Genre: Horror (Zombies)
FLESH AND BONE
By Daniel Skye
PART ONE: Z DAY
1
For
those of you that are just joining us…
…reports
are filtering in from all around the globe…
…an
unprecedented event…
…a
grisly scene of violence and carnage…
…and
authorities have yet to confirm just how many casualties on the East Coast, but
on the West Coast…
…I’m
being informed that we’re going off the air, as our feed will be replaced by a
message from the emergency broadcasting system…
…and
as the death toll rises to 53 in Florida…
…reports
coming in from Texas, as more than a hundred casualties of the virus are now confirmed.
And in California…
…the
government has yet to issue a statement, but our sources have told us…
…sources
have informed us that the CDC has yet to determine if the virus is airborne,
but what we can confirm at this time is that the virus appears to be blood-borne,
mainly transmitted through bites or scratches…
…This
is not a drill. I repeat, this is not a drill. If you’re watching this
broadcast, you must isolate yourself. Try to remain indoors. And try to avoid
any neighbors, friends, even relatives who may be carrying the…
…numerous
reports of what can only be described as a “mass resurrection” of some kind…
…the
dead have risen…
…the
dead are coming back to life…
Alice muted the television and tossed the remote on the table
by the sofa, where Beverly was sitting, her face buried in her hands, sobbing.
“I’ll be damned,” Alice muttered. “It’s on every channel.”
She felt a sharp, sickening pang in her stomach. Be strong, she thought. Don’t
let the fear consume you.
“They’re gone,” Beverly wept
quietly. “Gone.”
Beverly had received the grim news
from her brother out in Pennsylvania. Her parents hadn’t made it through the
night. They panicked and tried to flee the state, but they were exposed to the
infected. It didn’t take long for them to turn. And when they did, Beverly’s
brother did what was necessary.
It was tearing Beverly up inside
that she could not be by her brother’s side to comfort him in these desperate
hours. She made Randy promise that he’d stay put. And she promised Randy she’d
do the same. But somehow, someway, she was making it Pennsylvania. She had
already lost her parents. She wasn’t losing her brother, too.
Alice rested one hand on Beverly’s
shoulder in a faint attempt to console her. But Alice was always awkward in
these situations.
It’s not that she didn’t care. She cared deeply for her
friend. But Alice was not one to wear her emotions on her sleeve. And she knew
words like “sorry” or “my condolences” would offer no solace at a time like
this.
Alice had taken all the necessary precautions. All doors and
windows were locked. Her car was hidden in the garage and Beverly’s car was
parked three houses down. The shades were drawn and the glow of the TV was
their only source of light. She had matches, candles, and flashlights handy in
case the power went. And she kept her cell phone plugged in so the battery
would remain charged.
Alice’s parents had not spoken to
her in three years. They didn’t approve of her tattoos, her piercings, her
infatuation with the macabre, her bad taste in men (and women), her hedonistic
lifestyle. And the list went on and on. Alice would’ve had an easier time
listing the things her parents actually approved about her life.
But family was family, especially in
a time of crisis. Her parents lived way out in the sticks, where the phone reception
was terrible. Every time she tried calling their phones, it went straight to
voicemail. She had left several panicked messages, urging them, pleading with
them to call her back, at least to let her know they were okay.
Alice was not one to panic. This was a girl who had Freddy
Krueger’s glove tattooed on one shoulder and Jason Voorhees’ hockey mask
tattooed on the other. Horror movies were an integral part of her fascination
with the macabre. But now, she had found herself living in one. And if watching
hundreds of gory horror films had taught Alice anything, it was that these
types of situations were rarely ever resolved.
And soon, the whole world would
learn that death is not the end. Death is merely a transitional state. Death is
only the beginning.
* * *
Thursday, September 12, 2013.
One day before the shit was
permanently introduced to the fan.
Ira Schillinger’s silver pickup rolled into the crushed stone
parking lot just as Murphy had switched on the green neon sign. It said MURPHY’S
in letters three feet high, and the apostrophe was intentionally in the shape
of a martini glass.
Ira walked in and made himself at home at the end of the bar.
