by Matt Hart
As the zombies cleared the barricade and stood up, he found it easier to hit them cleanly. He dropped the magazine and replaced it with a fresh one from his vest, charged the gun and continued firing. All but five of the shots from that magazine found their marks – twenty-five fewer zombies. He backed up the stairwell slowly and stood on the next landing, halfway to his second bunker. The creatures were already past the door to his medical lab. He fired and fired, choking the stairwell.
“At least they're slow,” he thought.
He switched magazines again, and another twenty creatures went down. Their bodies filled the stairs, and he only shot when he saw a head struggling through the mass of bodies – down to just one shot every thirty seconds or so. His mind began to turn to securing this stairwell.
“There's the handrails where I could tie something, maybe rope. I could drop a tool chest down, like in Home Alone 2.” He'd already filled the stairwell one level down with loose and heavy pieces of furniture – there wasn't a lot more he could toss down. “Maybe a bunch of snares?” He imagined hanging zombie-sized snare wires. They'd get caught, but wouldn't really block the way.
I can't stop them.
“But maybe I can drop them down the stairwell,” he said. The Professor turned and ran up the stairs, past his first rope barrier, and went into his electronics workshop. He pulled out a saws-all and a come-along and went back to the stairs. The creatures had reached his rope barrier and were pushing against it. He quickly cut through the metal handrail, then cut away the six feet of supports. Then he attached the come-along to the rail top and secured the other end up the stairs to the other side and began cranking it. The rail groaned and bent as it slowly swung across the stairwell. He stopped when it reached the wall. He left the come-along in place, then blocked above the railing by tying rope from the top of the bent rail to various anchor points above, wrapping it back and forth around the rail posts.
He heard a loud snap below, and a zombie clambered up the stairs. It reached the bent rail and stopped, thrusting its arms through the ropes as it tried to grab the Professor, who simply stood and watched, his AK-47 in his hands. Another creature joined the first one, then a third. A fourth one came up and pushed along the first three creatures, and a fifth came up behind, pushing the fourth. It reached the edge of the stairs and tumbled, falling and striking the stairs on its way down. The fifth zombie joined it as it was, in turn, pushed from below.
“Wish I'd have thought of that sooner,” said the Professor. “The lab is unreachable now, but maybe the rest is secure,” he thought. He spent the next hour reinforcing the new barrier. He removed interior doors from the top floor and wedged them against the bent stair rail and the stairs above it. He threaded more ropes between the ones he'd already set, careful to use thick leather gloves, a heavy coat and a welding mask to prevent accidental bites from the zombies in front.
Every few seconds, another zombie would get pushed off the edge from the press of the creatures behind it and would tumble off the stairs to rattle against the guardrails on its way down.
The Professor spent the rest of the day charging the batteries for his saws-all and turning the rest of the stairwell into similar traps, leaving a few ropes untied so that he could make his way up and down. He thought about the recorded messages from earlier, something about invisible attackers and electricity. He spent an hour fashioning a curtain out of thin electrical wire, plastic coating removed every few inches, and hung it from wall to wall. It resembled a multi-colored bead curtain. He connected it to a couple of charged batteries and tested it with a voltmeter.
“Twenty four volts with lots of amps,” he said to himself.
Once this trap was ready, he sat down near the first barrier and watched as the creatures fell, wondering if the stairwell would actually fill up.
A man with a hard hat. A women in a dress suit. A teenager with a Red Sox hat.
His grip tightened on his rifle as tears began to fall from his cheeks, their cadence matching the fall of the once-human beings, now changed by some evil agent into creatures from a B-movie.
Chapter 28
Salisbury, Massachusetts
“Don't be obvious,” began Richard in a low voice, “but see that orange color left of the road ahead, thirty yards?”
Jeffrey tried to look around casually, but it took a few seconds before he saw it. “Yeah. What do you think it is?”
“It ain't a survey marker, I can tell you that right now.” Richard stopped and took off his pack, then drank from a canteen. “Stop looking nervous you idiot, take a break.”
Jeffrey did as he was told and removed his pack. “Scout the trail ahead,” said Richard after a minute, a little more loudly than before. “Stick to the center,” he whispered, “I'll cover you.” Jeffrey nodded and held his shotgun while Richard sat down and made a show of pretending to check over his Weatherby.
Jeffrey walked nervously down the center of the gravel road, trying to avoid looking at the orange colors in the woods at the side of the road. He'd just passed the one on the left when two figures jumped out in front of him. He raised the shotgun and screamed at the two huge men.
“Don't move!” Two rifle shots spaced a second or so apart boomed out behind him, but he didn't dare turn and look. “On the ground, now, or I blow your heads off!” The two men dropped without saying a word. Jeffrey risked a glance behind him and saw two more men lying on the road, a dark stain spreading from them. His uncle was walking up the trail.
“Go get the packs, Jeffrey!”
“Okay Uncle Richard.” Jeffrey turned and jogged back up the trail as Richard moved in on the two still-living men.
“Going to jump us, huh? Grab our gear? Tell me why the hell you shouldn't join your two friends?”
“Big N?” asked one of the figures. “Is that you?”
