Valley of Death, Zombie Trailer Park

by William Bebb

The crates creaked ominously under Maria and she heard wood cracking.

  The zombie turned and looked at the crates stacked by the wall and shuffled over. The cracking sound grew louder as the stack of crates started to sway.

  Ignoring the undead man, Maria climbed faster for the roof. Her uninjured hand reached over the top off the wall and she grabbed a piece of what felt like metal tubing.

  The dead man looked up at the crates and saw a blurry moving thing that, as he sniffed the air, smelled alive and delicious. Grunting softly, he grabbed a crate and pulled on it.

  She swung a leg onto the top of the wall as the unsteady tower of crates collapsed. The crashing sound was loud, but it was covered partly by the police siren that was starting to give her a headache. She could no longer see the man on the ground, but heard muffled grunts coming from somewhere under the pile of wooden crates.

  After getting to the roof she looked at it and said the only thing she could think of that seemed appropriate. “Shit!”

  She held onto a broken rafter that was pointing up at the sky while nervously standing up.

  The top of the walls were the thickness of a cinder block and the fallen roof was scattered on the floor below.

  She considered her very few options. I could just stand around up here until help comes like some dumb cat, climb down into the ruined building, or... she stared at the big silver truck at the front of the building and nodded slightly. She grabbed the next broken rafter and slowly walked along the top of the wall. While cautiously creeping along, she heard the police car picking up speed followed moments later by a loud crash. The siren warbled for several seconds then fell silent. Those poor officers. They saved my life and what was their reward?

  Maria believed in God and could never imagine even doubting his existence but couldn't help glancing up at the blue sky with a disturbed expression of her face.

  Before the crash, the reanimated remains of Deputy Thomas Holmes and the infected Captain Wyatt had an interesting time.

  Captain Wyatt had always been a devout believer in seat belts and required his passengers to buckle up as well, even during such unprecedented and odd times as a zombie uprising.

  Thomas pulled himself partially out the passenger side window as the car swung around and crashed into Dead Heads, Screamers, and several piles of junk. The seat belt held him down and frustrated the undead deputy to the point that he started biting at the material strapped across his chest. Gnawing at the seat belt, he growled and kicked at the dashboard while the car continued to move in spastic starts and stops.

  Wyatt was equally at a loss for how to remove his seat belt and beat savagely at the steering wheel while kicking his legs frantically in a mindless attempt to get out of the car. His feet slammed down on the gas and brake pedals, first one then the other and finally both at the same time.

  The car's engine roared as the loud howling siren only infuriated him further. Seeing Thomas gnawing at his seat belt, the captain punched him in the side of his head and bellowed in furious frustration.

  Thomas leaned over and the two officers clawed and bit at each other as Wyatt's foot stomped on the gas pedal.

  The tires spun around, smoking as the car sped across the dusty trailer park toward the exit. The remaining tissues holding the deputy's head onto his body tore free as Wyatt yanked on Thomas' hair.

  Thomas looked at his captain just before he was flung out the passenger side window. The deputy's head rolled through the dust and landed next to a fairly large abandoned doll's body dressed in a torn pink dress. The deputy's head was in the precise spot where the doll's head would have been if it hadn't been missing.

  Wyatt flailed at everything around him as the car went faster. He yanked at the steering wheel and clawed at the ceiling. The driver side visor flipped down as he screamed.

  An old faded photograph of his wife, wearing her wedding dress and smiling beside a still pond, was clipped onto the visor.

  Captain Wyatt always brought it along on every assignment he was on and never forgot to clip it to the visor. Regardless of how bad a day he was having he would always look at her and remember why he put up with all the crap that came with being a cop. He stared at the photograph and his crimson bleeding eyes widened. He reached out with trembling fingers and made a soft guttural noise as the car sped up the exit road.

  The car passed Shoemaker who was hiding behind the wrecked van. The speedometer indicated the cruiser was going sixty eight miles an hour.

  Wyatt's bloody fingertips touched the photograph as the car slammed into the back of the Immigration Criminal Enforcement bus.

  Shoemaker stared with his mouth hanging open when the car headed for the bus. He saw the deputy's head fly out of the car a few seconds earlier and opened the rear door of the van. There were dozens of people running after the squad car and he realized that his getting out of sight very quickly would be a great idea.

  The car struck the bus as Shoemaker climbed into the back of the van.

  The gas tank of the bus exploded and the force of the blast slammed the van's door shut. Pieces of the squad car and bus soared into the sky and seconds later several chunks of debris began thumping down on the van's roof.

  I'm so fucked, he realized while looking out through one of the dirty rear windows of the van.

  The interior of the vehicle reeked of old sweat and marijuana. He sat down on a large plastic five gallon paint can and tried to think as he absently stroked the shotgun.