Murphy sauntered over and said, “What’ll it be tonight, Ira?”
Ira had been living in Bellmore, a small part of Long Island,
New York, for only a few short months, and he was already on a first name basis
with the bartender. That should tell you a little about Ira Schillinger right
off the bat.
“Scotch, no rocks.”
His eyes were blue, but threaded
with red veins. The remnants of his last hangover. For four straight nights,
Ira had come to Murphy’s and downed scotch, whiskey, or beers with shots of
tequila or Jägermeister on the side.
Ira was an alcoholic. A fact he gave
up trying to hide. A fact that had alienated him from his family and friends. A
fact that had cost him his job as a construction worker when he showed up half
in the bag and his supervisor canned him on the spot.
Murphy poured Ira his drink and watched
him down it in one lightning-fast gulp.
“Give me another,” Ira said,
practically demanding it.
“You ought to go easy on the sauce,
fella,” Murphy said, reluctantly refilling his glass. “Can I tell you a story?”
“It’s your bar,” Ira shrugged. “Do
as you please.” Before Murphy had a chance to begin, Ira had finished his
second glass.
“There was this kid, Sam Shaw. Nice
young man. Lived one town over in Merrick. Used to come in here on weekends
after he turned twenty-one. Sometimes he was with his friends from school. And
sometimes he was in here with a real pretty number. A girl named Nora.
I won’t mention her last name because her father was in
politics. Which is part of the reason Sam and Nora eventually split up. The father
wanted Nora nowhere near an underachiever like Shaw. The kid had barely
finished high school, he never went to high school, and he was stuck in a dead
end job.
Sam was devastated. One night, I
watched him nearly drink himself into a coma. I finally had to cut him off. He
assured me he’d take a cab home. But when he was leaving, I saw him digging his
car keys out of his pocket. I rushed after him, but by the time I got outside,
he was peeling out of the parking lot.
Sam died that night. Crashed his car
off a bridge. They never found a note. Never determined if it was a tragic
accident or a tragic suicide. But I personally think he planned it all along.
That Nora was the final nail in his coffin.”
“Wow,” was all Ira could say at
first. Then he sullenly added, “Poor kid. Had his whole life ahead of him.”
Murphy nodded gravely, however he was pleased with the
impression his story had made.
“How did the girl take it?”
“I never saw Nora again. I heard through the grapevine that
she was devastated, of course. So was Sam’s family. But that goes without
saying.”
Working in construction helped keep Ira in solid shape. But
he wasn’t exactly in his prime, like Sam Shaw was when his life was cut short.
Still, Ira had plenty of good years left ahead of him, if he managed to turn
things around before it was too late.
“Want another refill?” Murphy asked.
Ira stared down at his empty glass,
pondering.
“I think I’ll pass for now,” Ira
said.
“What is it, if you don’t mind me
asking? Is it a broad that’s getting to you? Trust me, it ain’t worth getting
bent out of shape over. Or drinking yourself to death.”
“My only problem is the alcohol
itself,” Ira said. “It’s cost me everything in this world. And yet I can’t part
from it.”
“There are plenty of support groups
for that. I could recommend a few, seeing as how I’ve been down this path
myself.”
“No,” Ira said defiantly. “The only
way out is to quit cold turkey. I’ve tried support groups. I’ve tried AA. The
only person who can help me is me.”
“No offense, pal. But it doesn’t
seem like he wants to help.”
“He can be very uncooperative,” Ira
said in regards to himself.
“Well, I wish you the best of luck.
And whenever you feel the temptation to drink, just think of Sam Shaw. It’s
helped me over the years.”
“Yeah, maybe I’ll do that,” Ira said
and pushed the empty glass away.
“Heading out?” Murphy inquired.
“I probably should. I have to start
looking for a new job tomorrow.”
“Well, good luck with that, too. And
hey, things could always be worse, you know?”
“How so?”
“You could be walking down the street and a piano or an anvil
could fall on your head like Wile E. Coyote. Or the dead could come back to
life and feast on the brains of the living.”
Ira chuckled at the thought and
waved goodbye.
