The Tale of Tom Zombie (Book 5): Zombie Survival

by Timmons, H. D.

  #

  Someone else’s memories surrounded Tom. The farmhouse he’d holed up in was two properties away from the Matthews’s farm. Close enough, but far enough away to provide the seclusion he wanted.

  He’d grown accustomed to the household furniture and nick-knacks that were not his taste. Photos of a family that was not his adorned the walls. Faces that had become familiar over time. He grew to like the faces. The only face he hated was the one in the mirror.

  He studied his reflection, pulled at the loose flesh around the edges of open sores—sores that would never heal—and flung it to the dusty floor. He coughed and wheezed, spitting blood that seeped from his gums. His limbs would ache from time to time like the world’s worst case of fibromyalgia in human history, headaches and muddy thinking plagued him daily. He’d even lost a pinky toe, yet he carried on.

  They had buried Jemma in the frozen ground only days earlier. He was sad about her passing. Never cried over it, but rather he was relieved that she’d be spared her own inevitable gruesome, decrepit end. He even envied her situation, making the attempt on his on his life seem worthy of another go. A voice at the door perished the thought.

  “I would say, ‘Merry Christmas’, but there’s nothing merry about it,” Holly forlornly said as she let herself in. The darkened shadows of the house prevented Holly from seeing her dad’s disfigured face clearly.

  “Yeah. It sucks. But I’m still glad you came to visit me on Christmas.”

  His form and his voice, though raspy now, reminded her of nights when she was little, catching a glimpse of her father checking on her from the bedroom door.

  “I miss you.” Without hesitation, Holly went to Tom and wrapped her arms around her father and cried against his chest.

  “I mourned for you already when we thought you died back in Chicago. And, now after what happened to Jemma... and what I’ve been through with... with mom...” Holly’s voice trailed off, as Tom’s hand stroked her hair to comfort her. “I don’t think I’ve got any mourning left in me,” she continued through tears.

  “Aww. Don’t you worry, Hol. Your mourning for me wasn’t in vein. I did die—a long time ago. All that’s left now is this rotting corpse.”

  Holly recoiled at her father’s words. Tom presumed it was simply because of his odor and continued, nonetheless. “Seriously. I’m nothing more than a ghost now. Only difference is... you can still see me. For a little while longer, anyway.”

  Holly squeezed her father tighter—so tight that she could hear the air wheeze from his lungs. Then, pressing her ear against his chest, she closed her eyes and focused on the sound of his beating heart.

  Tom kissed his daughter’s head, as best he could manage—with much of his lips gone—and Holly smiled at the emotional warmth it gave her. She could feel her father’s love and reached up, placing a tender kiss on the fleshy part of her father’s right cheek, prompting tears to spring from Tom’s eyes for the first time in a very long time.

  “How are things at the bunker?” Tom asked, changing the subject.

  “Huh. How do you think? Just being around Kenny makes my skin crawl now. I’ve thought of asking you if I could stay here, but...”

  “Mark?”

  “Yeah, Mark. He thinks we need to be there Eva and Sherry. I can’t say I disagree.”

  “You guys still... a thing?”

  “I guess. Although...,” Holly hesitated. “He really hasn’t been the same since Jemma.

  “It’s rough on everyone,” Tom assures.

  “Yeah, but... it more than that. He’s seems distant somehow.”

  “You want me to talk to him? See what’s going on?”

  “Oh, God no. Then he’ll know I said something. Besides, he’s so far up Kenny’s butt right now, I don’t think you can separate them. He spends more time with Kenny than he does with me. It’s like they’ve developed some male bonding thing. Can’t figure it out.”

  “You don’t say.”

  “Ever since the mall Mark’s been defending Kenny that Jemma’s death was an accident,” Holly explained.

  “And you still think Kenny shot her with that arrow on purpose?”

  “Well, it’s no secret he didn’t like her. Hated the fact that he had to give her food rations and serum. But, Mark swears up and down that they didn’t even see Jemma. Just the zombie acting like it was on the scent of food or something.”

