by Tony Urban
Against his best instincts, Bol allowed Dash to drive when he became road weary and Aben refused. As they rolled into town, Dash slammed on the brakes almost launching Bolivar into the windshield. In the back, the dog tumbled off the seat but bounced up, wagging its tail like it was enjoying the experience. Aben gave it a rough scratch on the head."What the hell, Dash?"
Dash pointed to a nearby storefront. Bolivar followed his gesture and saw a sign reading, “Barrow Bros. Sporting Goods.”
“Figured we should stock up,” Dash said and jogged toward the door.
Bolivar looked to Aben. “It’s probably not a bad idea.”
Aben nodded and motioned to the three zombies which moved toward them from across the circle. “You go ahead. I’ll take care of them.”
Bolivar moved toward Dash who had reached the door while Aben exited the vehicle. Aben glanced at Grady through the half-open window. The little man stared straight ahead but saw nothing.
“You hold tight now.”
Grady didn’t respond, not that Aben expected him to. He hadn’t said a word since they picked him up and, deep down inside, Aben believed all three of them preferred it that way.
Aben looked at the dog. “You too.” The dog wagged its tail even faster. At least it listened to him.
At the shop, Dash tried the door and found it locked.
“Aw, hell,” Dash said and gave the door a hard shove, rattling it in the frame.
Bolivar reached above the door jamb, feeling for a key, and came up empty-handed. He bent to check under the mat, but Dash pushed him back. “I got this.”
Dash raised his booted foot and planted it firmly under the doorknob. The wood door screeched and cracked but didn’t give way. A second kick did the job. He looked to Bolivar with that goofy grin. "Who needs a ke--"
His words were cut off when an alarm sounded. It was a sharp, high-pitched shriek that pierced the air so violently the men had to cover their ears.
“What the hell?” Dash said. “There’s no power!”
“Must be on a battery backup.”
They could barely hear each other through the screaming alarm but what was done was done, and they entered the store.
Aben had reached the first zombie, a middle-aged woman in cut off denim short shorts and an American flag tank top. Her blonde hair spilled down over her shoulders and hung half way down her back. She was the type of woman he would have looked at twice, maybe even three times, when she was alive. But now there was a gaping hole in her bare midriff and that pretty much ruined the effect.
He glanced toward the sporting goods store where the alarm was making his head hurt. When he turned back to the sexy, undead patriot, she was only a few feet away. He let her come to him before bringing the hammer down on her skull. She grunted and stumbled sideways, tripping over an upraised section of the sidewalk and then fell to the road.
A young man in a pizza delivery boy uniform wasn’t far behind. He made Aben remember, not fondly, pizza face; the girl who got him thrown in jail and nearly killed. He strode toward the teen and slammed the hammer into the zombie’s forehead. He felt the concussion through the handle as the skull broke. Pizza boy went down in a heap.
Aben looked to the third zombie which stumbled toward him from across the street. It was an 80-something year old man, bent at the waist by age but dried blood around his mouth showed he was far from harmless. Aben clutched the hammer in his hand and walked toward him. Time to put the old timer out of his misery.
What Aben didn’t see were the arched double doors of the church beside which they had parked, swing open and the zombies come pouring out.
35
Ramey didn’t know what to think of the greasy man she’d saved outside the mobile home. He said all the right things and appeared genuinely grateful, but something in his face made her wonder. It was the way he looked at her. Not like she was a fellow human being, but more like a dog looks at a discarded bone that it wants all for itself. Stop it, she told herself. You’re being weird. He’s just scared like everyone else. And maybe he was, but she was glad she had Peggy and wasn’t alone with him, just in case.
It had taken Mead several attempts to start the old motorcycle and once the engine was running, he almost toppled over twice as he tried to roll forward. He kept glancing back at her and Peggy, an awkward and probably fake smile plastered to his face. "Just a little rusty." He got going eventually and they followed behind in the pickup.