“Sure I can’t persuade you to stick
around for karaoke? This place is about to fill up in about an hour. You don’t
have to drink to have a good time.”
“I’ll take a rein check,” Ira said
as he headed out the door.
* * *
DAY ONE.
Friday, September 13, 2013.
Jackson Creed was bored out of his skull.
He craved action, excitement. Any distraction would have
appeased him, so long as it alleviated the banality of his reality.
A grease fire. A surprise visit from the health inspector. An
unruly customer complaining about an undercooked or overcooked steak. He wished
for anything that would snap him out of this funk.
Working as a short-order cook paid the bills, but it didn’t
provide Jax the jolt of adrenaline he needed. Jax was a thrill seeker. He had
served his time in the military, and when they shipped him home, Jax was lost.
He had no guidance, no sense of purpose. He still hadn’t found his true
calling. But he knew he wasn’t put on this Earth to slave over a hot grill all
day in his chef whites.
Jax, who was busy daydreaming about a better life as he
flipped burgers on the grill, snapped out of it when he heard an unmistakable
sound.
The screams were distant and brief, but there was no
disputing it. Jax had heard them loud and clear. A cacophony of sirens
followed, emanating in the distance. And suddenly, Jax wasn’t the least bit
bored.
* * *
Dylan Reed had been summoned to his
editor’s office. It was twenty steps from Reed’s cubicle to Laymon’s office,
but for Reed, it felt like the slow-paced death march that a condemned prisoner
takes moment before his execution.
Dylan had been with the Daily Buzz, a Manhattan publication,
for eight months. And Francis Laymon had made those eight months a living hell.
Laymon demanded perfection from his staff in all aspects, and would often use
himself as a primary example.
Reed would scoff just at the thought. Laymon’s ego was as
swollen as his jowls. But if he was the definition of perfection, no one would
aspire to be perfect.
On the record, Reed loved working for
the Daily Buzz and was thrilled to be part of the team.
Off the record, Reed would rather
have chewed glass in a freak show than take orders from a gruff prick like
Laymon. But fortunately for Reed, he was an ace at masking his contempt.
Reed was a cop for ten years. Worked his way up to vice, then
homicide. Now he was at the bottom of the barrel, trying to scrape his way out.
“You wanted to see me, sir?” Reed asked, poking his head into
Laymon’s office. He linger in the hall for a few seconds, waiting for an
invitation that never came. So Reed invited himself in.
“You’ve heard the news about Long Island?” Laymon sat with
his head down, pink jowls ballooning over his white shirt collar, not even
looking up from the papers on his desk.
“Yes, it’s terrible. Twenty-four dead, seventy-three ill.
They’re saying it’s some kind of super-virus. It’s all over the news.”
“I see you actually pay attention
sometimes,” Laymon said, as condescending as ever. “I need you out there
covering the story.”
“I thought that was Johnson’s assignment,” Reed said, trying
to wiggle his way out of it.
“Yeah, well, Johnson came down with
a bad case of dysentery. He won’t be going anywhere for the next few days
unless he glues his ass cheeks shut.”
“With all due respect, sir, I’m
currently swamped with other assignments. And I don’t know if it’s wise to send
any staff members out there in the middle of what could turn out to be an
epidemic.”
“Are you questioning my judgment,
Reed?” Laymon snapped.
“No, sir,” Reed said, using every
ounce of self-restraint to ensure he didn’t pop his editor in the mouth.
“So quit your bitching. Do I look
concerned about your health? I have problems of my own, you know. I got one kid
in college, another kid who needs braces, and a brother-in-law who is suffering
from boanthropy.”
“What-in-thropy?”
“Boanthropy. He’s convinced he’s a
goddamn cow. Just walks around on all fours, mooing and eating grass.”
“At least he hasn’t tried milking
himself,” Reed slipped and said aloud.
“He has,” Laymon assured him. “It’s
not a pleasant sight. Now why are you still standing around in my office?
Shouldn’t you be on a train or a bus to Long Island? Chop-chop. I’m not paying
you to dick around. I could pay my brother-in-law for that. You want that? You
want to be replaced by a guy who thinks he’s a fucking cow?”
