Darkest Days: A Southern Zombie Tale (15 page)

Ed tried to free his gun but could only access the self-defense spray. He quickly pulled it out of the black fabric holster and squirted a generous stream into the attacker’s unblinking eyes. Officer Bradbury shoved as hard as he could, expecting a moment of surprise that he could take advantage of. Instead, his ex-comrade failed to acknowledge that a painful irritant had entered his eyes and bit down on the victim’s left hand that vainly tried to push that hungry maw away.

Ed screamed as the wedge-shaped front teeth ripped the skin and sliced through the ligaments attaching the second knuckle. With adrenaline flowing freely through him, he managed to free his 9mm and fire into the monster’s head. The body flopped off of him and once again became inert.

As Ed sat up, he wanted to cry. Moving more quickly than he had anticipated, the flood was approaching him. Body behind body filled the narrow alley, all with outstretched arms beckoning their dinner to step closer. In a panic, the lone officer fired at the coming onslaught. Realizing that it was having no effect and knowing what was in store, he turned the gun on himself. One last shot echoed off the brick canyon as he fell back into a prone position.

When the throng reached him, five of the humanoid shapes broke away to feed. The rest continued toward the larger number of potential meals. Most of the officers had not tried to carry the wounded, and therefore had several blocks head start. Unfortunately, the humans did not possess the grim single-mindedness or the inability to tire that their pursuers did. The walking dead did not feel strain or fatigue. Every attack was delivered with all the strength left in the soulless bodies.

The short standoff had taken place only a few blocks from the police station. As the officers ran, leaving their cars behind, the radio crackled to life spouting more private residences and businesses under attack. No one heard the dispatches though. Even the walkers had left the abandoned cruisers in search of new flesh.

***

Eric Wagner shed his white coat and stethoscope as he drove down the brightly lit town roads. He quickly discovered that no place in Fayette was safe. Everywhere he turned, those things plodded and meandered (occasionally chasing after live meat).

When he turned down Columbus Street, the doctor saw the WLDX logo and whipped the car into an empty lot. The lights shone through the Venetian blinds of the radio station, but no car sat outside. Deciding to take the risk, Eric parked by a lone tree close to the road and trekked across the small pad of asphalt that served as a parking lot.

When Eric reached the door, he knocked, keeping a close watch on any movement coming from the road. Nothing threatened him at the moment, but he was still anxious.

After knocking a second time, he saw a face peer through the glass door. The young man had long straight hair, light brown in color. He was dressed in a black T-shirt with a popular brand of horse tranquilizer on the front. The radio station employee cracked the door open and asked, “What can I do for you?”

Eric launched into an explanation. “Get on the radio and tell everyone to lock their doors and protect themselves. There are . . .” He was not sure how to describe the ghouls. “ . . .are things attacking people.”

The DJ looked at him incredulously. “Uh-huh, sure. What kind of ‘things’?”

Before he could answer, squealing tires forced the conversing men to look up toward the road. A large tractor trailer produced one long blast of its horn. Several cannibals held on to the cab in various spots; one held on to the side mirror while hitting the glass with its other hand. Luckily, no other vehicles shared the road, for the diesel truck careened wildly back and forth across the yellow lines.

In the cab, Randy Foley, a large man in his late thirties, held the steering wheel with his left hand and a pistol with his right. The flannel shirt he wore was covered in blood that was not his own, but blood from a hitcher being chased by what he thought were some horny boys. The decaying face peering through his window was not some teenage rapist though.

Only a mile back, everything had been normal. He was on his way to pick up a load from a business in Fayette and the gun was safely hidden away where no “bear” could find it. The worst thing his mind conjured was a state trooper stumbling across his pistol and noticing his logbook was not filled out. Then, he saw her.

A young woman ran along the road, her peroxide blond hair whipped around in the wind. Behind her a gang of youths were gaining because she limped along, dragging a bleeding leg. More blood stood out on her white baby doll shirt and Randy knew this was an emergency. He saw no weapons in the boys’ hands and figured he could tap the gas and outrun them.

