by Jeff Olah
First—he was three minutes ahead of schedule and the library wouldn’t be open as he walked up to the front door.
And—three men covered in blood from the knees to the tops of their heads strode quickly in his direction.
Completely avoid them or just walk to the other side of the street? Looking back and then gauging the distance, he concluded that the police station wasn’t any closer than his home. If these guys were looking for trouble, at least the people two hundred yards behind would offer assistance. And after what he’d seen on the news an hour before, he didn’t feel the need to take any chances.
Moving closer to the station, the group in close pursuit grew from three to five, and as he reached the station’s parking lot, they numbered close to two dozen. Where had they come from? What was this? An elaborate practical joke? A movie set?
Crossing the blacktop, a few of his questions were answered. Reginald, the elder custodian that had worked for the Police Department for over forty years, shuffled out from behind the five-foot retaining wall. He was being chased by a man and a woman. The distressed couple reached him as he stepped onto the grassy area south of the rear entrance to the station.
Frank paused as they began ripping the elderly man apart. Feeding on each piece of flesh as they fought one another for position atop the screaming custodian. “What the hell?”
Turning, he calculated he had less than ten seconds to find a place to hide. Again, the idea of running home competed with the unknown inside the building fifty feet away.
Five seconds. He had to go now.
Three seconds. With the option of making it out of the parking lot and into the street beginning to slip away, he again eyed the rear entrance.
Two seconds. The footsteps at his back now clearly audible, he held tight to the three bags and the book under his left arm.
Run.
He covered the distance ahead of those giving chase, and hit the back doors while still attempting to slow his stride. Inside, the slow soft music and cool air reminded him to turn and secure the door. He dropped his bags and set the book to the side.
He reached for the lock, made sure the pair of reinforced glass doors were even and grabbed the thumb-turn. Engaging the deadbolt, Frank stepped backward and clipped his heel on a motionless body partially hidden by the darkened hall.
Momentum carried him over the body and onto the pasty white linoleum. His left hip struck the floor first, followed closely by his lower back and then both hands. He rolled into the wall at his side, toppled a bucket of dirty water, and tore free a large swatch of his t-shirt. Pushing away, he turned onto his right side and came face to face with the man he’d known for nearly sixteen years.
Officer Ralph Tompkins was dead. Frank didn’t need to shake him. Didn’t need to check for a pulse. And there was no reason to call out his name. The unnatural angle at which the man’s head lay in a pool of his own blood, and missing chunks of flesh told him everything he needed to know.
Up onto his feet, Frank hurried across the hall, into the locker room, and emerged moments later with two fresh white towels. He draped them lengthwise over the man’s body and stepped back. Peering back through the glass doors, the crowd had doubled. Their disfigured and bloody faces pushing in. Back over his shoulder, he thought he’d heard footsteps. Nothing.
“HELLO… WE NEED SOME HELP BACK HERE.”
The stillness was off-putting. Retrieving his bags and the book, he turned and jogged into the adjoining hall. No one.
Frank moved from office to office and then into the lobby. Not a soul. Making his way to the front door, he again called out, “ANYONE, IS ANYONE HERE?”
Still no answer.
Through the front doors, the scenery didn’t offer any more hope than the parking lot. No less than fifteen of those deranged individuals marched along the walkway leading to the station. “In all my days, I don’t think I’ve ever seen—”
The large plate glass front doors of the station did little to mask his presence, and pushing in on the stainless steel push bar, his suspicions were confirmed. The front doors sat unlocked and as he gained the attention of the nearest three, the clock began to tick.
Again dropping his bags and book, he raced down the hall. Bursting through the door leading to the rear corridor, he pressed his right hand into his aching lower back as he slid in alongside the fallen officer.
“Keys.”
Pulling off the towel resting on the man’s lower body, he tugged at Officer Tompkins black leather service belt. His gun, pepper spray, and cuffs still intact, Frank found what he’d come for. Snatching the thick key ring from its place along the dead man’s belt, Frank pushed up off the floor.
Recalling the image of the front of the station, he calculated the paved walkway to be just about forty-five feet from the doors to the street. The closest of the crowd was two thirds of that distance. Thirty feet at a rate of fifteen feet every ten seconds meant he’d just reach the lobby as they plowed over the threshold.
Back through the hall and nearing the last office, he caught a glimpse of the front doors. Still closed. They hadn’t made their way in yet.
Turning right at the adjoining hall and then out into the lobby, a pair of out-of-towners—those from the chili-fest—had begun negotiating the door handles. They clawed and pushed, but had yet to enter.
Frank slowed to a walk and took a deep breath. He eyed the first, still wearing his cookout apron smattered in chili or blood. From inside, he couldn’t quite tell which. It didn’t matter; he just needed to get to the door before they pushed in.
Moving quickly to the door, Frank looked down at the keys as he leaned in and gripped the push bar. The pair looked him up and down. They continued to claw at the opposite side, pushing their faces into the glass until the doors slowly began to part.