  Tom thought about the curiousness of the account, but suddenly felt his thoughts beginning to deviate from the moment, beyond the current reality. He didn’t want Holly to see him like that. He tried to focus on comforting his daughter, but she became a multi-woman in his mind. She was Paula, Jemma, Sherry, the woman he’d killed in the woods over a year ago, even Mona, the one who gave him the virus in the first place.

  Holly can’t see me like this. “I hate to cut this short, kiddo, but I’m feeling kind of tired. Think I’ll catch some shut eye—get my beauty sleep.”

  “Oh, I almost forgot,” Holly said reaching in to her coat pocket. “Sherry wanted me to bring you some of her canned peaches as a Christmas present.” She set the jar on the end table by the worn gingham sofa.

  “Well, don’t I feel special,” Tom said, trying to keep his grip on the moment, focusing his every thought on the peaches.

  “Yeah, well don’t. I got one too,” she chuckled as she turned to leave.

  “Hey, Holly!” Tom called as she reached for the door. “I love you very much. I hope you know that.”

  “I know, dad. I know. I love you, too. See you tomorrow.” She turned back to Tom one last time. “Oh, and… umm… Merry Christmas.”

  #

  Penetrating the hard, cold ground was a chore, but there was no rush. He had all day.

  Finding his family’s remains was so emotional for Jef that after vomiting upon first seeing them, then crying out it rage and sorrow, he half thought of killing himself on the spot, thinking that he should have suffered the same fate. He figured he deserved it.

  His daughter’s bones littered the overgrown yard beneath a cover of snow, while his son’s were strewn throughout the living room. In the back yard, his wife—his sweet girl from Ipanema—lay in pieces around the frozen flower bed.

  Between the living room and the patio door were an assemblage of bones that could have been his wife and son’s mixed together. Jef didn’t need to sort through them. They were all his family and laid the remains of all three in a single shallow grave in the back yard, all in one final resting place.

  Walking through the house, Jef felt as if he were moving through a dream. Sifting through old photo albums, memories collided, intertwined, being relieved all out of order. He didn’t care. They flooded in and he let them wash over him.

  Jef looked through his wife’s closet where clothes animated in his recollections with familiar movements. He began humming softly The Girl from Ipanema.

  In his children’s rooms, visions of them at every age both haunted and delighted him.

  Maybe bringing some of their old toys back to the Burkes might be a good idea, he thought. Seeing kids playing with them might be therapeutic.

  Dusk was settling in when Jef heard noise coming from downstairs. He listened carefully for the groans or wheezing of creepers, but instead was surprised to hear talking.

  “Dad, how about this?”

  “Naw. Leave it.”

  At first Jef thought he was hearing more ghosts from the past rattling through his house as more memories shook loose, but it wasn’t. He listened some more and heard that there was not only a father and son, but a mother and daughter as well. They were apparently a family of survivors.

  Jef was satisfied that he’d gotten the closure he needed. He slung a pillow case filled with photo albums, games for the Burkes, and mementos over his shoulder, and headed downstairs. He was going to welcome the family to his home and magnanimously grant them full reign of the house for as long as they wanted it. He saw his own family in them in some way and too
k pity.

  The blood-stained carpet and walls were hard to ignore, so when Jef appeared he nearly got his head blown off.

  “Whoa! Hold on!” Jef said, ducking for cover on the staircase. “This is my house. It’s okay. It’s safe.” The dad lowered his gun in relief.

  “Hey, You guys seen any other survivors? Any signs of civilization?” Jef was fishing. If they mentioned that they’d ever seen a plane fly over there was a chance that maybe they’d been exposed to the serum. They didn’t mention it. They only said that they’d come across a few survivors, all headed west like them.

  “It’ll be a long haul with this winter weather, but we can’t wait around for spring. Hey, you’re welcome to come with us,” the dad offered.

  “Tried driving, but that only gets us so far because so many roads and bridges are blocked. Filled with abandoned cars,” his wife added.