“He’s a squirrelly one,” Peggy said and Ramey thought that was an accurate summary.
“Yeah. But he’s alive.”
“I suppose that counts for something.”
Mead told them he’d been traveling with others but had broken off on his own to go scouting when his car died. Something about the way he told the story made both women uneasy. His eyes would meet Ramey’s own, then dart away as if he was stealing glances at an eclipse.
She thought maybe it was her own fault, that she might be staring at the swollen, pus tinged zits that dotted his forehead or the gash on his face, and knew it wasn’t fair to judge him based on a few minutes of interaction. Maybe once they caught up to the other people he’d been with, he’d be more relaxed.
As they neared a stretch of road, off which a sprawling farmhouse and barn stood, Mead hit the brakes on the motorcycle and did a little shimmy in the middle of the road. The bike hopped sideways before slowing to a ragged stop. Ramey saw a vehicle on the road and, past it, 20 plus zombies.
Ramey watched through the windshield as Mead eased the bike onto its kickstand and stepped off. He pulled his strange hockey stick weapon off his shoulder and walked.
“If nothing else, he’s brave,” Ramey said.
Peggy watched, her fingers digging into the armrests. “Stupid people usually are.”
It had been Wim’s idea to check the farmhouse. It reminded him of his own abode, although this house was much larger, easily two, maybe three times as big as his now abandoned home sweet home. Bundy and Mina went to check the barn and outbuildings for supplies. Wim turned to Emory who was busy eating a black banana he’d pilfered from a house earlier that morning. He extended it to Wim, who shook his head.
“Might be your last chance at fresh produce.”
Wim looked at the banana. “Fresh?”
“Perhaps fresh was an improper adjective, but still… beggars and choosers and all that.”
”I’m fine. Thank you.” Wim shut off the truck and grabbed his rifle. “You wait here until I make sure the coast is clear.”
“I’ll do no such thing, William. I’m old but not entirely feeble.” Emory grabbed one of the revolvers and was out of the Bronco before Wim could object.
They climbed onto the porch and Wim pushed open the front door. It swung inward, unimpeded. That opened in to the kitchen and Wim hoped they’d find some jarred meat. He’d already grown tired of canned tuna and chicken and just the thought of beef or venison got his mouth watering fierce. But they needed to make sure the house was empty before snooping could commence.
All the rooms on the ground floor were empty. The upstairs was a repeat. Emory discovered an old Flintlock muzzle loader mounted on the wall and pointed it out to Wim.
“Should we take this?”
“Oh, geez, I haven’t shot one of those in 20 years. That’s one step up from what they used in the Revolutionary War. If we’re that desperate, I’d say we might as well curl up and die.”
Emory grinned. “I defer to your knowledge.”
They returned to the first floor and rummaged for food. They found some, but nothing great. And certainly no meat. Wim noticed a door in the corner. He’d been in enough farmhouses to know it led to the root cellar. He reckoned there was a good chance for fruit and vegetables down there. And maybe… no, he was finished getting his hopes up.
As he turned the porcelain doorknob, a gunshot came from outside.
Emory looked out the kitchen window. “This looks like a pickle.”
&
nbsp; Wim joined him at the window and when he looked toward the barn, he saw a dozen or so zombies shuffling out the barn doors and into daylight. Before he could react, the cellar door opened.
When Wim and Emory turned, they saw a group of Amish zombies filing into the kitchen.
“This is like the ice cream all over again,” Wim said.
“Pardon?”
“Never mind.”
Wim shouldered the rifle and started shooting. He took out three of the zombies, but the rest closed in too quick. The creatures were going to overrun them fast if they lingered.
“Get out!” he shouted to Emory who obeyed, scurrying out the door.
Wim backed out of the kitchen. He shot one more and dropped it. He saw at least six more coming and slammed the door closed but it only bounced in the frame. As the two men fled across the lawn, the zombies followed.
Bundy had fallen in a mud pit and was sunk to his knees. Two zombies which had wandered out of the barn approached. Their feet also plunged into the muck but they managed to trudge ahead.
