The Ugly Beginning - 01

by T. W. Brown

  Grasping the rope, he easily hauled his massive frame up and over the wall. Before him, the once immaculate grounds of a house that looked like it belonged in Gone With the Wind appeared empty of any persons…living or dead. Still, he would be cautious. Garrett dropped to the gound and did his best to move in the shade and shadows of various buildings, statues, and trees. He made a mental note to come back outside and enjoy the inviting coolness of one of the two huge swimming pools that were only a little tinged with green.

  Finally, he reached the enormous house. The back door was wide open. With a glance around just to be sure he wasn’t being watched, Garrett habitually ducked his head and entered. He wandered through a kitchen large enough to service a hotel.

  From room to room Garrett roamed. He was convinced he would find nobody here…for now. A check out the front door revealed a huge porch that ran the length of the front of the home with a roof supported by marble pillars. A white gravel path led to a driveway that went on for what must be the length of a football field. It ended at a huge double-gated security entrance. He could see a sizeable cluster of those filthy creatures reaching futilely through the spaces between the black, wrought iron bars.

  He shut the back door and made his way up a magnificent staircase. He went from room to room, ensuring that there was in fact nobody here. Eventually, he discovered the room he knew had to be where the girl stayed. A large box sat in a corner. Wow, Garrett thought, she sure likes canned pears.

  Finding a place where he could sit, he leaned against the wall and slid down on his butt. A pile of dirty clothes were mounded beside him. He picked through, eventually discovering the prize he sought: a pair of panties. Bringing them to his face, he breathed deep.

  ***

  Juan allowed the bow of the boat to drift towards shore. It was almost sunrise, and just ahead was one of those riverside gas stations. While he knew the pumps would be useless, he’d gotten quite skilled at siphoning gas from tanks. Also, for some reason, lots of boats had spare gas cans already filled and ready for the taking.

  A few lone, straggling zombies lurched about. Nothing too complicated. The solitary dock that jutted out was entirely empty of the things. He’d be able to tie off without any immediate problems. A flaking, white-washed building sat atop some stairs overlooking the dock as well as the boat launch. A large, paved parking lot was mostly empty, but there were at least eight deaders scattered about. A couple had already noticed his approach, and with arms outstretched, began heading his way.

  Juan counted nine boats. Two grounded near the large, open, grassy park to his left. One tied to the dock he was now edging up against, one up on blocks in front of some sort of boat garage, and five on trailers in the parking lot.

  It seemed fairly obvious that a few people had made a run for the river. Unfortunately for them, they’d come up just a bit short of their goal. That would hopefully translate to good news for him.

  Picking up the crossbow he’d discovered in a van at the last place he’d hit for supplies, Juan brought it up to his shoulder like a gun and aimed for the closest zombie. He pulled the trigger. The click and thrum whispered just above the sounds of the river. His target, a middle-aged man in khaki shorts, staggered slightly and then toppled over sideways.

  “Tight,” Juan whispered. He was getting the hang of his new weapon. So far he’d only lost one of the ten bolts that had been in the case.

  Hopping onto the floating pier, Juan tied off the fore and aft lines and picked up his crossbow. Three of the deaders were trying with mixed results to make their way down the stairs that led to the docks. After considering the possibilities and deciding against risking the loss of another bolt if one of his targets stumbled over the rail and into the water, Juan hefted his bat and advanced. With relative ease he eliminated the closest threats, then, using the crossbow, took down the rest. Before turning his attention on possible supplies, he retreived the bolts, wiped them off, and ensured his weapon was loaded and ready.

  Since he was still looking good as far as food was concerned, he searched for fuel first, checking each boat. Finding seven more five-gallon cans, he unloaded those along with a half-dozen flare guns and nearly a hundred flares.

