Ghosts: Surviving the Zombie Apocalypse

by Shawn Chesser

  She stopped by the bed and ran her fingers through his matted hair. Scooped a pair of number tens and a second pair of the smaller number eight needles from the bedside table. The metal was cool and reassuring against the skin of her left inner forearm as she slipped all four underneath the National Enquirer taped there.

  “Bye, honey,” she whispered. With two fingers extended in a V she closed his eyes. Cupped his cheek with her palm and let it linger. “See you on the other side.”

  Worrying the chain and gold crucifix around her neck, Glenda took the stairs down one at a time. Stiff-legged. Robot-like. The turn at the landing was a little challenging. A slow pivot was all it took to get her facing in the right direction. There would be no running with this improvised suit of armor. That much was clear.

  Once in the kitchen, Glenda peeked through the boarded-over window and saw nothing dead in the backyard. So she pulled up a chair and prepared her final meal in the only home she’d known. And though she was awash in the stink of death, a dozen saltine crackers and half a bottle of mustard was necessary to mask the fishy flavor and odor so she could choke down her next to last can of sardines.

  She stuffed the half-sleeve of crackers and remaining tin of sardines in one of the robe’s pockets. In the other she slipped a manual can opener and a medium-sized kitchen knife wrapped tightly in a dish towel. The former she brought in case she found a place to stay the night that hadn’t already been thoroughly looted. Nothing worse than having an itch you can’t scratch, she figured. The latter she brought as a decoy in case she ran into brigands like the ones who used to prowl Huntsville. Give up the knife, and the knitting needles might go unnoticed. Fifty/fifty chance of that one working, she conceded. She looked around the kitchen and decided that she had no more strategizing left in her. Time to get the show on the road, old broad, she thought to herself.

  ‘Go on living,’ is what Louie Gladson told her shortly before drawing his last breath. ‘Keep it simple,’ were his final words. Words that jogged Glenda’s memory, spurring her into action. She transited the kitchen and dining room and hooked a right at the arched entry to the living room and wobbled over to her chair, which was smaller than Louie’s but as a consolation had a side pocket from which she retrieved a blue book, dog-eared and bristling with sticky notes. It went into the robe’s other pocket and she retraced her steps. In the kitchen she took another look between the horizontal boards and saw the coast was clear. So she plucked the claw hammer from the floor and pried a couple of boards loose and, with a tear tracing her cheek, threw open the deadbolt.

  ***

  The Austin’s battery didn’t have a spark. That had been confirmed three weeks after the dead took over the streets in downtown Huntsville. And was also the reason Louie was dead. She presumed his demented mind must have convinced him it was OK to try and start the thing and go for a midnight drive.

  Shaking her head, Glenda eyed the Austin with equal measures disdain and disgust. Why not a reliable pickup? Or a Ford Taurus like every other couple their age over in Logan and Salt Lake City? He might still be alive. If not lost and tooling the countryside without a clue to whom he was or where he was going. At least he died trying to do something he loved, she thought warmly.

  Seeing a lull in undead activity in the general vicinity, Glenda got into character and quietly hinged the back door inward.

  Negotiating the steps was a pain in the neck. She had to take them one at a time in order. Once on the concrete walk she slowly panned a one-eighty from left to right. Left was clear. Just beds of water-starved dirt full of long dead flowers. Harkening in fall, the leaves on the lone oak in the back yard were starting to get tinges of yellow at their edges.

  The garage was dead ahead, its door wide open, a useless low-slung car with a dead battery staring right at her. With two massive headlights atop its fenders, the burgundy roadster looked wide eyed, like it’d been caught doing something red handed—or more appropriately, thought Glenda, like she had looked the day she realized the shit really had hit the fan, a permanent state of shock parked on her face.

  A bit theatrically, she stumbled off the lowest step and angled for the gate while consciously adding a stagger to her gait. The moment she rounded the southeast corner of her home the sound of bare flesh on flagstone reached her ears. A dozen yards downhill, visible just over the scraggly low shrubs bordering the dogleg-shaped driveway, a female zombie ambled down the sidewalk, eyes fixed ahead, mouth set in a permanent sneer.

