by A. R. Wise
I looked down at Stubs as he sat in my arms and said, “This isn’t going to be easy, little guy.” I unzipped my sweatshirt and tucked the pup inside. He was pressed between my undershirt and the sweatshirt, but it wasn’t a tight enough fit to ensure he would stay there. I would have to keep my arm under him, and I wasn’t sure I’d be able to hold on after leaping the gap.
I backed up while keeping my eyes on my desired landing spot. “You can do this.” I tried to assure myself. “You’ve got this.”
I could hear the zombies shuffling through the gravel on the side of the house, making their way over to the gap between this house and the next. It was now or never.
I ran the short distance down the sloped roof, gaining more speed than I’d intended, and then propelled myself across the gap with one arm flailing and the other wrapped under Stubs.
When I landed, the force caused my knees to buckle and I crunched up before falling over. My knees bashed into my chest, crushing poor Stubs in the process. I rolled to the right, and was lucky enough to land in a dented portion of the partially collapsed roof. The tree branch that had done the damage was still stuck here, and I tried to grip it to keep from falling. The roof gave way, as if it had been waiting for provocation to collapse for years now, and the rotted wood crumbled as Stubs and I fell through.
I’m not certain what happened next, although I have plenty of aches and pains to tell the story for me. This house had sustained significant damage from the fallen tree limb, and years of rain and snow had eaten away at the wood. My lunge to the roof had been all the building needed to finally give in, and I fell through the attic as well, landing in a heap on the floor of what had once been a little girl’s bedroom.
Dust and fragments of the ceiling fell down on top of me as I groaned in agony. Fading daylight shone in through the hole above like a beam from a dying flashlight, offering an insignificant view of my surroundings as I coughed and sputtered. The fall had stolen my breath, and my lungs were struggling to pull in air.
I sat up, and then panicked when I realized that Stubs was no longer tucked in my shirt. I looked around, and saw the limp pup laying off to the side, a lump of brown on the grey, moldy carpet.
Breath still eluded me as I got on all fours to crawl over to Ben’s dog. I was hunched over like a wounded animal, gasping as strands of spit fell from my lips. I blinked away the dust that kept invading my eyes and reached out to touch the dog I feared was dead. His pudgy little body was as still as a stone, sitting there in the faint light.
My lungs finally responded to my desperate attempts to breathe, and I gasped in relief as I pulled my way over to Stubs. I uttered, “Please, please, Stubs. Please be okay.”
I touched his side and felt his skin jerk from tension just as his little paws jostled. He whimpered, and my heart swelled. “Oh thank God,” I said as I turned the wounded dog over so that I could see his face. He whimpered again, and I knew he was hurt, but I didn’t see any blood, which was encouraging. I cautiously lifted him, apologizing to him as I did, and then cradled him as I stood.
My knee was pulsing, and my back felt like someone had taken a bat to it, but the most worrisome of my pains came from the shoulder that had been my scourge for months already. The wound from my fall off the steeple months back returned with vengeance, pounding as if a second heart was hiding just under the skin there. I tried to rotate my arm, but the pain was too intense, keeping me from raising my arm any higher than my shoulder.
“That’s not good.”
Stubs looked up at me with his one good eye, the other glancing off somewhere in the distance, and he whimpered in sympathy.
“Can’t worry about it now, right Stubs? We’ve got shit to do.”
I searched for my pistol, certain it had to be in the room with me somewhere, but there was no sign of it. I spun in a circle, and then got to my knees to look under the bed to see if it had somehow bounced that way, but it was nowhere. Perhaps it was up in the attic, stuck on a rafter, or maybe it was still on the roof. It didn’t matter where it had landed, I’d lost a good gun, and that would cost me.
The door to this room was closed, and I was cautious as I opened it. The house was quiet, except for the sound of the zombies outside. It didn’t seem like anything had broken in here yet, and I felt safe as I moved out into the hallway.