His truck slid over to the shoulder and he threw open the passenger door by leaning over the empty seat. “Get in!” He shouted and glanced in the side mirror. “Damn!” He cursed at them for rapidly covering ground. “They’re faster than I thought.” He mentally added that the hooligans must have been really horny.

She had already lost a lot of blood and struggled with climbing up the large diesel. The trucker roughly grabbed her arm and yanked her up into the seat. Behind her a lunging body landed where she had stood, clanging its head against the body of the truck.

“Close the door!” He commanded, hoping the guys wouldn’t try to climb in. She refused to move, and fearing that they would come in, Randy hit the gas. As the truck lunged forward, the bastards found various handholds. Randy tossed the girl a towel from the small pile of laundry behind his seat. “Put that on the wound.” She meekly, silently obeyed.

Randy finally got a good look at her. She was gaunt and pale (the second trait most likely from a loss of blood). Dark roots shone in her otherwise light hair. She was cute in a white-trash way, too young though. He had an idea that even if she had not just been assaulted, she would probably still look like she had a rough life.

“There’s a bed back behind the curtain. Try to rest and I’ll get you to a hospital.” Again, she complied without offering a word.

Now he passed WLDX and the two human onlookers as the rig screamed into town. Randy had found his gun (always loaded) and surveyed the situation. Suddenly, the glass gave way. A rotting fist crashed through and a shard (or maybe a grimy fingernail) cut his cheek. Randy aimed the pistol at the monster’s face. “Fucker.” He muttered matter-of-factly as he pulled the trigger. A deafening roar filled the interior of the truck and the body rocketed off the side, landing sprawled on the road. After blowing a guy’s brains out, the log book seemed like small potatoes.

He breathed a short-lived sigh of relief before the girl in the back of his cab lunged through the partition and sunk her teeth into the meat of his shoulder. It would have been his neck if he had not jerked his entire body to the left. His hand slipped off the wheel and the diesel pulled sharply to one side. A solid power pole met the front of the truck, crumpling the massive grill. The girl shot forward through the windshield like a human projectile. Her teeth had still been firmly embedded in the driver and ripped out a fist-sized piece of flesh. He screamed as a part of his body came free.

A second pair of hands shot through the broken window on the passenger side. Talon like fingers slid off his shirt, failing to find purchase. The attacker allowed his arms to be shredded by the glass shards still in the window, feeling no pain. Randy fired into the monster’s eye, watching it pop like a smashed grape. Then it disappeared from the window and produced a thud as it landed on the pavement. Randy wasted no time in opening his door and making a run for the only light he could see, a large sign four letters long, WLDX.

***

Eric stared at the wounded man sprinting toward them. The DJ stepped back inside. “Hey man, what the hell just happened?” Eric did not respond. He just watched the desperate man as five creatures emerged from the trees across the road. The Disc Jockey continued. “More of them! Let’s get him in here fast so we can lock the doors!” He then slapped the doctor’s arm. “Hey, help me or those guys will get in.” Then he retreated into the hallway and started pulling on a heavy wooden table. Eric silently turned to follow him.

A voice from the parking lot called out. “Don’t close the door!” Eric looked over his shoulder, seeing that the burly man had almost reached them. “Help me!” He screamed in fear. Eric stepped out of the doorway when the trucker showed no signs of slowing down. Then the trucker flung himself through the open door. Eric quickly closed it and flicked the metal latch over. A satisfying click signified that the door was locked.

The young man with long hair pushed a desk next trying to completely block the entrance. When the desk and table covered the front door, Eric rested and thought about the ordered world slipping away. A panicky haze finally set in as the numb acceptance dissipated. Most people reacted oppositely, gaining confidence after the initial shock. Eric, however, had not had time to think until that moment. The darkness of his thoughts shocked him. No established order existed any longer. The best the survivors could hope for was military intervention or some form of Duex es Machina. They were doomed.

***

Cara looked at the radio with disgust. No news had come through, only low quality country music. After a “modern country” pop song ended, the disc jockey broke in. “Sorry folks, but we have an emergency announcement.” Then a long pause followed where the boy did not know what to say. “Large groups of people are violently attacking anyone that they find. The targets can literally be anyone. I repeat, anyone that they happen across. The safest course of action against these roving gangs seems to be keeping yourself indoors, locked up. If you have a weapon, be sure to keep it handy. We cannot predict what these people will do.”

