Taking on the Dead Page 7

  “How the hell should I know? He was on the floor when I left,” I lie.

  “You have him! You set the house on fire!” I take the chance to pistol whip her with the grip of my crossbow. She drops to the ground.

  “I hope the zombies don’t get you,” I say to her unconscious body as I kick it gently to make sure she’s out, wishing she could have heard my sarcasm. Being knocked out twice in one day has to suck. I freeze and listen. Dead quiet, not even the sound of the house fire.

  This time, I move more cautiously. I stop, look, and listen every few yards. An opening comes up, and I make a run for it, my legs setting a fantastic pace. My endurance running is finally paying off. Spotting Rhonda, I slow my pace to a jog. Making sure no one is around, living or not, I climb into the driver’s seat. I sit there for only a moment to calm myself. Blood pounds in my ears. Lingering smoke and tequila fill my nostrils as adrenaline courses through my veins. My lips curl into a smile. The only thing that would make this night more perfect is if I had killed some zombies.

  ***

  Driving through the deserted town, there are subtle signs of outbreak. Not much different from my neighborhood. Gas stations with wrecked cars – broken glass glitters on the concrete. Scorch marks from burning bodies of the living dead scar the sidewalks. Overgrown trees have made their way into power lines no longer trimmed by city workers. The heaviness will eventually cause them to fall to the ground. The poles will break like toothpicks into the roads. Middle median landscaping drapes into cracked streets.

  I hit the interstate at a break neck speed. As the adrenaline wears down, so does my body, and my situation hits me hard. What am I doing? I just burnt down my house. If I had real guts, I would have shot them all, even Kale. But no, I had to make a dramatic exit and burn everything I know and love to the ground, leaving them alive.

  After driving about twenty miles, a rumble rises from the pit of my stomach. I haven’t eaten all day, and thinking about what I’ve done brings on the shakes. I shouldn’t be hard on myself, I did make the conscious decision to leave – it just came a few days earlier than expected.

  Stopping on the side of the interstate in complete darkness, I dig through a box for a can of something and a can opener. I suck down the metallic flavored creamed corn, already feeling a bit better and thinking clearer. Just in case Rhonda the Honda has alerted any nearby zombies, I need to keep moving.

  My eyes get heavy and I start to drift. Turning on the iPod, I blast music to keep me awake. Rain splatters the windshield, and soon it is pouring, complete with thunder and lightning. Before I get to close to the big city, I veer off the interstate to find a semi-secluded spot by an old department store. Hoping the storm hides the sound and warmth of the SUV, I climb in the back and sleep.

  When I wake up, I can barely see the dawn’s light because old, rotting zombies surround me.

  Chapter 9

  I usually get excited about seeing zombies, loving the chance to get up close and check them out. Then do my duty and kill them. Looking out the window, I can’t make out how many there are. Rhonda is rocking slightly from them trying to get in, but all they can really do is push. Since they’re old, getting out of this situation should be a piece of cake. As long as I don’t have to get out of the car, I’m going to be fine.

  I climb to the driver’s seat and start the engine, sending the zombies into a frenzy of jerky and unstable movement. I resist the urge to sit and study them as if I’m in a biology class. With the gearshift in drive, I punch the gas. Several zombies are piled like a cheerleader pyramid on the front hood, and I can’t see through the windshield. The initial launch dislodges a couple of them, and Rhonda thrusts up and down jaggedly from running over a few.

  I hold the steering wheel straight and pick up speed. There is a street ahead somewhere. Looking for the road, the car bumps up in the front, hitting a curb. Jostling up and down in my seat, I’m starting to relish this joyride and my lips stretch into a wide grin. I jerk the wheel to the left sharply. Rhonda lurches where I want her to go without flipping over, and more zombies tumble off to the right. Blood sprays from that direction as old zombies splat on the pavement like gory water balloons.

  Two zombies still hold tight to the hood, their fingers in the space between the hood and windshield. A mouth bites at the glass directly in front of me. It’s lost a few fingers from trying to hold on somewhere along the way. I pick up speed before slamming on the brakes, effectively dislodging it. Its remaining fingers rip off, and it slides feet first to the ground. The other zombie hangs on, creeping toward my side. I put the gearshift in reverse. When I hit the gas without looking back, Rhonda shoots backwards in response. I feel rather than hear several meaty thuds as she knocks zombies away. I hit the brakes again. I can see enough to get out and fight them. It’s not worth the risk of crashing into a tree.

