Middletown Apocalypse

by Brett Abell

“Yeah, except for the drugs, the women, the booze, and just generally being a fucking asshole with a taste for crime, I feel like I had a lot to offer in the way of Godliness.”

  Beth couldn’t even think of anything to say to that. Him being a priest was like a hyena becoming a beloved family pet, provided it didn’t eat the kids.

  “I’m out.” Durgan jumped down from the roof and turned his rifle around, the butt stock in front of him as he began to slam it into the faces of those nearest. The overstretched skin split like a banana, revealing the white bone beneath before being covered in a thick coating of congealing blood. Even that was different. The blood appeared to have added healing properties, allowing the host to further its programmed path of destruction with the least amount of crippling injuries.

  “This is like punching granite.” Durgan grunted as he repeatedly kept thrusting his rifle. His arms rippled with each contact as shock vibrations tortured his body.

  Beth eyed the car. Getting in it seemed like the most reasonable thing. She had two shots left before she’d need to reload, though she’d never have the time to do so. Beth heard the resounding snap of Durgan’s rifle cracking across the skull of another zombie. A small pile of them had started to amass at his feet. He was as strong as an ox; she was sad that he was about as smart as one. She fired, blowing what was left of the creature’s nose clean off its bulbous face. Brain matter began to run down the large new orifice, and the zombie collapsed to the ground. Her next shot dry fired.

  “Shit.” She spun to the car. She did a quick guesstimate of how long she would be safe in there, considering one of the windows was already gone and the zombies had shown a propensity for intrusive entrances. “Fuck it.” She reached into the backseat and grabbed Durgan’s twelve gauge.

  “I hate shooting these,” she said as she stood, aimed, and pulled the trigger. She wouldn’t swear it on a stack of Bibles—first off because they would probably catch fire if she touched them, and secondly, it just happened so fast—the fat lead slug ejected from the end of her rifle and impacted the skull of the nearest zombie, but instead of penetrating, it began to mushroom across its broad forehead. She was fearful that even the mighty twelve gauge was going to prove a useless weapon against the zombies’ self-defense mechanism. Then the velocity and momentum of the round took over, splintering its head open like a watermelon dropped from a ten-story building. Diseased gray and black brain matter flew up into the air as chunks of skull blew back; blood misted like a red dew on a savage spring day.

  Not wanting to take the chance again that the skull might not yield, Beth aimed a little lower at the more vulnerable neck. The round tore out the next zombie’s Adam’s apple and its now unused and unusable voice box then ripped through its esophagus to punch a fist-sized hole by the base of its skull. The heavy head collapsed over to the side. The zombie, not quite dead, had lost its sense of equilibrium and toppled into the wall next to her before falling completely over. Its arms flailed about as it tried to regain a standing position but could not overcome the burden of a nearly untethered head.

  A savage cry ripped through the throat of Durgan. “I’m bit!!” He wailed on like a passing siren. “My fucking calf is on fire, you motherfucking asshole.”

  She watched as Durgan began slamming his rifle down onto something by his feet. She could not see what had bit him because of the car between them, but she could see the aftereffects of his strikes as blood shot up like old faithful as he pummeled the zombie.

  Beth could only wonder how long before she said those same words. She jumped when she felt a hand grasp her upper arm. She slammed an elbow back, trying to make whatever had grabbed her loosen its grip.

  “Trying to help,” someone grunted out, the air having been knocked out of him. She turned quickly; a man with fatigue pants and a bloodstained green t-shirt was halfway in and out from a door, pulling her toward him. “John, James, help me—there’s another one out there,” the soldier yelled.

  “Don’t bother,” Beth said as she got inside the building and into a dimly lit corridor. It fell on deaf ears, not because they didn’t want to listen, but by the time she’d caught her breath to say the words, the two men had rushed out the door and their fully automatic weapons were chirping loudly in their hands.

  “Clear,” James shouted.

  “I’ve got him,” John answered back.

  “Get his ass back in here.”

  “He’s injured and he’s the size of a small mountain. I’ll be there in a second.”

