by J. D. Demers
“Easy, Jared,” a voice said as it approached the opening.
I could hear the heavy footsteps of at least two different people. The first to come around the corner was the one trying to calm his friend down. He was larger than Jared, though from the look of his belt, he had lost some weight lately. His hair was cut short, but a thick blondish brown beard covered his face. He had an AK47 resting on his hip that pointed toward the ceiling as he walked. The top was fitted with a long silver cylinder which I could tell was a hand crafted suppressor. In his other hand was a small flashlight, which he didn’t hesitate to shine in my eyes. He had an air of danger about him, but it was different than Fish’s. He looked at me up and down, passing a silent message to me saying “If I have to kill you, I will. Don’t be stupid.”
The second man to come in was tall and skinny. He was wearing a white tank top that showed off numerous sloppy tattoos on his arms. He had messy black hair and about two days’ worth of stubble on his face. He brandished a semi-automatic handgun, though I could not tell what caliber it was.
Jared slowly lowered his shotgun, but still had it pointed in my general direction. However, the guy in the back was holding his pistol up, visually searching the rest of the store.
“You alone?” the big man asked.
“Maybe,” I said after a few seconds. “I’m just scavenging for some supplies.”
“Yeah, right,” the skinny guy in the back said.
“Quiet, Chad,” the big man shot back at him, and then looked at me. “This is our shop. We cleared it a few days ago. Sorry, you’re going to have to go somewhere else.”
“I’m not looking for trouble, man,” I said to the bearded guy. “It’s dangerous out there. I’d rather not go through the trouble of raiding another store for just a few batteries if you know what I mean.” I have to say, I impressed myself with my diplomacy.
The big man looked around, pondering a moment. “How many do you need?”
“DJ,” said the skinny man named Chad, “the Lieutenant told us to clean the place out!”
His jaw slacked in annoyance as he cocked his head toward Chad, glaring. “You think I care what Campbell said? You see him or his goons up here doing the dirty work?” DJ looked back to me. “How much do you think this kid can carry, anyways?”
“Hey man, this is about survival,” Chad shot back, edging past the big guy, holding his gun a little more threatening. “Who put you in charge?”
“I’d put a leash on that convict if I were you, Tubs,” Fish’s voice rang out of the darkness, “or you’ll be picking his brain matter out of your beard tonight.” Somehow, Fish was able to quietly maneuver around the store and had the three of them flanked from the register counter.
Chad froze as the flashlight from Fish’s .45 painted his face. Jared did the opposite and started pointing his rifle nervously in multiple directions. DJ, however, just stood there.
“Wouldn’t be a total loss… but I’d rather not waste the time cleaning my beard,” DJ said as he calmly pushed Jared’s shotgun back down. “Why don’t we all aim our hardware in safer directions? We can talk about this.”
“Tell the hoodlum to drop his weapon, and I’ll think about it,” Fish said back. Something about his voice told me he wasn’t going to hesitate to kill any of these men. I think DJ understood that too, because he pocketed his flashlight and snatched Chad’s gun out of his hand.
“There,” DJ calmly said, “now we can be civil.”
He was still eyeing around the store, checking to see if they were surrounded. Chad was frozen like a statue.
Fish’s gun light was still on his head when he emerged from around the checkout counter. When he seemed satisfied he would still have the jump on them, he lowered his .45. Chad finally let out a breath.
It took a little while, but we started talking civil to each other. DJ and his friends had linked up with what was left of an Army unit that had been based down south near Miami. There were over thirty people in their camp including six soldiers, one of them being this Lt. Campbell. Fish and DJ did most of the talking. I think they had a general understanding of each other. I did like how he seemed to eye Fish’s and my oil filters with admiration.
Finally, Chad spoke up.
“So… where are you guys at? I mean, do you have a camp or something?”
“Well…,” I started to say, but Fish cut me off.
“Don’t worry about it, Convict.” He could be so eloquent sometimes.
“Hey, asshole,” Chad shot back, “you’re lucky we’re letting you live.” That earned an angry glare from DJ, but Fish just smirked at him.
I walked closer to Fish and whispered, “Hey, we’re trying to make friends here.” It occurred to me that even though I was trying to be quiet, everyone in the store could hear me.
“We don’t know if they’re friends or enemas,” Fish returned, not bothering to be quiet.
“Enemas?” I said, both shocked he would say that within earshot of them, and just… well, shocked he could be such a dick.
“Yeah, you know, we play friendly, turn our backs, and then they bend us over and clean us out. You’re too trusting, kid.” I know it sounds like a joke, but he was stone cold serious.
“Don’t worry, Fish, I get it.” DJ agreed. “That’s why I’ve left some things out about us as well. We’ve had a few run in’s with some undesirables. Desperate people, you know?” I noticed he eyed Chad for a second. Chad just rolled his eyes and looked away. DJ glanced around the store again. “All in all, though, you two seem square. We’re not inviting you in, but we’d like to keep in touch. You never know when you could use a friend… especially these days.”
Fish gave me a look, as if he was asking what I thought. I shrugged. I had no delusions of who called the shots in our little group. He eyed Chad and Jared, and then turned to DJ.