  After almost an hour, he’d taken out another dozen deaders, found one decent set of running shoes that fit, and discovered that the gas station had been completely looted of anything useful. Taking one final look around, Juan untied and pushed off from the dock. Turning over the engine, he did a quick inspection of every gauge on the panel. He wasn’t entirely sure what each thing was except the fuel and temp readouts, but so far nothing had red flashing lights or was pegged one way or the other.

  He backed out into the river, scanning both directions for anybody that might be out there with him. So far, he’d encountered a handful of other boaters. Not one tried to approach him. Juan couldn’t say that he blamed them, he wasn’t too anxious to meet strangers either. So far, his encounters hadn’t gone that well.

  Ever since he’d left behind those lunatics holed up in the county jail, everyone he’d met that still had a pulse and wasn’t set on trying to eat his face either out-and-out ran from him, or threatened to shoot him. Considering the last group of people he’d been with, and some of the things they’d done before taking over the jail…he didn’t really blame ‘em one bit.

  The rest of the day he chugged peacefully up the Willamette River, scanning the shore for signs of life. He’d been making this trip for the last couple of weeks. Making a circuit all the way around Sauvie’s Island, taking the Columbia River back up until he could turn south and rejoin the Willamette which he would follow down almost to Oregon City where the falls would force him to turn around and backtrack. He didn’t want to move too far away from the Metro area. At least he was familiar with the surroundings.

  As the sun began to set, Juan began looking for someplace to stop for the night. He never chose the same place twice in a row. That was a habit from his days on the streets sleeping in his beat-up old car. The dead were worse than the cops. At least the cops didn’t try and eat you.

  Finding a little inlet out of the main current, Juan killed the motor and let the boat drift. He grabbed the aft anchor and dropped it over the side, watching the line uncurl and draw taut. Once he’d come to a stop, he went to the front and released the two forward anchors.

  Grabbing the cooler from beside the captain’s chair, he took his customary evening perch on the hammock he’d hung in a big open space in the back of the boat. He pulled out a can of beer, popped it and took a long drink. He’d heard that some countries liked warm beer. They were crazy.

  From where he’d anchored, he could see a long expanse of sandy beach. He was pretty sure that this was near the area that the “nudie” beach was located on Sauvie’s Island. He’d been out here once about ten years ago with a girl named…

  Damn, Juan thought, taking another long swig of warm beer, he couldn’t remember her name. Still, when he closed his eyes he could see her. Sandy-brown hair in curly ringlets that bounced around her shoulders. Brown eyes that were always squinting with just a hint of laughter in them. Her breasts were perfect and round and swayed with the natural movement of her walk. Her laugh…

  An eerie, hair-raising moan.

  Nope. That was definitely not it. Juan opened his eyes. He scanned the beach. There! Up in some thick growth of trees that almost hid from view the wooden stairs leading down to the actual beach area from what was probably the gravel parking lot if he was where he believed himself to be, a zombie was strug-gling to free itself from some vines.

  Juan decided to watch this scene play out. Would others come? Would they notice him? And, if so, would they wade out or make any effort to reach him?

  It was a woman. She was at least fifty with graying hair. She wore bib overalls and a tee-shirt. A large, dark stain marred most of her left side indicating where she’d been bitten. She hissed, moaned, and snarled as she…it…fought to get free. Finally, after sev
eral minutes of twisting, pulling, and clawing, it came free, and stumbled backwards down the wooden stairs. Thus far, nothing came to investigate.

  Juan looked west and tried to gauge the amount of sunlight he had left. Easily a couple of hours. If his mental calendar was right, it should be late April or early May. There was a U-pick farm nearby, again, all dependent on his ability to approximate his location.

  The zombie was struggling to get to its feet. It appeared to have damaged one leg in a way that compromised stability. Still, no others arrived to join this seemingly lone wanderer. Juan got up and climbed the ladder to the bridge for the best possible view. There was no movement to be seen.