  “Injured” seemed like such a banal word for the affliction Durgan had suffered. His calf muscle had been torn from its moorings to the knee and had rolled down to flap like a loose sole on a cheap Chinese-made sneaker available at your friendly neighborhood dollar store.

  The two soldiers had put Durgan down while Carl, the man who had grabbed Beth, slammed and locked the door shut. Then he turned and looked at Durgan’s leg.

  “You bit?” he asked flatly.

  “Fuck!” Durgan shouted. “What’s it look like, nimrod?”

  “I don’t know; why don’t you tell me?” Carl responded while reaching for his sidearm.

  “You plan on using that on me, sonny? Get a little closer, I’ll give you a fist-loaded enema.”

  “If you’re bit, you’re dead anyway, and what the world needs less of is dead-headers.”

  “That’s rich.” Durgan laughed.

  “Let’s go,” Carl said as he stepped past Durgan, who made a lurching motion toward him then laughed when he got the soldier to jump.

  “Where the fuck you going?” Durgan asked, watching.

  “There’s a bunker two buildings down. You were so close … too bad,” Carl said.

  “Beth, you’re going to leave me here?”

  “Fuck.” Beth turned back around and brought her shotgun up.

  “I always hated you. I should have told Jimmy what a bitch you were.”

  “He knew,” she said as she got closer.

  “Miss, we really don’t have time for talking. James will take care of him.”

  “This will only take a second.” She placed the barrel on Durgan’s kneecap.

  “What the fuck are you doing?” he screamed as she fired.

  He passed out before he could hear her words. “Saving your worthless life, asshole.” She leaned the gun up against the wall, and got down so she could grip the lower portion of Durgan’s leg. She moved it back and forth; what remained together after her bullet was quickly shred after a series of bone-splintering and tendon-tearing noises. She was not bothered when James or John or maybe both vomited as she performed an emergency amputation.

  Durgan awoke two days later in an army cot, an IV hooked up to his arm. He was staring at a concrete ceiling some twenty feet in the air. They’d made the bomb shelter, but now what? Everything that had happened rushed back to him. He didn’t need to look to know his leg was gone and that the bitch had saved him, but in an apocalyptic world where only the strong survive, he’d been reduced by a quarter.

  About Mark Tufo

  Mark Tufo was born in Boston Massachusetts. He attended UMASS Amherst where he obtained a BA and later joined the US Marine Corp. He was stationed in Parris Island SC, Twenty Nine Palms CA and Kaneohe Bay Hawaii. After his tour he went into the Human Resources field with a worldwide financial institution and has gone back to college at CTU to complete his masters.

  He has written the Indian Hill trilogy with the first Indian Hill - Encounters being published for the Amazon Kindle in July 2009. He has since written the Zombie Fallout series and is working on a new zombie book.

  He lives in Maine with his wife, three kids and two English bulldogs. Visit him at marktufo.com or http://zombiefallout.blogspot.com/ or http://www.facebook.com/pages/Mark-Tufo/133954330009843

  Middletown: Victim by Victim

  Jack Wallen

  Zero Hour | Charlie Noble

  The hiss of the Bunsen burner was a soothing balm to Charlie Noble. Wrapped around
its subtle song was a comfort he only found within the confines of the lab. His domain—a small chemistry department of a small university in a small town. The best Middletown America could do for a middle-of-the-road student. But Charlie was kind, willing, and always ready to step in and do his part to further a career he was desperate to have.

  “Charlie,” Doctor Willa Bernheim called from her office.

  The sound of her voice sent a wash of post-teen hormones through his system. He fumbled the beaker he’d held, filled with purified water, sending it crash-landing on the floor.

  “Fuck,” Charlie cried just as Willa entered the lab. The click of her heels stole Charlie’s breath and dappled his cheeks red.

  “You okay?” asked Willa, her voice soft and kind.

  “Yeah,” answered Charlie. “It was just water. I’ll clean it up.”

  Willa stopped him with a hand to his shoulder. “Actually … shouldn’t you be at the game tonight? It’s homecoming. The entire student body is out there being young … and living their lives.”

