by Baker, Rich
He removes his hat and scratches the top of his head, puzzled at where this half-zom has gone. He goes to put his hat back on, but it’s caught on something. He tugs a little harder and hears a growl. Then he smells death.
He lets go of the hat and jumps in the seat, turning to see what he already knows; the zombie is right behind him. It’s apparent from the crushed torso and the pattern left by the tractor tire that the tractor ran the thing over. It must have clung to the tire and rode to the top, like a grim kind of Ferris Wheel. Then it got tossed onto the back of the cab and pulled itself in through the open rear window. It has DJ’s hat clutched in its teeth, gnashing at the orange fabric, staining it brown and black with the slime secreting from its mouth.
“Gross!” DJ says. The creature spits out the hat and reaches for DJ, who backs against the door to the cab, fumbling for the latch. He finds it and spills out, falling five feet and landing flat on his back. He grunts, the air leaving his body against his will. His diaphragm convulses, out of sync with his lungs for a moment. Above him, the zombie has pulled itself to the edge of the doorway. It gives a final pull and is airborne, falling toward DJ.
He fumbles around him, still trying to catch his breath when his hand grasps a stick the diameter of a broom handle. It’s only eighteen inches long, but he thrusts it out in front of him and catches the falling harbinger of death in the mouth. The weight of the creature drives the stick into its brain, pausing for a millisecond when it meets the skull; then the stick punches out the back of the head. Black fluid runs down the stick onto DJs work gloves. He pushes the thing to the side, letting it flop on the ground.
After a minute, he sits up and takes a deep breath, his first normal one since the fall from the tractor. He hears a noise and sees two more undead coming toward him from the road. He scrambles back into the cab of the tractor, closes the rear window, throws his hat and gloves outside, closes the door, and gets the tractor moving back to the farmhouse.
DJ has it going about twenty miles per hour on the dirt utility road. It’s part of the same road that Ben and the others drove over last night, but for the first time since the battle, he’s not thinking about that. He’s focused on the zombies that are keeping pace with the tractor. He speeds up to thirty miles per hour, making the ride much bumpier, and finally, the horrible-looking former people start dropping back. With the backhoe attachment on the tractor, DJ can’t get it going faster. He curses himself for not bringing his rifle with him and makes a mental note not ever to leave it behind again.
He sees his parents’ house and the big barn as he comes over a rise in the road. He glances back and doesn’t see the undead.
Maybe they gave up, the voice in his head says.
“I don’t think that’s how it works,” he says out loud.
He heads for the big barn, which is, in reality, a three-hundred-foot-long building with a thirty-foot-wide, twenty-foot-tall door that pivots up like an old-fashioned one-piece garage door. He presses the button on the garage door opener remote control and holds it for a count of five before he sees the door start to rise. He glances back again and sees the two zombies coming down the rise behind him, the lead one only a couple hundred yards back.
He has to slow the tractor down as he enters the barn so he doesn’t crash into any of the other equipment, which allows the lead zombie to catch up by a few yards. Once he crosses the threshold, he can’t start lowering the door until the tractor is all the way inside—backhoe arm and all—because of the electric eye safety sensors that have to be installed for the commercial-grade garage door opener to work. This costs precious seconds that allow the zombie to gain even more ground.
DJ vaults from the cab of the tractor and sees the creature approaching the barn. The door is not going to make it down before it gets there. He climbs back into the cab of the tractor and grabs the opener’s remote control, and hops back down. The edge of the door is about six feet from the ground as the zombie collides with it. Its feet come off of the ground like it’s been clotheslined by a linebacker, and it lands with a thud, kicking up a puff of dust. DJ is looking around for anything he can use as a weapon.
The zombie’s momentum carried past the bottom of the door, so when it hit the ground it tripped the sensor, and the door begins to rise back up. So does the zombie.
It gets up, oblivious to the broken collarbone it suffered in its collision with the door or the way the left arm hangs slack as a result and advances into the barn. DJ presses the button again, sending the door back on its downward march, hopefully closing all the way before the second zombie gets there.
DJ has grabbed a pitchfork for his weapon. The zombie sees him, and just as it had no care about the closing barn door, it doesn’t register the five-tined farm tool as a threat. It just rushes full speed at DJ, who thrusts the business end of the pitchfork at the zombie’s head. He misses, sending two of the tines through the neck just under the jaw. Momentum carries the zombie forward, striking DJ and taking him down to the ground. The handle of the pitchfork keeps the snapping jaws from making contact with DJ’s flesh, but the one good arm scratches and claws at him. He fights with the surprisingly strong creature, finally getting hold of the pitchfork’s handle and using it to lever the horrible thing off of him. As he does so, the pitchfork twists under the zombie’s weight and DJ hears a crack. The body of the creature goes limp. DJ gets to his feet, still holding the pitchfork. He looks down at the foul-smelling beast and see the eyes still moving, trying to focus on him, the jaws still working up and down hoping for a meal.
“Yeah!” he shouts. “You aren’t so tough with your neck busted, are you?!”
