Crowded Yet Desolate: A Zombie Novel

by Lee Dunter

  “That’s how it works in movies,” Albert interjected. “We don’t know if that’s how it is in reality.”

  Ryan shrugged. “How can you say that? It’s been working all day, hasn’t it? What makes it suddenly false?”

  After a bit more of discourse, everyone finally agreed. When they destroyed the brain, the zombies died; nothing else seemed to work; nothing else mattered for now.

  The final pressing issue they needed to discuss was how to escape Atlanta. Before they could leave, the twins reminded, they needed guns. “A shit load of guns.” It was decided that they would equip themselves tonight. Then, first thing in the morning, they would sneak out the apartments entrance, which was on a separate street than the gun store entrance. Ryan nervously noted that this plan was reliant on the zombies not wandering over to this second entrance. If the zombies did, they’d be trapped in the building. They continued to plan. Using nearby neighborhoods and back roads, they could hopefully avoid large crowds of zombies to reach I-85. Once on the interstate, it was up to the twins to safely navigate them to Harpersville. They hoped that the interstate would be less crowded than the city. In fact, they were risking their lives on this hope.

  As time progressed, everyone realized they were starving. Cam was the first to reach for the box of Poptarts. Although terribly unhealthy, the food was gladly welcomed to the empty stomach.

  As they walked back towards the gun store, Ryan asked Kyle, “Father, are you okay? You’ve been a little quiet?”

  “You don’t have to call me father. I’m no priest. Your kids are safe around me.” Ryan, not expecting this joke from a man of God, looked up at Kyle’s unhandsome face and laughed. Kyle waited for Ryan to end, and then continued “I’m just a man of faith. And I was only quiet on the outside. Too busy praying on the inside.”

  “Any luck with the man in the sky?”

  “I guess we’re about to find out,” he said as they reached the gun store. “If he can steady my hand and make me a decent shot, it will be a miracle.”

  Ryan felt some divine intervention might not be a bad idea. He had never held a gun in his life.

  Chapter 6

  Having the only hunting experience in the group, Joe and Roe found themselves responsible for the accumulation of ammunitions and weapons and for the training of the others in their use. As they waded through their options, Ryan browsed the store in silence, trying to keep frightening thoughts away. Terrible images of Deborah haunted him, her scream echoing in his head, as he picked up shirts, testing their fabric between finger and thumb, and threw some over his shoulder to keep. After ten minutes, the twins called everyone to the display case, where they had laid out six identical pistols. Despite Ryan’s inexperience, he immediately recognized the glock 17 pistols from television. The twins walked away again, and Ryan picked up one of the pistols. Squinting one eye, he pointed it at the wall, aiming at nothing. It felt awkward in his hands, and he knew he would have little time to get used to it. He put the gun back down on the bench as Roe and Joe returned with boxes of ammunition.

  “Nine by nineteen millimeter Parabellum,” Joe said. “Very popular bullets. Even Wal-Mart has them, so we’ll stay well stocked. And if nothing else, we can always bum them off dead cops.” This somber statement somehow reassured Ryan. The last thing he wanted was to be cornered by his childhood nightmare with an empty gun.

  The twins walked away, the somberness of the situation masking their elation for free shopping. Only in the spring of their step did Ryan glimpse their excitement. Ryan left the group to pace the bench, looking up at the weapons along the wall as he walked. He knew nothing about firearms, and each gun looked largely the same, blending into the other, until at the length of the counter one caught his attention: It was like one of the rifles from the old west. Growing up, Ryan had watched western movies with his grandfather, and this gun had the exact same look as those old time rifles: the long barrel, the lever for reloading. He jumped the counter, reached up, and grabbed the gun. He pulled the butt to his shoulder and looked down the scope, surprised by how light and comfortable it felt, much more so than the pistol. He pushed the lever forward with his right hand, nostalgia rushing him. He couldn’t help but feel like he was playing cowboys and Indians as a kid again.

