by T. W. Brown
“Fuck!” Phil and Ritchie breathed almost in unison.
They arrived to see two equally terrifying events happen at practically the same time. Melissa lunged forward, catching Gerry’s hand in her mouth, biting off three fingers, and the man in the door jerked forward suddenly, ripping away from his own insides that now hung from the door and lay in a pile on the rubber mat that people had wiped their feet on when entering. The smell in the air was so bad that neither man who stood right behind Gerry ever knew the other had soiled his pants.
Nobody heard the screams. The begging. The crying. Phil had the worst of the three. When he and Ritchie had turned to run, he stumbled over a flat bench and hit his head hard enough to lose consciousness. He awoke to four zombies feasting on him. He died screaming as he watched his own insides being pulled from his body.
***
Somewhere in the Central Interior of Australia—The Old Man sat cross-legged, facing the slowly setting sun. The cataracts over both eyes had stolen his vision more than forty years ago. Not that The Old Man knew how long an actual calendar year was.
Many that came to see The Old Man guessed him to be comfortably over a hundred. They came with questions. As had their parents. As had their grandparents. The Old Man would listen to the question. Then, he would draw in the dirt with a stick. He always continued to ‘look’ straight ahead. And as he drew, he would smile. His smile was little more than a dark crease in his weathered, wrinkled, treebark-textured skin. People would look at the picture, and somehow it would answer their question or give a solution to a dilemma.
The Old Man never asked for money. People simply gave food. Sometimes, tribal groups would come and repair The Old Man’s hut and stock him with supplies. Once, long ago, a commune showed up in a bunch of beat-up vans and set up around The Old Man. They planted gardens and installed a water pump. They never asked any questions, they only wanted to be near his aura. One day, they just left.
The Old Man never spoke. He drew. Sometimes he hummed songs that nobody knew. His face never changed expression except to smile when he drew.
That was until two days ago.
The images that came so easily and often suddenly stopped. Now, there was only one overwhelming image. The sun, with a jagged, black tumor visible in its center, facing a bloody moon with a bite out of it. The feeling he got from this vision was cold.
Death.
The Old Man realized that in his vision he was in the heavens between the sun and moon. When he looked down, he knew he would see Earth, but he could not look down. The Old Man was afraid. He knew what he would see.
Death.
Slowly, The Old Man rose to his feet. He gathered a stick for walking, a leather bag for water, and a pouch of dried berries. He had to leave. He must go deeper into the nothingness of the desolate country where man did not tread.
Mankind was dying. He had to get as far away from Mankind as possible. His time was running out, and none of the machines or big buildings could help now. Earth, Gaia, Nature, whatever you call it, it was resetting itself.
The Old Man suddenly saw visions in his mind coming so fast that they all bled together. The planet had been scarred and ravaged by Mankind, who was brushing everything away. Wars raged and Mankind sought to dominate itself. Mankind could not realize that it could no more dominate itself than one toe on one foot can control the other toes.
The Old Man smiled at his realization. The planet would use the only thing Mankind understood to bring it down.
Death.
***
Eastern Ridge Prison, Idaho—Dillon Clay lay on his bunk. The light from the three-inch-wide by two-foot-long horizontal window bathed his ten-by-eight cell with cool, soft, bluish light. The intercom had called “Lockdown!” about an hour ago. Still, no CO had come by to count him. Dillon didn’t like things he did not understand. There was always a count at lockdown.
Something must really be popping off in one of the blocks. The rest of Tier A seemed just as anxious. There was a lot of yelling going on up and down the block. That was also out of the ordinary. Usually the CO on the tier would come down on people for making a racket during lockdown.
Yep, something was not right.
“Clay!” a voice hissed.
It was the kid across the hall, Ian Lotherman. He had moved in about five months ago. Real sad story. Nothing any real man couldn’t understand. The kid had come home early one night to find his new wife of just three months with her mouth full of another man’s pole. Now they were both dead, and Ian was doing Life Without.
“What?”
“How come we haven’t been counted?” Ian asked.
“Prob’ly had some block go off the hook.”
That seemed to satisfy the kid, because he was quiet again. Dillon, however, was not convinced by his own words. He’d seen some real crazy shit in his twenty-three years down. The COs were just as particular about routine as he was. Anytime there was a lockdown, there was a headcount. That was just the way things were.
Lights.
The sudden illumination caused an uproar. Men up and down the tier cursed. Sounds of boots rushing down the concrete floored tier came even as the main door was still opening with its mechanical whine. Another sound carried on the wind.
Gunfire.
Several of the prison’s correctional officers rushed by wearing full riot gear. None of them even glanced in Dillon’s cell as they passed. The two bringing up the rear had pistol-grip shotguns and were pointing back the way they had come.
Now guys were really yelling. At the head of the tier, where the door leading out to the common room had locked open with a loud metallic clang, there was a sudden change in the timbre of the voices. It was no longer the gruff harassing sound of boisterous convicts.
Terror.
Fear.
Absolute horror.
“What the hell is going on, Clay?” There was definite fear in Ian’s voice. The kid had his tall lean frame pressed against his cell door. His eyes were wide, and his hands held on in a white-knuckled grip on the round bars.