  Just as I aim my crossbow at the zombie and watch it closely as I get out, a large arrow goes straight through its head, and it explodes into chunky pieces. I blink to make sure I didn’t conjure that in my mind. Nope, brains still decorate my windshield. I peer out the window, even though the arrow came from the other direction. Zombies litter the ground. Some have arrows through their skulls. I should just turn around and leave, but I want to see who shot the arrows.

  The first thing I notice upon getting out of Rhonda is the rancidity. The strong stink of decay hits my nose and the back of my throat. The blood and chunky bits all over the car make it worse. It’s like the smell of the two old zombies from my ventilation system, but a hundred times worse. Unsavory bile from my stomach helps mask the taste. The smell is overpowering. My face scrunches and my mouth waters along with my swirling stomach.

  I’m still battling the nausea when more flying arrows grab my attention. They take down the approaching zombies. The archer is very well hidden. I lift my crossbow and shoot my own zombie, and the larger arrows subside. My arrows are much smaller than these, which are meant for serious big game hunting. The larger arrows are always harder for me to aim and still hit a target. Though they are much better for long distance shooting, I still stick with my pistol crossbow.

  After the zombies are down, I step out to retrieve my arrows from the rotting flesh. The bow hunter is already doing the same thing. I freeze and stare. Dawn is near, so I see him clearly. He can’t be mistaken for anything but a man. His profile makes my breath catch.

  Black leather boots under frayed jeans hold a zombie head down as he jerks an arrow out of the skull. His arms flex when he wags gooey bits from his arrows.

  I can’t see his face, but he is tall, much taller than me with broad shoulders and wavy brown hair tied back with a dark green bandana. His hair shines golden brown as it blows in the wind, caressing the compound bow strapped to his back.

  A large arrow holster hangs by his side. The hunting bow goes from the back of his knees to a few inches above his head. The biggest bow I’ve seen, making me think it is custom made. The wind blows in the other direction, and his hair whips across his face. It barely brushes the tops of his shoulders.

  This guy is locked, stocked, and loaded with a big gun tucked into the front of his jeans. When he looks up at me, I feel like a deer caught in headlights, but only for a moment. Harley’s words echo through my head, Those thighs are thick and meaty. The world just isn’t what it used to be. I escape his gaze. Knowing this guy is helping me, but not caring to know his motivation, I hop into the SUV and hit the gas. The wheels get caught in sticky blood, but finally catch the traction I need for a hasty U-turn.

  I bound down the road, peering into the rearview mirror. The last thing I see is morning sun glinting off suntanned shoulders, and boot treads running in the opposite direction.

  Chapter 10

  I’m cruising down the highway at break-neck speed. The state of Tennessee took good care of its interstates, and the roads still offer a smooth black surface with fading white lines. The terrain here is mostly hills and valleys. In eastern Tennesse
e, mountains dominate the landscape, but here, an evergreen variety of trees line both sides of the road, with a few maple trees scattered about. I pass a barn with “See Rock City” painted on the side. You can’t see the oncoming traffic because of the heavily wooded expanse that runs through the middle. About forty minutes into the ride, cars on the highway begin to pile along the shoulder. I notice no piled cars going the other direction, as if survivors wanted into the city, but weren’t leaving. In my experience with the outbreak, the more people who died in one place, the more zombies you found. If I run into some, I hope they will be old and slow. Luckily, I haven’t encountered any of the wicked hungry ones Kale spoke of.

  The sun shines brightly, and a flock of buzzards catch my attention. I pull into a grassy thicket next a wooded area just beyond the right shoulder of the highway. I eye the pile of vehicles on the shoulder for any movement, and sniff to check for a trace of decay in the air – nothing but fresh air and spruce.