Mina remembered the little pistol she had tucked in her pocket. Bundy had been giving her shooting lessons and said she was a quick learner. But there was a difference between shooting oil cans and moving targets. And it was especially different when you could stand there and be calm about it versus when it mattered in a life and death situation.
She fired her pistol and hit a zombie, but only connected with its chest. The monster didn't flinch. A second shot went wide and splinters of wood exploded from the barn wall.
Shit, she thought, this is so hard. “Why even bother? You can’t do nothin right, Birdie,” her daddy’s voice echoed through her head. Maybe he was right but she didn’t want to hear it.
She steadied her shaking hands, aimed again, and fired. The third shot pierced the zombie’s head and, as her daddy often said, it dropped like a whore’s drawers. “What do you think of me now, Daddy?” she muttered.
Bundy dug through the mud, trying to find a gun he dropped when he fell, but had no luck. The second zombie was two big steps away from him. Mina shot again and missed again.
“He’s gonna die, Birdie. This is all your fault,” her daddy cackled. “You got him killed. Hope you’re happy with yo’self.”
Mina aimed the pistol, steadying herself. She aimed it at the zombie’s head, held her breath, and pulled the trigger.
The gun only clicked.
In her head, her daddy laughed and laughed.
36
As Aben swung the hammer at the old man, a gunshot rang out and startled him so badly that he flinched in mid-swing. The hammer only caught the zombie’s nose. It folded over sideways like a piece of putty.
He turned toward the sound of the shot but forgot about looking for the source when he saw dozens of zombies shuffling out of the church, down the steps and into the road by their vehicles.
The old zombie took advantage of Aben’s attention being diverted and grabbed a handful of his long, stringy hair. It pulled his head back, toward its gaping mouth. Aben could hear its jaws snapping together and thought it an odd, plastic sound. Dentures, he assumed.
Aben spun around and lost a clump of hair in the process. It ripped free from his skull and he saw a chunk of bloody skin hanging from the root end, but he paid it little attention.
He smashed the hammer into the zombie’s mouth and his suspicions were confirmed when big chunks of fake teeth and pink plate fell free from its broken jaw. He reared back with the maul, this time slamming the pointed end into the zombie’s temple. Its head burst open and black brains fell out as it hit the ground.
Aben turned back toward the horde of zombies, toward his companions. He saw Dash fire three more rounds. Bolivar raised his pistol, fired two quick shots, and Aben saw a zombie’s head explode. He ran toward his new friends.
Bolivar and Dash found plenty of guns in the sporting goods store, but all were locked in display cases with glass that looked thick enough to support the weight of an elephant.
“We need that damned maul of Aben’s,” Dash said and moved toward the exit.
Bolivar doubted that the hammer would break the glass. He suspected it was bulletproofed. Looking for a key was a better plan. He did just that until he heard Dash mutter something unintelligible through the shrieking of the alarm. That was followed by a gunshot.
Bolivar ran to the exit and saw Dash standing just outside the doorway, rifle pressed against his shoulder, and aiming it in the direction of over 40 zombies. They filed out of a gray, stone church which, if the ornate stained glass windows were any sign, was Catholic. They must have gone to church when they got sick, Bolivar thought. Went there to pray for forgiveness and salvation, but died there instead. It gave him a pang in his heart as he thought about all the Sunday mornings he’d spent at Mass, somewhat bored but also in awe of the spectacle of it. He’d even considered becoming a Priest at one time, but never felt the calling was strong enough to commit.
When Dash killed three more zombies, Bolivar snapped out of his introspection and used his pistol to kill two others. They’d made a small clearing and Dash took the opportunity to make his move.
"We’ll flank ‘em!" he said as he ran toward the gazebo. He bounded up the steps in two large gallops and steadied the rifle against the railing. Dash picked off zombies one by one, never missing a head shot, and Bolivar had to admire his aim, if not his sense.
