Zombieclypse (Book 2): Dead Shelter Smashwords

by A. Rosaria

  Something didn‘t add up. Sarah couldn‘t really point out what made her doubt him. It could be the way Blondie talked, lacking any emotion. His eyes did not change, did not quiver. He was talking about the end of the world as if he didn‘t really care.

  “Come on! I told you everything. Please let me go!”

  Anger. Finally some emotion. It was not that he had a lack of it. She was now sure there was more to the story.

  Sarah smiled. “Let you go? Would you have let me go? I don‘t think so.”

  She needed more time to think about what to do with him. Maybe she should discuss it with Ralph when he returned. Her expression soured. If he returned. It was already late and he should have been back by now. Two days he told her.

  “I might have more questions later, so stay put.”

  As Sarah turned to leave, he called her back. “At least get the knife out.”

  “My pleasure.” She yanked it out, relishing in his screams. No blood spurted out; it only seeped out of the wound. Good, she hadn‘t hit any major arteries and it saved her from having to bandage his leg. She could care less if he bled to death. She only cared about the mess she would have to clean up if that happened. She placed the knife back into the drawer and grabbed more rope to tie his feet and around his knees. After she was done tying him up, she pushed him on his side on the mattress.

  “I‘m bleeding, do something.”

  Sarah ignored him and left the RV.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  The car showroom was caved in and blackened by a fire. From between the concrete slabs, he could see some of the cars, mangled and crushed. Most likely, all the cars parked in the showroom were destroyed since almost the whole building sat on top of them. Even if one happened to be miraculously in working order, he would never be able to get it out.

  The other side of the building was still intact. However, that was the office where they stored the keys and where they did all the paperwork on car leases and loans. Utterly useless now with no cars to sell. Still, Ralph tried the door. Locked. He cupped his hands to the side of his head and looked through the glass. The place looked clean, as if waiting for the employees to return and take their rightful place behind their desks. They won‘t ever return. They were all most likely dead, or worse, roaming the streets as zombies. This place was long forgotten to them.

  Ralph walked around the building, hoping he would find a backyard filled with secondhand cars. His heart sank when he found a yard filled with burned out metal husks. The few that weren‘t burned were torn apart. He walked between them, stepping over half-melted, twisted car parts—not a single car was salvageable.

  About to give up and leave, he noticed a container. If he were lucky, the thing would be unlocked and have a functional car inside. It had to have something in it. Why else would a company park one in the yard near the storage entrance? As he got to the container, he cursed and kicked the door. Locked. A simple padlock barred his way. He hit it with the frying pan. It didn‘t even dent, but made an awful lot of noise. It would be bad if he drew the zombies here.

  He went looking around the yard for something useful, like a crowbar, or anything he could use to break open the lock. A simple padlock shouldn‘t be that difficult to break. Heck, it was nothing fancy. How much trouble would it be? It made him doubt the contents of the container, though. It couldn‘t have anything expensive inside, at most a secondhand car. Actually, that wouldn‘t be bad at all—a secondhand car was more likely already ready to go, maybe even fueled. A new car would have to be made ready to drive, which could take too much time.

  From under what once was a green sedan, Ralph found a twenty-inch, solid iron rod about an inch thick. He passed it from one hand to the other. It was heavy and, he hoped, sturdy enough to do the job. Ralph wedged the rod between the latch and the padlock. Putting his right foot on the container door for support, he pulled the bar down, straining the padlock. His face flushed. His muscles started to tense; he had to let go. One look at the lock and he cursed. No way was he getting it open this way. Maybe it was possible for someone else, someone stronger than him, or if he found a longer iron bar, the extra leverage might get it open.

  He threw the rod down. His eyes fell on his frying pan, which he had set against the container. It was a solid, heavy, cast iron pan. He remembered seeing a video clip on the internet about a man breaking a padlock similar to this one with a hammer. It took him five minutes of hitting the thing. Ralph picked up the frying pan. It would make a hell of a lot of noise. He would have to be fast and lucky to pull this one off.