  The man’s children felt a bit more at ease and began wandering through the house.

  “Well, I better get goin’, but stay here as long as you need to,” Jef told them. “Slow and steady wins the race. And if we’re lucky, that means the human race.”

  The son grabbed a photo from a side table and showed it to his dad.

  “Much obliged, mister, but we won’t be stayin’. Looks like we’re headed to the airport.” He turns his son’s hand to show Jef the photo—a photo of Jef in his air force uniform standing by a jet.

  The dad raised his gun again, aiming it at Jef. His son and daughter copied their father and pull their own guns from their coats.

  The man held out his hand to his wife who fished a piece of paper out of her coat pocket, unfolded it and places it in her husband’s waiting hand.

  The man held out his hand to his wife who fished a piece of paper out of her coat pocket, unfolded it and places it in her husband’s waiting hand.

  “You’re gonna fly us here,” the man said, holding up the flier. Jef focused on the printed words: Cheyenne Mountain. Survivor’s Sanctuary: where humanity can begin again.

  Part 7

  Beneath the chapel’s presbytery, what the Burke children referred to as ‘daddy’s stage’, was the perfect hiding place to store the necremone serum. The space beneath it had been made accessible by cutting out a section of floor under the pulpit.

  Hamilton Burke stared into the space and counted only enough serum for three more treatments. After the dose he would give his family in a few weeks, it meant they would be completely out of serum after six more months forcing them to tap into the meager supply set aside for travelers passing through. That would carry them for another year.

  Jef had said that he was also running out of serum for spraying, and Hamilton’s liturgical disposition couldn’t ask Jef to sacrifice serum to save others in favor of them. He simply prayed that the Lord would provide. If Hamilton was honest with himself he’d admit that he was beginning to feel like God had died along with the rest of the population, but he hung on to hope in favor of honesty.

  Replacing the floorboards over the hole, and sliding the pulpit back in place over it, Hamilton began his chore of sweeping the chapel floor as was his weekly ritual of keeping up the Lord’s house.

  “Hey there,” a voice called from the doorway.

  Hamilton, startled by the stranger, stopped his sweeping between the pews and gripped the broom handle in readiness. It was the only weapon he had at his disposal for the moment.

  He studied the man who was now walking slowly in his direction. The stranger was in his late thirties, wearing the winter overcoat of a corrections officer, opened to reveal a light blue uniform shirt. The dark blue pants seemed a little baggy above well-worn, black Timberland steel toe work boots that were clearly not part of the uniform. Hamilton gave the benefit of doubt.

  “You must be the preacher here.”

  “I’m Reverend Burke,” Ham said, making his way to the man. He pointed to the shoulder patch on the officer’s coat. “Northeast Correctional Center. I know it well. Been called upon to minister to some folks a few times. I thought everyone bugged out of the prison last year.”

  “Name’s Gant. The... um... Conroys said you could help,” Darren said with a slight inflection, ignoring the reverend’s comment.

  Hamilton’s benefit of doubt wavered and counted strike number one that the man’s name didn’t match the name patch on the uniform.

  “Oh, yes. The Conroys.” Hamilton remembered the elderly couple from his congregation very well.

  “A lovely couple,” Hamilton said. “They gettin’ along okay?”

  “Huh? Oh, yeah. They’re doin’ just fine.

  “They did said that you were the man that helps people. Yessir. Doin’ the Lord’s work, they said. We sure could use a man like you,” the stranger said as earnestly as possible.

  “We?”

  “My brothers and me. We were driving by and saw your kids playin’ out front, He raised his arm and pointed his thumb over his shoulder, “so we knew those old folks... the Conroys... weren’t steerin’ us wrong.”

  Ham’s eyes darted to the door and he quickened his steps down the aisle out of concern for his children. Strike two. “We’re always happy to help other survivors as they travel on their way. What is it I can do for you boys?”

