Those Left Behind

by Mark Tufo

  It had given me the idea that maybe we should get some sort of huge trailer, but at a maximum speed of twenty miles per hour, it would take months—or decades to get across the country. We’d be like the first settlers in oxen-drawn wagons.

  The way things had started out, I truly expected the house to be under siege. It took long seconds for my brain to stop trying to fabricate a zombie army that wasn’t there. I saw a good half dozen rifle barrels pointing at us before they could identify us. Never quite thought about how terrifying it might be to watch a bulldozer head to your stick-built safe-house. I’d got off the tractor and was walking alongside it, hands held up in the air, rifle on my back. We were a couple of hundred yards out when BT cut the engine and we met everyone. Tracy grabbed Lyndsey when my wife had looked to me and I’d shaken my head almost imperceptibly.

  There was a lot of discussion about “Now what?” Try as I might I wanted to avoid it all; I’d been the one lobbying to leave and so far we’d gone ten miles and lost two people—and that was lucky. At this rate, we wouldn’t make it out of Maine. We’d be playing some sort of macabre racing game called “last man standing” who would last long enough to bury those who lost. I couldn’t help but think this was my fault. I was all for going home—licking my wounds, while simultaneously beating myself up. I’d been paying so little attention I hadn’t even realized a decision had been made.

  “Go for a ride, Mike?” BT asked. “Back to the bus, salvage some supplies—at least some batteries to give us an idea of the size of the storm of shit we’re currently swirling around in,” he finished when I didn’t initially respond.

  “Who?” I asked.

  “Just you and I. You don’t look so good. Figured we’d get some fresh air.”

  “Yeah, that ought to help.”

  I’d meant it sincerely, but I think BT thought I was being caustic. Nobody had, and nobody would, blame me for any of this. None of it could be laid at my feet. Nope, my guilt was all self-inflicted. I’d get a reprieve soon enough; didn’t make me feel better, though...just worse in a different way.

  BT and I were once again loaded up with weapons and ammunition.

  “Hurry back, Talbot,” Tracy said as she grabbed the back of my neck and pulled me in for a kiss. I noticed my sister give BT an extra long hug. Wasn’t sure how I felt about that. It would be weird for me to think about a man I considered to be a brother to actually date my sister. I mean, this wasn’t the South. That kind of shit is frowned upon up in Yankee country.

  “Do we need to have the talk?!” I shouted to BT. I was standing on a small platform next to the cab as we roared to our destination.

  “Huh?”

  “My sister! Do we need to have the talk!?”

  A dawning realization came to him. “I’m just there for her man, that’s all. And who knows, maybe the Talbot line could use a little freshening up.” He was smiling; it was good to see that. I had BT kill the tractor when I figured we were about a half mile away from the bus. I wanted something that somewhat resembled a stealthy approach. The bridge was littered with the broken bodies of the zombies we’d stopped. On the far side was a bus that looked like it had been hit by a semi then flipped onto some train tracks where a large freighter had finished off the remaining pile of aluminum junk by strewing it across the countryside.

  “It’s like they destroyed it on purpose,” BT noted.

  “Yeah. I don’t remember it being that bad, but then again, we were sort of busy at the time.”

  “I don’t think this is such a good idea,” BT said as we stood at the foot of the bridge. There were zombie bodies piled half a dozen high in some spots. We’d have a hard time finding a place to step that did not involve putting our feet into a pile of unknown content.

  “At a minimum we need those batteries and some water.” One step in and I was rewarded with the sound one might get if they rubbed two balloons against each other, only this was way wetter and grosser sounding. So in the end, not really like two balloons, maybe two warm livers? I’d gone maybe ten feet when I heard the same sounds I’d made echoed, as BT followed. Only now there was a narrative lined with curses as he traveled. We were a regular gore a cappella here. I’d stepped into a pile of zombies maybe three deep. I turned to see how BT was faring when I felt an unimaginable pain on my Achilles tendon. I looked down to see a zombie’s mouth sticking out from the pile, teeth firmly planted in the back of my boot. He was biting with a crushing force that did not seem capable from a normal human’s jaws.