  Too tired to go look for another option, he raised the pan high, took a moment to aim for the padlock, and swung. With a loud clang, it connected. The sound broke the silence. He had taken the first step, he could as well take the next and hope for the best. He kept hitting it. After each one, he listened for any sound of death approaching. After ten times hitting the padlock, he saw a small dent, ten more hits and the dent grew. It was great, if not for him also hearing the first zombie‘s moan. They were closing in. With no idea how much time he had left, he kept hitting the padlock—this time not stopping to listen for the zombies. He heard the moans rise over the clanging of the pan against the padlock. He heard the shuffling footsteps at the wall and the thump of the zombies hitting the wall. It wouldn‘t take long for the first to find its way through the opening in the fence.

  If he got the hell out of here, he could easily slip out without them noticing. If he stayed, sooner than later they would come pouring inside, and he would need all the luck in the world to get out. He was playing against highly unfavorable odds. Every fiber in his body screamed for him to flee. With pure will, he raised the frying pan high and swung it hard. The padlock broke and fell into the dirt.

  He did it; he finally did it. To rain on his parade, a group of zombies was outside the chain link fence. They saw, sensed, smelled—or whatever they did—him. Frenzied, they clawed at the fence, trying to climb it and failing. Others pressed their bodies against it, trying to walk through. Two zombies broke from the group and shuffled along the fence. They would find their way inside the yard through the open gates. Ralph opened the container door. Four dirt bikes with dirt still caked on the tires; they must have been recently used.

  He gave the bikes a quick glance. The two in the back had oil dripping from the fork seals. Not a good sign. No way could he repair them with the little time he had. Not that it was a difficult task with the right equipment and parts, though impossible when you were about to be surrounded by zombies.

  The two in the front seemed fine. He wished he had time to check the air filter under the seat, but it would take too long to remove the two bolts to remove the seats. They seemed fine to him, though he had no way of knowing how fine they were beneath. He walked over to the one on the left, checked if the fuel switch was on, pulled the choke out, and kicked twice, slow and once hard. The motor sputtered. Ralph kicked once more. More sputters. Time was running out. He heard the zombies approaching, their feet scraping the ground. He checked the next bike, hopped on. Two small kicks, one large. The engine kicked on. He twisted the throttle. The dirt bike flew out, knocking a zombie down that was blocking his way out. Ralph swerved to avoid another one. The yard was overrun with them. Tires spinning, dirt skidding behind, he spurred the bike forward, dodging the zombies where he could, knocking them over or kicking them where he couldn‘t. He took a sharp turn away from the gate. A large group blocked his path out, too large to knock down or dodge.

  He stopped in a corner. The zombies closing in fast. The group at the exit wasn‘t dispersing. Those at the fence were pushing and pulling it, on the verge of breaking it. Time slowed for him. They shuffled closer. It was as if he saw them all at once: the nurse with the missing nose; the construction worker who was armless; the zombie in a suit with a chewed, open cheek and its tongue lulling out; the waitress with a bloodied apron; the soccer mom with a too-bright pink jacket; the kids in their summer clothes; and the oth
ers with their own peculiar traits that set them apart. He saw them all—their emotionless faces, empty eyes, opened mouths, bared teeth—sharp teeth, teeth that would close down on his skin, teeth that would eat him if he didn‘t move.

  When the fence broke and the zombies fell over each other trying to get in, he saw his chance to get away. Fail and he would become food, in a painful way. He throttled all the way. The front wheel went up as he sped forward, and dropped down on a toddler zombie, squishing it as he drove over it. He went straight for the fence, ducking away from the many hands trying to grab him. He prayed that the fallen zombies at the broken fence didn‘t get up too soon. He prayed that he got that extra second he needed. They were getting up as he rocketed forward, only a few feet more. The bike crashed into a heavyset zombie. It took all of Ralph‘s skill to keep his balance when he drove over it as it fell down. Before the zombie hit the ground, Ralph and the bike went flying through the gap in the fence. Hitting the ground, he swerved to stay up. Already the zombies were chasing him, frenzied at seeing their easy meal escaping them. They went after him at an almost running speed. Though no matter how fast they went, he lost him, for the bike went faster than any zombie could possibly run. In no time, he left the town behind him and this time he hoped forever.

