At the hatch he pulled out the bolt and looked down into the room. It was empty. Just then the chain gave way and the doors crashed open. Spilling zombies in a heap in front of the doorway. Out of the pile came one of them.
“Shit!” John said out loud, “not another one!”
John looked back one more time then dropped down into the room. He grabbed the chair he had kicked off earlier and set it back on the table. With gun in one hand and bolt in the other he climbed back up on the chair to pull the hatch down.
He almost had the hatch shut when the demon zombie grabbed it and jerked it out of his hands. John fired once into the creatures face sending him flying backwards, the contents of his skull spilling out on the roof where he landed. John stuck his head out one more time to take a look. The others had discovered Fred and were trying to get into the mechanical room.
He’s screwed, John thought.
Quickly he pulled the hatch down again and shoved the bolt into the latch where the lock had been. He could still hear the commotion of the zombies on the roof scratching at the door trying to get to the maintenance man.
John rushed over to the hotel room door, closed it as best he could and pushed the dresser against it. He sat down on the edge of the bed and listened. All was quiet in the hotel and in the hallway. The only sound coming from the roof.
After another fifteen minutes he heard the door where Fred was hiding give way as the zombies poured into the little building. Soon after he heard a frightening scream that trailed off after a few seconds. He knew that Fred was dead. He hoped he wouldn’t run into him again on his way out.
Realizing he needed to make his escape now before it was too late John leaped to action. He reloaded the gun, then lengthened the strap on the small bag and slung it over his shoulder and head. He decided to leave everything else in the room. He may have to fight his way out and didn’t want the extra weight. At the last second he grabbed the Sci-fi novel and stuffed it in his back pocket.
Slowly he crept up to the door and peered through the hole he had blown in it earlier. The hallway was clear except for the zombie lying dead against the wall. As quietly as possible he moved the dresser, opened the door and stuck his head out to listen. Everything was quiet and the hallway was deserted.
With the gun in his right hand, he stepped out into the hall. His heartbeat was pounding in his ear. There was no sound coming from any of the other rooms nearby. Slowly he walked over to the door leading to the stairway and looked through the glass. The stairs were unoccupied as far as he could see. Opening the door he stepped over to the railing and looked down. The coast was clear.
Staying near the wall he made his way down the ten flights to the lobby. Several times as he passed a floor he noticed through the door window zombies milling about but none noticed his passing. Looking through the glass of the door leading to the lobby he saw more dead and undead littering the floor. He saw no living person. Making his way down one more flight he made it to the underground parking garage and, crouching, exited the stairway and hid behind the nearest car. He stayed there for several minutes. Seeing and hearing nothing he crept around the car and hugging the wall made his way to the back of his car two rows over.
So far so good, he thought.
Kneeling down he opened the trunk being careful to make as little noise as possible. In the trunk was a carry on type overnight bag with some items left over from a recent camping trip and a few odds and ends.
John closed the trunk, careful to turn the key, push the trunk down, and then remove the key so as to latch it without making any noise. Then, through force of habit, he pressed the button on his key ring to open the door. There was a loud click and two beeps.
“Shit,” he said under his breath.
Scanning the garage for trouble he heard them before he saw them. Three of them coming around the corner at the elevator. Moving fast.
“Son of a bitch!” he said, “what do I have to do to get away from these guys?”
Quickly he opened the door, put the bags on the front passengers seat, and climbed in. He locked the doors and put the key in the ignition. The car started right away and he put it in gear. He pulled out of the parking space tires squealing. Turning in the opposite direction of the three zombies he headed for the exit. Looking in the mirror, he could see them coming.
Pulling up to the exit he stopped. The exit arm was down and the guardhouse empty. The three demons had cut through the parked cars and were now only three or four car lengths behind him.
“Shit!” he said shaking his head in disbelief.
Gunning the engine he smashed through the exit, snapping the arm off, and raced up the ramp to the street.
There was a disorganized mob of zombies milling about in front of the hotel. Standing in place swaying or walking around in circles. Some turned to look as he came out of the garage and slid sideways into the street. He could see the three coming up the ramp and running toward the car. John sped ahead a couple of blocks then slammed on the brakes and stopped. Staring in the mirror he saw that they were still coming.
He felt a sudden rage building inside him as fear turned to anger. Slamming his fists against the steering wheel he turned the car around and pressed the accelerator. Aiming directly at the three demon zombies he let out a yell that filled the air.
The car covered the distance quickly in a gory game of chicken. The three made no attempt to get out of his way. Going 50 miles an hour he plowed into the three and felt the car lurch as it ran them over. In the mirror he saw them tumble out from underneath the car and lay in a heap in the road.
They may be faster than the others, he thought. and maybe even smarter. But they’re still dumb as hell when it comes to playing chicken.
He turned around again and headed slowly back in the opposite direction. He rolled his window down and spit on them as he passed the mangled bodies lying in a bloody pile. The other zombies were still loitering about the street like a bunch of drunks.
Checking to make sure the doors were locked, John slowly swerved in and out and around the other zombies and headed south out of town.