“No, sir,” Reed said through gritted
teeth. “I’ll get right on it.”
* * *
Reggie was oblivious to the outside
world as he sat behind the counter of Comic Zone, reading the latest issue of
Crossed: Bad Lands, when TJ strolled in late again. TJ was the owned the store,
but Reggie found himself manning the register half the time.
“Thanks for opening the store,” TJ
said, massaging his throbbing temples. His bloodshot eyes were a dead giveaway.
TJ had spent the night at Murphy’s, drinking and striking out left and right
with his cheesy pickup lines.
“No problem,” Reggie said, finishing
the last page of his comic. “I got out of work early this morning.”
“At the meat factory?”
“It’s a spa.”
“You say tomato, I say potato.”
“That’s actually not how that
expression goes…”
“So where were you last night? You
missed a wicked good time. It was karaoke night. I sang Rocket Man.”
“Please don’t tell me you did the
William Shatner rendition.”
“I did, actually. The weirdest thing
happened though. Halfway through the song, the place just emptied out.”
“I see nothing strange about that.
Did Floyd show up?”
“Nah, he bailed on me. What do you
care? I thought you couldn’t stand Floyd.”
“Ah, he grows on you.”
“Yeah, like a tumor.”
Reggie chortled. “Floyd’s not that
bad. He’s just unreliable because he spends every waking minute stoned out of
his mind. He kind of reminds of Spicoli from Fast Times. Except I think Spicoli
had more brain cells than Floyd.”
“You’re probably right about that.
So what’s the deal with this Crossed comic? I never read it. I only keep it in
stock because one of my customers is obsessed with it.”
“It’s like zombies, but different.
Very graphic.”
“Ha. Do you think George Romero
would’ve guessed that zombies would be all the rage in 2013?”
“I suppose not,” Reggie said. “But
who knew films like Saw and Hostel would make as much money as they did? That’s
the gamble with the horror genre. You take a risk and hope it pays off.”
“I blame that Walking Dead show for
all this, and all those posers who watch it. I’m proud to say I was into
zombies before zombies were cool.”
“Zombies honestly scare the crap out
of me,” Reggie confessed.
“Really? You of all people?”
“Yeah. Zombies have no memory. And
that’s the scariest part of all. Not even knowing who you are or who you were, and
not being in control of your actions.”
“I never thought about it like
that.”
The door opened and Floyd wandered
in, his eyes more bloodshot than TJ’s.
“What’s the good word, dudes?”
“Not much. Got wasted last night at
Murphy’s and sang karaoke.”
“You didn’t sing Rocket Man again,
did you?” Floyd said, dragging out every word. His clothes reeked of pot, but
that was nothing new.
“That’s not important,” TJ said.
“Did you go to Murphy’s last night?”
Floyd asked Reggie.
“No, I had to work early this
morning.”
“At the meat factory?” Floyd snickered.
“It’s a spa. And yes, I work in the
men’s portion of the spa because if I worked in the women’s portion, there’d be
a lawsuit. Yes, the job blows and I hate it. Yes, I hate seeing geriatric men
wandering around naked, trying to find the sauna or the steam room. It makes me
grateful my parents had me circumcised.”
“So if you hate the job, why don’t you quit?” TJ suggested. “You
could come work here.”
“I practically do work here!” Reggie exclaimed. “Who do you
think opened the store at twelve o’clock when I got off of work? I came by and
saw you weren’t here yet, figured you were hung over and still passed out.
You’re lucky I have a spare key.”
The shopkeepers’ bell chimed, altering them of their first
customer of the day. TJ had been running Comic Zone for two years. And in those
two years, he’d seen people wearing every costume imaginable. He’d seen people
in Twilight and Harry Potter and Dr. Who getup. He had people walk in dressed
as Batman, Superman, Wonder Woman, The Flash. Even had a guy come in dressed
from head to toe as Chewbacca.
So when the young woman stumbled in with the corners of her
mouth smeared red, blood dripping down her chin, and a huge gash in her
forearm, TJ wasn’t terrified. He was actually impressed with the convincing
makeup job. She even had the mannerisms of a zombie as she shambled awkwardly
towards the register.