  A lump formed in Glenda’s throat, but she didn’t let the fear overwhelm her. Be them, her new mantra, cycled through her head.

  Ignoring the dead thing, Glenda passed under the kitchen window and two dozen laborious steps beyond it the dining room plate glass slid by in her side vision. Finally she reached the front steps, her first real test, and descended them with zombie-like precision, tottering and stiff-legging every other stair until meeting the sidewalk with a spine-jarring final misstep.

  Once again she panned her head slowly to the left, unblinking eyes locked forward, conscious to keep her features free of all emotion. Be them.

  The sneering monster stopped on the slight incline, its head turned stiffly, and fixed its guileless gaze on her. Head cocked, jaw moving slow and clumsy, like a cow working a plug of cud, it seemed to be sizing her up just as the last vibration coursed through her shin and exited out the bottom of her Hi-Tec. The scrutiny lasted all of two or three seconds—a lifetime for Glenda considering the consequences if the monster saw through any part of her elaborate facade.

  Fixing her own vacant stare on a patch of tall weeds across the street, she about-faced left and ambled past the driveway and the zombie wavering there.

  When she was but a handful of feet from the first turn it emitted a low rumbling growl, and in her peripheral Glenda saw the thing’s putrefied legs from the knees down start to move. The road-worn bare feet with toes scraped down to bloody nubs made a slow shuffle to the left that emboldened Glenda to steal a quick little glance. She saw the back of its head, hair all matted and home to twigs and bugs. A fist-sized piece of flesh had been rent from the lower back area and there were purple ringed bite marks all up and down the left arm, which started swinging rhythmically as the creature put one putrefying foot in front of the other and ambled away in search of prey.

  ***

  Ten minutes later, after another half-dozen benign encounters on her block with flesh-eaters, two of whom she recognized as former neighbors, Glenda turned left and, feeling the sun warm on her face and shoulders and hearing no obvious sounds of pursuit, relaxed and allowed her head to loll and jerk with each choreographed footstep. Leaving several fire-razed blocks of her old neighborhood and scores more walking dead behind her, she proceeded east at a glacial pace towards the car-choked gray stripe of SR-39 shimmering in the distance.

  Chapter 17

  Cade entered the compound and paused in the perpetual gloom of the foyer. Waited ten seconds. Fifteen. Then from down the corridor came a greeting from Seth.

  “Collecting my thoughts,” replied Cade, stalking from the shadow and through the T. He stopped and craned his head left, listening for his daughter’s infectious laugh. Hearing nothing, he approached Seth, whose hair and beard were in some kind of a race to claim as much open territory on his normally clean shaven face as possible. In the three weeks since Logan’s murder Seth had let himself go in the grooming department. His dark brown bangs now covered his eyes like a funeral veil and an inky black beard encroached like wild brambles from all points east, west, and south. And barely visible, protruding from the ragged thicket at each corner of his mouth, the mere sight of which made Cade want to smile, were two spikes of twisted whiskers forming a kind of stealth handlebar mustache—obviously cultivated in memory of his lost friend.

  “They’re all still in there,” called Seth. “Heard them playing some music a little bit ago.”

  “Music?”

  “One of them has an iPod or something. Co
uld have sworn I heard Blue Oyster Cult.”

  “Godzilla?”

  “No, better. Reaper.”

  Ducking his head, Cade entered the communications bunker. “Excuse me,” he said, reaching in front of Seth. He plugged the power cord and external antenna lead into the Thuraya satellite phone and arranged it on the shelf next to the others. Checked the pair of long range multi-channel CBs taken from the quarry. Saw they were fully charged.

  Without prompting, Seth assured Cade he’d keep a close eye on the sat-phones.

  “Figured as much,” answered Cade. “Where’s Heidi?”

