Zombie Fallout (Book 11): Etna Station

by Mark Tufo

  “I’m terrified.” I thought my sister was talking to me, but she was moving in closer to BT; this was seriously going to take some getting used to. The army was advancing and their stench with them. It was not easing my trepidation about the robustness of the house with so much of the stink pouring in.

  We were all at corners of windows, trying to get the best view for the oncoming disaster. It’s one thing to watch an accident or gawk at the aftermath, but waiting for it to hit you? Well, that just sucks. Can’t tell you how many times I looked to the door and wondered if Gary might have had it right; maybe we should have taken our chances running. Might as well have been in a beer can, and I’d seen enough brainless idiots crush a shitload of those on their foreheads to know what the zees outside could do to this thing. They got in here…there was no upstairs, no basement crawl space, no roof we could climb to for safety. We were in a dinghy; they were the tsunami.

  Tiffany had sidled up next to me. “When Payne killed Pappy, I had a chance to leave it all. The rest of the world had left me to rot, but he picked me up and dusted me off, sent me on towards life. I owed him some revenge; though, knowing him, he would have never thought that. I think he would have been happier, me just turning around, but I stayed the course. I followed that bitch and her sisters,” she said.

  I wasn’t entirely sure why she was telling me this; she’d recounted this story before and right now…well, it didn’t seem relevant–until it was.

  “I’m thankful you did follow. We would have been in a world of hurt, had you not,” I told her.

  “Me too. And not only because I got to take that shot, but because I met all you folks. I never knew that I could care for so many people, simultaneously. I never had a real family, and in my most vivid imagination, I would not have believed it could be this good. Yes, what we are going through is terrible, but I am so glad I have you people to go through it with. Even…” she hitched, “even if this is the end, I wanted to say thank you.”

  “You’re welcome, kiddo,” I told her, “but this is far from the end. You going to tell that guy it’s over?” I asked, pointing to BT, “or that guy, or her? It’s not over until it’s over, and then you don’t really give a shit. You’ll be too busy adjusting your halo and getting fitted for your robe.”

  She smiled, but she was scared. We all were. Could try to cover it under a thick veneer of bravado, but, oh what I wouldn’t do for some Viking mushrooms right about now. A little parboiled fly agaric to make us go berserk might just be the antidote to what ailed us. Hell, it wasn’t like I hadn’t been dosed before, during an attack. There’s nothing wrong with accessing the secret door to your subconscious fight mechanism; after all, the flight part was pretty much on the surface, but we couldn’t run from this. There had been some ambient light leaking into the small house from the moon and stars, but the zombies seemed preternatural at this exact moment; or at least I credited them for the dramatic lighting that came with the horde. A thick fog was rolling in; it had at first been behind the horde, but had now completely enveloped them and with it half the house. It was getting darker by the second. It had been relatively easy to see each other’s facial expressions, now I could barely make out my own hand in front of my face. Anxiety was heightened as dark settled in. Fear of the dark is a basic, innate fear, something we’re born with, a legacy gift from our ancestors. When your eyes can’t assure you of safety, your imagination panics. And with good reason; scary things do run around in the night, things that don’t come out in the light. Maybe in the 20th century we started to feel better about the dark, though the makers of night lights would tell you differently. Of course, there is a big difference between being afraid of the nocturnal roaming of the real saber tooth tiger and fearing the legendary boogie man that somehow lurked under every child’s bed, which would make him more prolific than Santa, cause that fucker was in every room, every night. Now, in the 21st century, we had a right and need to address and discredit that “don’t fear the dark” adage. Now, what you couldn’t see would definitely kill you and eat you. Turning on a light would not save us.

