The Ugly Beginning - 01

by T. W. Brown

  “We need to move. Those things are coming in, and who knows how many are outside in the lot.” Dillon began up the—at least for the moment—empty aisle. “Shift to your .45. Once we reach the front and the register area, noise ain’t gonna matter much.”

  Ian slid his machete into the leather sheath and drew his pistol. He grabbed the cart he had filled and pushed over one aisle. Two coming down. The next aisle was empty and gave a good view of the broken window. A few of the things were jostling each other as they tried to climb through the jagged hole, oblivious to the multiple cuts and gashes they took in the process.

  As he reached the end of the aisle, Ian slowed and let go of the cart. It rolled on its own as he moved to the right and pressed against the shelves. Nothing accosted the cart as it cleared the end of the aisle and rolled out into the open area near the row of checkout stands. The grunt and distinct sound of steel embedding in a skull meant Dillon had company.

  “You okay?” Ian hissed, keeping his voice low to attract as little attention as he could.

  “Just one,” came the reply. If nothing else, they’d gotten proficient at minimal conversation.

  Together, they pushed their carts toward the exit. A pair of zombies were struggling through the broken window. Ian paused, raised his gun, and fired. The bullet entered the forehead clean and blew out the back in a spray of greyish-black matter. The body did just what he hoped; it slumped down in the window frame. He sighted on the other and fired again. The shot was low, blowing a hole in the throat. The creature bobbled just a bit and then resumed its attempt to climb through. As it man-aged to force one leg in, with one still outside, Ian fired again. This time he nailed the thing in the temple. The head rocked sideways, and the body fell over the already slumped form next to it.

  He watched a handful of others trying desperately, but with so little coordination, failing to climb over the impromptu barrier. The few stragglers that had already made it in were heading for Dillon who was shoving the caravan of empty carts, which had been their makeshift barrier, away from the door. Pushing through the doors and into the parking lot, Dillon shifted to a shotgun and began blasting at the closest threats between the door and the still idling pick-up truck they had liberated in the prison employee parking lot.

  Ian remembered the feeling of running outside of the prison that day. He, Dillon, and a handful of other inmates on the block had burst out like a bunch of kids on the last day of school. They stood in a small cluster in front of the entrance and stared at each other for a moment. Then, with nods of silent agreement, they walked away. Some just headed down the two-lane road on foot. Others, like he and Dillon, found a way to the parking lot and commandeered their own vehicle. Dillon wanted a metallic-blue sports car, but Ian preached the sensibility of a pick-up.

  More and more of the damned zombies, or whatever the media had taken to calling them, were shambling across the parking lot in their general direction. The biggest thing Ian noticed about the zombies was that they mostly walked about aimlessly until they heard noise. Then, it was like a dinner bell bringing them in singles and clusters to a focus. He never waited long enough to see if, or how, they dispersed.

  In no time, they were in the truck and heading back to the freeway. The decision had finally been reached to head to the Pacific. By skirting larger towns and cities like Portland, they could slip into smaller ones for supplies as the need struck. Now that martial law was not an issue (mainly due to no personnel left to enforce it) they could travel much easier.

  Ian tore open a pouch of beef jerky and pulled out a nice- sized piece. He offered some to Dillon who grunted his thanks as he grabbed a strip and stuffed it into his mouth.

  Yes indeed, this was much finer than rotting life away in a cell. Ian leaned back and closed his eyes.

  ***

  MILEMARKER 152, I-84, OR—Anton Maxwell swung the aluminum bat with all his might. The satisfying crunch of a shattered skull rewarded his effort. The gore-crusted thing that looked to have once been a young Hispanic girl fell to the pavement. A few more swings for good measure, and Anton stepped back while turning in a slow circle to ensure nothing else was creeping up.

  A blackbird sat on the grill of an overturned semi. The trailer looked undamaged and still upright, but the open cargo doors made it unlikely that anything of value remained. The bird was eyeing him with its beak open. It looked as if the stupid thing was as hot and miserable as he was.