  At the time, I wasn’t thinking this was an accomplishment on the zombie’s part, all that was going through my head was “Get it off!”

  BT had seen my distress and was rushing forward to help. I’d just wanted him to shoot the thing but couldn’t verbalize it. He turned his weapon and was smashing the biter’s forehead into pulp. He’d only missed once, dragging the buttstock straight down my calf, naturally. It was about four blows later when the pincher grip finally loosened and fell away, I’d leaned into BT, not sure if I could support my own weight. If I’d not had the heavy, leather material there in the back, I think the zombie would have crushed the back of my leg; certainly I’d be bit clear through.

  “Thanks, man,” I said to BT as he helped me to the handrail, where I sat.

  “Can you walk?”

  “I’m not even going to try and put on a false bravado, man. I can’t.”

  “I’m going to head over and see what I can get. I don’t like being here.”

  “Can’t imagine why,” I told him as I undid my boot. I needed to take a look at the area the zombie had bit. Through the boot and sock, the bastard had still left a clear outline of his teeth, and it was already bruising into a deep purple. I gingerly touched the area trying to ascertain the extent of the damage. It wasn’t like I was a doctor, though, so I could only go by what I saw, which was a relief except for the pain. There was no blood, and no rolled back tissue or tendons. I was gonna go with the assumption I would be alright. If I’d had cloth backing on my boots or sneakers on I’d have been severely hobbled and rushing towards a date with zombieism. I made a mental note to check everyone’s footwear when we got back.

  “Hey, make sure they’re dead before you step on them!” I shouted out needlessly and maybe a little late.

  “I’m not you,” he answered as he moved over a pretty nasty pile.

  “Don’t get bit,” I mumbled, “because there is no way I can get to you in any sort of hurry.” I flexed my ankle and the tendon popped in protest. I cried out in a bit of pain; hadn’t meant to.

  “Everything alright?” BT had turned quickly.

  “Yup—just being a bit of a baby,” I answered through gritted teeth. “Don’t worry about me coming to eat you any time soon.” BT got to the other side and was rummaging around as I sat and rubbed the sore spot wondering if it would be better to put the boot on now, before the swelling, or leave it off. I figured BT could carry me like a damsel in distress. “Naw he’d drop me.” I put my boot back on. I finished up and swung over to look at BT who was making a stack of things to bring back. I don’t know what made me look back the way we’d come; just a cursory glance, really. And there they were. Two zombies sneaking up on me. They actually froze like we were playing Red Light, Green Light and I’d just busted them moving forward. They’d gotten close—way too close.

  “Company!” I shouted to BT as I picked up my rifle. “You’re some sneaky bastards but not sneaky enough to fool Michael Talbot.” But then again, they were. The reason they’d got so close was because they’d been on the bridge all along. Multiple piles began to move as zombies that had been playing possum began to rise.

  “Son of a bitch. I’m in trouble BT!” They were going to be coming from both sides.

  “I’m coming man!”

  “Don’t fucking shoot me!” I warned him. We were basically in a straight line to each other, so the warning worked both ways. The zombies between us would be my biggest threat as I would have to take
extra special care with my aim. I hadn’t shot any because they hadn’t made a break for me yet and I was trying not to give them the impetus to do so. My first priority was going to be to those blocking the way we had come, if I could dispatch them quickly I could more or less take my time with the others. I could not figure out how I was going to avoid using the river below as my escape avenue. The thought of that was not comforting, especially with an injured flipper.

  “Can’t imagine that this rifle is making you second guess your options, is it?” I asked. The zombie growled. Figured that was as close to an answer as I was going to get. Drilled him in the Adam’s Apple; his head fell to the side and his body followed as he tumbled off the bridge. BT began shooting; I blew off a couple of more rounds. I don’t know if it was a ricochet or a bad shot but there was the distinct whine of a bullet careening off a wire right above my head. It was either lead shards or metal shavings that sprinkled in the breeze, sparkling in the sunlight as they fell.

