by Brett Abell
“Oh shit,” Dan shouted.
“What is it?”
Dan turned from the carnage, his hands on his head, and paced up and down the length of the car.
“What the hell, Dan? What’s wrong?” Beth said as she exited the car.
“Get back in the car, Beth. I got this,” Dan insisted.
Beth ignored her boyfriend’s commands, marched to the front, and leaned down to get a look at the corpse. “No,” she cried. “No, no, no.”
Beth cradled Shenica’s head in her hands and turned it to face upward.
“We don’t have time for this, Beth. You heard what the broadcast said.”
Beth shot her glance at Dan, her eyes bloodshot, her lips quivering. “I don’t give a fuck about the bunker. You just ran down my best friend.”
Dan slammed his fists onto the hood of the car.
“That’s just great, Dan. Throw a fucking fit, right here in the middle of the street.”
“Beth, we don’t have much time. If we don’t claim a spot in the bunker, we’ll be left for dead. The thing can’t hold the entire population of Middletown.”
“Are you kidding me? Half the people in this town are goddamn zombies, Dan!” Beth shouted. “And who in the hell wants to wait out the apocalypse in an old World War II bunker? Besides, what is this shit hole of a town doing with a nuclear-bomb-proof bunker?”
Dan dropped to his knees and addressed Beth slowly. “I don’t know. I don’t really care to know. The only thing that matters is that you and I reach the entrance before they seal it shut. We do that, and we survive. We don’t … we’re dead.”
Beth carefully lowered Shenica’s head to the ground and addressed Dan slowly—her voice a shade above a whisper. “There’s another option.”
Dan tilted his head and raised an eyebrow.
“We could get in the car and leave this festering, dead-end town. We’ve been talking about it since high school. The only thing keeping us here was family. My guess is that’s not a problem now.” Beth reached across and grabbed Dan’s hand. “What do you think? Just you and me and the world at our feet?”
Dan took in a breath to answer. Before air passed through his larynx, undead Shenica sprang up and sank her teeth into his neck. A fountain of blood squirted from between lips and skin. Beth shrieked in disbelief and horror. Over and over, she screamed Dan’s name until it was clear he wouldn’t be answering the call.
Shenica pulled away from her meal, dropping blood and bits of Dan from her mouth. She hissed and bared brilliant white teeth against a cannibal’s backdrop of meat and death.
Beth scrambled to her feet. Without giving a single thought to making her escape in the car, she ran.
Shenica attempted to push herself up to give chase. As she stood, her right leg caved in on itself at the thigh—bone shattered, ruined. She turned her attention to Dan, but he’d gone sour; there was no life left to suckle.
Hour Twenty | Beth Casey
The idea of holing up in a bunker with the survivors from the town she only moments ago had hopes of escaping made her want to retch—or impale herself on a spike.
Anything to save her from safe … ordinary … Middletown.
“Fuck,” she unleashed a wail of frustration into the blackness of the cold night. With each step taken, Beth knew she had no choice but to make her way to the bunker. “Let this shit storm blow over,” she whispered, “then I am out of here.”
She stopped. Before her stood the little league baseball diamonds. To her right was Jimmy’s Drive-in Diner. She raised both arms and flipped the diner off. “That’s for not giving me a raise, ya cheap bastard.”
Beth hopped the fence and raced across the dusty infield of the diamond. How many hot summer days had she spent here cheering Dan on?
Junior high.
High school.
Middletown University.
None of it mattered anymore. She’d lost the last vestiges of hope, forever remaining rooted to the town, and now all she had to do was survive the night … or however long the apocalypse would last.
Beth crossed the pitcher’s mound and a concerto in zombie minor assaulted her ears. She froze in place to save her ass and focus on the location of the undead. “Visitor’s dugout,” Beth said under her breath. All she had to do was make a fast break in the opposite direction and she’d clear the area before one rotten maw could sink its foul teeth into her flesh.