“Whoa,” Floyd uttered. “This is blowing my mind.”
“Sweet makeup job,” TJ remarked.
As she inched closer, dragging her feet with each step,
Reggie got a look at the gash on her forearm, and nearly retched at the visible
sight of muscle and bone.
The young woman lunged at Floyd, who
almost crippled himself as he dove over the counter headfirst. He scrambled to
his feet, cowering behind TJ and Reggie.
“Stay back!” Floyd warned them. “She
could be all hopped up on bath salts!”
“I don’t think it’s bath salts,”
Reggie whispered, examining her oxygen deprived skin. “Guys, I think she’s…I
think she’s dead.” He shivered and rolled down the sleeves of his shirt to hide
his bumpy skin that had broken out in gooseflesh.
The woman, whose eyes had gone gray
as marble, tried to claw her way over the countertop. It never even occurred to
her to walk around it. She was operating on primal instinct.
“Impossible,” TJ whispered back to
Reggie. “I bet this is all a big show. She’s just trying to scare us.”
Reggie stepped forward, and held out
one finger. Her teeth snapped in his direction and he pulled his hand away
before she could sink her choppers in.
“Doesn’t look like she’s faking to
me,” Reggie said. Floyd had taken his phone out, and was trying to get through
to 911, but all operators were busy.
They knew this story all too well.
They had seen it before in movies, in television shows, in comic books. But now
they were confronted with the grim reality of what was once a mere fantasy.
“Enough is enough,” TJ said.
Reggie laughed the day that TJ
stashed a baseball bat under the counter. He told him he would never need it.
“What are you afraid of?” Reggie had said. “Rowdy cosplayers? It’s not like
anybody’s going to rob this place.” But that day, Reggie was willing to eat his
words as TJ snatched the bat from under the register.
“I can’t get through to the police,”
Floyd said.
“I’ll handle this,” TJ said.
“Don’t do it,” Reggie advised him. “We
have to be sure first.”
“If this is all an act or a prank,
some kind of sick joke, now’s the time to give it up,” TJ said. “Final
warning.”
The woman refused to back down as
she hissed and snarled in their direction, fingernails digging into the
countertop. Reggie and Floyd put their backs against the wall to give him room.
TJ swung for the fences, and the bat connected with an earsplitting crack.
Blood trickled, then teemed down her forehead. It reached her mouth, and her
tongue ran circles around her lips to collect it.
The bat trembled in TJ’s hands. She did seem the least bit
fazed by the blow. He raised the bat and brought it down repeatedly. Blood and
skull fragments splattered and rained down over the countertop with each
maddening swing.
TJ was seeing red when Reggie finally shook him out of it and
told him, “She’s dead, dude. Give it a rest.” TJ gasped, then retched at the
sight of what he had done.
TJ–holding back last night’s liquor
that was trying to force its way up–dropped the bat and wiped the blood from
his Green Lantern T-shirt.
“You sure she’s dead?” Floyd asked.
“Her brains are all over the fucking
counter!” TJ exclaimed. “I’m pretty sure she’s dead.”
“How are we going to explain this to
the police?” Reggie asked.
“I don’t think we have to worry
about it,” Floyd said, holding up his phone as the status updates came rolling
in on Facebook. Today’s topic of discussion: Zombies.
* * *
Dylan Reed arrived in Bellmore at three o’clock, and was
greeted on the train platform by a local source for the Daily Buzz. Laymon had
informed his source that Reed was in transit, and to catch him up to speed when
he arrived.
The man introduced himself as Miguel
Perez. Then he got straight down to business.
“The virus is a mystery. They can’t
determine the origin. They don’t even know how to treat it. This morning,
seventy-three patients were admitted to six different hospitals, all suffering
from severe flu-like symptoms. Twenty-four bodies arrived to two of those
hospitals, dead on arrival. And since this morning, more than forty of the
seventy-three admitted patients have passed on.”
“From a virus?” Reed said, astonished. “In less than twenty-four
hours?”
“This is no virus. The twenty-four bodies they had in the
morgue, up and vanished.”
“Vanished? Where the hell did they go?”