There were pictures on the wall of a happy family, each of them smiling for the camera. A mother and father, and one girl that I guessed was around five or six when the apocalypse began, at least based on the types of toys that had been in her bedroom. I saw her baby pictures on the wall, a pink bow clinging to wisps of blonde hair, and her parents smiling as they held her. The husband was a stout man, clean shaven and tall, with a smile that brought dimples to his wide cheeks. The mother was thin and pretty, with blonde hair that was only a little darker than her daughter’s.
I wondered how they’d met their end in the apocalypse. Were they among the survivors that had been tricked by the government into going to one of the camps where they would later disappear? Or had they succumbed to the first onslaught of the disease? Where was the little girl that had once played in the room I fell into?
What had finally killed her? It was foolish to wonder if she’d survived. Hardly anyone did.
I got my answer seconds after ruminating on the question. As I reached the stairs, I glanced into the master bedroom. A skeleton in a red dress was laid out on the bed, her arms wrapped around her child’s corpse. Time had long ago stripped away their flesh, leaving brownish bones behind that hadn’t been bleached white by the sun.
I didn’t have the heart nor the time to investigate further. I’d lived in the post-apocalypse long enough to guess what I’d find inside. Somewhere in that room would be the bones of the father that had so lovingly placed his wife and daughter on that bed. I imagine he’d been the one to kill them before taking his own life.
Now these faces staring at me from the walls felt like ghosts, hoping I’d take their memory with me, because the world would forget them otherwise.
I staggered my way down the stairs, confident that the pain in my side would lessen if I ignored it. The family had fortified themselves here, and their work had held up. They’d pulled boards out of the inner walls to nail against the doors and windows, and there was no sign that anything had broken through. The family’s demise was likely caused by the contraction of the disease. Perhaps the daughter had been ill, and infected the mother. Several scenarios danced through my imagination, but I forced myself not to consider any of them. They didn’t matter. None of the trials of those Reds mattered anymore.
The front door was fortified too well to bother trying to open. It would take me too much precious time to pull away the multiple boards. Instead, I went to one of the windows. The family had only nailed up a couple boards before pushing a curio cabinet in the way, blocking off access. I pushed the cabinet back, causing the trinkets within to rattle as I did. It didn’t take me much longer to pull away the board that the home’s owner had thought would protect them from a horde breaking in. This had been a feeble attempt to secure the home, and the family would’ve been doomed even if they hadn’t succumbed to infection.
Before I opened the window, I searched for a weapon. My gun was lost, and my knife was in my satchel instead of on my belt like it should’ve been. I hadn’t brought anything else with me except for Stubs, and I doubt he’d like it if I started smacking zombies with him. I headed for the kitchen, although I wasn’t looking for a blade. Knives are good for fighting humans, but useless against the undead. Zombies don’t care if you cut them. They don’t process pain, which means you can slice a hundred times and never slow them down. The best melee weapons to fight zombies with is by far a blunt one. Despite how these monsters seemed indestructible, a quick smack to the kneecap is often enough to send them tumbling to the ground. They might continue crawling your way, but if you can still run then you’ll be fine.
I found a rolling pin, but
it was an awkward weapon and I kept looking. I knew that time was a factor, and ended up grabbing a meat tenderizer with a rubber grip. I took a couple practice swings with it and then, feeling satisfied that this would work, headed back to the window.
I slid the window open and then stuck my fingers into the handles of the screen that would allow me to pop it out before pulling it inside, giving me a clear escape. I looked down at Stubs and said, “Wish me luck.” He whimpered in response.
We squeezed through the window one leg at a time, and then gazed out at the distance between this porch and the Jeep. It seemed an ocean away, and there were plenty of walking corpses in the way.