The thought brought her skin to a fast crawl across the meat of her arms.
Before she bolted, another moan drifted within Beth’s range of hearing—a moan she’d heard enough to know it anywhere.
“Dan,” Beth whispered. She turned toward third base to see him shambling her way. A tiny portion of her heart begged her to give in and race into his arms; embrace a dark truth she’d denied herself for too long.
There was nothing without Dan.
She and life were meaningless now. Beth knew the Romeo and Juliet-esque notion was mad, but life without Dan simply wasn’t life. He was her escape, her truth.
Beth turned to Dan, dropped her arms, and slowly walked his way. Tears poured from her eyes and peppered the dry dirt at her feet. The closer she drew to dead Dan, the more she realized this was what she wanted. Her life began and ended with Dan.
When the couple came together, Beth buried Dan’s deadly maw into her breasts. Within seconds, his teeth clamped on and bit through flesh and into fatty tissue. Beth shuddered under the weight of the pain, but embraced the new world order about to deconstruct her DNA into something wholly different.
“Take me,” Beth whispered toward the sky, “away from this hell.”
Beth’s vision tunneled as the fountain of blood from her chest began to slow. Her limbs were cold and her teeth chattered.
“I love you, Dan,” Beth said before she dropped, lifeless to the ground.
Dan stood and took a great sniff of the air. Somewhere, the warmth of life begged for his taste of death to come hither.
Beth lay on the hard-packed dirt, her eyes slowly hazing over with a thin, white film. Blood ceased flowing through her system and out of the cave that was once her left breast.
Slowly, Dan shambled off into the night to leave Beth to devolve alone.
Her body shuddered once, twice. With a violent jerk, Beth sat up. The cold breeze whipped her long hair about her face. She stood on shaking legs and took her first step as a member of the walking dead.
Quietly, Beth made her way across the baseball diamond and into the street. Before her was an impossibly blurry landscape. A multitude of sounds and smells crossed the path of her working senses.
Somewhere, life beckoned. The call was unmistakable and unrelenting. Middletown was alive with possibility.
“Help,” a singular scream reached beyond the cacophony to call her forward. Beth turned and ambled toward the sound. As she walked, the scent of living tissue grew immutable. The smell guided her through the scenic miasma before her—a rotting lake of milk that was her sight.
“Beth,” the voice called, “is that you? Can you tell me what’s going on? After the game everything went to hell.”
The voice spoke meaningless words to the corpse.
“I’m stuck, Beth. A group of kids ran by and knocked me out of my wheelchair. Can you …”
Before the speaker realized what was happening, Beth was on her, chewing through the skin and sinew of her neck. The young girl screamed as Beth dined.
“Hey,” a male voice called out. “What in the fuck are you doing?”
Powerful hands grabbed Beth and yanked her from the downed child. Beth hissed and scrambled to clamp down on the man’s arms … to no end.
“Claire, are you okay?” the man shouted over the moaning and hissing.
Beth finally managed to gain purchase on his arms and strained against his strength to pull flesh to mouth.
“Fuck off, bitch!” he screamed and tossed Beth to the ground. She hissed again and stood for another attack. Frank co
cked his arm. “Beth, don’t make me hit a woman.”
Beth ignored Frank’s plea.
“Oh come on … don’t do this to me, Beth. You know I’ll wind up going back to jail.”
Beth lunged, Frank swung out. Knuckles met nose and bone gave way to pressure. The crack clearly announced the nose had broken. Beth stumbled backwards and dropped.
“Claire, it’s me, Frank Skinner. Come on, we need to get to the bunker.”
Frank bent down and scooped the young girl up.
His last movement as a living member of Middletown society.
He placed his hand on Claire’s cheek. The second their skin met, Claire clamped her teeth into the webbing between his thumb and index finger. He screamed against the pain as the flesh gave way and blood spilled.
