Loose Ends: A Zombie Novel

by Jay Wilburn

  ***

  He wasn’t. The cabin was fairly well preserved. There were a lot of food stuffs that we could still use. Doc cooked and Short threw his hands in the air in frustration at the luck of the other two on their cooking nights. Chef said he was changing the challenge anyway.

  There was a lake between the property and the cemetery. Short walked the trail back and sat on one of the graves near the center after dinner. We stood on the porch and watched for trouble. It was actually a beautiful view when taken in isolation. Doc turned around and sat on the railing with his back to the lake.

  “We’re too close to that church full of God knows what,” Doc mumbled looking over his shoulder at an angle past Chef at the steeple.

  He looked away back at the plain, cabin door again.

  Chef said, “They’re everywhere.”

  “Doesn’t mean we should sleep next to a church full of them,” Doc said.

  “Strange coincidence, finding this place … It’s a small world,” Chef said.

  “Naw,” Doc said, “We came mostly north because you guys lived up here. It was bound to happen. The world is full of ghosts. It’s just a world; we’re creeping around a small piece of it chasing our tails.”

  I stared at Short’s back in the growing darkness and didn’t look at Doc.

  “Still is interesting, I think,” Chef said.

  Doc asked, “You ever have sex in a cemetery?”

  “No,” Chef answered flatly.

  “Me either,” Doc confessed, “I got to second base once in one with a girl named Terry.”

  I shivered thinking about the bodies in duct tape on the floor in Doc’s secret hideout with his secret folders. He had called one of them Terry as I was sneaking out the window.

  Doc continued, “I got my ass kicked in a cemetery too.”

  “Really?” Chef asked. “Tell me that story instead.”

  “Not much to tell,” Doc laughed.

  “John,” Chef said, “Yesterday, I couldn’t get you to stop telling me about taking a shit in the woods. Now, you tell me you got beat up in a cemetery and you think that story isn’t interesting. Come on, man, spill it! Lie to me and tell you won, if that helps.”

  Doc laughed. I just stood still.

  He said, “It was three guys that followed me in a pick-up truck. I had stopped to take a walk and clear my head. They pulled up to my car and were waiting for me when I got back. It was a pretty bad beating. They left me on the ground and drove away.”

  There was a long silence.

  Chef said, “Sorry, Doc, I didn’t realize it was that kind of story. Why were they after you?”

  There was another long silence. Doc ran his hands back through his white hair trying to smooth it down again.

  Doc said, “Small town justice … They thought I did something I didn’t do. Later, I was acquitted. The cops strongly suggested that I put it behind me and move on.”

  “That’s … Well, there’s no words for what that is,” Chef said. “I’m sorry, John.”

  “They’re all dead now,” Doc said. “I didn’t even have to kill them all myself. Even Terry and her B-sized titties are dead. It’s no good digging up bones like Shaw is doing out there. No good at all.”

  Doc was facing away from the lake and Short when he said it. Short just sat with his back to us. Stars were reflecting in the lake and it was almost too dark to see him. I was afraid.

  “We need to go get him,” Chef said.

  “No,” Doc said, “That’s no good. He’s going to have to come back up himself.”

  We waited and eventually he did.

  ***

  The next morning after breakfast, I walked down the dirt road and tried to locate Short’s sitting spot. I found several Browns, some Sharps, there were some Traskers, some Bakers, and even a Lynnard. Finally, I found the tombstone for Emily Porter. She left behind a husband and two children. It was a double marker with a space for Shawn Donald Porter, but the husband had no death date. At least he had no death date listed on the stone.

  I was relieved to see Short seemed to be who he said he was. I turned around and saw Doc staring at me from the porch, through the brush over the lake. I didn’t want to go back, but I slowly walked up the path back to the cabin. The entire way I was praying a zombie would come busting out of the brush to give us something else to focus on, but none did.

  Doc was still waiting when I reached the porch. I tried to walk past him.

