“Wow, I just got a whiff of that. Are you sure there’s no zombies in there?”
“It’s a different smell. Death is more rank. You know, you almost taste pennies in your mouth when a ripe one is near. It just smells like old garbage in there but it’s still bad. Get the bag ready, we’re gonna make this fast.” Roger readies himself with Brett directly behind. In they go.
Roger secures the front door by wrapping the Bungee cords around the handles as tight as he can.
“You never know,” Roger says as Brett rolls his eyes, again.
The store is poorly lit, making the use of flashlights necessary. The two boys remove mini mag-lights from their belts and proceed deeper into the store. The smell is grotesque and close to vomit-inducing, but it’s definitely missing the blood-like taste zombies bring with them. The store has been ransacked, as expected. There won’t be anything good like Pop-Tarts or chili left, but there’ll be cans of creamed corn and other wonders of the food industry no 12 or 13 year old would ever want to eat. But food is food, and they are in dire need.
Up and down the aisles they walk, studying the debris for signs of something good to grab. Roger found a few boxes of Band-Aids and one last tube of Neosporin. Brett remains close behind picking through the same piles, looking over the same nearly empty shelves. This ensures nothing will be missed and it keeps them together. There is no splitting up like in the movies. A minor jackpot is found when Roger comes across a whole box of energy bars left under a small pile of empty potato chip bags, Ruffles and Doritos to be exact, and empty cans of Monster.
“Holy shit. This box is full.” Roger turns excitedly to Brett, holding the box out. Brett glances at it briefly.
“Enjoy them. They’ll kill me.”
Roger flips the box around, reading the full title. Peanut butter and Fudge stands out like a neon sign.
“That sucks, dude. I forgot you were allergic. Maybe we’ll find more.”
“Ya, maybe. I should look for another EpiPen while we’re here.” Brett steps past Roger with his head hanging low.
“We’ll find something else. Something really good that you can have for yourself.” Roger slips the box of energy bars into Brett’s duffle bag as he passes.
The boys remain diligent in their search and it eventually pays off. Not only do they find the full box of energy bars, they come across several single serving bags of Cheetos and Lay’s Baked chips, three cans of diet Sprite and one can of Coke. They also find packs of generic AA batteries, a small bottle of rubbing alcohol, several bars of soap, clean dish towels and six boxes of Diamond stick matches. But the crème-de-la-crème is waiting for them in the back of the store.
The boys stand in a doorway, staring at a fully wrapped pallet of boxed and canned goods. They can see through the clear cellophane wrap. The pallet contains boxes of Top Ramen, cereal, oatmeal, cans of tuna, and so on. The bottom of the pallet is lined with cases of bottled water.
Roger steps closer and studies the pile. “There’s cans of sterno in here, bags of rice and I think there’s more energy bars in the middle.” He steps back, watches as Brett peels more cellophane away from the bundle of goods.
“I don’t like this. This doesn’t look like a typical delivery. This looks like somebody wrapped this up after the zombies came. They’re probably coming back for it.”
Brett stops what he’s doing and turns around to face his friend. “Dude, let’s grab what we can and get going. Smash and grab, that’s how we do it. We’ll come back next week for more. Even if somebody put this all together and wanted to come back they’re probably dead.”
Roger stares at the pallet. He is 13 years old and already developing an ulcer, or so he thinks, but he can’t ignore the logic Brett is speaking. They need food and supplies, and it’s sitting right in front of them. Roger retrieves the Buck Knife from the small holder on his belt, flipping it open. He steps past Brett and cuts a long downward swath on the cellophane. Soon the duffle bag and Roger’s backpack are full.
Roger tests the weight of the duffle bag. “If we get into some shit out there don’t hesitate to drop this. I have plenty in the backpack. We can always come back for more.” Roger grins stupidly at his friend.
Brett laughs out loud. “See, I told you everything would be OK. Those things are beginning to drop dead…you know what I mean. I bet you things will be back to normal. Well, as normal as they can ever be again.”