Frank dropped Claire to the parking lot pavement. Her head smacked against the solid ground and split. He clamped his good hand over the wound to staunch the flow of blood. Before either female had a chance for another go, Frank turned and raced off.
Hour Twenty-Two | Frank Skinner
“Son of a bitch,” Frank shouted into the darkness. The wound on his hand burned like it had been dunked in acid. The pain slowly made its way up his arm and to his shoulder.
“The bunker,” Frank whispered. “Where in the fuck’s my car?”
His mind spun into a whirlpool of confusion. “What’s happening?” he cried out. There was no answer. He fished his keys from a worn and dirty jeans pocket and tapped the unlock button on the fob.
“Where is it?” Frank shouted. The confusion thickened. He wiped cold sweat from beneath his eyes. Again, he tapped the button on the fob … this time he was greeted with sound and lights.
“There you are,” Frank whispered. He turned toward his trusty Jetta and picked up the pace. Halfway across the street, his legs tangled and he went down.
Frank’s head cracked against the pavement. A field of stars danced above him and the taste of copper momentarily invaded his mouth. He sat up too quickly; his head spun and a flood of bile washed up his throat and spewed between his knees. The caustic smell wafted up to his nose and doubled him over.
“Oh my God,” Frank said under his breath. He rolled onto his hands and knees and crawled to the driver side door of the VW. His hand reached up and slapped against metal until it found the handle. Frank tugged until the familiar click sounded off that he’d gained entry. Using the handle of the door, Frank pulled himself back to standing, swung the door fully open, and slid into the seat.
“I feel so,” Frank started. “Weak,” he finished. His heavy head dropped and fell toward the steering wheel. Just as his forehead was about to crash-land on the horn, a voice called out.
“Frank! Is that you?”
The passenger door opened and José Conejo slipped into the seat. “Thank God I found you. I got ran off the road by a group of thugs. The bastards chased me for a few blocks, but I managed to give them the slip. You heading to the bunker?”
Frank slowly pulled his head up and nodded.
“Oh shit, Frank, you don’t look so good.”
“I cut myself,” Frank answered roughly. “I think I’m weak from blood loss.”
“You want me to drive? I know where the bunker’s located.”
Frank nodded. “That’s probably a good idea.” He pulled himself out of the driver’s seat and walked around the car. José followed suit and gracefully fell into the driver’s seat. He turned the car over, pulled the door closed, and punched the gas.
“Do you have any idea what’s going on? We’re willingly locking ourselves in a holdover from WWII. Did someone drop a bomb? Did the Koreans finally lose their shit?” José rambled. “The one good thing our dumbass mayor did right: change his mind about leveling that thing. I guess he’ll be winning the next election. Forget the fact that Middletown’s middle class has disappeared and our economic forecast has been given a swirly for the last five years.” José jabbed a finger toward the windshield. “Hey, do you think this nightmare is a conspiracy to get Mayor Dillweed re-elected? Crazier things have happened, right?”
Frank moaned.
“Skinner?” asked José. “Maybe I should swing you by the hospital first.”
A second moan sang out, this time a single, rough tone undercut with a horror-fueled need.
“Dude,” said José, “what is up with you?”
Frank’s hand slapped down on José’s arm, fingers clenched tight over the muscle.
“Okay, Frank, what do you want me to do?”
Dull, white eyes cut through the darkness. Frank pulled himself toward José, his jaw opening and closing in a spook show tempo.
“Son of a bitch, Frank,” José shouted and jerked his arm free. The car veered off the road and slammed into the side of Norma’s Knittery. Both airbags deployed, giving José just enough time to escape the vehicle and run.
Ahead, in the street, a group had collected. A streetlight cast its halide beam down upon the Middletown citizens.
Slowly, they swayed.
José raised his hands above his head and waved. Just as he was about to shout, a cascade of moans rained down from the group.
“Oh shit,” he whispered and immediately cut to the left.