“They didn’t trot down to Atlantic City for a wild weekend, I
can tell you that. And nobody moved them either.”
“What are you saying? That they all got up and simply walked
away?”
“As crazy as it sounds, yes. There have been multiple
reports, multiple sightings. They’re out there somewhere, walking around in
broad daylight, spreading the infection.”
“Impossible,” Reed said, shaking his head defiantly.
“Buddy, you haven’t seen what I’ve seen. Not yet. But stick
around and you will. We’re a lot safer up here on the platform than we are down
there. And I failed to mention the bad news.”
“That wasn’t the bad news?”
“Afraid not. It’s not just happening on Long Island. And it’s
not just happening in the city.”
“It’s happening all over America?”
“Buddy, it’s happening all over the
world,” Perez said gravely.
From the train platform, they saw a
pillar of black smoke rising from the center of town. Sirens wailed in the
distance. And the screams of terror could be heard from ten blocks away.
This was the fall of man. The
collapse of society. They were witnessing premature extinction.
They were witnessing the dawn of the
apocalypse.
2
It started with bodies vanishing
from hospitals, morgues, funeral parlors. Though they didn’t stay missing for
long.
The virus spread at an exponential rate. In twenty-four
hours, the dead nearly outnumbered the living.
The green neon sign had lured Dylan Reed to Murphy’s bar. Him
and a whole host of others looking for shelter.
Ira Schillinger was there, though he
had resisted the temptation to imbibe throughout the first night.
Jackson Creed was present. With his sleeves rolled up, Dylan immediately spotted the USMC tattoo on his left shoulder. Jax was not one to brag about his service to his country, but he was still proud to wear that tattoo on his skin.
So were Reggie, TJ, and Floyd. Murphy
knew the boys well. He knew Reggie and TJ were over twenty-one, but Floyd was
still one year shy of the legal age. But given the circumstances, Murphy made
an exception and had given the boys a round on the house.
It was just past midnight when Dylan
Reed wandered in, sans Miguel Perez.
The man’s scream kept playing over
and over in Reed’s head. He watched the Perez get torn limb from bloody limb in
the streets, and he was powerless to stop it.
Reed had tried every number in his
phone book. Nobody was returning his calls. Not Laymon with his delusions of
grandeur, or Johnson with his bad case of dysentery. None of his co-workers
were picking up the phone. Most of his calls went straight to voicemail. Reed set his phone aside and studied his surroundings. Reed was an observant man, a trait from his NYPD days that he couldn't shake. He perused the patrons and the establishment, looking for potential threats or security breaches.
“We should name them,” Floyd
suggested to his friends and all other patrons within earshot. “Some shows call
me them Walkers or Z’s. We need to give them a name.”
“How about zombies?” Reggie
proposed.
“Nah. They never call them zombies
in the movies or the shows. They always avoid it.”
“Biters,” Murphy said, pouring
himself a stiff drink to take the edge off.
“I like it,” Floyd grinned.
Murphy had bolted the front and back
doors shut. But that still didn’t stop the occasional zombie from attempting to
intrude. Some would press their faces to the glass, trying to get a better look
inside.
They all had the same blue,
oxygen-deprived skin; the same gray, pupil-less eyes, like dirty marbles
crammed into the sockets.
“Could you turn up the volume?” one
of the patrons requested, and Murphy obliged. On the television, a lieutenant
colonel in the National Guard was addressing the viewers, and urging those to
stay indoors.
“How do you stop them?” a reporter
asked off-screen.
“Massive trauma to the brain,” the
lieutenant colonel informed the public. “The easiest way to take them down is
to shoot them in the head.”
“Have the CDC determined a cause for
the outbreak?” a second reporter chimed in.
“The CDC are working overtime to
determine a cause, and develop a cure. We ask for your patience and
understanding at this time.”
“These people who are infected, are
they alive or dead?”
“We…we honestly don’t know,” the
lieutenant colonel said, stymied.
* * *
DAY
TWO.
Nobody slept a wink. How could they? It’s not every day the world
comes to a bitter end. Most television stations had switched to a recurring
message from the emergency broadcasting system. But channel 6 was still
covering the story. And there was plenty to be covered.