He pulls the pitchfork from the neck and jams it in the creature’s head. All movement stops. A shuffling sound to his left makes DJ pivot, the pitchfork held in front of him. The second zombie is about to strike him, and he shoves the pitchfork forward and side-steps the assault. This time, the tines go through the head, and the sack of meat goes down in a heap. The arms and legs are still twitching, but not in a coordinated fashion. DJ pulls the pitchfork out of the head and rams it home again.
Other than his heart pounding in his ears and his breath coming in gasps, he hears nothing else in the barn.
He looks appreciatively at the pitchfork.
“You’re coming with me,” he says to the tool. He walks to the side door and cracks it open. He doesn’t see any of the undead nearby, so he sprints for the main house.
Zombies: 0. DJ: 5 the voice says.
“Damn straight,” he answers it.
Twenty-One
Denver Colorado
Melissa’s scream still hangs in the air. D-Day and Carmen spin around to see that the dead body of the woman named Cheryl is sitting up, still wrapped in the sheet that they had cocooned her in moments before.
“What the fuck …” Carmen says, her words trailing off as the body begins to thrash and fight against the fabric constraints. Beneath the blanket they can see the jaw working, biting at the cloth as though it were an animal and not a couple of layers of cloth. Snarling, guttural noises come from the creature. It loses its balance and topples over, thrashing now on the floor, the blanket starting to loosen. Fresh screams pierce the air.
D-Day takes a few long strides over to the reanimated corpse, drawing his suppressed pistol as he does so. He puts a boot on the thing’s neck, takes aim and fires a shot into the side of its head. It convulses once more, then settles down, only its legs showing any sign of movement. D-Day fires a second shot and, this time, all movement stops.
He takes a deep breath before turning around and addressing the crowd of terrified faces. Of course, Melissa speaks first, her face frozen in a terrified grin.
“How could that happen? How can she come back after she was killed? She wasn’t bitten by one of those things; she was stabbed!”
“We don’t know that she wasn’t bitten. Maybe it was just a scratch; maybe she came in contact with infected material. I don’t know, but there ar
e a lot of possibilities,” D-Day says. “The important thing is that everyone stays alert. It’s obvious that there’s a lot about this disease, or whatever it is, about how it spreads, that we don’t know.”
“That’s just great,” Melissa says. “The blind leading the blind.”
“I want a gun,” the blonde man says. “You have extras, right? I want one.”
Several people begin to murmur, and D-Day sees several heads nodding.
“Stop it, right now!” he exclaims. “I’m not giving any guns to any of you! I don’t run an armory. If you don’t have your own weapons, it’s not my job to provide them to you. And you,” he turns to Melissa. “If you’re not happy with how I’m doing things, you can do whatever the hell you want to do. If you want to be the mayor of Shit Towne, be my guest! But when you do something stupid, which I’m sure you will, and you put my life at risk, or someone else I care about, I’ll drop you in a second and won’t think twice about it.”
For a few tense and awkward seconds that feel like an eternity, no one speaks. Melissa just stares at D-Day, seething, saying nothing.
“Well then, if we’re done with the bullshit, I’m going to try to find out who killed …” D-Day trails off, trying to remember the dead woman’s name.
“Cheryl,” Aggie says.
D-Day looks at the Rhea Perlman doppelganger. “Thank you. Cheryl. I suggest that you all go back to your apartments, but if you stay out, I strongly recommend that you don’t go alone. And if you have anything—a gun,” he pauses and looks at the blond man, “or a baseball bat or whatever weapon you can find, I suggest you bring it wherever you go. We need to rely on each other to get through this, so please, everyone, keep your heads on straight and don’t give in to panic. Panic will kill you before the zombies do. Any questions?”
A petite red-haired woman speaks up.
“The president is on TV,” she says.
Everyone rushes to find a spot in front of the large flat-panel screen.
“Turn it up!” the blonde man says. The red head points the remote at the screen and presses the volume button.
***
Nelson Farms, North of Longview, Colorado
DJ makes it to the house without encountering any additional zombies. He finds the family sitting around the dining table. Vanessa has stopped crying and is drinking coffee. Virginia looks up at DJ, startled by his appearance.
“What the hell happened to you?” she asks, getting up. She approaches him but recoils and wrinkles her nose. “Jesus, boy, you stink!”
“Yeah,” he says, still breathing hard. “It’s zombie blood. After you all had left, a few of them showed up.”
Tim jumps up from the table.
“What? How many? Are you okay?” he asks questions rapid-fire.
“There was five total. They’re all dead, now, again, but these things are fast, and they are strong,” he says, emphasizing their strength. He still has a hold of the pitchfork, and he gestures with it. “And it’s like the news said, you have to get the head to kill them. I cut one in half with the backhoe and ran it over with the tractor, and it still came after me.”
A drop of black zombie blood drips from the pitchfork onto the beige carpet, staining the spot like ink.
“DJ, get that thing out of the dining room, please,” Virginia says.