  This was it, the weapon he wanted to defend his life with. He walked back to where the other three were waiting, fearing he wouldn’t be allowed to keep it. He was partially right. When the twins returned, they had four identical rifles that were clearly intended for Albert, Kyle, Cam, and Ryan. When Joe saw the western rifle, he told Ryan to put it back, as if Joe were his parent telling him to return a toy he snuck into the cart.

  “No,” Ryan replied. “I like this one. It feels right. I think it’ll work best for me.”

  Joe paused, shrugged, looking slightly annoyed. “Fine.”

  “The wand has chosen,” Cam said, earning him a nervous laugh from the group.

  Over the next thirty minutes, the twins left and returned sporadically. They brought back box after box of rifle and handgun ammunition, occasionally setting boxes aside from the two piles stacking up. Ryan knew this lone pile was for him. The shopping spree ended when the twins returned with machetes, still in their protective cases, and backpacks for everyone. They distributed them, then Roe pulled a large military styled rifle from his shoulder and held it up for everyone’s admiration.

  “M1 Carbine, baby,” Roe said. “Found it in the back. I beat Joe at rock, paper, scissors for it three times in a row. It’s like I can read his mind, like we’re the same person or something.”

  Joe’s face was red, but he ignored his twin. “Okay, so this should be everything. Anyone fire a gun before?” Only Kyle raised his hand. “The pastor, huh? God’s man or not, at least somebody besides us was actually raised in the south.”

  “I didn’t say I could shoot well, though.”

  “Didn’t expect you to,” Joe reassured him. “But don’t worry. We’ll get some practice in. We wanted everyone to have the same gun, so we can share the ammunition load.” Ryan looked down. “Everyone has a Glock seventeen, a pretty basic gun. We have holsters for you to keep it in. You’ll have two clips–don’t lose them–seventeen shots before you have to switch clips.” Joe picked up one of the rifles. “You three have Browning A-bolts, and Ryan, you have a Marlin model 336. Good guns, which will hopefully balance out your lack of marksmanship.” Turning to Ryan, Joe said, “Having to use the bolt and the lever to reload will slow down your shots. This will steady your hand and conserve our ammo.”

  While Joe talked, Roe was hooking shoulder straps to the rifles.

  “And of course, the machete,” Joe said, with a hint of affection. “The video-game gun: never runs out of ammo.”

  Finished with the straps, Roe slung the carbine around his shoulder. The six men stood around the weapons as if worshipping an idol, knowing that these weapons were the only things standing between them living and becoming a snack.

  Joe began to bag his items. The others followed suit. Ryan put his rifle shells in the second largest pocket of his pack, placed one of the clips in the front pocket, and loaded the gun with the other. In the largest pocket he placed the boxes of handgun shells and the machete, the machete handle sting out the top of the partially unzipped pocket. He buckled the holster around his waist, then slung the rifle around his shoulder, placing the glock into the holster on his right hip. The weight of everything was bearable, but after running around all day, he knew it would take its toll.

  In the dark, his reflection on the mirror against the wall showed Ryan a blurred sight of a man he didn’t recognize. Never in his life had he held a gun, but he was currently strapped down with enough ammunition to take out a small town. And, surprisingly, it didn’t feel bad. He felt strong, or maybe important. He couldn’t quite put words to how he felt. Badass, he finally decided. If I have to go back into that hell and fight my way out, then I want to feel exactly like I do now. Badass.

 
Roe instructed them to leave everything here, directing them to the shooting range. “Let’s get some practice in before we sleep.” He sighed, and then said, “At the very least, I should tell you how to load your guns. And maybe where the safety is, too.”

  Albert, concern on his face, watched as the door to the shooting range closed behind them. “Will the zombies not be attracted to the noise?” he asked.

  “No, we’ve shot up this place before,” Joe said, patting the wall. “God bless sound proofing.”

  The twins divided the group into two. Kyle and Ryan were paired with Roe, and, with ammo set aside for training, Roe showed them how to fill their handgun magazines and how to switch magazines in the heat of battle. Ryan tried to pay attention but felt like he was trying to jam a semester of information into his head the night before the final. He thought of all the opportunities he had to hunt and shoot during his life, and how every time he had politely declined. He was struck by how these past decisions affected him, how they now made him far from self-sufficient. He was completely reliant on others to survive.