  As he drove on he would have loved to find a gas station. It was fruitless hope really, because on his way there, he had seen none that weren‘t bombed flat, and it was unlikely he would have missed a gas station still standing. With a full tank, he would feel more at ease. Right now, he didn‘t really know how much fuel he had left—the fuel meter was broken. He had taken a lot of chances already; one more wouldn‘t hurt him. Even if he was driving on reserve gas, it might be enough to get him back to the RV.

  What took him most of a day walking took him less than an hour driving. He was near the RV now, only a hill left. On top of the hill, he stopped. A van had crashed into the ditch near the RV and a corpse lay on the road. Though the most amazing thing he saw was Sarah. Standing tall, her blond hair waving with the wind. She had on a tight-fitting black, long-sleeved pullover that showed her nice figure well, while the green pants and boots gave her an edge. She was a beauty, and he couldn‘t deny the stir seeing her again caused.

  Whatever feelings he had for her before this happened still lingered under the surface. There was something in her that lured him in, and that something wasn‘t necessarily something good. She had darkness within her, one cultivated by what happened to them. He had seen it in her eyes when Jake got locked in the principal‘s office, but what was she doing walking around? He stared at her while she stared back at him. She was okay. It didn‘t matter if he risked his life in vain, the result was the same—she was all right. It was not like she got better on purpose to spite him.

  Ralph drove down to meet her—unable to shake his amazement at her sudden recovery and his feelings for her. It felt like a powder keg. It could go wrong. She looked pretty. Ralph felt a pang of guilt. He shouldn‘t like her. What about Lauryn? No, it was foolish too think like that. Lauryn was dead, Sarah was not. Besides, he might have liked Lauryn a lot in the short time he knew her, but it still was just a short time and he had known Sarah for years. He shook it off. This was not the time for this. There were more pressing things to do. Still, his smile didn‘t falter.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  She saw a ragged guy on a dirt bike at the top of the hill. The many possibilities went through her head on how this encounter could turn out. She had decided that she would immediately attack him once he got close. In no way was she about to risk it being a hostile—not now, not when she had a prisoner she didn‘t know what to do with, and not with Ralph still out there. Besides, the vibe she got from him was that of a weathered man, dangerous. As the wind blew down, she caught the faint smell of blood. Her hand moved to the gun tucked at the back of her pants. She counted the feet as he approached, at twenty-five feet she would lay it on him, no questions asked.

  At thirty feet she let the gun go. It was him; it was Ralph. He had returned, bloodied, but well. She couldn‘t help but smile back at his stupid grin. To think she would have shot him, that she almost didn‘t recognize him with all that blood caked over him and the wild look he had going for him. She never knew he could ride a dirt bike, and so well. He looked different from the Ralph she knew. He was now a man with a purpose, the same as when they escaped their high school and town. He had taken charge then, and in doing so, he had made her notice him for the first time. She couldn‘t take her eyes off him.

  Sarah wished she had known Ralph before this all happened. They could have had a great time together and maybe she would have lost her virginity to someone more deserving. She waved at him. He smiled at her, a crooked smile that made her feel self-conscious.

  “You are up and about,” he said.

  “Surprised?”

  “You could say that.” He put the dirt bike on its stand and got off. As he walked up to her, he spread his arms slightly, like he would hug her. She stepped back and he dropped his arms to his side. She immediately regretted it. She had no idea why she did that. It would have been great to be held, to be comforted, especially by him, but something was not right. It wasn‘t the time for this and it might never be again. This new world made it impossible to drop your guard.