  “Daymon asked me to take over. They went thataway,” he said, hitching a thumb towards the back half of the compound. “And that’s all I know.”

  “I feel more comfortable with you here as it is. Any luck getting anyone to talk to you on the shortwave?”

  “Thanks. And no,” replied Seth, absentmindedly twisting one bar of his mustache. He put a finger on the monitor. Specifying the panel showing the entrance, he said, “Both gates are closed and, except for Phillip, everyone’s inside the wire.” Then his eyes gave away the smile under his beard as he added, “Chief bagged a deer. We’re having venison tonight.”

  Busy staring at the monitor where a large group of Zs were shuffling west to east, returning after encountering the fallen trees, Cade said, “I’m already on seconds ... in my head.”

  Seth chuckled. “See you out there tonight for thirds?”

  “Probably, Seth,” answered Cade, eyes never leaving the threats on the road.

  A peal of laughter echoed from the left. Definitely Raven, thought Cade.

  Then, twice as loud, angry-sounding voices sprang from the opposite direction. A man and a woman. No doubt about that. Not screaming or hollering, though. Just an intense conversation filled with lots of emotion, none of it his business.

  Cade nodded to Seth then set a course away from the adult voices, opting for a tack taking him toward the laughter.

  He loitered outside the thin steel door for a second, listening.

  Inside, Raven and the Kids were discussing the age at which one had to stop watching SpongeBob SquarePants in order to avoid being lumped into the nerd category.

  Someone piped up saying there’s nothing wrong with being a nerd. Name calling is a form of bullying.

  Knuckles about to deliver a knock, Cade let his hand hover over the door and smiled because Raven was the one sticking up for others. And there had been real conviction in her response. We’re doing something right, crossed his mind as he rapped sharply.

  All talk ceased.

  Cade figured he could hear a pin drop in the corridor.

  He knocked again. This time announcing himself.

  The door hinged open and Raven was there, smiling, in her ears tiny white buds each trailing a thin wire. “I thought I asked you to give that thing back to Taryn.”

  “You did,” said Raven, much too loudly on account of the music emanating from the tiny speakers.

  Cade frowned and shushed her.

  She added, “And I did. Just listening to a group called the Clash. Combat Rock, it says here.”

  Pulling a bud from Raven’s ear and speaking loud enough to be heard inside the Kids’ quarters, Cade said, “Taryn’s got good taste in music.”

  From beyond the door Taryn said, “Thank you.”

  “Tell her you want to borrow it again.”

  Screwing her face up in response to the request running contrary to the previous order issued by her dad, Raven shrugged, looked over her shoulder and asked to borrow the iPhone and pair of speakers Taryn had scavenged from the quarry.

  “Phone only,” whispered Cade.

  “Forget the speakers,” Raven called out.

  Taryn appeared at the door. “What do you need it for, Raven?” And though the question was directed verbally at the petite twelve-year-old, Taryn’s dark eyes bored into Cade’s.

  “For the music,” proffered Raven.

  Crossing her arms, the tattoos gracing them forming an intricate road map of precise line work, Taryn said, “The battery is almost toast.”

  Nodding and holding Taryn’s steely gaze, Cade replied, “She will bring it back shortly. Can she have the solar charger also?”

  Taryn said nothing. Disappeared back inside.

  The tension not fully registering, Raven looked up and mouthed, “The charger? Are we going somewhere?” But before Cade could answer, the door opened wider and Sasha was there, hands on hips. A tick later Wilson appeared, towering over her and shooting a questioning look directly at Cade.

  Sighing, Cade began to explain himself but was cut short as Taryn reappeared, handed him the shiny black accessory, and said, “I don’t need to know. Keep it for as long as you want, Raven.”

  Cade made no reply. He took the charger, turned Raven around by the elbow, and ushered her back the way he’d come, but instead of going to their quarters Cade had them turn right at the T junction. A few seconds later they were topside plopped down in the center of the crop circle. Shortly after that the solar panel was arranged just so and the iPhone was connected and drawing a charge.