  Swiveling back and forth on one leg and acquiring targets was not my preferred method of battle. BT must have sensed he’d gotten close to taking my head off. Instead of getting on the bridge with me, he’d gone down the bank a little ways so he would have safer firing angles. I realized he was shooting at the ones to my left, on the bus side of the bridge, but it is extremely difficult to completely entrust someone with your blindside. However, if I wanted any success of not having to go for a short swim punctuated by a long drowning, that was exactly what I was going to have to do. I heard the thud of a body hitting the ground not more than five feet behind me; I didn’t have the time to spare to realize just how close it had been. The only thing saving me was the constriction of the bridge and the piles of dead as the zombies navigated through and around. They were running full tilt and it was terrifying. Looked like a steeplechase as they went over obstacles in an attempt to get at me.

  Well-aimed shots were out of the question. Right now it was a matter of inflicting enough damage to take them out of the fight. A blown out knee cap, shattered hip, broken femur, pulverized pelvis, whatever it took. Occasionally I would luck out and get a head shot when a zombie stumbled and leaned over but that wasn’t even my point of preference. Not anymore. It couldn’t be. These zombies—though they may be smarter and stronger—these types of injuries seemed to affect them more than their predecessors. Not necessarily a good thing; no brain no pain, was how I used to think of them. Couldn’t do that so much, anymore. They got any smarter they’d be able to vote. Next thing you know we’ve got legislature to stop the violence against zombies, then they’ll want affirmative action, then who the fuck knows. For now, it was my job to keep voter registration down.

  Instinctively, I knew this magazine was running low. I was going through the math of being able to reload when I was hit from the backside. I let out a loud oomph from the impact. I was forced over—hot, fetid breath blew past my nose as zombie teeth closed shut on air exactly where my lips had been one second before. This was not a delay in shooting I could afford. My landing was surprisingly soft after the crushing blow I’d been delivered. It’s amazing how cushy a decaying zombie body can be. Not sure I’d want my new mattress to be made from that material, though. Innards became outtards as me and the zombie that had hit me made a crashing impact with the dead zombie, pushing his vital organs out every hole. Although I guess any organs that are pushed out of you were vital, right?

  Entrails landed on my chest and neck; the desire to brush those off was trumped by the gnashing of the zombie’s teeth next to me. We were as close to spooning as a couple not in a relationship can be and I was on the wrong side. I was pulling and struggling to get away while she was trying to pull my hair and ask me who my mommy was or something like that. I had to get up and over; it was my only hope. I heard the satisfactory crunch of cartilage as I threw a sharp elbow into her nose. I could hear zombies running in a rush to get in on the dining experience. I had to get up now, or I never would. I used bodies as leverage to pull me free and give me the momentum I needed to stand. Standing and fighting was now completely off the table. I just moved, grabbing the handrail and swinging out. I felt more than one set of fingers break as zombies desperately tried to keep me from leaving too soon.

  With hands grabbing fistfuls of my pants and jacket they nearly succeeded in keeping me in their clutches. Sounded like popcorn popping broadcast over a loudspeaker as I twisted all of those digits into misshapen appendages. A zombie zipped past me into the river as I’d inadvertently pulled it off the bridge. I watched part of its descent into the cold water below just as my side impacted the unforgiving steel of the railing and my rifle smacked me in the chin. I don’t know if it was the strength of the zombie that kept me from falling or that it had got hung up in my belt, but I seized the opportunity and grabbed at the girder. I was hanging by my fingertips for a second before I could get a better handhold. The one giving me a world class denim wedgie was now half off the bridge and thus was going to be the next problem. If his wrist was bound up in my waistline, when he fell over, his weight was going to be added to my own, and his mouth was going to be somewhere around calf high.

  I hooked my arm over the girder just as the zombie fell, my shoulder protested to the point where I thought it was going to pop free from its socket. Here’s a lesson kiddies, if you want to fuck someone up in a super unsuspecting way, punch them in their armpit. I had no idea how tender this spot could be. I cried out.