Roger nods his head, continuing to grin as his stomach turns over and over. He can feel bile rising in his throat. The feeling something bad is going to happen keeps inching its way into his head. He wishes he could approach every day with the same youthful abandonment Brett does, but he can’t. He’s in charge. He’s responsible. He’s no longer a 13 year old pissing away the days on X-box, Facebook and mindless hours on the Internet watching porn behind his parents’ backs. He’s a 13-year-old survivor in a city full of zombies, and the last time he looked, they weren’t the real monsters.
The boys walk through the dark middle aisle of the small grocery store, towards the front door. Brett has already removed a berry-flavored energy bar from its wrapper and is shoving one end in his mouth. He turns and begins walking backwards in front of Roger, making lewd gestures with the energy bar simulating fellatio. This time Roger has the chance to roll his eyes. Brett smiles and turns, approaching the front entrance. He remains fixated on the jumbled mess of Bungee cords Roger secured the entrance with, not looking beyond.
Roger stops, grabs Brett by the shoulder, pulling him back from the door. “Shhh, it got up.”
Brett, with half the energy bar protruding from his mouth, stares at the back of the zombie standing outside the door. He swallows a large piece of the energy bar that hurts as it passes through his esophagus. “I thought…we checked it on the way in,” Brett says..
“We did. I guess it was tired or sleeping.”
Brett asks, “Do zombies sleep?”
“Not in the movies I’ve seen.”
“Can’t we take care of this one and get back to the tree house?” Brett begins inching closer to the door.
“Probably. We’ll need a good plan.” As Roger steps closer to the door, his eyes widen. Just over the zombie’s right shoulder he sees three more walking into the parking lot. “Shit, there’s more coming. We need to move away from the door and hope they don’t push on it.”
The boys start backing away. The zombie outside the door turns in slow motion. Roger knew it was going to happen, that their luck was going to run out and they were going to die. Foggy grey eyes lock on him.
“Shit!” The word escapes from under Roger’s breath.
The zombie pushes on the doors, feeling the bungee cords give a little. They do the job, for the moment at least.
“Fuck, man, if more of those things join it, we’re fucked,” Brett whispers.
“Just keep backing up slowly. We’ll find another way out. I saw a delivery door in the back near the pallet. Hopefully these things are just coming to the front of the store.” Roger continues stepping backwards. His left foot comes down on a small can of sliced Black Olives. He slips, crashing backwards into an empty end cap display. His weight, combined with the heavy backpack, smashes into the shelves, causing a loud echoing noise throughout the store. The zombie at the door pushes and pulls on the handles violently.
In the parking lot a runner, a heavy set white male in a puffy orange tattered jacket, sprints towards the front doors of the grocery store, drawn by the movement and actions of the other zombie. He plows into the back of the first zombie, propelling them both far across the doors threshold, and then they stop. The Bungee cords stretch their full length, stiffen and hold. The heavy zombie spills forward over the stretched cords. The runner, confused by the situation, begins fighting with the cords, stumbling backwards out of the store, buying the boys a few seconds.
Brett helps Roger to his feet. Their eyes meet briefly and Roger can see his friend is scared shitless. Roger un-slings the .
22 rifle, bracing it against his right shoulder. His trigger finger glides effortlessly over the safety. He aims for the left eye of the zombie, sitting mere feet from him, and pulls the trigger. The sharp pop from the .22 long rifle hollow-point echoes off the walls of the ransacked market. The zombie is no more.
Outside the store more zombies arrive. The runner finds the front door again and begins battering it.
“He’s pissed,” Brett says, grabbing Roger by the shoulder. Both boys sprint to the rear of the store and into the back storage area, closing the door behind them. The door is hollow with a basic lock on it.
“This door won’t hold them out. We need to get out of here.” Roger crosses the storage area, past the pallet loaded with supplies, and seizes the heavy handle of the rear delivery door in his left hand.