  Once Roe finished instructing, Kyle was directed to the other group, so he could receive instructions for the Brownings. Roe explained to Ryan how to operate his Marlin. The process was arduous to learn. The bullets had to be jammed into the bottom one at a time. Ryan attempted to load his gun as quickly as he could, but his hands fumble as he tried to insert them and dropped many of them. Roe emphasized repeatedly that Ryan only had six shots before he needed to reload.

  Earmuffs and handgun ammunition were distributed. Glass plates separated the shooting lanes, and Ryan chose a spot between Albert and Kyle, the three looking at each other anxiously as they waited further instruction. The room in front of him stretched far out, and the targets, placed there by Joe, hung from the ceiling about halfway down. Ryan’s heavy breath seemed to echo off the walls. Roe placed the handguns, facing towards the range, onto each person’s counter, and then handed out earmuffs. Ryan put his on and under instruction began to fire at his target. He was aware of the others firing on either side of him, but it became easier to ignore. As he unloaded the bullets, the glock lurching back in his hands, he realized this was just as challenging as he expected. On average, he hit the target two in six shots, a bull’s-eye nowhere in sight. When he ran out of bullets, he unloaded the clip, missed it with his other hand, allowing it to fall to the ground. He did remember to keep the gun directly in eyesight as he unloaded the clip, though, so as to not take his eye away from battle. At least I didn’t screw up that much, he thought. Maybe next time don’t let it slip through your fingers, he critiqued.

  After Ryan bent over and picked up the clip, he placed the gun back on the counter and turned around. Roe spoke to him and Ryan read his lips: “Congratulations. You just died.”

  Disappointed, Ryan gladly accepted the rifle. The gun again felt comfortable in his arms as he wielded it and stepped up to the counter and looked across the range towards his target. He set the butt against his shoulder, and, bracing himself for the kickback, looked down the barrel, holding his breath, and–as instructed–squeezed the trigger. The gun punched against his shoulder, and as the heart-hammering impact of the adrenaline began to decline he noticed for the first time the faint smell of gun smoke. He lowered the gun and saw that the bullet pierce the target a little to the right of the center. He pushed the lever forward, an empty shell flying out of the chamber, and fired again. A little to the left. The remaining four shots also found the target, although never hitting the center. He loaded the gun with six new shells, quicker this time, his hands beginning to adept the motion. He continued to shoot more accurately with the rifle, feeling slightly encouraged, until he suddenly stopped shooting, distracted by a loud noise through the earmuffs. Roe was at the far lane, his gun lighting up in a dance as the target in front of him ripped to shreds. Roe wore an alarming smile, making Ryan grateful to call him a friend.

  With Roe preoccupied, Joe took over instruction. Ryan reluctantly worked with his handgun until he felt there was no more room for improvement. He found a chair along the wall and watched the others, who were having more troubled than he had. Cam and Kyle were slowly improving, but Albert could barely the target with two full clips of bullets. Ryan smiled, satisfied. He was now a better shot than everyone except the twins. Whether this would remain true when confronted with a zombie, he wasn’t sure.

  When all of the training bullets were used, they gathered their supplies and left the room. Ryan glanced out the front window. The silhouettes of the zombies were terrifying against the orange glow of the streetlights. Ryan shuddered under this view meant for nightmares. Ryan turned from the window and followed the others to the stairs. Trying to think of something besides zombies, Ryan directed his thoughts to the twins. What had they done in Atlanta before the incident? he wondered. Their knowledge of firearms was impressive, and the way they shot–and fought zombies–was more than just impressive. Maybe they were cops? But if they were cops, they would probably have said so, and they would have collected weapons from the police station, not a gun store. Maybe they were criminals who had possibly freed themselves in the commotion of the day. Jeff–their friend–certainly seemed to strengthen this argument. His imagination felt wilder than normal.