  Grabbing his trusty baseball bat and a webbed belt with a Baretta in a leather holster and two spare magazines, he went to the aft end of the boat. It was times like these that he disliked being completely alone. He would be leaving everything unprotected. And, while he had the keys…that didn’t ensure that his boat would be safe. Tossing two naval-issue seabags that he’d found in his travels into the inflatable yellow raft, and then easing that into the water, Juan was soon paddling to shore.

  It didn’t take long for the patheticly entangled zombie to notice him. Its thrashing about intensified, and there was a considerable amount of gurgling, moaning, and hissing. While Juan beached the small rubber craft, pulled it well up above where the tide line ended, and shouldered his gear, the thing continued to struggle. Any moment, he expected hordes of those things to come spilling from the trees and bushes…but still nothing. With very little effort, he ended the zombie’s struggles with a few swings of his bat.

  Climbing the stairs slowly, trying his best not to make a sound, Juan peered into the large, open gravel lot that had once been filled with cars belonging to the frequenters of this nude beach. Two blue and green portable toilets lay tipped over off to the right. A brown sign with white, hand-painted writing still stood just to the left of the stairs informing readers that this was a “clothing optional” recreational beach.

  A two-lane blacktop road acted as a border between the parking lot and a large, barbed wire fenced-in field across the way. A faded billboard advertised a seasonal U-pick farm with a list of what sorts of fresh produce to expect by season. Right now he could see the ground littered with watermelons and cantalopes!

  He stood at the top of the stairs for what seemed like hours. There was no sound. No movement. Nothing but a gentle breeze that carried the smell of the river tinged with a mouth-watering scent that had to be coming from the farm and its mixture of melons, berries, and corn. Where had these smells been those other times he’d been out this way? Everything was just so…different. The river actually smelled…cleaner?

  Remaining alert and cautious, Juan crossed the empty parking lot, wincing at the sound of gravel crunching under his feet. Reaching the road, his mind flashed back to his childhood. Look both ways before crossing the street. All clear. Hurrying across, he jumped over the yard-wide, foot-deep ditch and took in the view of fresh, unpackaged, unprocessed food. His mouth already watered at the prospect.

  The neat rows ran straight before him up a gradual slope. At the top, a white, two-story farmhouse sat overlooking the whole thing. Something about that view tickled the back of Juan’s mind. There was a long front porch and, from where he stood, he was on the left side of the house. A weathered barn was a stone’s throw from the back door with one door open, revealing the blackness within.

  As he ducked between two strands of barbed wire, an unfamiliar noise carried on the warm summer air. It took a few moments for him to identify it. By the time he had, he was completely through and on the other side of the fence as the source of the sound was now in sight and bearing down on him.

  A dog!

  His mind whizzed though several thoughts in only a couple of seconds. Were there dog-zombies? This one was running. A dog could come in handy. This dog looked like he wanted to play more than take a bite out of somebody.

  Juan knew a lot of people who were freaked out by dogs. Especially big ones like the one coming his way. Juan was not one of those people. He knelt down and patted at his knee as the floppy-eared Rottweiller bounded over a row of watermelon vines to gain the row he’d been about to walk up. The black and brown beast plowed into Juan and began eagerly snuffling and licking.

  “Easy…,” Juan glanced down the length of the dog’s body, “girl.” He laughed and, as eagerly, began patting the large flat head and scratching behind the ears. Eventually he made his way back up to his feet. It took him until then to realize he’d been laughing long and loud.

  He gave a cursory examination and found no signs of injury…or a collar. He took a good look around. Still nothing stumbling his way.

  “Let’s go check out that house.” Juan shouldered the bat and began walking up the slightly overgrown row. He was halfway up to the house with a large watermelon under one arm and the dog a few paces ahead, when suddenly the dog froze, snarled, and crouched…ready to spring. A scream shattered the stillness.

  ***

  Maximillian Schivone ducked under the outstretched arms of the monster that now stood between him and the exit of the home he’d just searched unsuccessfully for food. This one had followed him from his secret hideout, the tree house in back of the Gilmore residence.