  It wasn’t long after I waved my hand in front of my face and could no longer see it that we heard our first thump. There was a small squeal; I’d like to blame on Tiffany, but honestly, I think it was Gary. Shit–it could have been me. This initial thump was followed by another and then another to the point it sounded like golfball hail popping onto a tin roof. It rolled in, just like a storm, sprinkling, then raining, then suddenly there was a shift, and it was a fucking torrent. We had been expectant, maybe nervous, but now fear became a tangible, palpable entity within that enclosure, now we could not just choose to stay inside; we were trapped. And that fear wrapped its cold, callous, uncaring hands right around our hearts, minds, and throats. But this shift was more than psychological. The trailer-home we were in had been sitting on a cement slab, maybe lifted by a few cinder blocks and some six by six pressure treated lumber, but certainly not sufficiently anchored. The ass end of the house, which was facing the enemy, slid counterclockwise about a foot at first, then was forcibly broached until we were offering a broadside to the zombies flowing around us. We’ve all been at those concerts; you’re standing peacefully in your little spot in the lawn seating when some asshat starts to dance and the field becomes a writhing, flinging, drug induced clusterfuck and you are shoved right along with the fleet. More times than not, I was that asshat and I sincerely apologize if you were caught up. Oh, how I wish we were a pirate ship of old and could have opened some cannon ports and sent some chained together steel balls hurtling into that mass. Instead, we were more like the doomed Poseidon presenting ourselves ahull into the oncoming tidal surge.

  I could hear the rustle of the group moving, from standing or kneeling positions to most likely sitting or prone. The house began to rock, an inch or two at first, and then it became more violent as the press increased. Don’t know what everyone else was thinking but there was no way we weren’t pitching over. I started reaching around and tapping people.

  “Move to the far wall.” I was whispering. “Cover your head.” Seemed like common sense instructions, because we were about to flip and be pelted by tumbling furniture, lamps, mirrors, décor, dishes, and plates. Something funny happens to common sense when you’re terrified; it basically goes out the window, it crowds out higher function. All you want to do is run away from “The Thing.”

  We were now basically one giant, drunken Conga line where the wall met the ceiling on the side away from the zombies. I had a boot in my face and a head on my calves, did I ever mention I was claustrophobic? The feeling of being constricted had such a hold of me in normal life I actually wore baggy clothes. A tight t-shirt could well up feelings of anxiety; how the fuck I made it in the womb for nine months is something I don’t want to even think about. I was warring within myself to just sit still; I needed to move, make more room. I’d once, okay maybe a few times, punched the living shit out of opposing football players when I’d been at the bottom of a pile and they’d moved, in what my mind, I considered too slowly in getting the fuck up. Guys who knew me got off as fast as they could. The pressure, the difficulty to catch a breath–it was all panic-inducing, so besides the very real threat of the zombies, I had to deal with my inner demons.

  Because of our location on the wall, the rollover itself had affected us minimally. Us humans moved maybe a foot total, and were relatively in control. It was the other stuff I was worried about, the flying housewares that inflicted the most damage. I almost blacked out as a cast iron pan clipped the side of my skull; a kitchen chair leg pegged me in the ribcage. Glassware shattered all around us like glass hand grenades. There were outright cries and muffled screams as furniture hit the others. I could see nothing at all, but I imagine it looked like swirling stars in a cartoon maelstrom. Blood was free flowing from my head, and I knew the others had not come through unscathed, as I could smell their iron-rich leakings. I wished I couldn’t, but I could.

&n
bsp; The wall we were now calling a floor, had suffered some serious structural damage from the fall; it had buckled along the entire length of it. The fog must have lifted somewhat as there was now some light coming in the windows along what was now our ceiling. It allowed me to see a whole bunch of jagged edges where, when this thing flipped again, we would be flayed as if we were being keelhauled. If you don’t know what that lovely act of sea-justice was, it was the practice of torture which involved a man being fastened to two ropes and dragged underneath a barnacle-encrusted ship bottom then raised up the far side. It was very effective. If the sailor didn’t drown, the action would usually induce severe injuries, sometimes the loss of limbs would occur, or even decapitation. Odds were, we wouldn’t suffer those types of drastic bodily harm, but major blood vessels are frighteningly close to the surface. One could easily be severed on the aluminum shards that were sticking up like stalagmites, and, while bleeding out might be better than being keelhauled, dying was dying.