It took him almost thirty minutes to travel the five miles to the interstate. Along the way he passed several police and military barricades. There had obviously been widespread battles in the city. He kept a sharp eye out for survivors but saw none.
Nearing the interstate he could see fires burning on the on and off ramps. There were piles of tires and various other debris that had been set on fire. Still no sign of survivors. John drove onto the overpass and stopped.
He exited the car and scanned in both directions but saw no-one. Living or otherwise. He walked over to the guardrail and looked north up the interstate. The highway was littered with burning and mangled cars and big rigs. Looking south it was the same. There was a burning and overturned gasoline tanker in the median about a mile south.
John rethought his plan to take the interstates home. At least for the moment gas was not a worry. He had filled the tank yesterday before going back to the hotel. He could travel four hundred miles on a tank normally. He figured to get considerably less if he had to travel on back roads.
He got his map out and spread it on the hood. He would take the two-lane Southeast for about thirty-five miles, then hopefully he could cut over to the interstate and follow it into Columbia. From there it would be a straight shot to Charleston. He folded the map, got back in the car and put the gun in the bag. He headed south leaving the impassable interstate and the chaos of the city behind. It was 9:53 p.m.
He passed several flaming gas stations and a strip mall with all the windows broken. Merchandise littered the sidewalks and parking lot. There had obviously been looting here at some point. Still he had seen no survivors.
Coming upon a red light and intersection he slowed down. There was a mangled police cruiser and mini van sitting in the middle. They had obviously been involved in a crash. The police car was empty but the driver of the mini van was slumpe
d over the steering wheel. With no seat belt on, her head had been smashed when she hit the windshield. As he passed, two zombie children, still strapped in their seats, growled at him and clawed at the air. For some strange reason he waved at them. The scene seemed to pass him by in slow motion.
After a few more miles he was in the countryside with clear road ahead. He picked up speed until he was going almost fifty miles per hour.
“Finally,” he said, “I can make some progress.”
John took a deep breath and settled in to his seat to drive and try to relax. He had traveled only fifteen more miles when the sight of the overturned bus suddenly filled his windshield.
FOUR - DAY TWO: GOMER
John was startled awake and sat straight up. He listened closely but heard nothing. Remarkably he had slept through the night without waking. A testament to just how rough the day before had been. Shivering from the cold damp air he laid back down and pulled the blanket tighter around his neck. He shook his head and tried to focus. It was cold enough for his breath to be visible when he exhaled. He felt groggy and it took a few minutes for his head to clear. Finally everything from the day before came rushing back. He couldn't believe all that had really happened.
Suddenly a cow mooed just below the open loft door. That must be what woke me, he thought.
He lay there for a few more minutes then checked the gun and placed it in the waistband of his pants. He walked over to the open loft door and stood for a moment breathing in the cool damp air. The morning was cold and foggy, the sky overcast. It looked like it would rain any moment.
He looked down expecting to see one or more cows standing around. Instead the sight that greeted him was almost comical. Standing no more than two feet apart was a white and black dairy cow and one lone zombie. His hair was matted and his face was smeared with blood and grease. He had bite marks and scratches on his forearms. A chunk of meat was missing from his cheek leaving his teeth visible through the side of his face. He was dressed in denim coveralls and a flannel shirt with the sleeves rolled up. On his right foot was a leather work-boot. The other foot was bare. John assumed this must be the owner of the farm.
“Oh wow,” John said smiling, “it's Gomer Pyle.”
Standing almost nose-to-nose, the zombie farmer and the cow stood as if in a staring contest. The farmer stood droopy eyed and leaning over slightly. The cow, chewing it’s cud and with no apparent fear or concern, stood staring back. It’s breath making a vapor cloud each time it breathed out.
Sensing John’s presence, the farmer’s zombie took his eyes off the cow and slowly raised his head to look up.
He stared at John with empty gray eyes for a couple of seconds, grunted, then turned his attention back to the cow.
His first instinct was to shoot the zombie farmer dead where he stood but he thought better of it and decided to wait. This was far too amusing to end now. The farmer wasn’t aggressive at this point. The barn doors were locked and the zombie didn’t seem interested in trying to get in.
John looked around the loft for something that could be useful but found nothing. He would need to climb down and have a look. Taking one more look out to check on the farmer he saw that he was gone. The cow had turned and was wandering off toward a pond in the distance.
John pulled his binoculars out of the bag to have a closer look. Off to the left about three hundred yards was a one lane country road. Straight ahead and slightly to the left was a small farmhouse surrounded by large oak trees. A gravel driveway lead from the house to the road. Behind the house was a small barn and a chicken coup. Off to the right in the corner of the pasture was a small pond with cows standing on the bank.
Scanning back up the slope toward the barn he saw the farmer. Half walking, half stumbling, making his way down the hill. It was as if the farmer were falling down the hill toward the house. He focused in on the house and barn. He saw no sign of a car or truck. And except for chickens scratching around in the dirt, there was no other sign of life.