The moans rose against the silent curtain of night. The sound fueled the fire of fear in José; his legs pumped hard to catch up to his speed-beating heart. A fragment of logic begged him to chance a look over his shoulder.
“I’ve seen way too many horror films for that shit,” whispered José. Instead of looking, he picked up the pace and continued toward the bunker.
Ahead of him, a blur of white appeared.
“Now what?” asked José. “Ghosts?”
He refused to curb his pace. The glowing white outline drew nearer.
A lab coat.
A young man … walking toward the bunker.
“Come on,” shouted José. “You gotta run or the bastards’ll catch you.”
José caught up to the be-coated male. Just as he was about to pass him, gangly white arms swung out and clotheslined the sprinting José. He flipped backwards, onto his ass. When he looked up, a familiar face glared down.
“What the fuck, Charlie?” José demanded.
A dollop of thick liquid dropped from Charlie’s mouth and onto José’s face. The smell of rot wafted into his nostrils. José rolled out of the way, just as Charlie dropped.
“Jesus Christ,” José shouted. “The whole damn town has lost its mind. I should have listened to my wife and stayed in Indianapolis.”
José stood and backed away from Charlie, refusing to turn his back on the bastard.
“Fucking small towns,” hissed José.
Once he was out of harm’s way, José turned and sprinted off toward the bunker.
Hour Twenty-Four | José Conejo
The bunker was within site. A pale glow outlined the two ten-foot high doors of the large, cement structure. One door slowly swung open and another citizen of Middletown slipped inside.
José stopped; his lungs and heart begged for mercy. He spun around to take in the area. There were no white coats or white eyes to be found. His gaze fell back onto the bunker.
“Something’s not right here,” he whispered. “Why this? Why now? Why us?”
He felt a sticky goop drip from his brow onto his chin. He wiped with his sleeve and smeared the substance over his lips. Instinct took over and he licked.
“Blood?”
The realization instantly crushed his spirit.
“No. No, no, no, no,” he whispered and glanced around. There was nothing to be had to offer a solace against the possibility he might become one of them.
There was only one choice. José had to abandon the idea of escaping Middletown and fall in line with those fading into the background noise of the bunker. Inside, there’d be medicine and doctors.
Outside, there was only fear and death.
In a panic, he wiped at his mouth to remove any indication he’d
come in contact with one of them. If someone within the bunker spotted anything linking José to the dead, they’d lock him out for sure.
Hesitantly, he walked. Step by step—like a prisoner slow marching toward the chair or the needle—he made his way to the bunker.
The great, metal door cracked open as he neared. From inside, the sound of life spilled. José swallowed. “This is it,” he whispered as he wiped at his face one last time with a dirty sleeve.
The door closed behind José, locking him and the rest of the Middletown survivors inside.
Charlie Noble approached the metal door. His pale, bloody fist pounded against the solid wall that stood sentinel between him and the living.
His moan rose upwards, into the starlit sky, to beckon death to the bunker.
About Jack Wallen
Jack Wallen has been given the title “Zombie King” by his readers and fans. He didn’t garner that title by dining on the brains of helpless victims. It was only after writing until his fingers and mind were nothing but meat for the beasts that he became a master of the zombie genre. During that haunted hayride, Jack produced works of fiction enjoyable by not just zombie fans, but anyone daring to take a peek into what might possibly become of humanity. Find out more at jackwallen.com.
Move with Purpose
Jay Wilburn
The delivery arrived at the biology lab at Middletown University while Bear was still asleep in Kokomo. The sequence of failures that resulted in the virus arriving in a lab so ill equipped to handle it was a combination of negligence and over-aggressive response to the threats of the modern world. The final component was Charlie Noble. He was blond and clean and had all the makings of an overachiever, except for the actual achievements. He knew it should not have been there, but he could not stop himself from looking. He was always looking for greatness and was drawn to the greatness in the danger within that box he should have left closed. This final failure would unleash the apocalypse and protect the other failures from being discovered.