  “How”—he stared at Raspy‘s corpse—“did you get better?”

  If she didn‘t know better, she would have thought she heard some resentment in the question, but that would be foolish. The guy had a selfless flair to him, which often got him in trouble at school because people thought he was a pushover. She knew better now. It was just how he was, a nice guy, not a pushover. Pushovers didn‘t last long. She had seen that with Jake. He had been all bravado, but when life became too hard, he called it quits, bullying those he thought weaker. Jake must have thought poorly of her. She hated herself for thinking about him. She wanted to forget it all. Remembering brought her back to a place of sorrow that would wrap around her and drown her. Falling into depression while living in a world where zombies were real would mean death.

  “Sarah?”

  She rubbed her temple. Had she zoned out? Maybe she wasn‘t fully recovered yet. Sarah sighed and pointed at Raspy.

  “They made me well so they could use me as a lab rat.”

  “What? There are more of them, all dead?”

  She wished. “The other one is still alive.” She threw a thumb back. “He‘s in the RV, all tied up.”

  “God, I‘m glad you are okay.”

  “Yeah,” she said, a happy smile on her face. She sure had been smiling a lot lately.

  His eyes lingered on Raspy. “You killed a living man.” His eyes broke from the corpse and moved back to hers. There was something new in them that she didn‘t like, doubt, maybe fear. He had no reason to doubt or fear her, for he was her friend, her only friend, and more than that, they were partners, the sole survivors of their town.

  “You are okay with that?” Ralph asked.

  “Okay with what?”

  “Killing.”

  Where had that come from? He had killed before. She saw him shoot at the soldiers without hesitation, and she was sure the one who was thrown from the car was dead. He did that. So why ask her if she was okay with it?

  “It was him or me. I didn‘t even know he was dead until he turned into a zombie and attacked his friend. Lucky me, else who knows how things might have turned out. Sorry for trying to survive.”

  Flustered, he backed away, raising both hands as if she were sticking him up with a gun. He tried to say something and stuttered instead. Yeah, that was the Ralph she knew. The doofus, the guy she liked to ignore, and she hated herself for thinking like that. Sarah sighed, lowering her face.

  She looked back up at him as he lowered his hands, regaining himself. She had not meant to attack him. He just caught her by surprise. However she felt about killing was private, and she was not ready to share it, not even with him. But she felt sorry for lashi
ng out at him. He had only the best intention, and no matter how he was or is, he is a friend, someone she could trust to do the right thing. While she wasn‘t so sure about herself. “I‘m sorry. I didn‘t mean to.”

  “Sarah, please, there is nothing for you to be sorry about. Everything has been overwhelming. I‘m glad you are all right and alive. I understand you needed to survive. I understand it well, you know I do. It‘s just supposed to be hard, not an easy thing, not something to be taken lightly. I was shaken up the first times. I was just worried about how you were coping with it.”

  Worried? There was no need to be. She was all right, dealing with it as best she could. It happened, it had to happen, and it was not like she did it in cold blood or set out to kill him. So that made her all right, didn‘t it? There was no need to waste words on it, especially now that they had more important things to do. Besides, she was far more interested in what he had been up to in his absence. From how banged up he looked, it must have been a lot. He had been out there alone, among the dead, and came back covered in blood, while she just dealt with two fools and lucked out trying to survive.

  “Should we go inside?” Ralph asked.

  “No, it‘s occupied at the moment. Let‘s talk while we check out the wreck over there.”

  She led him away from the RV. She didn‘t want Blondie to even get a whiff of what she had to tell him. A plan had formed in her head about how to proceed with this, but first she was dying to know what Ralph had gone through. And the more she knew, the better she could plan ahead.

  “This is a mess,” he said.

  She told him about how it happened, and ended with how a semi-conscious Blondie got into the van and drove it into the ditch, crashing it beyond repair.

  “He injected himself straight in the heart?”