  In their brief interaction, Hamilton had several clues that made this man untrustworthy. Now, by mentioning his children there was no doubt he was a threat. Ham glanced out of the opened front door to observe both Willie and Sasha tossing around a Frisbee with a young man that was barely in his twenties, all three stepping in place to stave off the cold December chill between throws. The man was similarly dressed as the one in his chapel, but he wore a cap.

  “I thought you said ‘brothers’... plural,” Ham asked.

  “Oh, I sent James on to the house, and I reckon he’s getting acquainted with your missus.”

  Strike three. Ham immediately stepped outside and headed quickly to his house, still carrying his broom, and called to his kids. “Y’all come on with me in the house now!” He sensed the stranger following behind and asked without turning, “What can I help you fellas with, so you can be on your way?” A sinking feeling grew in his stomach.

  The stranger called for his brother, mimicking Hamilton’s call to his kids. “Dennis! Quit playin’ and come on now. This nice preacher is gonna help us out.” Hamilton glanced back at him. “Uh, so we can be on our way,” Darren added to appease the reverend.

  An old blue Plymouth was parked in the driveway. From the chapel, there’s no way Hamilton could have heard it pull up at the house, especially if they rolled in slow, as he suspected they may have done. He was also certain that it was the Conroy’s car. The knot in his stomach tightened.

  Cora was sitting on the sofa silently, as if instructed to do just that. It appeared that her impromptu visitor dispensed with any small talk and simply sat waiting for his big brother to arrive. The man next to Cora looked to be in his early thirties and was unkempt and dirtier looking than his older brother. Hamilton’s eyes met Cora’s mutely asking her if she was alright. A subtle nod assured him that she was.

  “How we lookin’?” Darren asked of James.

  “All good. Back bedroom was locked, but I made her open it. Stuck my head in—just a sick old man, all hooked up to oxygen and shit. From his breathin’ sounds like he could croak any day. Already smells like death in there.”

  Cora looked apologetically at her husband, not only for unlocking the door to his father’s room, but for knowing where he kept the spare key. Hamilton simply returned a loving nod.

  “Well, now that we’re all in one place... I’m Darren, this here’s my baby brother Dennis, and ma’am, I believe you’ve already made the acquaintance of my brother James.”

  James Gant’s name patch read A. RODRIGUEZ. Dennis still had his coat zipped up, but Hamilton didn’t need to see the name on his uniform. Their uniforms were no doubt stolen, taken from slain zombies, or worse—from slain prison guards.

  Th
ere was an awkward silence.

  “Weeeeell?” Darren asked, looking around the room to prompt introductions of the Burke family.

  “I’m Willie,” came a small voice. Sasha cut her eyes disapprovingly to her brother.

  Darren crouched down to face Willie. “Well, there ya go, little man. Your folks sure taught you some manners. They should be very proud.”

  “Look. I’m going to ask again What is it that you all want?” Hamilton spoke up, drawing Darren away from Willie.

  “Nothing more than what a good Christian like yourself wouldn’t do for anyone else that came by here during these dark any uncertain times.”

  “We can offer you some canned goods and some blankets to help you through the winter—wherever you’re headed.”

  Reverend Burke had always been quick to offer other survivors that happened by doses of zombie serum along with some meager provisions that Jef procured from local abandoned shops. But, for these three men, Hamilton withheld even mentioning the serum owing to their obvious nefarious nature. That level of Christian charity was rejected from his thoughts quickly, without hesitation. There was a time when it wouldn’t have mattered. A child of God was a child of God. Those days were gone.

  “Now, that’s awful nice of you preacher. Ain’t that right boys?” The brothers nodded in agreement. “But, I’m wonderin’ why you and your family haven’t moved on? Let me guess... you got the good Lord protectin’ ya. Is that it?” Darren said with a patronizing grin.

  “We like to think so.”

  “Mmmm, I dunno, preacher. With all them zombies running loose out there you still let your kids play outside nice as ya please... unprotected?” Darren looked down, then bent to poke at Willie’s stomach. “Ain’t you scared of them zombies, boy?”

  “Naw. My daddy gives us a shot,” Willie replied innocently. The rest of the Burke family clenched their jaws.