  The buzzards screech as I approach the edge of the wooded area they circle and dive. A dull groan cuts through the air. I pause as one of them dives at the sound, and when the wind blows, I smell the zombie before I see it in the thick grass. It’s incapacitated and directed at the birds, and its arms flail around. Walking to face it, I can tell it’s been trying to crawl into the woods, away from the sun. Another bird lands a few feet away, but when the zombie moves it flies away.

  “They’re confused.” My voice draws the attention of the zombie, and moves its arms toward me. I’m surprised there aren’t any wounds from birds pecking at it. Surely there would be, stinking like it does.

  The buzzards wait for it to die, not knowing that it’s already dead. By the number of them, they have been waiting a long time.

  Back at the Honda, I slip on my pack and grab my crossbow. A familiar nagging pulls at me as I tread back to the zombie. Sometimes, I feel as if there is more to zombies than meets the eye.

  When I sit down about five feet from the zombie, the vacant eyes stare at me. Its arms try to pull it forward. I ignore the moans erupting from its mouth. Who was this person? I’m not big on spirituality these days, but surely the person is no longer in there. One would hope, but what if the person is still there somehow? Knowingly decomposing in their own bodies, never able to satisfy an insatiable hunger? I shudder at my own questions, and just in case, I show it some mercy and put an arrow through its head.

  I have no idea how long I sit and stare, watching as the buzzards fight for their newest food source, but when I do finally stand, the sun is more west. It gleams off windshields, and emphasizes the rusting vehicles amassed together casting shadows on the highway. I edge toward the woods on a spur of the moment decision, perking up as the sun streaks through the trees, making them glow brightly. A distinct trickling alerts me to running water.

  Coming upon the small creek, it is music to my ears. I look around to make sure I’m alone and strip off my clothes for a dip. I take a few small toiletries from the pack and wash the best I can. The water is cool for this time of year, and a refreshing change from the pond. I take my time washing my locks, massaging my scalp. I learned a long time ago shampooing all the time will dry them out and make my scalp itch. I don’t do it but every week or so. I put on jeans, staying in only my sports bra to soak up some sun across the grassy bank.

  I’m getting closer to Clarksville, and I need a plan. It is highly unlikely that I will just go in, arrows flying, without knowing what is truly going on. I sigh, realizing that I can, in fact, do that. I have nothing left to lose. My best bet would be to just drive to the base. Zombies be damned.

  I languidly run my hand through the creek. A twig snaps and a snarl breaks me from my daze. I leap up with my pack in hand, all in one swoop. Ice sweeps through my body as fresh zombies run wildly toward me. They move like normal people, without jerky or slow movements. Unlike normal people, their skin’s pale blue. Their mouths hang open with bloody drool. Open wounds crusted with blood show their injuries. I grip my crossbow, knowing it’s useless on these zombies. They are frightening.

  I dash in a panicked run in the opposite direction, thundering through the trees as they crash and growl behind me. The machete on my pack slaps my thigh, and my dreadlocks hop from shoulder to shoulder. The tall undergrowth whips at my arms and face. With every bound and spring through bushes and wood debris, hurtling smashes of the running dead follow their roars of frustration, cutting me deep. It’s bone chilling, and every small hair on my body stands on end as fear rushes through me. The rough brush makes them slow, but it slows me down as well. I push on, not giving up momentum.

  Breaking through the trees, I take a precious second to find Rhonda. I’ve come out too far ahead. The SUV sits about thirty yards down. If I run down the tree line, zombies will pop out like jack-in-the-boxes. I run in that direction anyway. The movement in my peripheral vision causes alarm. I hurtle myself to the driver’s side of the vehicle to yank the door open, slipping on wet grass, catching myself by holding tight to the handle. Jumping in, I slam the door just as several zombies hit the window.

  On the passenger side, one of them opens the door. “Fuck!” I jerk up the crossbow, and shoot him in the forehead. At close range the arrow goes straight through, splattering gunk on the inside window and door. It goes limp as I start Rhonda. He falls backwards, blocking the others as I mash the gas and Rhonda lurches forward. The momentum slams the passenger door shut. Wiping the cold sweat off my forehead, I sigh through my heavy breathing. That was close.