  Kyle interrupted Ryan’s thoughts. “So, how did the shooting go with you?” he asked.

  “Uh, pretty good. I was much better with the rifle than the handgun.”

  “Ya, I’m horrible with handguns too. I own a shotgun, but that’s much different. No need to aim with a shotgun.”

  “I suppose that’s true.” They both laughed, glad to have a moment to relieve some of the tension. “So, preacher, do you think our sub-par shooting merits having God on our side?”

  “You know, I believe it does.”

  A few hours later, they were all asleep in the apartment, the couch barricading the door as a precaution. Ryan stirred in his sleep. He was back in his room, sitting on his couch, with Deborah next to him. The television was off, and spaghetti and meatballs were on the table in front of them. Ryan’s favorite meal. Deborah had spilled spaghetti sauce, and it covered the table, her face, her mouth. She was smiling, that sweet beautiful smile that Ryan fell in love with. She twirled her blonde hair, enticing Ryan, and he leaned in to kiss her. He felt her tongue in his mouth, quickening his breath. It tasted salty–very salty.

  He pulled away, swallowing the salty flavor, and looked into her face. She was no longer Deborah. Her eyes were bloodshot, her face pale. The spaghetti sauce had turned to blood. Bite marks lined her arms where her flesh had been ripped away. “I love you Ryan,” she said in a terrifying tone. She leaned in, but not for a kiss, and bit his neck.

  When Ryan woke he found himself already sitting up. His body was pale and sweaty, and his face was wet where tears had been flowing moments before. His heart raced, just as it had done when he woke the previous day. This nightmare was so intense, so real, that he still wasn’t sure whether it had happened. In fact, he wasn’t sure if that entire day had happened. After a few minutes, he re-oriented and realized where he was again. Although his nightmare hadn’t been true, he was indeed still living in a nightmare.

  A thought came to Ryan as the nightmare began to fade. In his apartment, all the doors were locked. The chain was still all the way across–the night before and the following morning. No one had come in, no one had come out.

  How in the world did Deborah get bitten? he wondered.

  Chapter 7

  How did Deborah get bitten? The question plagued Ryan the entire night. He knew that being bit led to infection and that Deborah had never left the room. So how then, he wondered, was this possible? Several scenarios kept running through his mind, but each seemed flawed in some way. Could she have been bitten at the festival? He supposed it was possible; she did seem a little odd that night, as if something were wrong. But he saw her naked, and there had been no bite marks on her. Could she possibly have let an infected person
in, been bitten, gotten him or her back out, and then locked the door again, all without Ryan noticing? Nothing seemed to make sense.

  These thoughts intermingled with flashbacks of that horrible day. He couldn’t shake the image of the poor girl being eaten by her father. Was she a zombie now? he wondered. After stirring for some time, he gave up on the idea of sleep, sitting up to find that everyone else was struggling to find sleep as well. Ryan somehow found comfort in this. As the sun began to rise, its rays crept in through window, perturbing everyone into life. They sat up, exhausted, moaning and yawning.

  Cam stretched his hands into the air. “God I have to pee,” he mumbled. He got up and started towards the bathroom, but froze next to the window. He stared out, mouth hanging.

  “Oh my God.” To wake himself, he rubbed his face and shook his head. “Guys . . . come look.”

  Ryan yawned, now feeling like he could sleep if he were still allowed. As he walked to the window, he couldn’t fathom what was upsetting Cam. They had only been lying down for a few hours. How could things possibly have gotten worse?

  “Holy shit,” Ryan said, staring out the window.

  Zombies populated the entire intersection, and the pavement had disappeared underneath their shuffling feet, leaving little room for their movement. Or for our escape, Ryan thought. The monsters pressed up against the building, sandwiched between the side of the shooting range and the entrance to the apartment buildings. Their collective stench drifted up through the cracks surrounding the windows. Ryan pinched his nose, wondering whether the smell was authentic or in his head, and turned away.

  “We’re screwed. Totally fucking screwed,” Cam said, as the others joined them by the window.