When a zombie horde moves, the ones in the front of the pack are spurring the fervor of those behind. They see or hear something, and are drawn to it, causing the head of the horde to surge with them, all of them enticed by the excitement of the first. The creatures in the back rarely have any idea what invoked the group’s movement, which often causes hordes to split in two, with the second group unwilling to chase whatever had drawn the first’s attention. Once a large portion of this horde had pushed their way into the house, another group was left wandering outside, unaware what everyone else was so excited about.
I knew there would be some zombies on the side of Ben and Harrison’s house, investigating the noise we’d caused when our makeshift bridge collapsed. It was clear that I’d be swarmed if I ran straight for the Jeep, but taking a longer trip around the cul-de-sac might endanger my friends. There were only a couple of zombies in my direct path. The rest of them were in the yard and around the tree that had grown in the driveway of the house.
I took a deep breath before rushing forward, relying on reckless bravery to save the day.
Note to self: Don’t bet on bravery.
I ran past a couple of zombies that didn’t have time to process what was happening. They twirled and growled, but were too slow to catch me. Another of the creatures stood directly in my path, and I knew I’d have to kill it if I was going to make it to the Jeep. He’d been a fat, slovenly man in life, and his weight slowed him in death as well. He didn’t have a shirt on, and I could see the wound that had killed him. His left breast was missing, as was a portion of his cheek, and there were gashes on his side from when he’d been a meal for the creatures that had murdered him. I noticed that the marks his flesh bore were clearly from an animal, but I didn’t have time to ponder what that meant.
He caught sight of me running at him, but not in time to do anything to stop me. I smashed the tenderizer against the side of his head with enough force to send him staggering to the side, out of my way as I rounded the front of the Jeep. There were at least ten other zombies within a few yards of me, and all of them turned their attention to me as I opened the door. If I could just get in, I’d be safe. I had the door open, and was just about to get in when something thudded against me.
I didn’t know what it was that hit me, but the attack had come low, striking my rear instead of my back. When a zombie attacks, they come at you with their hands first, grasping and pulling you into their gnashing teeth. They normally went for the throat, simply because that was usually the easiest place for them to dig into their meal. This time, I didn’t feel the grasping hands, and there were no teeth snapping at my neck. Instead, I felt myself being pulled back by something grabbing my sweatshirt. Then I felt myself being shaken, back and forth, before I turned to face my attacker.
A dog had come from within the horde on the street and had lunged at me. Its first bite only managed to earn it a mouthful of my sweatshirt, but when I turned it released its grip and lunged again. It moved too fast for me to defend other than to offer my arm. The dog was wiry and tall, with mottled brown and black fur that was stained with dried blood. It was emaciated, with ribs clearly defined, and the skin over one of its eyes had been torn away, leaving the blackened globe on full display as it peered up at me. Its maw clamped down on my left arm, which had been wrapped beneath Stubs to keep him safe.
The undead beast shook its head violently, pulling my arm along with it. I couldn’t help but yelp in pain. The creature’s jaws were tight, and I could feel its teeth on my bone as it jerked back and forth. I swung in desperation and smashed the dog’s head, but it didn’t let go. It pulled back in an attempt to drag me with him, but I refused to move. I tried to pull my arm back, but the dog was stronger than I expected.
When my left arm was pulled away from my stomach, Stubs fell from beneath my shirt. The poor dog barked as he landed at my feet, and I desperately tried to retrieve him. I dropped the mallet that I’d been carrying and reached down for Stubs, but the dog that had attacked me also saw the meal I’d inadvertently given up. He let go of my arm in favor of an easier target.
My hand was on Stubs when his killer snatched him away. I felt his soft fur slip out of my grip as the undead dog’s teeth gripped his neck and it stole him from me. I tried to chase after him, but my battle with the creature had given the horde around me time to reach us. The swell of undead closed the gap, and the dog that had taken Stubs was lost among them as I was pushed up against the Jeep. A female zombie, lithe and frail, had grabbed my shoulders and was lunging for my neck. I thrust my elbow into her and then decked her with my right hand, sending her staggering back a step. I was able to kick out at her, connecting with her waist and causing her to fall back into the arms of another monster.