“I don’t think any of us should go anywhere without a weapon,” he says. “If you encounter one of these things without a way to defend yourself, you’re done for. I had the tractor going all out, and I still could not outrun one of them.”
“Fine, DJ, then clean those tines off. I don’t want that goop all over the house. It stinks.”
DJ’s youngest brother, Bill, calls out from the family room.
“Hey guys,” he shouts. “The president is on TV.”
They all file into the family room, where Bill lies on the couch, his wounded leg elevated on a pile of pillows. On the screen, President Obama sits at a desk, a blue background behind him, the American flag to the left and the flag bearing the Presidential Seal on the right.
“Turn it up,” Tim says.
***
Danny Harris’s Basement, Longview, Colorado
Danny’s instructional video has just ended, so Kyle turns the knob back to ‘TV” and scans through the channels until he finds one that still has a signal. He’s about to say something when Natalie speaks up.
“Look, it’s the President!” she exclaims.
Kyle points the remote and turns the volume up a few notches. President Obama begins to speak.
“Good timing!” Keith says.
“Shhh!” Danielle admonishes him.
“My fellow Americans, and all people who can receive this broadcast, I never thought I would be delivering a speech like this. No leader can be prepared for what has happened over the last eighteen hours. I can’t believe that we’re fighting an actual zombie plague, but when the evidence rules out all other options, you’re left with the truth, and there’s no benefit to denying it or trying to wish it away. If you’re receiving this, I pray for your continued safety and implore you to stay sheltered. It’s not an exaggeration to say that your life depends on it.
The events overnight and this morning are extraordinary. What has happened isn’t an American problem, or a Christian problem, or a Muslim problem; it’s a human problem. Riots have occurred in every nation, impacting people of every race, creed, and religion. We’ve all seen the most gruesome images imaginable, and many of you have had to do awful things just to survive.
The damage to our infrastructure has been severe. The loss of life has been astounding. The horrors of these attacks continue today, and each one is unspeakably tragic for those involved. It’s important that no one assign blame to one group or another. Now is not a time for the familiar politics of hate, for drawing lines in the sand or turning inward as a nation. Now is not a time for division. We’re facing an unprecedented moment in history. For the first time, we are united as a species against a common problem, a common cause. We can’t afford not to work together.
So, I am in touch with the leaders of other nations. We’re developing strategies to fight back against the hordes of the infected, which threaten the lives and safety of the citizens of the world. I want to assure you that help is coming. The military is preparing for counter-assaults and will begin re-taking our cities. One by one, we will take back our cities, our nations, our world.
But make no mistake. It will not happen overnight. It will not be easy. And it will not be without sacrifice. To help protect those who have survived the night, I will remind you that I have declared martial law. A strict curfew is in effect for the whole of the United States. We’ve had reports of looting, stealing, even murder of our citizens as they have been fighting for survival. This behavior is not acceptable and will be dealt with swiftly and severely. I urge everyone within the reach of my voice to remain calm and if you’ve found a safe place, stay there. Help is coming. I repeat that—Help. Is. Coming. Together, we will persevere.
God bless you and keep you safe, God bless the United States of America, and God bless all people around the world.
***
Denver, Colorado
“I am so glad he’s our President,” the red-haired woman says. “We’re going to be rescued!”
“I hope so,” D-Day says. “But it’s not going to happen right away. Like he said, we have to work together, and we have to help each other.”
“Just tell us what to do, and we’re ready,” Carmen says. Heads nod around the room, even the blonde man who has been complaining.
D-Day looks over the crowd of twenty people. The President’s speech seems to have galvanized them, at least for the moment. As he gets ready to lay out his plan, he doesn’t notice that Melissa, the biggest complainer of the lot, has slipped out of the room.
“All right, folks,” he says. “We’ve got a good start, but we still have work to do.”
***
Nelso
n Farms, North of Longview
“Well, that was a waste of time,” DJ says.
“Here we go,” says Vanessa. “Why can’t you just shut up for five minutes.”
“Because I’m a realist. We’re on our own out here. Longview is burning. I counted at least a dozen fires earlier, or at least a dozen plumes of smoke, so maybe there’s more. There’s no fire department to put them out. No police. No communication. How long do you think we’re going to have power? Water? Those things take people to keep running, and I doubt there're many folks heading to work today.”
“But he said the Army is coming,” Vanessa counters.
“This country spans four time zones and has—had—three hundred million people. There’s what—a million people in the military? And a ton of them are deployed overseas. Who knows if they’ll make it back here. We need to be ready to fend for ourselves for a long time.”
“He’s right,” Virginia says.
“Mom, I—what?” DJ stammers.
“What?” Tim says.
“He’s right,” she repeats. “We need to be prepared to weather this storm for a while. Assuming the military can fight this thing, we’d be fools to think they’re going to start here. They’ll start in DC, New York, LA—the biggest, most important cities. They may get here eventually, but we need to last until they do.”
Everyone is silent for a few seconds, Virginia’s comments sinking in.
“Okay,” she says. “We have work to do.”
***
Danny Harris’s Basement, Longview, Colorado