“Supply, give me your radio,” Fish ordered. I immediately started removing the headset and base and handed it to over to him. He made a quick adjustment, switching it to another frequency, and then tossed it at DJ. “Contact us on that channel if you need to talk. We’ll do the same.”
DJ nodded.
“Well, we’re going to take twenty or so batteries out of here, if that’s okay with your Lieutenant,” Fish added, smirking.
“Alright,” DJ said, earning a glare from Chad, “we have a few other places to hit, then we’ll be back.”
The group took off, leaving just Fish and I to gather what we needed and load up the truck. We agreed that they, for the most part, seemed like decent people. Fish commented on how that was a lot of mouths to feed, but they probably had decent security against any scabs that were on the hunt. Fish had purposely given DJ a separate frequency than what we were using. He said it wouldn’t be hard to find out which one we were on, but it was still a safety measure.
I asked him why he kept calling Chad a convict, and he said his arms were covered with jailhouse tattoos. Just one of those things I never paid attention to before all this happened.
While we loaded the truck, it wasn’t hard to notice that clouds were moving in. By the time we were almost finished, clouds had completely blotted out the sun and there was a slow drizzle of rain. We both hoped it would start pouring as we finished loading up the back of the truck and jumped in.
Chapter 12
Best Pizza in Town
April 8th Afternoon
The fear of the zombies taking to the streets because of the incoming clouds became reality. The overcast had given the zombies the refuge they needed to resume their everlasting hunt for flesh. The rain was light, almost like mist. This didn’t seem to bother the dead, and they moved in random directions on the streets and parking lots of the large commercial area while moaning their lullaby for the world to hear.
We hadn’t made it a hundred feet when scores of them started coming in the direction of our truck. We couldn’t drive too fast, either. Besides the random car wrecks that scattered the area, there was also debris
littered everywhere from people rushing out of the city.
It was then that I realized how lucky I had been up to this point. Sure, I knew there were hordes walking around at night, but I never had to confront them. Even the few times I had seen them moving during the day under the cover of clouds, I was fortunate enough to be in a neighborhood. I was surrounded by houses and fences that must have restricted the number of migrating zombies in my area. Only the scene outside the FEMA camp compared to what I was witnessing. But instead of the hoard coming from one direction, they were coming from everywhere.
Fish cursed as we smacked into two of them rushing our way. They weren’t really running, but they were definitely in a hurry to feast on whoever was driving our little black truck. We were only in a small, four-cylinder Ranger, but we were also the only noise that could be heard for miles around, and the only thing moving that wasn’t dead.
More were pouring in our direction. I couldn’t tell where they had all come from and wondered where they were hiding when we first drove into the area. I had probably seen a total of a hundred or so of them when we arrived at the Radio Shack, but they were slouched in the shade, far away from the road. Now, there had to be thousands. They were coming from everywhere, all focused on us.
“Make sure you’re locked and loaded, kid. This may get ugly!” Fish barked at me as he pushed on the gas.
I took the safety off my rifle, and rotated the pistol grip to my left hand. I couldn’t really shoot it in this cramped space. Even if I rolled the window down, my flexibility would still be limited.
There were thousands of zombies coming at us from all directions. That changed things. We couldn’t head west because of the traffic jam that led to the Interstate, and our way home was to loop around the north side of the city, where at least a thousand walking corpses were blocking our way. Off to the east, toward the Indian River, their numbers thinned. Fish gunned it and took a hard right towards the river. The equipment we procured slammed to one side of the truck.
The zombies were moving too fast, almost at a slight jog. By now I had realized that the sun made them sluggish and when it wasn’t around, be it day or night, they moved with more purpose. The horde was closing in around us, and Fish didn’t hesitate to hit the ones that got in our way. Whatever training my friend had, combat driving must have been something in which he scored low. Hitting a human body, especially at thirty miles an hour, can cause great damage to a vehicle this size. With every hit, blood would splatter on the windshield, metal would bend, and the truck would heave.
We were going to head east toward US1, but to get there, we had to cut through the old Kmart parking lot. Thankfully, there were not any vehicles in front of the abandoned store. It had been closed down for nearly a year.
The large parking lot was cluttered with zombies. Not far off were numerous apartment complexes with thousands of residents. I thought that was where all the zombies originated from, though who knew what their migration habits were.
We rounded the old Kmart parking lot and smacked into a group of dead. The truck lurched as we ran over two or three zombies. The windshield was almost completely covered with bits of flesh and black goo and the windshield wipers were only making it worse. Clearly, Fish was driving on instinct alone.
Unfortunately, instinct wasn’t enough.
Without warning, we smacked into something hard. We didn’t stop instantly, but it was enough to throw me into the dashboard and cause Fish to smack his face on the steering wheel, splitting the skin on his forehead. We went another ten feet or so before the truck came to a stop.
Fish rose up and looked at me. Half of his face was red from the blood that poured from his head. He futilely tried to wipe it away with his sleeve, but the flow of blood was continuous.