Bolivar saw Aben loping toward him, the hammer clutched in his hand in a death grip.
“My pistols are in the car!” Aben said as he joined Bolivar outside of the shop. The path to the car was blocked by zombies. “Did you get anything inside?”
Bolivar shook his head. “Everything’s locked tight. Try to break the locks.”
Aben ran into the shop and Bolivar covered the door. He shot a girl that couldn’t have even made it to her teens and watched her pigtails whip black blood through the air as she spun in a circle and fell to the ground. He heard a crash inside the shop and looked back to see Aben standing at a gun case where the lock was damaged but holding.
“Not gonna keep me out, you bastard,” Aben said and raised the maul high over his head. He brought it down with all the strength he possessed. As Bolivar watched his wild hair and fly from the effort, he thought Aben looked every bit the part of a deranged Viking. Or a Norse God. The hammer connected with the lock which fell to the floor in pieces.
Bolivar rushed back into the shop and loaded a pistol for Aben. His hands quivered as he shoved ammunition into magazines. He realized he was absolutely terrified.
37
Mead wasn’t scared as he approached the zombies. No, this was his chance to prove himself with Ramey watching. She’d saved him from one zombie, but now it was his turn to save her from dozens. Doubt didn’t even lurk at the deep recesses of his consciousness, he knew he could do it. He’d kill the fuckers and win her heart. It would happen. He was sure of it.
He noticed all the zombies dressed alike. The males wore plain black trousers and white shirts. The women ankle-length dresses. Amish zombies, I’ll be shit, Mead thought.
He spotted Wim’s truck ahead, as well as the ambulance, but saw none of the people he’d left behind earlier that morning. He wondered if they were all dead. He’d miss Wim and Emory, but at the same time, being the sole hero - the savior - had a certain appeal. That daydream dissipated when he heard a gunshot crack. Zombies don’t shoot guns, so at least one of them was still alive.
Four children and two adults shuffled toward him. He noticed two of the kids were girls who looked like twins. They had long blonde hair pulled up in buns and covered with a bit of white cloth. When he chopped off the top of the head of the first girl, that covering when soaring through the air along with a large chunk of skull and hair.
He swung the stick like a sword and lopped off the entire head of one of the adults, an Amish woman. Her skull rolled across the street where it got caught up in the feet of other incoming monsters whose shuf
fling legs kicked it to and fro like a soccer ball. Mead then impaled a zombie through the eye, jerked the stick free, swung around and spilled the intestines of another. It fell onto its knees and he shoved the knife end of the stick straight through its nose and deep into its skull.
Three more zombies were close by and they walked in a single file line toward him. Mead ran at them, holding his stick at waist level like a jousting lance. It pierced the stomach of the first, then the second and finally the third, forming a zombie kabob. He took a moment to snicker at the absurdity of it as they attempted to walk. They reminded him of foosmen and he thought he should retrieve the severed head for them to punt.
He grabbed a knife from his belt and stabbed the first through the eye. It dropped and pulled the other two with it, making them easy pickings. He stabbed both of them in the temples, then pulled his stick loose. It was covered in putrid, black zombie innards and his gloved hands became coated and slippery with them.
When he swung at the next zombie in line, the stick slid free from his grip and went skittering across the road. The zombie was within arm’s reach and Mead grabbed for a knife but before he could get it, a gunshot rang out so loudly that he thought he might go deaf. The zombie’s face collapsed inward at the bridge of its nose and it fell.
Mead looked and saw Ramey a few feet behind him, her pistol raised. Peggy was a yard or so back holding a shotgun they’d found earlier in the day. Mead had no time to thank the girl because more zombies were on the move.
Mina jumped into the mud pit, or maybe it was manure. It certainly stank. Her small, light body didn’t sink as deep as Bundy’s, or the zombie’s. She worked her way to the creature and grabbed its coarse, gray beard.
“Get away from it, Mina!” Bundy shouted.