“Who are you?” asked Richard.
“Hey man, we wouldn't have done it if I'd knew it was you,” answered one of the men as he risked a glance up.
“Damned if I don't know that voice,” said Richard. “Get up, Michelangelo,” he said, “and your twin there, too.” The two men stood warily, eyeing Richard.
“This is Watson,” said Michelangelo, pointing to the other man. Both were medium height and well muscled, but not overly so, dressed in prison orange. Michelangelo sported dozens of tattoos, as did Watson. Their shaved heads glistened white in the morning sun, and their eyes and nervous movements hinted at barely restrained violence.
“This is my nephew,” said Richard as Jeffrey walked up lugging the packs. “Jeffrey and I are tracking the son of a bitch who killed Richie yesterday.”
“Your son? Aw man, I'm sorry,” said Michelangelo.
Richard eyed him. “Yeah right,” he said. “Anyway, Jeffrey, this is Michelangelo and that's Watson. I knew Mickey from my time. He's a damn good prison tattoo artist.”
“You got anything to eat?” asked Watson. Jeffrey looked a question at his uncle, who nodded. He opened a pack and removed some nutrition bars and handed them to Watson. The man tore open the packaging and stuffed the whole bar in his mouth before handing one to Michelangelo. “Haven't eaten since the power went out,” said Watson around a mouthful of granola.
Richard laughed. “What, fifteen hours and you're starving?”
Watson glared and stepped toward Richard, who immediately lost his grin. Richard walked up to Watson and punched him hard in the gut. Watson spit out the granola as he staggered backwards from the blow. Quickly recovering, he launched himself at Richard who easily sidestepped and smashed his rifle stock into his face. Watson fell to a sitting position on the ground. He touched his face and looked at the blood on his hand. Richard kicked him in the side and Watson grunted and fell, clutching his ribs. Jeffrey stood to the side, his mouth agape as he watched his uncle pummel the man.
“Let's get one thing straight,” said Richard, “I'm in charge. You don't like it, then I have a bullet with your name on it.” He pointed his gun at
Watson. “Got it?”
“Yeah man, sorry man, you're the boss, man!”
Michelangelo leaned over Watson and smacked him on the back of the head. “Dumbass. Get up.” Watson stood slowly, still holding his side.
Richard nodded and pulled a handgun out of the pack and handed it to Michelangelo. He took Jeffrey's .22 and removed the bullet from the chamber by quickly dropping the loaded magazine, firing the round just over Watson's head, then snapping the magazine back into place. He chuckled as he handed the gun to the shaking Watson. “I hear you chamber a round without a zombie around and I stake you out for bait, got me?”
“Yes sir, I'll just sling it until you say.”
“Good boy.” Richard handed a box of shells to each of them. “Jeffrey, give 'em some of your clothes. Gonna be hard to sneak up on someone with these guys wearin' day-glo orange.”
Jeffrey started to say something then snapped his mouth closed. “Okay Uncle Richard.” He opened his pack and removed the extra pants and shirt he had, plus the Frog Toggs rain suit. He handed them to the two cons. “It's all I've got,” he said.
“Thanks,” said Michelangelo. “I'd ask Big N there for some clothes, but I don't really need a tent right now.” Richard laughed and even Watson smiled.
“Why do you call him 'Biggen'?” asked Jeffrey.
“Not 'Biggen', it's 'Big N', as in that in that giant swastika tattoo on his back, you know what I'm sayin'?”
Jeffrey gulped and nodded. “Yeah.”
“We’re gonna start trusting a bunch of neo-Nazi cons with our lives?” thought Jeffrey. “I gotta get outta here.”
The two cons dressed and Richard handed his pack to Watson, who grunted and struggled to lift it. Richard nodded when the con shifted the pack around and stood up straight.
“Let's go, we've got some ground to make up.” He turned onto the path cut by Mark and Jen and broke into a slow jog, Jeffrey behind him with Watson struggling under the heavy pack. Michelangelo brought up the rear, holding the handgun and looking happy.
Chapter 29
Jen : Salisbury, Massachusetts
I trudged along behind Mark and Art as they talked about prepper supplies and hunting and guns. I didn't understand the half of it, although I tried. I knew it might be important to my survival, but it was like another language that I couldn't and didn't even want to learn.
My feet hurt.
We'd been walking for hours, stopping only briefly to refill our canteens at some nasty pond or other. My bug spray was wearing off and the insects in this place were brutal. I thought about asking Mark for more, but figured I could just keep swatting at them as I shifted the double-rifle from hand to hand.
My feet really hurt.
I looked down at my decidedly non-hiking dress shoes. I think one of the soles was wearing thin, and I know yet another rock had lodged itself in the same left shoe-spot as the previous zillion times.
And I feel like throwing up right now.
I guess the adrenaline of just trying to survive yesterday with crazed killers and zombies chasing me was the reason that I didn't really notice how worn out I was. Then we were awakened by gunshots and had to run again, and then Art followed us and then ambushed us.
It's too much.
I have a cat at home. Did I mention that? Maybe Mr. Sedgwick went up to check on me when the power went out, and he's taking care of Merkie.
Maybe not.