Sliding his right shoulder in behind the twin doors, Frank planted his right foot and began pushing back. Closing his eyes, he was losing this demented game of reverse tug-of-war. Their weight alone was more than he’d be able to handle for much longer.
Finding the key, Frank jammed it into the lock and brought both hands up to the middle of the door. He twisted back to his feet and stood face to face with his aggressors. One hand on the inner edge of each door, Frank again ran the numbers.
Their combined estimated weight was three hundred twenty pounds. Add to that, the force required to return the door to its fully closed position, and he was going to lose. Only one thing to do. Let them win.
As the door continued to inch open, the sound of the snapping jaws four inches away was all he heard. Taking a deep breath, Frank stepped back and allowed the doors to freely open. His adversaries fell straight to the concrete with only their heads partially inside the building.
Digging in, he gripped the doors and pushed back into the pair as they attempted to stand. As the two attackers were thrust backward into a distorted pile of thrashing arms and kicking legs, Frank quickly twisted the deadbolt into place. Pulling the keys from the lock and turning away from the entrance, he gathered up his bags and his book, then marched to the rear of the station.
. . .
That was five days ago. He had expected that the remaining officers, someone from City Hall, maybe the Mayor’s office, or even a curious passer-by would have broken in to check for survivors. But they hadn’t. No one had.
Two cans of tuna, and a half row of saltines were all that was left. Other than the distant sound of a random vehicle every few days, Frank Jarvis was completely alone.
He only wished he hadn’t left the keys to the cell ten feet away.
3
The ground was hard. Carrying a lifeless body two blocks while dragging a shovel was harder. Under a blacked out sky, Ethan Runner closed the gate and began digging a hole. Forty feet from the asphalt highway, the top layer of grass and the first six inches below that were frozen. One strike after another, the fiberglass handle vibrated in his hand as the 14-gauge hardened steel blade slipped into
the damp earth.
Although the cool night air chilled his arms and neck, long beads of sweat still ran from his hairline. As he continued digging, they traveled down his dirty face and merged with the tears he’d been crying for the last thirty minutes.
Glancing past his friend’s body, the initial grouping of a half dozen Feeders had grown considerably. Not wanting to make eye contact with any of those from beyond the six-foot chain link fence, he estimated their numbers to be somewhere beyond thirty. And he still had at least another twenty minutes’ worth or work ahead.
Another ten shovelfuls and his purpose had begun to take shape. The rectangular hole nearly long enough, he still needed at least twice the depth. Stepping down into the void, Ethan laid the shovel on the grass and squatted.
“This may have been a very bad idea.”
The one-hundred-foot fence running from Bridge Street to the where Second and Main intersected rocked in the hazy moonlight. It was currently supported by fourteen posts, although it was only the last section closest to the gate that caused his concern.
His hand over his brow, Ethan squinted into the full moon and watched as the growing horde pulled and pushed at the chain link. They appeared to be fighting one another for the chance to rip down the obstruction keeping them from Ethan and his work. And as the terminal posts groaned under the load, the latch along the top of the gate began to slide back.
Turning back toward the far end of Main Street, a second and much larger crowd had taken notice of the commotion. The noise produced by those at the fence was acting as an alert to any Feeder within earshot. He had maybe ten minutes to finish what he came to do, or he had to walk away now. If the job took any longer, he might as well dig two graves.
“This isn’t going to be pretty, but it is going to get done.”
Reaching back out of the hole, Ethan grabbed the shovel and moved like he was on fire. Each stab into the soil more powerful and aggressive than the one before. His forearms began to cramp and his lower back burned from the awkward position.
No longer worried about staying quiet, he grunted as he tossed out one massive shovelful after the next, the pile now nearly blocking his view of the unruly crowd. Sweat again poured in thick beads from his brow, fighting the cold night air as they dropped from his chin onto his shirt.
Up onto his toes, Ethan glanced back and to the left. Taking a deep breath and tossing the shovel aside, he watched as the crowd continued to push into the swaying fence. Quickly climbing out of the hole and moving to the man he came to bury, the gate slowly slid open.
Dragging his friend’s body toward the edge, the crowd piled in behind one another, their numbers nearly doubling every few minutes. The gate was now propped open, however the massive horde had yet to notice. But it didn’t matter. The last section of fence, near where it attached to the block wall of what used to be Tully’s Hardware, had begun to fail.
He didn’t think. He didn’t speak. He only reacted. Pulling his coat away from the body, Ethan slid his friend into the hole and reached for the shovel. Their footsteps, although still at a distance, shook the ground. Checking their positon and the size of the opening along the end of the fence, he estimated he has less than sixty seconds.
Kicking his jacket aside, Ethan dropped to his knees. Sliding in behind the waist high mound of dirt, he got low and pushed the top half back into the hole. A good portion of what he pulled from the hole slid back in, although he shook his head as the loose pile shifted to the left, and only partially covered his friend.
With his second attempt, he dug his feet in and lowered his head. The pile loosened further and only spread lengthwise as Ethan lost his balance and fell forward onto his chest.