Bryant looked at Cara, who had covered her mouth with her hand. “Roving gangs? What is this? A Clockwork Orange? Mad Max?”

Before he finished his sentence, the radio returned to a lyrically deplorable country ballad. The mysterious DJ had suddenly cut off.

Both waited for the voice to return and continue dispensing information, but it didn’t happen. Instead, Cara spoke. “So, they’re just normal people who’ve gone berserk?”

Bryant countered. “Of course they’re not normal. I broke that woman’s arm and she didn’t notice.” He looked at the radio wishing he could listen to something good, but he knew that was the only local station. To turn the dial to anything else would leave them in the dark.

Cara reached out and touched his arm. “You have guns. We’ll be safe here, won’t we?”

Bryant stroked her hair and smiled. “Of course, God bless the second amendment.” He jokingly stated but the humor fell flat. His eyes wondered around the room as she leaned into him taking in the fragrance of sweat and sex that still clung to him. Suddenly, his body became rigid and he snapped to attention.

He broke her embrace and stood up from the seat he had taken on the floor. “Don’t panic. I’m going to move over to the gun cabinet and ensure the weapons were loaded.” He had already started acting on it as he continued speaking. “The other pistol . . .” A bullet slid into the cylinder. “. . . is on the night stand.” A second one entered the next empty slot. His fingers moved mechanically, as if by reflex. He continued loading, while his eyes never wavered from a far off target.

Cara followed his gaze to the window. Through a crack in the drawn curtains, she watched two shuffling figures walking across her boyfriend’s front lawn. One of them appeared to be the female with both arms broken. Cara opened her mouth to protest, but Bryant cut her off.

“There are only two of them. Plus one has no functioning arms. I’ll be fine.” He checked the chamber and walked toward the door. He opened the door with a minimum of creaks and groans from the rusted hinges and slipped down the concrete blocks that served as steps. Each step on his gravel driveway produced low crunching sounds and he quickly stepped on to the softer grass. When he reached the corner of the trailer, he peeked around and saw that they had not noticed him yet. They still headed for the front door and he was about to flank them.

Cara sat by the window and fixedly stared at the approaching figures. She waited for her lover to appear in her field of vision. Every moment that he was out of sight froze her heart, especially knowing that these people were homicidal. Her pulse raced and she thought about what she would do if he did not come back. “I could take his truck and find help.” Another voice chimed in. “Don’t even think about leaving him. You’re going to stay, because that’s what people do. They stay with each other.” Yes, even her parents who hated each other most of the time still lived in the same house; no divorce for Catholics.

Bryant abandoned stealth, thinking of recriminations for cold-blooded murder. Firing at unarmed people from the shadows struck him as a tad difficult to defend in court. Instead, he determinedly walked across the yard with his pistol raised. “Stop or I’ll shoot.” The two stumbling figures turned from their linear path to the trailer and started heading toward Bryant. He called out again. “I said don’t move!” They paid no heed.

His body tensed and the gun accidentally went off. The small piece of lead pierced the flesh of the target’s chest and the creature comically fell straight back. To Bryant’s unbelieving eyes, it stood back up as if it had simply lost its balance. He fired again hitting it in the chest. This time the body only staggered back a few steps but then reversed direction and kept heading forward.

“Damn it.” He muttered. This time he aimed for the head. The open sight rested on the round silhouette that was its cranium but a scream distracted him.

When Bryant exited, the back door had not clicked back in place and the door was left ajar. One of the walkers approaching from another direction had strolled right in through his kitchen. The thick carpet in the living room had muffled the clumsy steps and the report of a firing pistol drowned out additional sound.

Cara’s back had been turned to the abomination. Its gray hands extended as it stepped closer. Strings of saliva ran from the corners of its mouth but it never tried to wipe them away. The fingers wrapped around the fabric of the army jacket on her back and it jumped forward, mouth open.