  Chapter 18

  Glenda dug down deep and put one foot in front of the other. She limped forward half a step, paused, and then dragged the opposite foot, making certain to scuff the Hi-Tec’s toecap on the follow through before finishing off with another faux half-limp. And though she was laboring under the afternoon sun while wearing two layers over which was draped the detritus covered bathrobe, her entire body was wracked by waves of goose bumps and a cold unending sweat that drenched her from head to toe.

  Ignoring the constant chafe and trying her best to keep from shivering, she forged ahead, faithful that the makeup job and stench emanating from the robe would fool the dead long enough for her to get away from Huntsville.

  With that little voice in her head urging her to give in to the gnawing fear and run growing louder and louder with each passing second she slowly overtook a few horribly burned foot-draggers and entered a throng of two dozen or so tottering cadavers without garnering so much as a sidelong glance from the entire rotten collection.

  Be the dead, she thought, watching their heads bobbing in her side vision.

  Limp. Drag. Limp.

  Remain in character, Glenda. Do not look them in the eye.

  Limp. Drag. Limp.

  Be the dead.

  Limp. Drag. Limp.

  With the sun off her right shoulder, Glenda walked among them while maintaining her undead gait with metronomic precision. Suddenly, less than a mile from the State Route as a crow flies, the undead, intrigued by, presumably, some long dead person’s abandoned wash flapping and popping on a nearby clothesline, peeled off in unison towards the short paved drive leading up to the property.

  The abrupt change of direction startled Glenda, catching her entirely by surprise and for a split second she came out of character to avoid being hockey checked by a scraggly male Z that had been, prior to the sudden about-face, near the head of the procession. As Glenda took one of its clammy bare shoulders straightaway to the mouth, she was knocked aside and one of her upper canines tore a half-moon-shaped gash the size of a quarter just right of its ridged clavicle.

  As the oblivious walker staggered a few inches off track, never once taking its eyes from the rustling wash that had piqued its interest, Glenda emitted a soft, barely audible gasp.

  Barely audible, that is, to all but the thing she nearly took a bite out of.

  Reacting to the new sound, the Z stopped mid-stride, staggered like a drunk at closing time, and slowly swiveled its head left, all interest in keeping up with the rest of the group gone out the window.

  Sensing the scrutiny, Glenda focused on the road a yard in front of her toes and picked up her pace.

  Limp. Drag. Limp.

  But her mantra, be the dead, suddenly changed to: Lead the bastard away.

  And that’s what she did. With the shadows of the first tur
n’s outstretched arms falling on the pavement near her feet, she vectored right and away from the short drive leading to the small single-story residence and the clothesline full of intrigue. As the rest of the dead fell behind, the sound of her lone pursuer’s bare feet striking hot pavement stayed with her. Maintaining an arm’s length lead, she limped along in character like this for thirty yards or so, the next southbound side street her immediate objective.

  With the monster still in tow, she made the turn and ambled a block south. Then with the National Guard roadblock where there had been so much honking and gunfire that first weekend of the outbreak in sight, she hooked a slow tottering left and led the hissing abomination east.

  Nearing a long line of battered vehicles that had somehow ended up listing in the left-hand ditch, grill to bumper, in one big pileup, she consciously slowed and bent her left arm and, in one fluid motion, withdrew one number ten knitting needle. Timing her move based on the footfalls behind her, Glenda waited for a slap and when she guessed the thing was in mid-stride, spun around slowly counterclockwise, bringing her left arm horizontal as if offering it to the hungry creature. The thing took the bait. Its eyes bugged and it hissed and parted its maw, where on display were two yellowed rows of cracked and splintered teeth with twisted scraps of gristle and dermis lodged in them here and there. The stench emanating from deep inside its gullet was worse than anything Glenda had ever encountered. Worse even than the reek she’d endured hosing down the rendering plant floor in Kansas that hot summer in ‘74.