  He asked, “You digging up bones, Mutt?”

  I shook my head and kept walking looking down at my feet. He grabbed my shoulder and stopped me before I could get to the door.

  He said, “Look at me, son.”

  I forced myself to look up at his gristly chin. I couldn’t hold his eyes. I just looked at his mouth and thought about duct tape chewed through and duct tape wrapped around heads.

  Doc said, “That’s Shaw Porter’s business out there and no one else’s. He didn’t really invite us into it and it’s not our place to snoop. Everyone has his own burden to carry. Unless we are asked, we don’t try to take it from him or open his sack to see what it is. Do you understand, Mutt?”

  I nodded my head. I wondered if he really knew how much I understood. Chef came out the door and Doc dropped his hand from my shoulder. At that moment, I wanted the man that was connected to the house surrounded by police cars to leave in the night and never come back.

  Chef said, “If anyone needs to drop a possum before we go, do it now. I used the downstairs toilet already and it doesn’t flush, so you may want to go somewhere else.”

  Short Order followed him out, “Chef, don’t let Doc rub off on you. You are too good for that.”

  “It was nice to sit for a while and pretend the world was normal,” Chef answered. “I’m making this a thing.”

  As they walked away leaving me alone with Doc again, Short Order called back, “Dear God, Doc, we are going to need more of those queer, purple ponies you found.”

  Doc laughed at them and nodded at me. He stepped off the porch walking away without looking back. I imagined myself driving the hunting knife into the back of his skull just above the knob and wondered who the real monsters were.

  I would find out soon.

  We left circling back out around the boarded up church the other way. We continued on past the painted sign, Dead Inside. Stay Away!

  Chapter 5: The Day We Buried the Pasta

  We stayed in a cabinetry store the night after the church and cemetery. It had all the showcases for fancy home kitchens. They were just empty shells and none of them were as nice as the one we left back on the fourth floor of building three.

  We dug into our supplies and Chef decided to have “The Perfect Cup of Tea” challenge. Chef and Short argued back and forth about whether hot tea or sweet, iced tea was better. Doc got tired of it and went outside to sleep in the truck that night. That was fine with me as long as Chef had the keys.

  I started to wonder what we would do, if something happened to Chef and he had the keys. We were going to find out eventually.

  Since there was no refrigeration, Chef won out on the hot tea argument. He also made a better cup of tea than Short Order.

  Short Order went out and stood by the truck smoking while he talked to Doc. Chef sharpened his razor and shaved in long, slow strokes. Short snuffed out the cigarette and came back in about the time Chef was finished, but Doc stayed in the truck. I slept well that night.

  The next day we reached the outer edge of another town. Chef started having Short pass him the atlas. Chef was anxious and Short kept asking what was wrong. We kept skirting around roadblocks and circling around packs of walkers. We passed our normal lunch break time as he compared the surviving street signs to the maps and we pressed deeper into the town. Doc kept asking him for what he was looking specifically.

  Chef said, “I’ll know when I find it.”

  “Will we all survive it when you find it?” Doc mumbled.

  Chef bark
ed, “Take it easy, John. Everything is fine; we’ll all be fine.”

  The truth was we were going to bury David Sharp’s eaten body and exploded skull before dinner that night. We wouldn’t be the same after that. Nothing would be the same.

  Chef saw what he was looking for finally as we rolled by a row of townhouses. He was looking at a collapsed balcony from a second floor sliding door and windows with the curtains drawn. The front doors to most of the units were broken in as were the ground floor windows.

  “I need to go in,” Chef said.

  “They’re right behind us,” Doc said.

  As we rolled slowly by, there was a trail of at least a dozen zombies within feet of the truck on the road with us. Several more were following us at a distance.

  “Doc’s right, Chef, you’ll not make it in and out. We need a better plan,” Short Order said.

  He pressed the gas and we sped on along the row of dwellings. I felt relief that we were moving on until he stopped at the end of the row.