  He gave another quick look around before returning his attention under the hood of his broke-down, overheated, piece-of-junk car. Steam rolled out of what seemed to be every part of the engine with a hose connected to it.

  Oh well, finding another car shouldn’t be too terribly difficult. The muted slaps from a couple of nearby vehicles were actually a good sign. As long as a vehicle still had some gas, he could dispatch with the occupant or occupants.

  Climbing up on the trunk of his former ride—a Seventies model Buick Skylark—he spotted a couple of distant zombies milling about. None seemed locked onto him as of yet. He took visual inventory of his vehicle choices: a PT Cruiser...occupied; a newer looking Honda Accord...occupied; a mid-Nineties Ford Taurus wagon...empty; and a Jeep...empty.

  The Jeep looked nice, but offered no real protection. The wagon looked the most inviting simply based on not having any occupants inside waiting to try and take a bite out of him. Still, it was best to be cautious. Anton unfastened the clasp on the holster for the Glock he had been carrying for the past couple weeks. He would only use the weapon as a last resort. Its noise factor almost made it almost not worth the ease in which he could dispatch a zombie. To compound his need for firepower frugality, he had one spare magazine with ten rounds, and three left in the weapon.

  Confident that the Glock was ready if needed, he adjusted his grip on the bat and moved toward the Taurus. The scorching heat caused the air to shimmer above the smooth asphalt. The now common stench of the undead rode those waves of heat and only seemed to amplify in strength.

  A few steps from the car, he paused. That smell seemed to be rolling out of the open driver’s side window of the burgundy wagon. Rising up on his tiptoes, Anton could still not see any sign of movement from within. Keeping a lookout for anything that could be moving his way, he took a few more cautious steps closer to his intended prize.

  He reached the vehicle and moved to the closed windows of the driver’s side backseat. If anything popped out of the open window, he’d be in a position to smash it from a relatively safe spot.

  Nothing.

  Expecting something terrible was the norm these days, Anton mused. Whatever had been inside must’ve climbed out the open window and wandered off. He took a moment to relax just a bit and lean against the rear quarter panel. His hand went instinctively to his breast pocket. Damn. He’d been out of smokes for two days now.

  Finally, he could take a better look at his surroundings, not that there was much to see in the open, arid, desert-like plains of Eastern Oregon. This must’ve been some wreck. From the looks, the big-rig had jackknifed, taking out a couple of cars. It likely happened after this whole nightmare began, so no emergency personnel responded. The interstate was effectively blocked heading west. To make things a bit worse, the accident was just over a small bluff. That was the reason that he was in his current situation.

  Blazing along on the apparently empty stretch of road, Anton had been cruising at almost ninety. Cresting the ridge, the wreck appeared with the surprise of a jack-in-the-box. He slammed on the brakes, fishtailing to a stop, but not before he had clipped the bumper of the PT Cruiser, mowed down the road marker, and one zombie. The car, already laboring in the heat, had died. Unlike the current trend, it wasn’t coming back.

  Well, no use hanging out in this patch of desolation any longer. He secured the holster of the Glock, trotted over to his former ride—the Skylark—grabbed his backpack, and hustled back to his new ride. With no apparent damage, his only concern was likely to be fuel. He would pul
l up to the Buick and siphon out all he could before resuming his journey. He still wasn’t sure just exactly where he would go. Hopefully he could locate some more living souls. Surely he wasn’t the only one.

  Anton opened the door to the Taurus. The stench of death rolled out…as did the source. A child, no more than six or seven months old, an infant really, squirmed at his feet. Black blood crusted the tiny, grey abomination. There was a jagged meaty hole where the abdomen had once been.

  Unable to control himself, Anton fell to the searing hot blacktop and retched. The tiny thing continued to writhe in the tattered remnants of a swaddling blanket just inches away while his stomach emptied itself.