  Charlie stared on at Doctor Bernheim, his eyes wide and his lips quivering. When he finally spoke, his voice was tinged with nervous energy. “This is my life, Doctor—”

  “Willa,” she cut across him. “This isn’t class and right now I’m not your teacher.”

  For the second time in what seemed like as many minutes, Charlie’s breath stopped. Was this the moment the woman of his dreams would finally cave to his charm and steal the kiss he knew she so badly wanted?

  “Charlie?” Willa snapped her fingers. “Are you sure you’re okay?”

  He shook his head, hoping the heat rising to his cheeks didn’t give away the utter embarrassment flooding his system. “Yes … Willa. I’m okay.”

  “Well,” she started, “if you’re intent on casting yourself out from your peers, there are a few boxes that were delivered today. I could use your help processing them. I’m a bit behind on the departmental budget.”

  Charlie nodded. “Of course.”

  “Thank you, dear. The boxes are in the equipment room.” Willa offered a warm smile. “How’s about I treat us to dinner after we’re done here?”

  “Oh my God, yes,” Charlie replied awkwardly. Before another word tripped from his mouth, he caught himself and took a deep, calming breath. “I would … like that.”

  Doctor Bernheim offered one final smile before turning on her heels and clicking across the tiled floor of the lab. Charlie couldn’t help but stare at the shapely calves peeking from her pristine white lab coat. The second she stepped into her office, Charlie released a lung-emptying sigh.

  “Dinner,” Charlie whispered. “Finally.”

  Without another word, he made his way to the equipment room, ready to tackle the task, knowing the reward would far exceed the effort. Deep within the confines of his heart, he dared label the post-laboratory outing a “date.”

  It was his world, his fantasy, his rules.

  A date it was.

  Instead of entertaining the lab-geek’s wet dream further, he tucked his earbuds into place, opened up the music app on his phone, and tapped play. Charlie’s taste in music ran in counterpoint to his nerdy persona. Metal was his muse. The driving tempos and crushing guitars were an easy out from the drudgery of day-to-day reality. Avatar’s “Hail the Apocalypse” crashed into his tympanic membranes as if they were nothing but a coil of dipole magnets in the Large Hadron Collider.

  Science.

  It was his drug.

  That and Doctor Bernheim.

  Boxes.

  The first parcel was innocuous enough and contained an order of replacement beakers. In a nod to irony, Charlie shook his head and laughed.

  The next few boxes were equally as boring.

  Rubber gloves.

  Pipettes.

  A replacement test tube rocker.

  Reagents.

  “A place for everything and everything in its place,” Charlie said, unaware of his over-loud volume. “Order from chaos.”

  With the majority of the boxes opened and out of the way, Charlie laid eyes on one of the remaining packages. A simple, metal box. Wrapped around the container’s edges were ribbons of red tape—emblazoned with a universal and fear-inducing symbol.

  “Biohazard?” Charlie whispered. “Since when did we get …” Before Charlie could finish posing the question, he silenced his music, stepped out of the equipment room, and marched to Willa’s office. The door was open. Charlie peered in to see the room empty. He turned back to the lab and called out, “Doctor Bernheim?”

  Nothing but echo.

  With a shrug, Charlie marched back to the equipment room to complete his task, closing the door as he passed the threshold.

  He stood before the box and tilted his head. “Schrodinger’s cat,” Charlie said and then laughed. “I just hope whatever’s in there isn’t dead.”

  Armed with his trusty box knife, Charlie approached the box. The biohazard tape easily peeled off to reveal thick, flat, nylon straps. With a single slice each, the straps snapped away to give Charlie access to the contents of the mysterious delivery.

  The top of the box popped off and released a dry ice mist.

  “Badass,” Charlie said as he placed the metal top onto a nearby table. “What could this strange device be?” Charlie couldn’t help but quote one of his favorite songs—although a bit out of context. He waved his hand over the open container to shoo away the blanket of mist.

  “Whoa,” Charlie hissed and hummed.