  “Hold on!” BT shouted.

  I don’t know what he thought my options were.

  “Reloading!” He felt the need to give me an update.

  This was torturous as I tried to shake my piggybacker free while simultaneously keeping my legs from his mouth. He was not overly interested in pulling himself up and taking a bite of my spleen, so much as bobbing and weaving for what was right in front of his face. I don’t know what the hell BT was doing but it felt time-wise like he was working on a difficult Sudoku puzzle or something. I shouldn’t have complained, bullets started whining all around me as he took hasty shot after hasty shot. Now, I realize he was concerned for my safety, but killing me so that I was no longer in danger was not really a justifiable means to an end.

  Then Mr. Klingon and I began to swing as BT finally found his mark and was putting bullets into the zombie. Not sure how this was going to work, though, to effectively neutralize my threat his point of aim would necessarily include me, and that was super unacceptable. Another explosion of a round going off and then the zombie sagged. It seemed to instantly gain a hundred pounds.

  “Yes!” BT shouted.

  “Yes, what?” I managed to ask, still pinioning my legs so as to not give the zombie anything to latch on to.

  “Got him!”

  “This zombie? You shot this zombie in the head?” I jiggled the thing around a little to make certain we were talking about the same one.

  “Love to chat, but now that you’re no longer part of the fare, they’re looking to me. Feel free to help me like I just helped you.”

  I reached up to the bottom of the walkway and hefted myself and a zombie who was very much in need of a dietician. When I was able to put some weight on my legs I was able to unhook my unwanted passenger. Him, I watched splash down into the river with more than a few notes of satisfaction. BT was right; I’d been all but forgotten by the zombies. They were all past my spot on the bridge and quickly making their way to him. If I had been so inclined I could have just walked away, no one the wiser. It would serve the big man right for shooting at me. Unfortunately for me, I would have laid my life down for him. I flipped out my nearly spent magazine and once I was ready, I got into the middle of the bridge and started cutting down zombies. With this much more advantageous pincher movement, we were able to take down the zombies more effectively. It got close for BT only once as he spent more seconds than he should have trying to dry fire. I’d switched my field of focus and was killing the lead zombies that had finally reached land and were making th
eir way to him.

  “What the fuck were you thinking?” I asked BT when the last zombie fell.

  “You better not be talking about that zombie I shot that was about to eat your ass.”

  “Eat my ass?”

  “Sorry about that, but you know what I mean,” he said.

  “BT, you were over a hundred feet away hitting a moving target in the head six inches from my ball sack. If you’d missed…”

  “But I didn’t,” he countered.

  I mean obviously he didn’t, but shit.

  “When are you planning on thanking me?” he asked.

  “When I’m done with the tremors, I suppose.”

  “What the fuck was that all about?”

  “Good old fashioned ambush, I’m guessing. I wonder if they saw us coming and set this up or they’d been here all along like a spider sitting in her web, just waiting for something to get stuck in it.”

  “Either way man, I don’t like it.” His shoulders may have shivered as he said those words. “Get over here, man. We’ve got some supplies and I don’t want to be out here anymore.”

  “Tell me you’re sorry first.”

  “Fuck you, Mike. Get your not-shot ass over here.”

  “Close enough.”

  We packed up some backpacks and were three-quarters of the way back to the house. Neither of us had spoken up to this point, still mostly lost in the battle we’d just waged.

  “How’s your ankle?” he asked. He stopped the tractor and we got down.

  “I’d completely forgotten about it until you mentioned it. Now it hurts like hell. Adrenaline must have finally worn off.”

  “I’m not carrying you.”

  “If you loved me you would.”

  “Guess we’re just going to have to test the limits of our relationship,” he said as he walked on.

  “Harsh man,” I told him as I did my best to add an over-exaggerated limp to my walk.

  “You’re limping on the wrong leg,” he told me.

  “I am?” I was looking down at my feet trying to figure out which one was betraying me.