  We did not have time to pick our way through the obstacle course as we were once again tossed over, now onto the roof, like I feared. The injuries were becoming more pronounced; I’d hoped what I heard was the snapping of some furniture, but it sounded suspiciously like bone. Plus, the blood loss was greater, and if I was smelling it, how long would it be until the zombies did as well? We were now a rolling brick. The roof suffered much more damage due to the weakening of the wall, so much so, it collapsed in nearly a foot, causing many spontaneous screams. They likely feared being crushed like a scrapped Ford, but the odds of that were low. This thing would disintegrate long before that became a problem. I had a deep gash ripped open across my abdomen, and my ass, of all places–and that one hurt more than anything else I had suffered so far.

  By the time we rolled onto the third side, the initial wall just fell away; it was gone. We’d left it behind like the garbage it was. I think it was BT’s head bouncing off mine that made me black out for a moment. When I opened my eyes a few seconds later there were the moans and groans of those around me mixed with the sounds of thousands of zombies, though they were moving away from us. We’d somehow made it, or so it seemed. I sat up, my head doing spirals, and wanting to crash back down to a place where gravity wouldn’t affect it. I fought against it, struggling to gain my bearings and sit up. There were those that needed help, I just wasn’t sure if I was up to the task of giving any just yet.

  It was a good thing Ryan was passed out, because there was a good chance he’d be screaming like a banshee. His leg had somehow become entangled in a cabinet and had snapped his ankle, which was hanging at a grotesque angle compared to the rest of him. No one had come through unscathed, but he was the only one that had become lamed.

  “You alright?” I checked on Nicole and Wesley, how she’d kept him from crying out the entire time I wasn’t sure until I saw his binkie. The power or at least comfort that can come from sucking on that little rubber device. That’s the wonder of breasts though, even fake ones have the ability to calm us down. I realize women rule the world, even if it’s mostly in the background. The only reason I can see for their not just taking over the world is because they know it sucks to be up front; sorry for the double-entendre.

  “Get them out of here,” Sanders said to me. “Winters, Biddie, and myself will watch your withdrawal.”

  “The boy’s ankle. I should set it, sir.” Biddeford said.

  “No time. We have to allow them time to get somewhere safer; you can do it then,” the major replied.

  The zombies were about a hundred feet away, closing their circle. On what, we did not know. Right now we didn’t have the resources to find out or challenge them outright; we had lost this position, and sooner rather than later, Ryan was going to wake up and realize he was in a fuckload of pain. Tommy hoisted the teenager up. I took Wesley from my daughter; she had a limp, said her hip was hurting. Gary looked a bit like any of Mike Tyson’s opponents when he was in his prime–like he’d been banged in the head one too many times. Travis was up ahead a bit, closer to the herd. If he was scared, he was doing an admirable job of hiding it. Meredith was helping her uncle walk a straight line. I had my head on a swivel, looking for threats; stragglers, one of them to notice they’d passed the buffet table. Sanders and his men had not yet pulled back to our location. I was feeling we were mighty vulnerable, considering everyone was disoriented or broken and we only had one person with the ability to fire effectively at the moment.

  “Travis, stay closer to us,” I hush yelled. I know it sounds weird, but we’ve all done it. Maybe at a movie theater, when your kid is misbehaving and you want him to realize he’s in trouble without ruining the movie-going experience for everyone else–the most common hush-whisper is, ironically, “Be quiet.” We were a block over when automatic gunfire opened up.

  “Shit. We gotta move,” I said, but sometimes you realize you could not have said more superfluous words if you said water was wet or sex was great. There really was no need to verbalize these things, as they were universal truths. Thankfully, no one said, “Duh.” I cradled Wesley and then moved over to get a shoulder propped up under Gary. He was starting to shake off the effects of his most-likely concussion-inducing headbang, but not fast enough.

  “Pick a house!” I told Travis. This time there was no hush to it. Then, what I’d hoped was the unthinkable, so unthinkable that it hadn’t even occurred to me to do it, happened right in front of us. Travis brought his rifle up to his shoulder and began to fire.

  “Ri’m r’okay,” Gary said. I didn’t think slurred speech after a head injury was a great sign, but I could only deal with one calamity at a time. Never been much of a multitasker.