“Stay behind me. I’m just going to look outside for any movement. I think they’ll all be at the front of the store, thanks to the fat fuck out there.” Roger braces his hands against the heavy door. Brett turns briefly to check the door they had just come through, noticing an iron ladder bolted to the side of the wall, leading up to a small loft area over the meat and produce counters.
Roger pushes the handle down, opens the door slightly and peers outside. Zombies everywhere. He pulls the door shut as quietly as possible.
“We’re fucked, they’re all over. I don’t understand, we saw one zombie on the way here and he was hanging from a streetlight. Where are they coming from?” Roger’s voice is dejected. He has led them into a trap and soon they will be meals for the dead.
“Like I said before, don’t know, don’t care. What I do care about is that ladder over there. Lets’ climb up and hide. Maybe they’ll just go away.” Brett points to the ladder.
“Better than dying down here. Let’s go.” The boys start walking to the ladder when they hear a crashing sound from the front of the store. “They’re in,” they both say, sprinting for the ladder. A few moments later the runner finds the hollow door, making quick work of it. He crashes into the back storage area, resembling a ravenous wild animal. He runs from wall to wall slamming his hands into the rough cinder block. Chunks of his dead flesh remain behind, slipping slowly to the floor. His eyes, never blinking, search for movement, finding none, but it doesn’t leave. Six more zombies soon join it. Up above in the small loft area, Roger and Brett wait quietly for their unwanted guests to leave. Roger has to pee.
CHAPTER 7.
A few weeks ago.
Roll call was complete and there were only two students absent, though the one girl sitting near the center of the room didn’t look so hot. From what Jack guessed she usually had impeccable makeup and her hair was normally not so…greasy or sweaty. Jack couldn’t tell which one. But by the fuss her friends were making over her he knew something was wrong. The three girls sitting around her were attempting to help her primp but she seemed disinterested in their ritualistic routine. Jack peered back down at the student roster and seating chart, thinking her name might be Brittany. He never really got to know the students by name; a benefit of substitute teaching.
The three girls continued fussing over their friend as quietly as possible when Jack spoke up again. “Alright class, my name is Mr. Elliott. I will be your substitute teacher for at least the remainder of this week. Let’s see here, Mr. Robertson is out but should be back next week. I have his lesson plan right here so let’s pick up with the origins of the Revolutionary War.”
Just as a male student with a sloping brow and the inability to sit with his mouth closed was about to speak, the school’s assistant principal stuck her head in the door.
“Mr. Elliott, can I speak with you outside for a moment?” Rhonda Tredwell was a five-foot-six-inch tall woman of color. Jack couldn’t tell if she was African American or for lack of a better term a mix. Her skin was light brown, her eyes were dark brown and her hair was jet black. Jack found her beautiful, nearly majestic.
“Sure thing, Ms. Tredwell. Class, I’ll be back in a moment. Take this time to talk amongst yourselves. I’m sure the Revolutionary War will wait for us.” Jack smiled at the class. They didn’t notice him.
Jack stepped out with the assistant principal, closing the door behind him. “What can…” He was interrupted immediately.
“Brittany Saunders, the little blonde sitting in the middle of the class.”
Jack spied the girl through the small window in the door. She was sitting quietly and appeared to be listening to two other girls sitting beside her.
“What about her?” Jack asked, confused.
“We just received word from the police department her father, well he may have killed her mother this morning after she left for school.” Ms. Tredwell looked over Jack’s shoulder, peering through the same window in the door at the class. Ms. Tredwell added, “She doesn’t look well.”
Jack, who had never faced such a situation with a student in all his years as a substitute, said with some uncertainty, “I noticed her friends keep fussing over her but she seems a bit out of it. Are the police on their way here?”
“They called ahead to make sure she was in class. They said there was a death in the family and they needed to find Brittany. One of our administrators lives down the street from them and saw several police dragging her father out of the house. He said his mouth and face were covered in blood and he was putting up one hell of a fight, even trying to bite the officers.”