  Once he recovered to the point of being able to stand up, he did his usual look about in all directions to ensure nothing was closing in. The larva-like bundle on the scorching blacktop continued to writhe and squirm. Motion out of the corner of his eye caused Anton to jump. It was the crow. It had moved closer and seemed intent on the horrific thing making no progress towards his booted foot. Not that it was likely able to cause much injury.

  Given the choice, Anton would just as soon climb in that car and drive away leaving the scene behind to hopefully melt into all of the other terrible memories of the past several days. Still, something inside him would not allow him to leave that...thing...behind. He had to put it away like he had so many other pathetic shells of humanity.

  Still watching in all directions, he jogged over to the Buick and grabbed a shovel from the trunk. Finding a spot just off the emergency lane, he dug a shallow hole. No need for the standard six. Once he was down a couple of feet, he returned for the hard part. The crow had taken a perch on top of the Taurus, growing ever bolder. It regarded Anton with its mouth still open, looking indignant as it watched him grab a corner of the blanket and drag the bundle to its grave.

  With one booted foot, he nudged the still squirming thing into the hole. Taking a deep breath, he lined the blade of the shovel up with its forehead. Raising his arms, he paused just a moment, “God, if you’re still out there, accept this soul…” he brought the shovel down with all his might, “…and forgive me.”

  The skull broke open like a cantaloupe. Not bothering to look more than what it took to ensure it had stopped moving, Anton filled the grave as tears trickled down his sweaty, grimy, sunburned face.

  Feeling somewhat numb inside, he grabbed another bag from the front seat of the Buick and trudged back to his new car. He sure hoped it would start. Sliding into the stifling hot vehicle, Anton noticed that, other than the stench and blood, the interior was in excellent condition. He turned the key after a whispered prayer.

  The engine turned over smoothly. His eyes glanced at the gas gauge. A full tank! He gave the accelerator a little tap. The engine was almost silent. This was a nice change. Well, sitting here admiring his good fortune was a good way to get killed. It was time to move. He eased over to his former ride and hurriedly transferred his meager supplies.

  Anton took a final look around as he placed his one and only case of bottled water into the backseat. A couple of stragglers were indeed closing in. One was stumbling along the middle of the road, arms outstretched and mouth open. That one was a few hundred yards away. The other was trying unsuccessfully to navigate down the slope on the opposite side of the highway.

  He closed the rear door and went to climb in. Half in and half out of the car, he froze. In the shimmering air at the top of the rise he had crested just prior to his wreck sat a pick-up truck. Two men stared back at him through the windshield. The passenger, an older black man, held a shotgun, thankfully pointed up. The driver, a twentyish white man, had a pistol.

  Anton watched the scene unfold in slow motion. The younger, white occupant of the truck leaned out the window, aimed right at him…and fired.

  The gunshot echoed across the open desert plains.

  6

  One Less Geek to Feed

  “I still say that was the stupidest idea in the history of bad ideas,” Cary said as he knelt down beside the U-Haul and looked underneath for anything that might be stuck or wedged in any part of the undercarriage. It was like sticking your face near the opening of a rancid sewer.

  “Oh, my God!” Kevin sighed over dramatically. “Are you ever going to let it go?”

  Cary glanced over his shoulder to where Mike leaned against the El Camino sipping on a lukewarm soda. He smiled just enough to twitch the corners of his mouth. Darrin saw the look and began pretending to check the spare magazine for the Colt .45 he carried on a hip holster.

  “The undead are growing at an exponential rate. And where does our survival specialist want to go?” Cary paused for dramatic effect. “Fucking Pittsburgh!”

  “I simply suggested that this would be the ultimate way to pay respects to the man who saw the future.”

  “Okay.” Cary held up his hand like he was signaling traffic to stop. “First, it was a horror movie.”

  “Best one ever!” Mike chimed as he resumed scraping chunks of rotten flesh from the grill of the El Camino with a long-handled brush.

  “A given,” Cary nodded, and returned his focus to Kevin. “You’re supposed to lead us to our mountain retreat in Montana.”

  “South Dakota,” Kevin corrected.