“Get away from your door, kid.”
“Something is happening up the tier.” His face was turned now as he strained to look up the long, five-foot wide concrete tunnel.
“Get away from the door!”
Dillon Clay knew the smell of death. On the streets he had stumbled across the occasional wino that had spent a few days rotting unnoticed in an alley or under a bridge. He’d killed a few rival dealers. Once or twice, one of his girls would turn up dead in a motel room where some John had gotten rough, or decided not to pay. Yes, Dillon Clay was familiar with the smell of death.
Death was on the tier. Something was wrong though. This smell had something more. Whatever it was had grown, street-hardened convicts screaming. Begging. One scream was coming through above all the others. It was a scream of unbridled pain.
Boom!
The explosion of a shotgun echoed up and down the tier. The acrid smoke filled Dillon’s nostrils, but it did not hide that stench of death.
Twice more shotguns blasted, drowning the screams. Drowning the sound of the door at the rear of Tier A opening, but not the vibration. The rear door only opened in case of emergency. Or, since there had never actually been one, more correctly, during a fire drill.
“Get away from the door, Ian.”
Dillon’s voiced had not changed. It had not raised or lowered. Yet, Ian heard the message clearly. He let go of the bars as if they had suddenly been charged with electricity. He stepped back, stumbling slightly as his legs contacted the stainless steel toilet and sink unit that jutted out of one wall.
The smell grew stronger. Men were gagging, retching, and spewing the contents from their stomachs. A silence far more deafening than the screams or shotgun blasts was washing down the tier like a tsunami.
A body came into view in front of Dillon’s cell. It was a CO, but he wasn’t in riot gear. He was wearing what was left of the standard uniform:
gray button-up shirt, black khaki pants, and dull unpolished boots. Blood was everywhere, turning the gray to black in places. The head was tilted at an awkward angle, exposing a long, jagged rip down the left side of the neck.
“What the …?” Ian gasped.
With a jerk of its head, the creature on the tier turned towards the sound. Thick blood oozed from the rip and trickled along the collar of its shirt. A pregnant drop hung for a second before falling with a splat on the buffer-polished concrete. It lunged forward, colliding hard with the bars. Two more figures stepped into view and followed the first. Dillon couldn’t see their faces to attempt and identify just exactly who these things once were, but he had a sick feeling he knew what they were.
“Stay in the back of your cell!” Dillon yelled.
“What the hell is going on?”
Dillon could hear the edge of hysteria in the young man’s voice. Like a contagion, that hysteria seemed to suddenly spread through the tier. Screams for somebody to open the doors or to simply ‘Help!’ began in earnest.
Grabbing a shirt from his open locker, Dillon had a plan. He yelled, gaining the attention of what he knew had to be a zombie. Sure enough, it came to his bars, hands outstretched. Both its arms reached into his cell. The zombie’s face pressed against the bars, teeth gnashing.
Pulling his belt out of the jeans he was wearing, Dillon took stock of just how this thing moved as he fashioned a noose. Like a snake he struck, catching both arms at the wrist with the belt and cinching tight. Pulling down, he brought the arms across one of the crossbars with a loud crack. Both arms bent unnaturally at the elbows as he quickly came down with all his weight to sit on the floor. He secured the belt to a lower bar and then grabbed the tee-shirt. This part would be a bit tricky.
Stepping up to the door, fighting down the bile in the back of his throat, Dillon took a wrap around one hand with the tee-shirt and swung the dangling portion of the shirt, catching it as it dropped behind the head of what he now recognized as CO Johnson. Again he yanked with both arms, falling back and bringing the shirt through the bars. It was secure against the back of the neck of the abomination. Quickly, he tied the loose ends of the shirt together, securing the head against the bars.
Dillon stepped back to admire his work. The thing was helpless for the most part. It was struggling, trying to pull away while its mouth snapped fiercely. A low, moaning snarl came from the zombie that had once been CO Johnson.
Picking up his combo lock, Dillon dropped it in a sock and wound up. He swung, bringing his makeshift bludgeon down on the head of the creature. Again and again he swung, sometimes deflecting off the bars, but eventually, he accomplished his goal, breaking open the skull of this thing.
He looked across the tier. At some point, Ian had figured out what Dillon had done. A second beast was splayed against the kid’s cell door bars, hanging limply.
The third zombie had wandered off. With both doors to the tier open, distant sounds of gunfire and screaming could be heard.
Dillon hit the button on his sink and began to wash up. In his mind, he was taking an inventory of the food in his locker. He had gone to canteen the morning before and bought a hundred rack. He wondered if things would get as bad as they always did in the movies.
3
The Geeks Shall Inherit…
Norfolk, VA—Darrin’s fingers flew over his keyboard. He glanced up at his monitor screen, scanning the responses to his last statement:
DRKMISTIC: I don’t care what media sez…this is zombies!
DMNINJA: 1 was outside. me n koko got it. knock over…bash it w/ sledge. crushed chest. IT GOT UP!!! crushed hed…
WARRIOR1197: kilt it?
DMNINJA: yep!!