“Wow, that sounds a bit odd, but Ok, what do you want me to do?”
“Just keep her in the class…Holy shit!”
Jack had been standing with his back to the door when Ms. Tredwell screamed. It was followed by complete pandemonium as the students all attempted to push their way through the door at the same time. Jack and Ms. Tredwell were knocked to the ground as the stampeding students scrambled in all directions. Jack looked up to see Brittany charging for the door. There was something red hanging from her mouth. Her eyes were a foggy grey. Jack jumped to his feet and grabbed the door to the classroom. He swung it shut just as Brittany hit the other side. Her weight and momentum surprised Jack but he held the door. Ms. Tredwell joined him placing her weight against the door as well. They both looked through the small window and watched Brittany pounding and scratching at the door. Her fake fingernails soon broke free from her hands, taking most of the original nails with them. A sound, not human, but more animal or monster if one had to describe it, emitted from the small teenage girl. She continued her rampage against the door.
Both Jack and Ms. Tredwell watched as another girl slumped over her desk began stirring. The girl had long black hair and wore a yellow sweater that was now soaked in blood. As she sat back in her desk, Ms. Tredwell gasped. The girl’s head swayed to one side, exposing a large gaping hole in her neck. Her eyes were a foggy grey just like Brittany’s.
“I hope the police arrive soon.”
“Me too,” Ms. Tredwell said as she turned away from the window and placed her back against the door.
“You wouldn’t happen to have a key to this door would you?” Jack asked, continuing to watch the unbelievable happenings inside the classroom. “I really don’t want to hold it all day,”
Ms. Tredwell pulled a small ring of keys from her pocket. In the distance they heard sirens.
Two classes over, Roger Girard and Brett Bellman, along with Ms. Cochran’s entire English class, watched from the big bay window as the students from the History class went running and screaming in all directions.
“Does this mean class is out for the day?” Brett asked.
“Shut up Brett,” Ms. Cochran snapped.
Police and Fire soon arrived, taking control of the situation, or so Jack thought. He was asked some very cursory questions then allowed to leave. He watched briefly while students assembled in the middle of the sports field. Teachers and other administrators were busy with roll call and emergency administration. Most of the students appeared perplexed and frightened. Jack started to walk towards the field then decided to us
e his status as a mere substitute to his advantage and walked to his car. There was an air of something larger, more complex happening, but the police weren’t letting on. There wasn’t widespread panic but Jack felt it descending upon him, the school, and the city. He weaved his way through many police and fire vehicles to his 98 Ford Taurus wagon sitting near the exit.
The alarm and auto locks had long stopped working on the wagon so Jack had to use the key. As he slipped the key into the door he noticed a large line of vehicles gathering near the entrance.
“Wow, they notified parents fast,” Jack said aloud to nobody. He slid in behind the wheel and started the car. The radio was set to Redding’s very own AM 530. It aired NPR in the morning, and local and state news in the afternoon. An annoying buzz was playing on the radio. Jack instantly turned it down. He made his way out of the parking lot driving past a long line of waiting cars. He watched the faces of the people he passed. The last car, a SUV, contained a woman in her mid thirties with her hair pulled back. She was staring down at what Jack could only guess was her radio. She held her hands her mouth as though she had just gasped and her eyes were wide. Jack reached over and turned his radio back up.
The annoying buzz had ceased. Now a man spoke. Emergency officials have now confirmed the closure of Redding Medical Center. At this time we do not have full details regarding this closure but we have been asked to relay the following street closures to you. Pine St to…
The voice from the radio continued rambling off street names. Jack half paid attention as he drove across town. He traveled north on Churn Creek Rd approaching the Four Corners. Four Corners was in reality the intersection of Churn Creek and Bachelli Ln. There was shopping on two corners, a Circle K on another, and a small park on the fourth, yet the area remained the Four Corners through its unremarkable existence. Jack was the first car sitting at the red light. Bachelli Ln had the green for east-west traffic.
Dust of the Devil's Land Page 4