  Max had been sure that the coast was clear when he climbed down. This one had been on the Gilmore’s front porch and must have arrived during the night. It had scared him with a moan that announced its presence as he’d come up the side of the house and cut across the front yard. It had been the first zombie—that’s what Max’s dad said they were and Max’s dad would know because he was a famous writer—that he’d seen in almost a week.

  Remembering his dad made Max’s throat seem to close up just a bit. Kevin Schivone had written lots of stories. Some of those stories had even been made into movies. But, since he was only eleven, Max hadn’t been allowed to read or watch any of them. His dad said they were too scary.

  Five days ago, Kevin Schivone slipped away in the night. For a few hours, he’d watched his son sleep. He hefted the pistol in his hand, considering his possibilities. In the end, he’d been a coward. Weak. He reasoned that he’d taught Max enough to survive. Maybe somebody would find him, take him in. He’d left a note and the gun. The note said simply: “Dad loves you. Always.”

  Kevin Schivone slunk away in the darkness, the bite on his arm throbbing. In his best attempt to keep his son from falling victim to what was burning the life away from inside, he staggered away until he eventually collapsed—less than two blocks away from where Max lay sleeping.

  Reaching the porch, Max bounded down the stairs two at a time. Like any eleven-year-old boy, Max was curious. He made sure no other zombies were coming, but he wanted to see the one stumbling from the open doorway. The one that he, Maximillian Schivone, had put the moves on and escaped.

  He absent-mindedly patted the bulge where the pistol was stuffed in the pouch of his hoodie. Max wouldn’t use the gun on one zombie. His dad had explained how the noise only invited more trouble. He had a big spiked club, but he didn’t think he could actually use it the way he’d seen his dad use it. No, Max just wanted to see the monster up close before he ran away. Up until today, he hadn’t really been all that close to one.

  It finally emerged from the darkened doorway and onto the porch. It was a policeman! Only, he looked really bad. Dark and twisted things hung out of where his stomach should be. The entire bottom half of his shirt was ripped to shreds. The part that remained appeared all hard and dark from dried blood. His skin was a greenish-grey like moldy bread, and the eyes looked wrong…they were all milky with dark squiggly lines. Suddenly, Max didn’t feel too good. It didn’t help that the smell from the policeman-zombie seemed to fill his mouth as well as his nose.

  Looking around, Max chose his escape route. He would lead the monster away and around the corner, then sneak back and try another house. He ran, but his legs felt weak. Of course,
he could still easily outrun that thing, but he wasn’t feeling very good and suddenly wanted nothing more than to be in the tree- house.

  It was only a rock the size of a large gumball, but it was enough to cause Max to turn his ankle and fall. His head bounced off the asphalt and everything flashed a bright white. When his vision cleared, Max had only a moment to scream. The policeman-zombie was on him and had Max’s hand already going to its mouth. It bit, and Max screamed again. Only, this scream was much different. It still held all the fear, but now it had the added amplitude of pain. Agony.

  Max pulled away and kicked with his feet. He rolled over and came up to his knees. His hand was missing the pinky and ring finger, and now blood poured from the jagged stubs. He could see bone and knew that was bad. Still, he would run. He had to. He had to get away from the monster.

  Max ran and cried. He could barely see through the tears, he was scared and only wanted to be back in his tree-house. Blood continued to pour, and Max began to feel a little sick, as well as dizzy. He saw a couple of shadowy and blurry figures coming out from behind bushes or from open doors.

  He looked around at the houses. None of them were the Gilmore house. Where was he? A wave of dizziness made Max sway a bit. He tried to run, but his little legs didn’t seem to want to cooperate.

  When had he sat down? Max tried to stand, but something wasn’t right. He could still run faster than the zombies, and he would in just a moment.

  Max closed his eyes. They flickered open once, and for a moment he thought he saw his dad.

  ***