John put the binoculars back in their case, tied his blanket to the bag then slung it over his shoulder and headed down the ladder. He opened the barn doors and let a flood of light into the old wooden structure. He checked around outside to make sure the coast was clear. It was.
He went back inside to open the doors on the other side of the barn where the cow and farmer had been. As he opened the doors he saw the farmer going into the small shed behind the house. He watched for a few minutes but the farmer didn’t reappear.
With all the doors now open there was plenty of light to have a look around. John looked over in one corner.
“Jackpot,” he said to no one.
Parked in the corner was a quad or four-wheeler. Looking it over he saw that it was practically new. It was painted camouflage and had no chrome or shiny parts. If it ran it would be the perfect transportation to get him away from here. With this he wouldn’t have to stick to the roads. He would be free to take off cross-country if he had to. He checked the gas tank. It was full. On the ground beside it were two plastic gas containers. One full the other half full. Looking back at the four-wheeler he saw that the key was missing.
Great, he thought, It’s probably in the farmer’s pocket.
He would have to go to the house and look for it. Holding the gun he headed down the hill to the house. He was half way there before he noticed him. The zombie farmer was standing under a tree near the chicken coup with a feedbag slung over his shoulder. He was watching John as he came down the hill. Instinctively John fingered the trigger of the gun and stopped where he was. He and the farmer looked at each other for a moment then the farmer turned to the chickens at his feet and started throwing out the feed. He looked up once more at John then went back to his chore.
“What the hell’s up with this guy?” John said out loud shaking his head. “First the demon zombies, now kindly farmer zombie. You can’t make this crap up.”
John walked through the open gate and carefully approached the farmer. The old man stopped what he was doing and stood there eye to eye. They were only a few paces apart.
“What’s your name?” John asked. Then, speaking very slowly and exaggerating the enunciation of every word said. “Can, you, understand, what, I, am, saying?”
The farmer looked at him for a second longer then took a step toward him. John stepped back trying to maintain the distance. The farmer’s zombie stopped and looked at John with a puzzled expression on his face.
“I don’t want any trouble,” John said holding up his hand hoping the farmer would get the message that he wanted him to stay back.
The old man grunted and bared his teeth while raising his face to look up at the sky. Then he made a sound that sounded like he was clearing his throat and moaning at the same time.
John took the opportunity to step away and headed up to the back of the house keeping a close watch on the farmer. He seemed to take no notice as to what John was doing and continued to stare up at the sky. Walking through the enclosed back porch John cautiously entered the kitchen. Leaning up in the corner by the back door were two bolt-action hunting rifles. One with a scope and one without. On the wall by the back door was a key rack with three sets of keys. One set had two Honda keys on it.
“Bingo!” he said.
Another set held a ford and a Pontiac key. The vehicles these belonged to were nowhere to be seen. He stuffed all three sets in his pocket.
Noticing movement outside the window he walked over to have a look. The farmer had walked by and was slowly making his way up the driveway toward the road. For safety’s sake he decided to check out the rest of the house.
With the 9mm still in his hand he walked through the dining area and into the living room. Glancing over to his right, what he saw shocked him. Sitting in a recliner, dead, was an older lady he assumed to be the farmer’s wife. A neat hole the size of a dime in her temple. Blood had dried on her hair where it ran out of the fatal wound. Her eyes were shut and the blanket over th
e back of the chair was soaked with blood. Her right arm was folded over her chest, the left arm dangled over the side of the chair. On the floor under the arm was a revolver.
“My God,” John said.
He checked the revolver. Only one round had been fired. He put the pistol in his pocket. On the couch was an old suitcase half filled with clothes and a couple of rolls of toilet paper. A fleece blanket hung over the back.
John thought the suitcase could be useful so he walked over to the couch and poured out the contents. It contained mostly women’s clothing. Over by the front door hung a heavy jacket. A pair of camouflage hunting gloves was in one of the pockets. He rolled up the blanket, folded the jacket and put it in the case along with the toilet paper then walked over to the front window to see what the farmer was up to.
He was standing at the end of the driveway by the mailbox. John watched as the farmer repeatedly opened the mailbox and looked inside, then close it, wait a few seconds and open it again. Each time reaching in as if to retrieve something. John thought he must have been working on instinct. Somehow accessing the farmer’s habits and routines and acting them out.
“I wonder how many of these gomers there are?” John asked himself.
Going back to the kitchen he rummaged through the drawers and located a box of 38 shells and four boxes of ammo for the rifles. He stuffed all the items in the suitcase along with the jacket. In the refrigerator was nothing he could use except for two cans of beer. He put them in the suitcase with the rest of the items and closed it. Better take the simple pleasures when I can get them, he thought.
With the suitcase, the blanket, the 38 and hunting rifles, he headed back to the barn. On his way out he grabbed a ball cap hanging by the back door and put it on.
Looking up the driveway he saw that the farmer was still at the mailbox. Waiting on mail that would never come.
On his way back to the barn it began to rain. He glanced at his watch. The time was 8:30 a.m.
The Demon Dead Page 3
