…are asking that residents within the city limits remain indoors. Those of you with children in school should call the school first before attempting to pick your child up.
Jack looked down at the radio, perplexed. The incident at the school, the Redding Medical Center closed, nothing was adding up. Maybe it was a contagion, chemical or even a bad strain of the flu. Redding didn’t seem the sort of town that would be the target of a terrorist plot. Hell, it was west coast and not even the good west coast. It was in Northern California, for God sakes. Jack shook his head in disgust and looked back up at the traffic light. It all happened in slow motion.
The light was still red. Jack’s eyes left the traffic light, catching movement in his rearview mirror. The light colored sedan approaching the intersection from behind him was traveling much too fast. It passed Jack on the left side barely missing his side mirror, colliding with a purified water delivery truck broadside. The driver and passenger in the sedan were both ejected through the front windshield of the car straight into the side of the truck, killing them instantly. Jack scrambled out of his vehicle just as several other onlookers did.
“Call 911,” several voices called out. Jack pulled his iPhone from his front pocket. The battery was almost dead.
“Shit.” He slipped the phone back into his pocket. Traffic had come to a standstill at the Four Corners. The driver of the delivery truck exited through the passenger side and walked back around to the destroyed sedan and its now ejected passengers.
“Aw shit, man. This is fucked up,” the driver said while several people gathered around snapping photos with their phones. Jack wasn’t one of them. He stood behind the growing crowd, looking around, waiting to hear the sirens or see any emergency personnel.
“Hey. HEY!” Jack raised his voice to gain the growing crowd’s attention. “Did anybody call 911?”
“I’ve been trying since this happened. All the circuits are busy,” a pretty blonde lady said, clutching her knock-off Gucci bag close to her chest.
“Me too. I can’t get through,” a second person said.
Jack pulled his phone back out of his pocket and dialed the three numbers. He touched the speakerphone button. Beep beep beep, “All circuits are busy right now. Please try your call again later.” Jack held the phone flat in the palm of his hand. He stared at the screen for what felt like minutes. He looked up at the faces in the crowd. Their eyes were all on him.
“Does anybody have a clue as to what’s going on?” The question floated out like a silent fart in a movie theater. People looked around, noses crinkled, while confusion grew across their faces.
Then it happened.
“Damn dude, are you OK?” a young man wearing a backwards Oakland A’s hat asked.
It pushed itself away from the side of the delivery truck. Half of its’ face remained on the truck but its brain case remained intact. Its back was facing the crowd, then it turned. Its knees were mangled badly, but enough muscle, tendons and sinew remained holding the legs together. It wouldn’t be running down prey, but if said prey was standing close enough…
“Whoa, dude, your face is…gone man. Shit, you should sit down.” The young man reached out to help the accident victim.
“NO,” Jack yelled. The world around Jack slowed again. He watched as the young man placed a kind hand on the accident victims’ shoulder.
“Duuuuude, yooooouuuuuur eyyyyyyeeeess.”
The zombie pounced and reality snapped back in place. The few jagged teeth it had left in its mouth tore a gaping hole in the good Samaritan’s neck. The young man screamed and battered the zombie’s half-face and chest until he freed himself from the monster. He collapsed to the ground within a few steps, his hands pressed firmly against the gaping wound in his neck. The commotion around him was drowned out by the sound of his own beating heart. It was slowing as his own warm blood pumped out through his fingers onto the ground. Thump, thump… thump. The light of the day slowly shrank to a pinhole in a black blanket, then was gone.
The onlookers fled the scene. Vehicles sped through surrounding parking lots. Jack slid back into his station wagon, slamming the gear lever down into D. Nothing. The car wouldn’t move. He checked the ignition, turned the key over and over but still nothing. Sound faded and the world grew silent. Jack looked up and could see the young man rising from the street. He was soaked on one side in his own blood. He turned, looking in Jack’s direction. His eyes were grey and dead. He walked towards Jack.
“Time to go, Jack,” the voice said from the passenger seat.