If there was anything I could’ve done to save Stubs, I would’ve, but he was lost.
I got into the Jeep and tried to pull the door shut, but another zombie had gripped the top. His fingers crunched as I tried to close the door, but he stayed vigilant in his attempt to get me. Now there were several zombies reaching in at me, and they pulled the Jeep’s door open as they grasped at my clothes. One of them got my hair and pulled me partially out of the door as I scrambled to get the keys into the ignition.
My head was being pulled out of the Jeep and I could see teeth baring down on me as I turned the key. I slammed my foot on the gas, but the Jeep was still in park. The engine roared but I went nowhere as the horde flooded the vehicle, climbing over the hood and pulling at my clothes as they relentlessly bit at me. I had to blindly reach for the gear shift and I did my best to get it into drive. I didn’t normally drive this type of vehicle, and tried to remember which position would propel me forward.
I guessed wrong and the gear shift grinded as I put the vehicle into reverse, sending us back and onto the lawn of the house I was trying to get away from. I heard the thump of the Jeep striking a portion of the horde, and when I stopped the entire vehicle was at an angle. I wasn’t sure if one of the tires was resting on a curb or a body. The zombie that had been pulling at my hair had tried to scalp me, but the Jeep’s movement had broken me free of her grasp, albeit not before drawing blood from where she’d pulled some of my hair out. I could feel the hot liquid coursing down my cheek as I got the Jeep into drive and then sped out of the yard, kicking up dirt and grass as I went.
There were zombies on the hood, but they didn’t have a good enough grip to hold on. They slid off as the Jeep bounced over the curb and back down to the street. I was able to finally close the Jeep’s door as I headed out, and then I caught sight of the dog that had stolen Stubs away from me.
The creature was backing away with Stubs in its bloody maw, and it was growling at a zombie that was enticed by the fresh blood. Stubs was already maimed, his flesh ripped and his blood now tracing a path across the pavement from where his killer had taken its first bite. I swerved to hit the dog, knocking over another zombie in the process and sending the startled man tumbling over my windshield, cracking it as he did.
“Take that, you fucker,” I said as I heard the satisfying thump of the zombie dog hitting the Jeep’s bumper.
I looked at the blood stain in the rear view from where the zombie had ripped Stubs apart and crunched his tiny bones in its jaws. The sight sickened me.
I’d seen plenty of deaths in my time,
and lost more friends than I dared recall. This world would snatch away anyone, at any time, and barely give you a second to mourn them, but losing that little dog broke my heart. For reasons I can’t explain, having him ripped away from my grip felt like proof that I could never be a good mother. I thought of my mom, and the things she’d done to save Kim and me, and I was certain I could never be as strong as her.
If I couldn’t save a dog…
13 – Dead Dogs
Ben Watanabe
My back was against the side of the bed and my feet were on the opposite wall. I was doing my best to keep the horde from breaking in as Harrison stood on the bed above me, chopping his forest axe at the arms of the creatures that were reaching through. The upper left panel of the door had been broken open, and the creatures were clawing and biting at the wood in an attempt to widen the breach.
“We need a new plan,” said Harrison as he panted. He’d been chopping at the zombies since Annie had left, but they just kept coming. Each time he swung, another stream of black blood splattered across the ceiling in a wide arc. Severed fingers and hands flopped on the mattress, and I could hear Harrison’s feet splashing in the muck as he kept up with the carnage. “They’re getting in.”
My legs ached, and the bed posts were digging grooves in the wood floor from the amount of times the horde had nearly pushed their way in. I could look back over my shoulder at the door and see that Harrison was right. The horde’s numbers swelled, and they continued to press themselves against the door in a desperate attempt to get in. They wouldn’t stop, no matter how many times Harry chopped at their hands, and the door was beginning to break apart.