Back to his feet, Ethan cursed into the night air and again reached for the shovel. “This is it.” With his body between the shallow grave and the approaching horde, he pulled from the bottom of the pile and tossed one large scoop and then another.
Within thirty seconds, his friend was fully covered. The grave now only a small impression along the otherwise flat snow-dusted field. Kicking the last few pieces of wet soil and grass back into the hole, Ethan stepped aside, pulled on his coat, and reached for the shovel. He moved away from the grave and focused on the crowd now pouring in from opposite ends of the fence.
The chain link supports failing in two separate areas meant his planned route away from the field was no longer an option. Walking backward, his heart rate began to climb as the curious group was only half intent on chasing him down. They had other intentions.
He watched as a few in the crowd peeled off and moved toward the grave. This wasn’t right. His friend had been dead for five days and he’d been infected before that. They shouldn’t have been attracted to anything other than him. However, nothing over the last several days made sense. He should have been running; although, for reasons he didn’t quite understand, he wasn’t.
He stopped. “HEY!”
A few in the crowd looked at him. Really looked at him. Like they needed to get to him more than he needed to keep living. But the five or six heading for the grave didn’t seem to take notice. They continued stumbling forward and were seconds from where he laid his friend to rest. The others continued to march slowly toward him, and although they were now within a few feet, he didn’t move.
As the last of the fence fell, Ethan again called out. “HEY, WHAT ABOUT ME? COME GET IT. LET’S GO, I’M RIGHT HERE!”
Those straight ahead continued forward, although he’d done nothing to convince the others that the grave was a dead end. But again he tried. “LAST CHANCE.”
Nothing. They didn’t even bother to look his way.
Okay… Six seconds and that’s it.
With the shovel over his shoulder, Ethan shot to the right and started for the grave. The others would have a tough time navigating the U-turn and those he was going after hadn’t yet seen him. He’d have the upper hand, if only for a brief moment.
He reached around and gripped the end of the shovel. Raising it back and to the side, Ethan continued running. Within ten feet, he began to slow and twisted at the waist. Ready to swing as he approached the first, now hunched over the grave, he hit a small patch of frozen grass.
Sliding to the left, the momentum pushed him awkwardly toward the crowd. Without another choice, he continued swinging and was able to hit the first two, although not in the manner he’d intended. The blade missed its target completely and instead the length of the handle connected, sending shockwaves up both of his arms.
Forced to the right, he collided with another from the small group, but still managed to stay on his feet. Surprised to see two of the Feeders flat on their backs, he moved quickly between the pair. Rotating the handle, Ethan stood over the first and drove the blade through its skull and into the ground.
As the others moved in, he checked his footing, sidestepped the first corpse, and moved to the second. Quickly eyeing those still in close pursuit, he placed his boot over the forehead of the next downed Feeder and thrust the blade through its neck. As he stepped back, its head rolled to the side and the others followed.
Moving away from the makeshift grave, Ethan watched as the two groups merged and the few off to the right lost interest in his earlier work. They moved away from where his friend was buried, and now only focused on him.
This was a bad idea. It was a bad idea a few hours ago and it was a bad idea even before he came up with it. But his friend was dead and he told himself that he needed to deal with it. He needed to do something. Something to remember him by. Something to honor him. Something worthy of their years together. It wasn’t what he originally had in mind, but in this new world, it was all he could come up with… without also getting himself killed.
Now he just needed to find a way out.
At his back was the eight-foot block wall that bordered the snow covered field. It connected the buildings on either end and separated the rest of the city from Miller’s Scrap Yard. Ethan hadn’t scaled the
massive wall in over twenty years, however with all other options now eliminated, he was left with no other choice.
Laying the shovel in the grass, he glanced one last time at his friend’s final resting place and ran the short distance to the wall. He’d already picked his spot. Where the wall dead-ended into the old hardware store, Ethan leapt onto the wall. In one motion, he pushed himself to the top and swung his right leg over.
As the crowd closed in and began clawing at the block wall, Ethan reached for the edge of the adjoining rooftop. Gripping the cold metal flashing with both hands, he hoisted himself up and over, slipping down onto the wet rooftop. “That went well.”
Leaning into the waist high parapet, Ethan shifted his gaze to the left and scanned Miller’s old scrap yard. It was more than fifty years’ worth of junked vehicles, out-of-service refrigerators, and more hubcaps piled together than he imagined was possible. Just as he remembered it… almost.
Miller’s place was now also home to nearly as many Feeders as the field he’d just exited. Shaking his head, he wasn’t completely surprised. Had they heard the commotion from next door, were they alerted as he scaled the wall, or was it something else?
He knew it didn’t really matter—why would it? The last several days of his life had become an assortment of similar experiences, so why should this be any different? Why would he get a break? No one else did.
Ethan also knew that this wasn’t even the worst thing to happen to him over the last five days. Hell, it wasn’t even in the top ten. He was alive and for the most part, unhurt. This just meant that he’d have to find another way back to the others. Another unexpected turn. Another change in plans.
But first there was something he needed to do.
4