The National Guard had stepped in, setting up safe zones all
across America. Ever active member of the military was on duty. No one was off
the clock until the situation was resolved.
Jax held out hope that his brothers in the military would
have things back to normal in no time. But the others did not appear nearly as
optimistic as he was.
Many of them had tried to reach their family members or
friends by phone, and few were successful.
Murphy brewed a fresh pot of coffee to keep himself awake and
alert. And of course he offered a cup to anyone who wanted it.
Reed was stunned at how benevolent and generous someone like Murphy could be. He thought it was a way of life that be vanished from the
Earth forever. But people like Murphy would never change. He was the kind of
man that would literally give you the shirt off his back if you needed it.
Floyd
giggled and everyone turned their attention to the television, where the news
had cut to a live feed in Times Square.
“You’ve got
to be shitting me,” Jax muttered.
In Times
Square, a small crowd had formed, protesting the National Guards use of deadly
force. They marched, waving picket signs with preposterous, half-baked slogans such as ZOMBIES ARE
PEOPLE TOO and GIVE ZOMBIES A CHANCE.
“It figures
that in a zombie-infested world, there’d be zombie rights activists,” Dylan
said, shaking his head.
“I bet this
doesn’t last long,” Ira boldly predicted. And the protest shortly came to a bloody end when
the Biters arrived on the scene, ripping and tearing at the flesh of every activist
who was petitioning for them to be spared.
“I’m pretty
sure this is the definition of irony,” Floyd quipped.
The footage
was so gruesome, channel 6 had to cut the feed.
Reed,
fearing the worst, got up from his barstool and approached Jax.
“Dylan
Reed,” he introduced himself. “Reporter for the Daily Buzz.”
“Jackson Creed.
But you can call me Jax. Everyone does.”
“I saw your USMC tattoo before. You’re in the marines?”
“I was.”
“Before I
worked for the Daily Buzz, I was a cop. I did the job for ten years. I know how to use a gun. And I know
what it takes to survive.”
“I can
respect that," Jax nodded. "But where are you going with all this What's your point"?”
“My point is
we need to formulate a strategy, a backup plan in case this mess is unresolved.
In case the National Guard can’t contain the outbreak.”
“He’s
right,” Ira said, overhearing their conversation. “There’s a real good chance
we’ll be left to fend for ourselves.”
“You can
count me in,” Murphy said from behind the bar. “We can take my van. It’s parked out back. I can fit up to eight people in there.”
“Now we’re
talking,” Dylan said.
“Count us
in, too,” Reggie spoke for himself and his friends. “If you’ll have us.”
“If we’re
taking my van, you guys are in,” Murphy assured them. “I knew your dad well, Reggie.
We were good friends back in high school.”
“If we do
go, we’ll need food, water, supplies,” Jax pointed out. “Especially medical
supplies.”
“We can get
all of that at my job,” Floyd said. “And I just happen to have the keys.”
“We’ll also
need weapons,” Jax said.
“That I can’t
help you with,” Floyd said.
“We’ve got
company!” one of the patrons shouted.
“Zombie?”
Murphy asked.
“Zombies,”
the patron said. “Plural. All heading this way.”
“Fuck me,”
Murphy said, dusting off the shotgun he kept stashed under the bar. “I guess it’s
on.”
They gathered below the green neon sign of Murphy's, pressing their blank faces against the pane glass windows. Some were
wearing hospital gowns. Others were dressed in casual attire. But there was nothing
casual about their physical appearance. Most of them were already displaying minimal signs of rot and decay.
They clawed
and pounded and pushed against the glass until cracks started to form and
spread.
“Get back,”
Murphy warned the others. “The windows aren’t going to hold forever.”
“If anyone
else has a gun on them, now’s a good time to mention it,” TJ said.
The glass
exploded, shards flying in every direction. And a small army of the undead came
spilling in, ready to devour everyone in their path.