  “Whatever. And you lead us to a heavily populated city that is teeming with zombies. Why? So you can shoot one for Romero?”

  “I didn’t realize the city would be that far gone. Besides, everything turned out fine!”

  “Um,” Cary glanced around, “we got mobbed.”

  “But we made it out alive. No harm. No foul.”

  “Stupidest idea ever. Show of hands?” Mike and Darrin’s hands shot up to join Cary’s.

  “Screw alla ya!” Kevin sulked over to his gore-splattered Escort Wagon, climbed in, slammed the door, and stuffed the earbuds to his iPod in to drown the howls of laughter.

  “Company!” Darrin grabbed the .30-30 leaning against the open hatch of his Metro and brought the butt up to his shoulder. Cary already had the long-bladed machete in his hand and gave a nod.

  “Moving to the right,” Cary announced as he began to try to close the distance. Through experience, they had discovered that a moving target drew the zombies away from a stationary one. He would approach and take the zombie down with the non-noise producing machete while Darrin supplied backup just in case.

  “Covered,” Darrin announced, indicating he had the zombie’s forehead in the crosshairs of the rifle’s scope.

  “Nothing else in sight,” Mike said, scanning the vicinity for any other stragglers. Having left the small town of Studa, Pennsylvania behind a few miles ago, they had seen no living and very little zombie activity, but where there was one...

  Cary stopped advancing within a few yards. The zombie, a man in what might have been the mid-twenties—Cary imagined that it would become increasingly difficult to tell over time as the rot stole more and more of their appearance—came for him. Mouth open. Arms reaching.

  Cary had a moment to make a few observations as he cocked his arm back and prepared to strike. Like so many they were seeing in these parts, this one was naked. Its clothing had probably been ripped off during the attack that turned it or torn away as it rambled about this very rural terrain. He had died from a bite on the left arm.

  Poor bastard, Cary thought. This guy had probably taken a few days to turn. Sick. Most likely scared and alone. It helped him to justify the need to put these things down. It would be an end to its suffering.

  The zombie staggered forward, lunging at its prey. With finality, the machete came down, crashing through skull.

  “Rest,” Cary whispered as he pulled the heavy blade loose and wiped it in some nearby grass.

  Twenty minutes later, the caravan was back on the road. Kevin had not come out of his car the entire time. His car dropped into the rear as soon as they reached the Pennsylvania-West Virginia State line. He hadn’t responded to any hails on the radio.

  Head
ing south from Wellsburg, they followed the Ohio River. The plan was to try and make the dash through Wheeling and cross over into Ohio. From there, they would use I-70 as much as possible. Other than the Columbus area, they felt they could dodge large populations and still make the best time.

  ***

  WHEELING 11mi. The sign flashed by. Mike glanced down at the speedometer. One hundred. Nice. As the landscape whizzed past, he reflected on the insanity of the last several days. Martial law had only lasted for about a week. Unfortunately, most of those responsible for enforcing it died in that first seven days. In fact, besides military personnel, the fastest growing numbers on the initial casualty list had been police, fire, and medical persons.

  Most of the survivors were just everyday folks. They met a few singles and groups on the road. Some on a quest to find loved ones or family. Others were simply moving without a specific goal or direction. So far, no Savini-led motorcycle gangs or Road Warrior types. Mostly, they encountered shock and trauma. Kevin made it clear that they keep their plan a secret.

  “Time to back it down, Mike,” Darrin’s voice interrupted the peacefully hypnotic drone of his El Camino eating up the highway.

  “We should gas up before the city limits,” Cary’s voice added. “Clearview is just ahead.”

  “Okay,” Mike acknowledged. “Everybody ready for a gas and go?”

  “U-Haul’s under a quarter tank. That’s a big Roger,” Cary said.

  “Second in line,” Mike called.

  Silence.

  “Kevin?”

  “Yo, Kev, you up for this?” Darrin keyed his mike.

  “C’mon, Kevin. Quit being such a lame.”