"I saved you. I could've left you there with all the zombies around, but instead I helped you. I fixed you up, I fed you, I did everything I could to make it better."
Tabitha laughed. "Give me a gun."
The men all laughed.
"But get his sorry ass off the back of the car. There are loaded shotguns in the trunk."
"Please, don't do this. Just let me go, let me live," Noah said and began to cry.
"Oh, I'm going to let you live," Tabitha said.
Two men dropped him to the grass.
Before he could plead with her again Tabitha had a rifle in hand and shot him in the thigh.
Noah screamed in pain, his cried mixed with the men laughing. She shot him in the other leg.
"I'm done with you. Noah, you had your chance with me so many times to make this better, and you never did. You hated me, thought I was godawful ugly, and pushed away my advances. Now it'll be your turn to survive without any legs."
Noah's head was swimming. "Please, kill me…"
Tabitha smiled at him. "Boys, move me to the truck. I'm tired. Oh, there's a bag of wooden figurines in the backseat. Can someone get them for me?"
M.J. O'Neill
When M.J. was six years old his parents took him to the circus, where he gorged himself on cotton candy (and threw it up in the parking lot), got close to the elephants (and realized he was allergic to hay), and saw the clowns.
The evil, evil clowns.
Coulrophobia was nothing to laugh at. M.J. still refused to go to the circus, watch any TV show as much as hinting at clowns, and was uneasy at Halloween, kid's birthday parties and grand opening events. Just in case.
He remembered when Peter had brought home a clown bank from a business trip to St. Augustine. He didn't know. They'd only been dating for two months, and fear of clowns never comes up in casual conversation, now does it?
M.J. had politely informed Peter his fear of clowns, and knew he'd found a soul-mate when, without a snicker, a joking comment or a bit of teasing, Peter simply nodded, put the satanic figurine back in its box, walked calmly to the curb, and buried it in this week's garbage.
He'd felt bad, he really had. Peter would never tell him what it had cost, only being kind and understanding. He was so precious, always the rock, always the one who could calm M.J. down during a crisis.
Right now he needed Peter more than any other day in his life.
There were two dozen zombie clowns between him and freedom.
* * * * *
They were everywhere: behind him two were trying to bust through the door from the hallway to get him, and six were in his immediate view in the main room. He was hiding behind an overlarge prop cannon and trying to figure out a route either behind or over the left bleachers without being seen.
Of all the places to break into, M.J. thought. Who knew Daytona Beach had a clown college?
Yet, here he was, trapped inside with so many his hands were shaking. Most of them stumbled in random directions in silence, smacking into the walls, the closed doors on the far wall, or falling onto the bleachers.
The small two-ring area in the center of the room was jammed with props, a small car M.J. was sure clowns could pile in, and an empty cage for (he guessed) lions.
There was nothing near him he could use as a weapon. The 9mm in his waistband was empty. He could use it as a club if it came to that, but he didn't want to get any closer to the zombie clowns than he had to.
He had the insane thought of jumping up with the gun and pulling the trigger and a flag popping out saying BANG.
I'm losing it, he thought. I'm going to die in here with a mess of clowns. And no one will know. Peter will wonder where I went off to.
If he could just get to the doors, or there was some way for the zombies to get out and leave him alone. But M.J. doubted either option was realistic.
The door behind him splintered on its hinges, drawing the attention of three undead nearby. They shuffled slowly across the floor. M.J. tried to fade into the cannon, holding his breath. Any moment one of them would see him and he'd be in trouble.
M.J. was normally a man of action, something Peter always loved about him. Where was that M.J. when he was really needed?
He decided right then he'd rather go down fighting than die hiding like a coward.
The empty pistol would have to do until he could find a more useful weapon.
The first zombie turned toward him just as the door was knocked off its hinges, crashing against the zombie and driving him to the floor.
M.J. took that as his sign to move, starting with jumping on the door and crushing the zombie underneath and hopefully doing some damage. A swipe with the pistol into the closest zombies head knocked him down.
Before he could take another swing the sound of gunfire startled him and he fell instinctively onto the door, further pinning the zombie.
His ears ringing, the sound of bodies dropping around him, M.J. could only stay still as the zombie underneath him squirmed and gnashed its teeth, pieces of its tongue dropping back into its throat.
He wondered if it was male or female. The face was so emaciated and skeletal he couldn't tell, especially without hair and ears. It was mere inches from him, snapping like a rabid dog.
M.J. didn't know if rising would allow it to move, but he didn't want to be bitten on the ass by one of its friends, so he rolled off the door and went to one knee, pistol in hand.
The room was empty of moving zombies, sunlight streaming in through the destroyed main doors. Six of the undead had been shot in the head, their bodies and body parts everywhere. Spent bullet shells littered the doorway.
M.J. was about to yell out but realized how stupid that would be on so many levels. He hadn't spoken to another living person in, what? Six days? A week? Two or three? He didn't remember.