“What?” Jack looked over to the seat. “Julia, why are you here?” he spoke to the ghost of his dead wife.
“WAKE UP, JACK!”
CHAPTER 8.
The Squad
A few more zombies wander into the small storage area behind the meat and produce counters of the market. They walk about the cramped area, bumping into one another, periodically falling or tripping over something. Roger and Brett watch silently from their perch. Just three feet from Roger, the iron ladder spans the wall from floor to loft with nothing to block anyone or anything from climbing it. Roger has witnessed zombies climbing over small obstacles, such as short fences, mounds of dirt and sometimes bodies, but he has never seen a zombie climb a ladder. He hopes they haven’t learned that trick recently.
“How long do you think they’ll stick around?” Brett asks without taking his eyes off the walking dead.
“No idea. One of them is really ripe, though. I feel like I’m going to puke.” Roger slowly scoots back from the edge in order to escape the smell.
“Yeah, they stink when they’re inside like this. I hope they leave soon.”
“Me too. I really have to take a piss.” Roger rests on his back trying not to think about peeing.
“You’re like a chick, you know that don’t you,” Brett said with a sly smile.
“You suck.” Roger’s side is beginning to ache.
“Dude, if you have to go, just go. Who’s going to care? You can piss in the corner.” Brett points to a dark corner at the far end of the loft area.
“Fine.” Roger twists the top of his small Maglite, cupping the end with his hand, allowing only a narrow stream of light to escape. He crawls across the loft, stopping to listen and feel for soft spots in the loft floor. After what seems an eternity, he finally makes it to the far end of the loft, sets the flashlight down and begins unbuckling his belt. He unbuttons his jeans, pulls up the dirty t-shirt and thermal top, pulls down his semi fresh boxers and begins relieving himself. He closes his eyes as the pressure in his insides begins to subside.
Crack.
Roger’s eyes pop open. His knees begin to sink into the loft floor, which isn’t a floor; it’s the ceiling over the produce counter. “Oh shit.” Roger looks directly at Brett. The ceiling gives way, sending Roger crashing into the produce counter below. He lands face-first in spoiling tomatoes. His goggles are dangling from his neck, providing no cover for his eyes. He finds himself weaponless with spoiled tomato guts in his eyes and sitting in the middle of a zombie-infested grocery store. Four zombies are within twenty feet of him. Roger looks upward as rotting tomato guts drip from his face. He sees Brett staring down at him, holding the .22 rifle, shaking his head up and down. Roger shakes his head side to side, mouthing silently, “Save the ammo.”
Roger hops from the produce counter and slips in a pool of spoiled produce. He hits the floor hard, knocking the wind from his lungs. Looking up, he sees he has gained the full attention of the surrounding zombies. They converge and he rolls under the produce table.
Phht
Phht.
Two of the four zombies drop to the floor, missing most of their heads. One is facing Roger where he hides under the table. It wasn’t Brett shooting them. He would have heard the shots. Phht, Phht. The last two zombies topple to the floor. Roger peeks out from his hiding place. Standing in the beverage aisle is a figure draped in black, wearing some sort of a facemask, carrying a we
apon Roger has only seen while playing Call of Duty: Modern Warfare. A long, black cylinder protrudes from the end of the weapon, which Roger can only guess is a silencer. The figure moves closer with the weapon held at the ready.
“Oh shit, you’re military. I’m fucking dead,” Roger says out loud holding his hands up.
“Not military and you’re not dead. Where’s your friend?” The voice is hushed, muffled by the mask.
“I’m alone,” Roger answers, hoping the masked individual with the big gun will buy the lie.
“Bullshit, little man. We’re not here for you but we can be if you push us.”
“He’s up there.” Roger points to the hole in the ceiling. “There’s a ladder in the back but there’s a bunch of zombies back there. There is a runner and he’s pissed.
“No worries, kid. Stay with Giant.” The figure moves to the short hallway leading back to the storage area.