  By this time, the zombies crawl, claw, and mewl all over the SUV. I drive through some shallow ditches. When I hit a deep trench, the car bounces up and down, front to back. This causes a mechanism in my seat to break. I begin sliding backward and forward. Without the seat belt I bounce up and down in the seat awkwardly because of my pack. I laugh manically as the adrenaline makes me high. A clearing is visible through the trees, and I make for it, swerving around and veering under thick branches, laughing all the way, because this shakes zombies from Rhonda as if I’m in my own version of a video game.

  Arms and hands beat at the driver’s window frantically. White clammy hands have sickly blue veins running up the forearms. The fingertips smear blood on the window. A head pops into view with drooping eyes darkened with blood and maroon stained teeth. As it smacks the window, I’m suddenly jerked forward, hitting the steering wheel. A loud metal clanking follows the crash. I’m vaguely aware of the deploying airbags. The impact causes my seat to slam forward and back again. I look up to see a zombie between Rhonda and a tree through a thick cloud of engine smoke. I try to keep my eyes open but darkness sweeps me away.

  ***

  I’m floating on a boat. The wind picks up to catch my sail. The salt from the sea and the smell of leather brings me comfort. What an odd combination? The sun beats down on me. I let it warm my face. The wind fades as I float.

  Spots dance in front of my eyes, and I feel the sun again. I catch a noise at the other end of the boat, and look toward it. Malachi reclines there, smiling his lazy cat smile. I gasp as my eyes feast on him. The sun makes his brown hair gleam shiny auburn. The love and acceptance he had always shown me radiates from him in waves. Wearing the green shirt I like best on him and simple khaki shorts, I return his smile.

  “Malachi, I miss you,” I whisper as the wind blows through my locks, sending them flying around my body. That’s when I notice they aren’t locks, but my hair. Light, free, and blowing in the wind. His eyes shine with pleasure.

  “You’ll be okay, Kansas. I love you, always.” Tears spring to my eyes, hearing his voice laced with love. My stomach drops with hollowness as my anguish rises to the surface. I choke out a sob, and reach for him.

  “My dad? My mom?” His face crinkles with worry as he shakes his head slightly, looking out into the sea. Away from me.

  I think I stumble, but I’m fading into myself. “No!” I demand and struggle to stay with him, knowing this is only a dream.

&n
bsp; Chapter 11

  I’m aware of a burning sensation on my face and chest, making it hurt to breathe. As I start to move the aches spring to life in my body. “Ugghh –” I groan as the muscles in my chest, back, and arms squeeze together. Straightening my legs, my right knee cracks as thoughts of the wreck flood back to me. I’m laying down in a square metal van. Checking my surroundings, the only light comes from small windows on each side of the van illuminating bins and benches along the walls. I’m on a small mattress that takes up most of the space, leaving a walkway. I meet the eyes of the bandana guy, his reading material forgotten as he stares at me, waiting for a reaction.

  My breathing picks up as claustrophobic panic sets in. I shut my eyes to keep the walls from closing in on me. When I open them, I spot a door behind him. He’s still frozen, as if waiting for me to say something. I glance at the bins containing various guns. I lick my dry lips at the sight of them. I hate guns, but will do what I have to do, if I need to use one.

  He braces himself on the balls of his feet, guessing my plan. I spring up in one leap, ignoring my screaming body, grab a gun, and knock myself into him in one fluid motion. The doors must have been slightly open because we tumble out. As we hit damp earth and decomposed leaves, I land on top, but he grabs for my wrists, immediately flipping me over.

  His weight crushes me, but I manage to jerk my hands away. Grunting, he grabs a hold of my wrists and knocks the gun away. He’s worried about the gun, underestimating my body. I struggle feebly, kicking up with my feet. My legs end up entangled in his as he fights to hold me still. He’s strong and equally big. I ram my head forward to head-butt him. When our heads crack together, he releases my wrists, and struggles to untangle his legs, blinking rapidly. As my own spots clear, I ball my fists and punch him in the gut. It’s like punching a hard punching bag packed with sand. He lets out a deep grunt; more surprised than hurt. I take that second to roll away from him. A huge mistake because he pounces on top of my back, holding me down and knocking the wind out of me. Gasping for air, the moisture of earthy grime soaks my jeans. The decaying leaves are slimy against my skin.