  “Mutt, pass me a rifle quickly, please,” Chef said as he unstrapped his harness.

  Doc put his hand on my arm to stop me as I swiveled my jump seat, but I pushed his hand away and reached in the storage section behind me. Doc didn’t seem fazed by my action as he spoke to Chef.

  Doc said, “David, whoever you are looking for isn’t there. Let’s go somewhere safer and talk this through.”

  “We can make a better plan and come back,” Short added.

  I handed the rifle and a pouch of ammo that went with it up to Chef. He put the strap of the weapon over his shoulder as he spoke.

  He said, “Shaw, take the wheel. I’m going around through the back. Circle around and I’ll come back out the same way.”

  Short said, “They’ll follow us around; you won’t make it, Chef.”

  Doc said, “How long will this take, David? If you’re doing this, give us an exact number now.”

  Chef paused then said, “Two minutes?”

  The zombies were getting close again.

  Doc said, “You got 90 seconds. We’ll circle around the other way. At exactly 90, we pull up and you come out. No excuses and no extra time, David.”

  “Okay,” Chef agreed, “90 and out.”

  “You’re down to 88 seconds,” Doc said.

  Chef jumped out and Short climbed into his seat.

  Doc shouted, “Close the door and drive, Shaw. What the hell?”

  I agreed with Doc whole-heartedly in that moment. We pulled around to the right as Chef walked along the side of the brick wall through the weeds and around the water meters and air conditioning units. We squealed tires as we took a long curve by a swimming pool covered in lily pads. I looked back again and Chef was gone.

  “We’re driving right into them,” Short Order complained as we swerved from side to side.

  They bounced off the sides. The doors popped and the grilling thrummed as they hit and clawed. Their arms thumped as they grabbed at the hood before being thudded away by the sturdy crash bars.

  “Are you trying to hit them all, Short?” Doc asked as he fished out another rifle from the back and checked the chamber.

  The truck bounded as we ran over a couple that were pulled down under the wheels. Doc stumbled and nearly fell on me. He made my seat swivel as he tried to gain his balance. He leaned back on his seat again without putting on his harness as he checked the chamber of the rifle again. The truck became sluggish and pulled to the passenger side as we forced our way through the thick of them.

  Short asked, “Anyone counting seconds by chance?”

  Doc said, “We’re at 54 seconds.”

  “54 gone or left?” Short asked.

  Doc answered, “50 seconds left.”

  Short groaned turning back toward the townhouses and sped toward the road that led behind them. The truck hummed as we ran along an open section between zombies.

  “It’s too soon,” Doc said.

  Short drove behind the buildings anyway. “There’s something wrong with the truck. I’m having trouble steering.”

  “It’s too soon,” Doc hissed looking back behind us at the zombies following us around the corner of the buildings.

  Short slowed as the tires sounded like they were winding down against the pavement.

  He asked, “You guys know which one he was headed for?”

  Chef came running out of a broken window about four doors up. Short opened the driver’s door and moved over to the passenger’s seat.

  Doc yelled, “What the hell are you doing?”

  Chef aimed his gun at us as he ran. A bloated creature with greasy hair hanging over the torn shoulders of its jacket reached in the open door for Short. He kicked at it connecting with its face, but it kept coming. Chef didn’t have a shot, but kept running anyway.

  Doc got up and circled around the inside of the cab. He pressed rifle barrel against the monster’s head, but the skin broke loose and its scalp tore off the skull. The creature fell over the driver’s seat. It rose back up growling and clawing at the air with a new bald patch that went down to the skull bone. A strand of its remaining hair had swung into its mouth. The zombie was licking and biting at it.

  Chef reached in the driver’s door and grabbed the jacket. He pulled but the nylon ripped away in a sheet sending moldy stuffing flying into the cab. I spit and waved it away from my eyes.

  Doc shoved the gun barrel through the zombie’s hair into its mouth. The creature gurgled and hacked on the metal. Its teeth clinked as it bit down over and over, but it continued to reach out for Doc’s arms.