“Giant?” The statement perplexes Roger, and then he sees him. The figure is dressed in the same style of uniform. There are no identifying patches or insignias. His face is covered and he carries the same weapon as his partner. He is massive, standing at least six-foot-five and weighing in at nearly 280lbs. His shoulders are extraordinarily broad and his chest is large and exaggerated by the black chest armor he is wearing.
“You boys did good. I’m impressed. Found this store and the food we were saving for our squad.” His voice isn’t hushed like the other. It is deep, full of bass. Roger stares at the figure, wondering what’s going to happen to him and Brett.
Brett scoots against the opposite wall of the loft. He is in the dark and wants to remain that way. His best friend is about to die and he can’t do anything about it. He holds the .22 tight against his chest.
Phht, phht, phht. Bodies hitting the floor are heard shortly after the shots. One zombie falls against a wall then onto a mop bucket. Phht, phht, phht. More bodies hit the floor, then silence, followed by light footsteps. They grow closer to the ladder and the entrance to the loft.
“You can come out, kid. They’re all really dead this time.”
Her voice is one of an angel, Brett thinks as he scoots to the edge of the loft. He looks down at the blonde haired lady wearing an almost solid black outfit with elbow and kneepads. She has on chest protection and a small mask rests atop her head. She smiles. “It’s ok. We’re not military and we’re not death squads. You can come down and help us load up the supplies and we’ll buy you dinner.”
Brett smiles.
CHAPTER 9.
Man in White
The burning pain in his left forearm is excruciating. Jack attempts to rub his arm but finds he is bound tight. His hands are behind his back, tied to something he can’t see. He sits flat on a dirty floor or just dirt, he can’t tell which. His feet are bound and useless at this point. His legs have long ago fallen asleep. His body aches in multiple locations, though his lower back draws most of his attention; it feels on fire. He closes his eyes and begins a self-diagnostic of his body. He stops at the pain over his right eye, realizing his head thumps with every beat of his heart. He opens his eyes wide in an effort to establish his surroundings. The area is dimly lit, which helps his throbbing headache, but it doesn’t do much for his investigation, and even less for his confidence. A familiar smell drifts through the air causing his nose to wrinkle.
“Shit, I’m somebody’s dinner,” Jack says in a low voice as he breathes out the rancid smell.
“Yes. You are my family’s nutritional requirements for the next several days, maybe even a full week. Thank you for your sacrifice.” The voice is jovial, pleasant and completely demented, sending a chill up Jack’s spine. A light switches on in the far corner of the space. Jack squints his eyes at the sudden brightness, then takes the opportunity to scan his surroundings. He is under a house, in a crawl space. All around him he can see foundation posts holding up the house. The space is no more than four feet high. He can see light coming from the floor of the house, near where the voice has come from. Maybe a door, maybe a trap door, Jack thinks. A man cloaked in a long white jacket, not unlike what a doctor would wear, is hunched over near the opening.
A sound draws Jack’s attention from the man in white. Man in white, that’s your name now, Jack thinks. The gurgling, the hissing and the guttural moaning all come from across the crawl space. A beam of light flickers then shines fully, illuminating four zombies, all bound to foundation posts in similar fashion as Jack. They all wear white, or at least it appears the articles of clothing were once white. An older female sits at the far left. Sitting next to her are two teenaged females, and a small male no more than ten years old. They all possess the same grey foggy eyes that never blink. Jack figures they definitely died near the beginning of the event, with the exception of the boy, who appears fresher than the others. His face isn’t nearly as sunken in and he still has some color beyond the black around his mouth and eyes.
“Why are you doing this?” Jack asks, already knowing the man is bat-shit crazy.
“My family needs to survive. You walked into my house, not by accident I will add, and now you will help them survive. You see, there will be a cure for this soon but I can’t risk letting one of them waste away to nothing. That’s my predicament.” The man scurries over to Jack with a bright flashlight. He sets the light down on the ground and produces a scalpel from his pocket. He remains just to the side of Jack, kneeling forward, until they are face to face. “I feed them just enough to keep them healthy. I take bits of you when it’s time, feed them, and bandage you up because I can’t have you expiring just yet. I learned my lesson the hard way.” The man in white looks back at the boy zombie, then pokes at Jack’s left forearm.