DRKMISTIC: we need to meet. away from pop. nebody got guns?
The chat room fell silent. It would figure, Darrin thought, I am the only one with a gun. Not that it was much, just a .22 that he bought a few years back when he moved into his own apartment. Other than two times at a local range, it had never been used. Truth be told, he still had the original box of bullets he purchased the day he picked up his gun…minus thirty rounds. That meant he had seventy bullets.
After almost an hour of bickering, the four, Darrin ‘DRKMISTIC’ Goldburn, Mike ‘DMNINJA’ Rathers, Kevin ‘WARRIOR1197’ Dreon, and Cary ‘KOKO’ Kolchek, agreed on where to meet. They unanimously rejected downtown Norfolk, and instead chose Trashmore Park. It was central to all of them, and more importantly, wide open so they could spot trouble at a distance.
Each agreed to load their cars with whatever supplies they felt necessary. Mike and Cary would be coming in Mike’s El Camino since Cary didn’t own a car. They would meet in two hours.
Looking out his window, Darrin couldn’t see anything moving. He had a clear view of the long parking lot. Still, he would have everything by the front door before he started loading up his trusty, but beat up, Geo Metro.
The normal late night quiet was buzzing with the occasional siren. More ominous were the gunshots. While this was by no means an affluent neighborhood, it was no inner-city gangland. Deep down, Darrin knew that things were bad, and it would only get worse.
Still, he had questions. Eventually, these things—the zombies, or ghouls, or whatever you wanted to call them—would run out of food. It was simple mathematics. Unless they ate each other. That didn’t seem likely. Otherwise, they would already be turning on each other and not walking in these groups that were being reported in the more populated areas.
Grabbing the most important bags, Darrin stuffed the pistol in his waistband and peered out the peephole to ensure his hallway was clear. He quickly unlocked his deadbolt and opened the door. Down the stairs two-at-a-time and out to the parking lot he ran. So far, all was clear. Figuring that zombies would have little use for his things, he dropped both duffels by the hatchback and sprinted back to his apartment.
It took six trips. After the last one, he ran back to make one more walk-through of his place. His last stop was the breaker box. One by one, he shut everything off. Things were gonna get pretty crazy. All public service would likely be gone soon if it wasn’t already. It was only a little thing, but Darrin wanted to do all he could to cut down on the coming chaos. Just maybe his place would not catch fire due to some random event. His last act was to leave the door unlocked. There wasn’t much to steal. He had all he deemed valuable. In the movies, somebody was always running…seeking a place to hide. Just maybe they would find his door and be safe for a minute. Just a minute.
Again he ran down the stairs to his car. The coast remained clear. He unlocked every door and the hatch. Sliding the key in the ignition, just in case, but not starting the engine, no sense making unnecessary noise, he began loading up.
As the last box of food was fit into place, he heard a distant scream followed by gunshots. He considered seeking out the source, but decided that there would be lots of bad things happening in the next few days…weeks…forevers…and he couldn’t stop them all. The best thing would be to just go and meet up with his friends.
Safety in numbers.
A few moments later, he was on the freeway. While the roads were still mostly empty, there was definitely more traffic than normal for this hour. Every passing police car had lights flashing and seemed to be in a big hurry to get someplace.
Darrin considered things as he saw them. A completely unprepared for, only-in-the-movies scenario was unfolding. Most of the initial responders to the crisis would be police, fire, andmaybe military. They would die in large numbers, at least early on. This would eliminate most of the authority figures. So what would be left?
His exit came, and eventually he found himself pulling into the Trashmore Park parking lot. He was the first to arrive. A slow drive-through revealed that, by appearances at least, there was no immediate danger. Nothing shambling about looking to take a bite out of him.
***
Kevin slowed as the neon lights of the pawn shop came into view. He knew for certain t
hat the guys would be waiting, but he also knew that things were about to get crazy. He’d be damned if he was going to wait for absolute chaos to set in. Somebody was going to have to break the first egg. Or, in this case, window. Pawn shops had guns. He had considered going to an actual gun shop. But, most likely, there would be pretty intricate security. In a couple days, when all hell had broken loose, they could hit one of those places. Tonight would be like practice. How fast could he get in and out?
He pulled into the empty parking lot. The place was dark inside; a good sign. He parked in front of the large, plate-glass window.
King’s Pawn.
Clever.
Grabbing the brick that sat on the passenger’s seat, Kevin took one more look around. All was still clear. Leaving the engine running, he walked up and cupped his hand to the window to take a look in. The cash register was to the left. Directly behind it was his prize.
A sword collection.
Two crossbows.
Four rifles.
One shotgun.
Pistols would probably be under glass in the display counter by the register. Taking a few steps back, Kevin hurled the brick as hard as he could.
There was a crash, followed by a loud, ringing alarm bell. Lights flashed inside like strobes. He climbed through the jagged hole and dashed for his prize. Or, as was the case…prizes.
In three trips, he had the swords, crossbows, rifles, and shotgun. On the fourth time in, he grabbed a baseball bat from a stand and attacked the glass counter. As he had suspected, the handguns were right there. His plan worked flawlessly with one exception: no bullets.