  “Watch its hands,” Chef called.

  “Stand clear, David,” Doc yelled.

  Chef backed out of the doorway and raised his own rifle behind the door.

  Doc yelled, “I got it.”

  Chef fired anyway. He sent two shots into two more zombies that had walked up along the side of the truck. They pitched back in the air next to my window and I saw them collapse out of sight.

  Doc pushed the zombie back outside the truck with the end of his gun against the back of its throat.

  “Duck behind the door, David,” Doc called, “Splatter!”

  Chef ducked behind the grill and window as the creature shuttered when a shot exploded out the back of its neck. Diseased tissue sprayed on the plastic in front of Chef. More were coming up along the sides of the truck and the zombie was still clawing around the sides of Doc’s rifle. Smoke was rising up behind its head and out of its nostrils.

  Chef grabbed its shoulders and pulled it off of Doc’s barrel. The creature moaned as it was thrown back on the pavement. Chef pushed Doc’s rifle away from his face and jumped into the truck. He slammed the door and locked it just ahead of more clawing hands.

  We jumped as the truck lurched forward.

  Chef set a small black bag on the floor between the seats next to a torn piece of scalp with dirty hair spread out like a filthy carpet. Blackened gore dripped down the driver’s side window next to him.

  I looked back and saw our balding visitor stand back up among the other dead pursuing us. Its mouth hung open and I could see the scorch marks on its tongue by the light shining through the hole in the back of its neck.

  “What took you guys so long?” Chef asked.

  The truck jerked from side to side as we sped up. Chef slowed down and drove more carefully as the wheels hummed throughout the inside of the cab.

  “What’s wrong with the truck, Chef?” Short Order asked.

  Chef answered as we turned by the lily pads in the pool and headed slowly out of the neighborhood.

  He said, “We have a flat on the front passenger side tire.”

  “I’m sorry, Chef,” Short said. “I had to drive over a couple of them.”

  “It’s not your fault,” Chef and Doc said in unison.

  Doc added, “You weren’t the one that had us risk our lives so you could go get a camera bag.”

  I looked down at the little, black bag and the scalp on th
e floor and then back up at Doc.

  Short Order said, “Hey, how about we figure out how we are going to fix it instead of arguing over stuff that’s-”

  Doc interrupted. “We need a place off the road and close by where we can work for a while without getting seen. I assume you are from here, David. Do you know a place close enough that we won’t shred the tire before we get there?”

  Chef took us slowly up the road.

  ***

  We pulled along a side road that led back between tall, thin pines. A few had fallen across the road in one of the previous storms or winters. Chef swung us off the road into the tall grass to get around them.

  Doc said, “Be careful, Chef. We don’t have the same traction with the flat.”

  “Understood,” Chef answered.

  We did the same thing around the posts and swing bars of a padlocked gate that only covered the paved road. We drove slowly by the sagging roof of a dugout and a ball field that was thick with thorn bushes inside the fences. We drove past a sign that said Bus Lane: Car riders stay right. We stayed right and drove around the back of the building. The area was thick with debris. Trees and plants grew out and through open windows and under holes in the flat roof. All the classroom doors opened to the outside along the sidewalks. Cars were parked on the sidewalks and speared down into the ditches off the parking lot. We drove around a sign marked Reserved for teacher of the year.

  We pulled up into the field behind the building and into a clear spot in the grasses that still had gravel scattered around before we came to a stop.

  Short started to get out. Chef grabbed his wrist.

  He said, “Wait, Short, this place was overrun last time I was here.”

  We all waited and stared at the building. Nothing moved. Doc set the rifle down and pulled his aluminum pole from the back.

  Doc said, “I think we’re okay. Take silent weapons. We need to stand guard. Once the wheel is off, we are stuck for a while. David can clean the filth out of here from that stiff we had to shoot rescuing this little camera.”

  “I’ll clean the truck,” Short said. “I opened the door too early.”