Maybe it was Peter come to save him. He always seemed to get there just in the nick of time, swooping in like a superhero and saving the day. M.J. remembered when they'd first begun dating and his rent check bounced. Peter paid it in full without letting on. Or the time his car had died and Peter found a good mechanic in the neighborhood and paid for the repairs without M.J. knowing until that afternoon when he picked him up for work.
Peter needed to save him now, because he was losing his mind. He needed to leave this crazy room, with clown murals, tiny cars and dead clowns everywhere. "Help!" he screamed as loud as he could.
"One last time, be my guardian angel." M.J. walked quickly to the open doors and peered out, pistol pointing at the sky. He looked but didn't feel like James Bond.
The scene outside stunned him.
A horde of undead crammed into the street to his right, trying to crawl over the wall of dead before them. There must have been a hundred bodies piled like sandbags, from one end of the street to the other.
One corpse catching his attention was a huge, bloated clown, resplendent in the typical garb: overlarge red clown shoes, bulbous red clown nose, a bright checkered shirt with a yellow flower pinned to it, striped blue and green pants, and dyed orange hair that was ripped out in clumps and on the ground nearby.
Had he died beforehand and come back as a zombie, ending up in the pile as a walking body, or was he still alive and fighting in this gaudy outfit when he fell here?
In the distance, maybe even the next block over, the rapid pop of gunfire broke the silence. Someone was screaming commands but M.J. couldn't make out what they were saying.
He was sandbagged in, piles of the dead surrounding him like a flesh jail. His only escape would be to go back into the clown college and find the exit. He glanced back inside and didn't want to.
At certain parts of the wall it was low enough he could see the hungry undead, watching him as they tried in vain to push past and reach him. With so many M.J. knew it was only a matter of time before one section collapsed and they'd stumble silently toward him.
He needed something to defend himself with. M.J. got as close to the wall as he
could, in a spot where it was piled high, and looked for anything to use.
There were two small handguns, cold fingers wrapped around them, sticking from the pile. He gingerly pulled them away and smiled. They were both loaded.
While the fighting grew distant around him, the shouting too far away, and the gunshots fading, M.J. made a methodical search of the bodies he could reach without putting himself in danger or threatening to pull the wall down on top of him.
A headless military man had three grenades as well as a rifle and a bag filled with shells, and M.J. had more guns than he could carry now. He wondered if he had enough ammo.
He walked calmly up to one of the low points and began shooting the zombies point-blank in the face, one at a time, until he was out of ammo. Then he switched to the next gun, discarding the old in a neat pile in the center of the street, until he was completely empty.
A dent was made and more bodies added to the pile, but still they came, new undead attracted to the sound of gunfire.
M.J. continued his search for more weapons, finding a machete, more rifles and pistols, ammo, grenades and a box of hollow point bullets in an old woman's clawed lifeless hands.
He decided to see how powerful a grenade really was. Sure, he'd watched many war movies as a kid and knew what they supposedly did, but he wanted to see in real life.
Choosing a spot down the block where a group of zombies were kneeling and ripping the flesh from someone, he pulled the pin and threw with all his might. The grenade hit the pavement and bounced to the left before settling next to a building.
It felt like minutes passed and M.J. remembered, in those war movies, when the guy would pull the pin, count to five or ten or something, and then throw it. He decided he'd rather wait like this than get his hand blown off.
The blast knocked him back, not from the actual explosion but just from the scare when it suddenly went off. Only one of the zombies close enough was ripped apart and the rest continued to feast.
"Grenades are good," he said aloud and kept searching for weapons, smiling for the first time all day.
He picked up an automatic weapon, checked the clip and saw it was full, and went back to the low spot and began shooting, marveling at the many headshots he was getting. He was getting much better at this.
Still they came, stepping on and over the ones on the ground. M.J. knew if he wasn't careful he'd be building a natural ramp for them to climb on and get over.
Another half an hour of searching for weapons brought him a veritable pile of them, including makeshift sharpened sticks, knives, a sword, guns and ammo, and a nasty-looking scythe.
M.J. took the scythe to another low spot and began swinging, but he needed more room to actually make a dent in them and put it back in the pile. He used the automatic to drop the front five. He switched weapons, doing a quick grab across his body, and trying to fire in one motion.
He needed to work on that move. His first shot went in the air. He opened a hole in the ranks but there must've been another two score coming up the road.
"Time for a grenade," he said and threw another one. When it exploded, showering the area with body parts, he didn't flinch. Still they came.
M.J. was getting tired. His arms hurt and he was sweating from the work of pulling bodies around, shooting guns and tossing grenades under this Florida sun and the stress of the situation.
He decided to take a break but didn't want to go back inside the clown college despite the sunburn he was surely getting. With the sun moving above, the doorway was now in shadows. He sat down on the warm pavement and cupped his head in his hands, closing his eyes. A quick nap would suffice before he could continue his assault. Hopefully by then some of the zombies would grow bored and move off. He wondered if they actually grew bored, and what was keeping them where they were.
* * * * *
It was dark when he opened his eyes with a start, remembering where he was. His exposed skin was on fire thanks to sleeping in the sun, hot to the touch. He stood on shaking legs, using a rifle as a crutch, and surveyed his predicament.