She can probably survive for a while since she's smart enough to dig food out of the pantries, and she has one of those big water dishes that refills itself.
Maybe a month?
Surely I can get home by then.
Can't I?
—————
As the tears rolled down Jen's cheeks, a group of Borelings watched with howls of laughter as a cat crouched in a corner beneath a bed, only inches from a scratched-up hand that kept reaching for the terrified feline.
Chapter 30
Mark : Salisbury, Massachusetts
“It gets really swampy around here,” I told Art and Jen. “But we're getting close.”
“You live in Oak Hills, on the lake?” asked Art.
“Yeah, you know this area?”
“Sure, buddy of mine I hunt with lives around here. You know Scott Lunes?”
“Nope, sorry, maybe my dad did. He knew most of the neighbors, but I was too busy playing Xbox.” I felt a hand grasp mine.
“So we're almost there?” asked Jen. She looked like she'd been crying.
I squeezed her hand. “Yes, less maybe another mile or so. There's a road up here to cross, and then we either take the streets or go through the brush some more to reach the house.”
Jen let go of my hand and pointed to her feet. “Roads if possible.”
I nodded. We circled the swamp and came to the forest edge. Art and I crawled out while Jen watched our backs. We didn't see any vehicles, so we quickly crossed and headed down the road.
“There's one,” I said, pointing down the road. It was pretty far away, but it shuffled strangely. “At least it looks like one.”
“I'll check,” said Art. He lowered his pack and took out the big Barrett .50 and lay down on the roadway. “Yep, zombie.” The rifle cracked and the creature fell.
“That was loud,” said Jen. I nodded and looked around as Art packed up his gun.
“I think you woke up the neighborhood,” I told him. I pointed down the road where half a dozen creatures were emerging from around houses.
“Damn, I thought the suppressor was quiet enough.”
“Nothing can make that fifty quiet,” I said. “Come on!” We ran down the road and ducked behind a house. Well, Art and I ran. I saw Jen limping and made a mental note to help her out more. I went to the end of the house and looked around the corner, then ducked back. “They're coming this way, right for us. But they should be slow. I've taken out two at a time before, and we have plenty of guns now.”
“I agree,” said Art. He dropped his pack and pulled out a couple of rifles, handing them to Jen and me and quickly telling us how they operated. We walked out from the corner of the house and began firing. Art probably took out most of them, but it only took a minute or so.
I beckoned to Art and Jen. “Come on, before more come!”
We turned left, crossed a yard, then hustled down the side road. Art and Jen followed close behind me.
—————
“Definitely three of them,” said Jeffrey as he stood up. Richard was watching him check the tracks. Michelangelo was a few steps behind them, while Watson struggled under the heavy pack a dozen yards back. “Two sets of hiking boots and some kind of small, flat shoe, like a lady's maybe. Mark and two stragglers he picked up?”
“Yeah,” said Richard. “Maybe it's that...” He paused and held up a hand. “Hear that?” said Richard. He pushed quickly around the swamp, still following the trail left by Mark.
“No, what is it?”
“Gunshot. We must be close.” He broke into a slow jog again. When he came to the edge of the forest and the road, he didn't even pause. More gunshots sounded in the distance as the rest of the group broke through the trees and followed him across the road. They paused when Richard stopped. The big man cocked his head, listening.
“I don't hear anything now, Uncle Richard, but that sure was a lot of shots.”
“Yeah, they stopped. Several ways they could have gone.”
“We can't track 'em on this asphalt,” said Michelangelo.
Richard nodded and looked around. “Drop your packs, quick.” Jeffrey unsnapped his pack straps and set it on the ground. Watson unsnapped Richard's pack and scrambled out from under it as it clunked down.
Richard gathered the three others. “Here's what we're going to do,” he began.
—————
Jeffrey alternately ran and jogged down the road, Michelangelo in front of him and Watson on his right. He turned left just past the scattered bodies and shells. Mickey continued forwa
rd and Watson turned right. He breathed hard – more from nervousness than from the running.
It was a sparsely populated neighborhood with an odd mixture of home styles. There were two story colonials, a cape house, and even one that looked like a barn. There were trees everywhere, and a mix of nicely manicured lawns and ones where the forest was obviously trying to take back the yards.
Jeffrey gasped as he spotted figures in front of him. Two of them wore backpacks, and one looked like a woman. It could be them. His heart began to pound harder and he felt like he was about to have a panic attack or something.
Do it like Uncle Richard said.
“Hey!” called Jeffrey. “Please, wait a minute!” The figures slowed and looked back. “Please!” He slowed to a walk as the three others stopped. One of them, dressed in camouflage, whispered something and then turned and walked quickly around the corner of a house.
Well that complicates things.
Jeffrey walked up to the man and woman – young man and young woman – and stopped. “I heard the shooting and wanted to see if there's anyone else out here.” He was breathing kind of hard. He held out his hand. “My name's Jeffrey, what's yours?”
The young man shook his hand. “I'm Mark and this is Jen,” he said. “You live around here?”
“Yeah,” answered Jeffrey, “A little ways away across the lake, but I was out looking for more survivors, see if we can hook up and better survive together.”