“Oww, asshole, that hurts. Knock it off and let me go. I promise I won’t hurt you or your family. Just let…”
“I’ll have to harvest meat from your other arm to feed my daughters. I don’t feed them all at the same time. I pick one or two to feed. When I feed them all at the same time it really gets their dander up. I need you to last, so I can’t have you bleeding to death. Besides, I found they really like warm meat that has scabbed over. It’s like ice cream or cake to them.”
“What did you mean this was no accident, me wandering in here and all.” Jack surmises he needs to keep the deranged doctor talking, or his time would be up.
“You chose my house, because there are no markings on the garage door. The windows and doors are intact and it looked safe and empty. That was no coincidence. I set up this little trap knowing survivors would eventually make their way here.”
Jack thinks back, realizing everything the man is saying is true. He picked the house because it looked empty and safe. “Nice job, Doc. I’m impressed. So what’s the rest of the plan? Feed me to your family and then find more nourishment for them? Or are you looking for a way out of here? This neighborhood appears to be a dead end and I’m sure you don’t want to be caught here when the zombies return or worse yet, when the army comes back. You can’t hide forever.”
“I really shouldn’t be talking to you this much. Martha never liked me talking to strangers too long. It encourages questions and questions eventually lead to lies and, well you know where lies get you.”
“Is that Martha there? The one on the left?”
The man in white turns, looking adoringly at the rotting abomination bound to the foundation pillar. “Yes, that’s my darling Martha. She is a wonderful mother and wife and soon she will be well. I will tell her about you, Mr. Elliott, and the sacrifice you made for her and our children.”
Jack tenses hearing his name. “Jack. Call me Jack. If we’re going to get to know each other this intimately we might as well be on a first name basis.”
The man meets Jack’s gaze. His eyes dart back and forth trying to get a lock on Jack but he can’t. “What’s your game, Mr. Elliott?”
“No game. I lost my family before the event. I’m alone and right now, this is a defining moment of my life. You and your famil
y are the closest thing I have to a family of my own. I couldn’t be there when my family perished. I’m here now. I would like to know the family I’m about to feed, nourish, help and hopefully save.” A tear rolls down Jack’s cheek.
The man in white backs away from Jack and takes a seat on the ground. He holds the scalpel loosely in his left hand. Jack makes a mental note that the crazy fuck in white is probably a southpaw.
“I…I didn’t expect this. I didn’t expect to have a conversation… with you. I must say I’m quite enjoying it but don’t fool yourself. I see through your veiled attempt to keep me from harvesting meat from your bones.” The man in white spits venom as he quickly scurries behind Jack. He digs the scalpel deep into Jack’s left forearm pulling it out slowly so the blade is just below the skin, and fillets a long piece.
Jack screams and tries to strike the man with the side of his head. He misses, succeeding only in pulling a muscle in his neck. The man in white slips the scalpel out, sticks it in and completes the fillet. He places the fresh piece of Jack on a paper towel and proceeds to remove medical supplies from a doctor’s bag that had been sitting just out of sight. He meticulously preps and dresses Jack’s open wound.
“I leave you with this, Mr. Elliott. Do not toy with me again and I will leave the tattoo of your son and wife’s name on your right arm. Test me again and that will be the next meal I serve my daughters.” With that, the man in white slides away, taking the flesh with him.
Jack watches as the man in white kneels before his zombie family. He reaches out but withdraws his hand quickly, as the one he called Martha, his wife, snaps her dead teeth at him trying in vain to obtain the warm living flesh. Jack knows the zombie has no thought process other than killing and eating. It’s a shell of its former self. I’m glad you didn’t have to see the world end this way, Jack closes his eyes thinking of Ronan and Julia. On the other side of the crawl space, the man in white feeds his zombie wife Jack meat.
Dust of the Devil's Land Page 5