They were still there, dozens of them, all surrounding his position. While he'd slept some of the bodies on top had been pushed or fallen into his 'safe zone'. He decided to build it back up, and even thought about body sandbagging the door to the clown college, since he'd never enter there again willingly.
M.J. didn't hear fighting, shouting or gunfire anymore and wondered when it tapered off. Perhaps everything had moved away from here and the undead would thin out and leave him alone.
He decided to not shoot any of them. Instead, he pulled some bodies off a section, made sure he had enough room to swing, and began attacking with the machete. It was slow work, and it took three or four swings to cleave through some of the necks.
Heads dropped around him as bodies fell, to be stomped on by the next in line.
Still they came, a wave of shuffling feet and extended arms.
"I'm done," M.J. said and put his heavy arms down, the machete feeling like a hundred pounds. He didn't make a dent in them. Since the wall was now twice as thick in this spot, he piled up more bodies and climbed up to get a better look.
They were stacked to the horizon, the zombies facing him and pushing forward as they moved. Slowly but surely.
Eventually the sheer weight of them, crushing into the wall like at a concert, would push the bodies down and forward, and he'd be reached.
M.J. decided to make his escape before he was boxed in.
He did a careful inventory of the ammo left, shoved loaded pistols in his waistband and in his socks, grabbed two rifles and slung them over his back, and began pulling the pins of grenades and tossing them in varying distances.
As they began exploding, he shot the closest undead in the face with a pistol until the clip was empty before dropping it and cycling to a rifle. He was up and over the wall, shooting and moving as he went. He threw his last two grenades and ran through the smoke, knocking over a zombie that appeared from nowhere.
He'd gotten almost a city block before he was stopped by the moving wall of the undead. He began taking slow steps back, firing as he went, and realizing too late what an awful plan this was.
There were zombies between him and the safety of the wall and he concentrated on shooting them, but even with all the weapons he was running out of bullets. There was smoke everywhere and it was hard to see where he was stepping and how close some of them were.
M.J. stopped when two heads appeared on the safe side of the wall and they were joined by another five men armed with rifles. They began shooting in his direction, zombies falling apart.
He felt relief as he moved, now out of bullets, but dodging and trying not to get bitten or pulled down.
The living men were coming from the clown college, a slew of military warriors armed to the teeth. He tried to yell but there was so much shooting he was drowned out.
He glanced back to see dozens of undead moving behind him, dead eyes fixed on him.
When the grenade bounced at his feet M.J. stared at it blankly before trying to run. Too late. As the grenade went off he decided (too late) that he should've gotten over his fear of clowns and gone back inside.
Brenda Ellis
The sharpened wooden broomstick plunged into Diane's face with a sickening squish. Brenda waited until she was sure her former assistant manager was dead before turning and puking onto the cleaning product aisle's floor.
"Cleanup in aisle nine," Brenda said to herself to keep from passing out at the horror she'd witnessed firsthand. She'd just killed someone. "She was already dead, girl," she murmured in her thick Texan accent. "Can't kill someone's already a goner, now can ya?"
"I'm not cleaning that up," her third key Bruce said and shook his head.
"I'm not asking you to do it," she said with irritation. "We have other things to worry about." Brenda turned her back and went to the store shelf, pulling a roll of paper towels down. The cheap brand. You never used the expe
nsive stuff for store-use.
Before Bruce could say anything she turned back to him and waved the roll. "We ran out last night. Will you add this to the store-use list?"
"What's the point?"
Brenda closed her eyes and sighed. "Because, when this all blows over, we'll need to have a list so we can take this out of the inventory."
Bruce opened his mouth to speak but waved at her instead. "I'll go write it down." He stepped over Diane's body. "I'm not cleaning that up, either."
"I might need your help."
He didn't bother answering, disappearing around an end-cap toward the front of the store.
Brenda and Bruce were now the last two left. She'd warned Diane not to sneak out the backdoor and see if any of the other stores in the strip-mall were open or if anyone had any news. Instead, she got bitten by the jerk next door at the packing store, a big chunk of her arm taken out.
Despite what the news was saying - before the radio went silent - Brenda didn't believe in people dying and coming back to life. That was fiction, and good ol' Texas gals didn't believe in what they couldn't see. Except, of course, the Almighty God Above.
She'd read a story once about zombies she didn't care for, but it was written by a friend and former store manager. He'd gone on to writing a few of those horrible books as well as making a movie out of one of them. She wondered what he was doing now, and supposed he might be starring in films. He was definitely good-looking and had the charisma.
"We can put her in the freezer units," Bruce said as he returned.
"They're not working." Nothing was working but luckily they had plenty of candles for sale. She'd store-used several each day, since they nailed wooden shelves over the doors and the windows above the front of the store.
"Well, I'm not going outside and tossing her in the dumpster. I heard things out there again, smacking against the walls."
Brenda heard scratching last night while they slept huddled behind the front counter. She wondered if it was twenty or twenty-one days since they'd locked the doors for good and boarded them up. It probably didn't matter at this point.
Still Dying: Select Scenes From Dying Days Page 6