I could barely see out of the blood and flesh that covered the driver side window, but I did notice silhouetted figures quickly shuffling in our direction. The engine was still running, ringing the dinner bell to our pursuers. Fish noticed that too and cut the engine as he grabbed his pack.
“Your side is clear, Supply! Get out and provide cover!” he shouted, as he winced in pain. “There’s a building at three o’clock!”
I grabbed my own bag, shot out the door, and spun around. To say I was scared is a gross understatement. Coming from all directions, other than behind me, was a mass of dead bodies. Most seemed to be intact, but there was the occasional limper, or one who had parts missing or chewed off. They ranged from children to the elderly. It was a nightmarish scene.
Behind the truck I saw that we had run over a chain-link fence, and part of it had been tangled in the back tire on my side. Behind me, ironically, was my favorite pizza place.
But at that exact moment, I couldn’t think about anything except the horde of dead that was fast approaching us. The noise from the zombie’s moans was reverberating through my ear drums. Fish was struggling to get out of the truck, so he climbed over to the passenger side. The wound on his head was undoubtedly slowing him down.
I started to panic. This is what Fish had talked about that morning. There were not enough bullets in my whole inventory to fight off what was coming at us. This was the reason why we could not stay in the city.
For a brief second, I was going to run. All I could think about was not getting eaten by those things. The supplies didn’t matter. Fish didn’t matter. Nothing mattered except getting away from the sea of death that was fast approaching. As my right foot turned around to escape the madness, Fish fell from the truck, head first.
STOP! The voice screamed in my head. I know I didn’t raise you like this! Man up!
“Dammit!” I cursed aloud. I turned back and yelled to Fish, who was struggling to get up. “Get moving!”
I quickly set the plugs in my ear pieces, which were normally open so I could hear clearly. Fish groggily climbed to his feet when I finally had my AR raised. Unlike my Glock, I didn’t have a suppressor and the first shot rang loud, even with ear protection. I aimed at the closest zombie, who was climbing over the downed fence near the back of the truck.
I was nervous and I didn’t see where the bullet went. It was then that I remembered the power of the 5.56 round. When it left the barrel, it actually raised up a few inches from where you were aiming. That was basic M4 training I received when I joined the Army.
My first shot may have missed its target, but it did arouse the zombie horde. Their moaning intensified. I did my best to focus, and lined the orange triangle’s tip with the zombie’s head, then moved it down a couple of inches. The shot was true, and zombie’s head jerked back, sending a spray of black matter with it. I fired ten more times and took four more of the hoard down. It wasn’t nearly enough, but I was picking off the closest ones. Their bodies became obstacles for the other zombies clambering around the truck.
Fish managed to get to his feet and was almost to me as I finished off my magazine. I didn’t know it was empty at first, and cursed as the trigger and bolt locked up. Before I could manage to change the mag, Fish grabbed me by my vest as he stumbled past me.
“Move and reload!” he said through clenched teeth. I noticed his 308 wasn’t with him. I guessed it didn’t matter because he didn’t seem to be in any condition to shoot it. His .45 was out though, with his other hand holding a piece of cloth to his head. The bastard even found the time to sling his pack over his shoulder.
They were hot on our heels when we made it to the front doors of the restaurant. I had a new magazine in and started laying cover fire as Fish broke the glass and unlocked the door. I took out three zombies, wasting another eight rounds while we made our way in. It wasn’t like the video games. It didn’t take much to miss a small target like a head, especially when it’s bobbing back and forth. We shut the door just as the first zombie crashed against it.
As I looked around the restaurant, I realized that this place wasn’t safe. The entire front of the building and half of the sides were made of glass. Zombies smashed into the building li
ke a tidal wave. Glass broke in seconds, and added more unwelcome commotion to our already dire situation.
“Get over here!” Fish shouted from behind me.
He was dragging a table over to a twenty-five foot bar that started at the kitchen and looped around to where the register was. The bar was just below the chest in height and there was a small three foot opening that led to the back. Other than that small walkway, there was no way to get to the kitchen.
“We’ll ‘300’ their asses,” he roared, comparing the small opening in the bar to The Hot Gates of Thermopylae.
I grabbed another table, and we laid them on their sides. They were wider than the opening, and we jammed them so that no matter how hard they pressed, they would have to break through the hard table to get behind the bar. We easily stacked one table on top of the other, creating a Spartan shield.
The zombies started climbing over the broken windows and poured into the restaurant. Chairs and tables broke up the mass. Fish started thinning their numbers with shots from his .45. But it didn’t matter, more zombies were pushing their way in behind the fallen.
“Go in the back! Check for another way out of here!” he ordered.
I ran through the kitchen and saw a walk-in refrigerator door. There was no way in hell I would let us get trapped in there. To the right was the dish area with another doorway leading to the back of the restaurant.
I ran past the sinks and made it to a small storeroom that was crowded with supplies and equipment. The back door was barred with a large wooden board. To the left there was a ladder fixed to the wall that headed toward a roof access hatch.
I peeked out of the small window on the back door and saw a few zombies already making their way behind the building. One must have seen me through the small porthole, because it rushed my way, and started banging on the glass. I was sure the others would follow. I ran back to Fish.