  Held fast in the bottom half of the box was a single glass vial, unlike any he’d ever seen. The stopper was woven carbon fiber strapped in place with a thin, metal meshwork. On the front face of the glass tube was a symbol he didn’t recognize—a silver triangle with a single, horizontal line bifurcating the icon.

  Charlie searched the box for a packing slip, but found none. A quick examination of the box uncovered nothing—no delivery address, no return address … nothing.

  “I don’t understand,” Charlie said. He checked the latest departmental purchase orders, but found no mention of a biohazard chemical.

  He turned back to the lab and glanced toward Willa’s office—still nothing.

  “Fuck,” Charlie hissed.

  He was running out of time. The dry ice was warming; he had to do something. Without Doctor Bernheim there to give him direction, he made an executive decision to move the vial into the refrigerated storage. He donned protective gloves and approached the box. The gloves were thick, making finer movements nearly impossible. With a bit of effort, he was able to gently grasp the glass and remove it from the metal box.

  The cold storage was in the main lab. Charlie briefly considered returning the vial to the box for safer transport. Instead, he turned to face the door he’d only just closed. “Son of a bitch,” Charlie hissed. Tossing caution to the wind, he shrugged off the concern, stepped up to the exit, shifted the vial to his left hand, and opened the door.

  As he shuffled through the main lab, Charlie noticed Willa’s office still empty. “As soon as I get you into storage, I’ll sweep Doctor Bernheim off her feet until she can’t resist the ol’ Charlie Charm.” Charlie laughed. “God, Noble, you can be such a cliché.”

  He reached the cold storage, shifted the vial to his left hand, and opened the unit. As the door swung out, it nudged his hand enough to send the vial leaping to the floor. In a slow-motion desperation, Charlie shot his hands down in a vain attempt to catch the glass from kissing the tile. The glass touched down and shattered.

  As soon as the green liquid mixed with the surrounding oxygen, a small mushroom cloud erupted and wafted upward. Charlie’s eyes went wide. His intention was to take in a great gasp of air so he could hold his breath against the mysterious fumes. As he sucked wind, a wisp of the grayish mist disappeared into his nostrils.

  “Fuck,” Charlie shouted against the painful burn within his sinuses. “Shit, shit, shit,” he cried as he pinched his nose together and wiped at hi
s waterwork eyes.

  As the blur of pain faded, Charlie opened his eyes to see the cloud had vanished. At his feet, however, the green liquid remained.

  “Crap,” Charlie whispered. He glanced around to see the room was empty. Without hesitation, he grabbed a spill kit and went to work on the mess. The last thing he wanted to do was allow anything to get in the way of his and Willa’s date.

  Hour Three | Willa Bernheim

  Willa stared into the bathroom mirror one last time. “Are you sure about this?” she asked herself. She’d never dared take a student into a social setting after the last incident. The university dean had warned her.

  She laughed before applying a thin layer of lipstick. “This one is different,” she said.

  The words were far too familiar.

  Before she could talk herself out of the rendezvous, she exited the bathroom and made her way back to the lab.

  The door swung open. There was no one to be found.

  “Charlie?” Willa called out.

  “Yes?” Charlie startled her as he jumped up from behind a table.

  “What were you …” Willa started.

  Charlie blushed and revealed a clean-up kit. As he sealed the box shut, he said, “I had another accident. Dropped a reagent. Don’t worry; everything’s sterile now.”

  “Do I need to fill out a report?” Willa asked.

  Charlie shook his head and dropped the sealed kit into the biohazard container. “All good,” he said. “Shall we go?”

  Willa smiled, her eyes lighting up the room. Charlie’s lips joined the dance and returned the gesture.

  “I just have to get my coat and purse,” she said and stepped away.

  Within the confines of her office, Willa slipped into her coat, took in a deep breath, shouldered her purse, and stepped back into the lab. Her eyes fell onto Charlie, his innocent face and lanky body alive with youth and thrill. “You look …” Willa started.

  “What?” asked Charlie.

  “I don’t know … happy?” Willa replied.