. 7:15. Good, he thought to himself. There’s so much to do today. He shook his head and frowned as he reached the kitchen.

  John filled the coffee pot with water and coffee grounds, then turned the old machine on. “At least the electricity still works,” he mumbled softly to himself. Princess thought he said “There’s a slab of bacon out here for just for you,” and ran over to him, tail wagging happily.

  He looked down at her and shook his finger at her. “No coffee for you!” He smiled affectionately and ruffled the dog’s head.

  Walking out to the car, John scanned the area. Nothing seemed to be amiss. “Yet,” he said to no one in particular. John opened the hatch of the station wagon and carried the rest of the supplies inside. It took three trips but he nodded in satisfaction as he took inventory.

  With the food and water in the basement, and the little bit left over in the kitchen from their last getaway, as well as the guns and ammunition he already had here at the cabin, he estimated they had at least six months of food for the three of them, several rifles, carbines, pistols, and several thousand rounds of ammunition of each caliber for which he had a weapon. Including the dead trooper’s rifle, he had three AR 15s in various configurations, four AK 47s, two M14s, each with a long range scope and beautifully polished wood, and two 12 gauge pump shotguns with pistol grips.

  He also had a deadly little Heckler and Koch MP5 he’d acquired two years earlier when he’d finally managed to get a machine gun license. Hard to get, even for a police officer, but he’d jumped through all the hoops and paid all of the fees to get the license, and then paid an exorbitant amount for the little 9mm submachine gun. He’d spared no expense outfitting it with a laser and a red dot scope.