  Walking wounded versus the walking dead; perhaps we could start our own fight game franchise. The deaders were pouring out all around us. They must have been left behind by their faster brethren. They were ambling and shambling and Travis was in danger of being cut off from the rest of us as he sought out something, anything where we could once again seek shelter. I handed the baby back to Nicole and grabbed Gary’s heavier hunting rifle; it was of the wooden stock, as opposed to my composite. We had a fair number of zombies locked on to us. It was my hope to not draw more as I first made sure the rifle was on “safe” before I began to use the buttstock as my skull crusher.

  We’ve all, at one point or another, seen the movies and TV shows that depict crushing a skull as something not much more difficult than busting open an overripe melon, thus the term “melonhead.” I can assure you that is not the case. These were not half-rotted people rising from shallow graves after having been worm eaten for a decade. For the most part, these had been vibrant, healthy people with nice, thick skulls before the virus took over. No matter what you believed, it was not something you could do with your hands; even with a tool it was a jarringly difficult business. Knowing this, I used all the force available to me as I drove that heavy wooden stock into the forehead of the zombie nearest me. It was enough power that I drove the top part of his head a good three or four inches back into his brain. The end of the rifle emerged coated in a gooey black mass of brain and skull bits.

  I had to step up to the next one, who seemed all too willing to accept his penance. His arms stretched out to meet me, though I was most definitely not his Lord and Savior. Or maybe I was the Savior part; who knew if any humanity remained in those human shells? Perhaps that small piece left was begging for a quick and merciful ending. There have been times when I’ll admit I thought I’d seen a glimpse of relief in a battered head. Anyway, I thought I was getting some serious licks in until BT started up. He was quite literally taking the top halves of skulls clean off; looked like a bunch of yarmulkes spinning up into the air after a particularly heavy gust. Travis had fought his way to a porch, some fifty feet to our left. It wasn’t a mobile home, so that was something. He’d got the memo we were doing our best to make this a somewhat quiet affair–although, cracking a head sounded a lot like smacking a two by four with a power ham
mer. It was fairly loud in its own right. Even with Ryan in his arms, Tommy was a death-dealing machine. His one-arm rifle thrusting was equally or more effective than my two-armed lunges.

  The zombies were congealing on our location. Normally I would use the word “converging,” but they were a slimy paste-coated sea of disgustingness. Tommy was kicking out and shattering knees and legs, incapacitating the ones getting too close. I nearly lost my grip and fell into a zombie as my hand slipped in the gore the rifle was coated in. It was a thrown shoulder from BT that kept me from going under.

  I let out a “thanks,” and he nodded to me. My sister and her son got to the porch first and were busy beating back the zombies that were trying to get them over the handrails. Maybe these were the early generation zombies, but they’d had their processing software updated. They saw where we were trying to go and were not only trying to get at us, but also trying to cut us off from that haven. Time for smashing skulls was diminishing rapidly, but the rub of it was we couldn’t shoot either, because a bad shot or one that sailed clear through would come entirely too close to my son, sister, and nephew. Damned if you do, dead if you don’t. How do you reconcile that?

  “Get in the house!” I yelled to them. “We need to find somewhere else!”

  “Mike, there is nowhere else!” BT was straining.

  He was right. We were twenty feet from this one; the next nearest was a hundred or the moon, same distance, relatively speaking.

  “Get in and make sure the back door is open!” I yelled to them. I heard a door slamming shut and was thankful that, at least, they were safe. Now I had to hope there was another door. The zombies were heaviest to our front. I jammed Gary’s rifle back into his hands and had to spend an extra second or two to make sure he had the wits to hold on to it. “Sorry,” I told him as his hands were immersed in goo better left undefined.

  I got my rifle into position and began to make a hole. The noise couldn’t be helped, and if we didn’t make it, who was going to give a shit if we made the cacophony or not. Plus, Ryan had taken this opportunity to let us all know what he thought of being jostled around on Tommy’s back. He was crying out from the pain and I had to think shock would be settling in soon enough. I caught a quick glance as Tommy was doing his martial arts routine, Ryan’s ankle was flapping sickeningly across his broad chest, the boy’s eyes were rolling around in his skull like loose marbles on a wooden floor. I was willing him to pass out again; for some reason he just wouldn’t. BT and I were the only one’s firing, trying to keep everyone except Tommy in the middle of our very incomplete circle.