The first
one to approach the bar got a shotgun blast to the head, courtesy of Murphy. Jax
grabbed a corkscrew off the bar to defend himself, and rammed it through the
ear of the first zombie that tried to bite him. Ira and Dylan were fending them
off with pool cues. It wasn’t the most effective weapon, but it slowed them
down and kept them at bay.
The influx
of the undead created a whirlpool of insanity. Most of the patrons were
shouting, running, pushing, shoving, and knocking each other down, as they
bolted for the back door. Though many did not make it out alone.
Reggie had
joined Murphy behind the bar and grabbed a knife Murphy used for slicing lemons
and limes. There was a young man who had turned. He looked no older than Reggie
did. And Reggie didn’t want to kill him or anybody for that matter. But when he
tried to claw his way over the bar, Reggie didn’t hesitate to drive that knife
through his eye.
Murphy was
reloading his shotgun when the pain exploded through his body. One of them had
crawled under the bar and snuck up behind him, ripping the skin from the back
of his neck. Murphy dropped the gun to the floor and fell to his knees.
“Murphy!”
Reggie cried out. He scrambled for the shotgun and shells. But Reggie didn’t
even know how to load the damn thing. And the zombie that had attacked Murphy
was closing in.
“Kid, over
here,” Jax said. Reggie slid the shotgun across the bar and tossed the shells.
Jax popped two shells in, pumped the mechanism, and popped its head like a
balloon with a single shot.
Reggie
sighed as his life stopped flashing before his eyes. “Thanks,” he said, his
voice cracking.
“Don’t
mention it.”
“Reggie,”
Murphy croaked, holding up the keys with one blood stained hand. “I won’t make
it. We know what happens to people like me when they get bit. Take the van. Go,
before it’s too late.”
* * *
A sea of abandoned vehicles had
clogged most of the main roads, forcing Jax to take detour after detour. Murphy
had given Reggie the keys, but the kid was too shaken up to drive.
Jax and Ira were riding in the
front, and Dylan, Reggie, TJ, and Floyd had squeezed into the back of the blue
Econoline van.
They were on Orange Street, three
blocks south of Sunrise Highway, when Jax saw two shadows stumble into the
street.
“Help!” a voice cried, shrill and frantic.
“Stop,” Ira said. “They’re not
infected. They’re talking.”
“They could still be infected,” TJ
pointed out. “They just haven’t turned yet. All it takes is one bite, one
scratch, and you’re one of them.”
“We can’t just leave them out here
without being sure,” Jax said.
Jax cut the wheel and pulled off to
the side of the road. He rolled the window down as Alice approached his door
with Beverly at her side. Both had overnight bags slung over their shoulders.
“Please help us,” Beverly pleaded. “My
friend and I were trying to escape from New York, but her car got a flat tire,
and we don’t even have a spare.”
“Where are you heading?”
“Pennsylvania,” Beverly said. “I
have to find my brother.”
“Where in Pennsylvania?”
“Ravensville.”
“I know a place out there,” Jax
said. “An armory. Should have everything we’ll need. Now hop in. It’s not safe
to be out in the streets.”
Dylan opened the back doors and gave
the girls a hand getting in.
“Wait, none of us agreed to go to
Pennsylvania,” TJ said. “Don’t we even get to vote?”
“If we want heavy artillery, that’s
where we’re going to find it,” Jax said. “And I don’t think I need to point out
that it’s essential to our survival. That being said, Pennsylvania is the ideal
destination. At least for the time being.”
“It could take us a while,” Dylan
said.
“You have anything else going on at
the moment?” Jax asked. “I’m not going to force anyone to come. If you want to
go your separate way, we’ll find you a vehicle and some supplies. But one way
or another, this van is going to Pennsylvania.”
“We should all stick together,” Ira
said, trying to be the voice of reason. “No sense in splitting up. If we’re
going to make it through this, we have to watch each other’s backs.”
“Then Pennsylvania it is,” Dylan
said. Ira was right. They didn’t stand a chance on their own. But together,
there was hope.
As they rode on, Dylan glared out
the back windows and could not avoid the sights of carnage and destruction at
every turn.
So
this is it, Dylan lamented. This is
the new world.
TO BE CONTINUED WITH PART TWO: WHAT COMES NEXT?
