Darkest Days: A Southern Zombie Tale (21 page)

“The hospital is where the first reports came from. So obviously, it’s not safe, but the school nurse had some medical supplies here.” Rick looked at him as if he were an annoying child. He then shoved the butt of his gun through the enormous windowpane with one sharp motion. The unmistakable sound of breaking glass assaulted Martin’s ears, making him wince.

Rick kicked the remaining shards from the frame and stepped into the darkness. Martin watched the shadows envelop his athletic “friend” before proceeding. He urged the preacher on with the promise of health care and they, too, stepped across the threshold into the blackness.

The trio stood alone in the empty cafeteria and let their eyes adjust. Rows of tables manifested themselves after the survivors spent a few seconds in the dark. All three pairs of eyes scanned for movement and found that they were truly alone. The three men turned to the left out of the cafeteria. Ahead of them, parallel hallways extended outward from the lunchroom. Rows of tan lockers ran perpendicular to the hallways forming connections between the two. Further down, classroom doors lined the halls like sentries. At the end of each long passage, a fire exit with a small square window granted a narrow view of the outside world. At night however, a shaft of moonlight pierced the glass making the shadows surrounding it that much darker.

The trio entered the closest hallway, knowing that the nurse’s office could be accessed from either side. Mark leaned against the door-frame, breathing heavily. Martin felt his chest tighten at a faint noise and suddenly all eyes peered down the corridor. A swaying shape dipped in and out of the small shaft of luminescence. With every shuffling step the body disappeared and reappeared as a silhouette against the moonlight.

Rick cocked his pump-action shotgun. “If you’re alive, speak now or you won’t be for long!” His voice echoed off the cement walls and tile floor. Nothing answered his request except the steady sound of dragging feet. “Have it your way.” He stepped back into an attack posture. He gritted his teeth and prepared to squeeze the trigger.

A growl erupted from the shadowy row of lockers to his right. Rick’s eyes widened as he tried to turn the gun on the closer threat, but the undead beast gripped the barrel with both hands. The athlete, despite his exercise and training, couldn’t slip the gun from the cold, curled fingers. His biceps flexed as he pulled the weapon toward him. Rasping, gagging sounds drove Martin and Brother Mark back into the lunchroom. The pair helplessly watched Rick flail around in a grotesque dance with a pale, scrawny corpse.

“Help Me! The other one is getting closer!” Rick fell to the ground and the gun discharged. The angle of the barrel sent the pellets into the grappling monster’s stomach. The dead hands momentarily slackened and Rick tilted the gun further up. The sound of a sliding pump echoed over the scuffling of the two combatants and the human pulled the trigger again. The shot blew the top of the head off sending blood, brains, and fragments of skull into the ceiling tile.

The other creature trotted up and loomed over Rick as the first, newly deceased attacker collapsed to the ground. A hiss escaped the cracked lips as the talon-like fingers reached for him. Rick retorted with a fear-filled scream and a quick “shick-shuck” of another shell ready to fire. The primal yell reached a fevered pitch and the weapon roared to life again. The shot obliterated the beast’s face, leaving it a bloody crater.

Rick crawled backward from the inanimate bodies, panting and kicking his legs free of the dead weight of lifeless corpses. He looked back at the two cowards, his eyes wide and wild. As he spoke his lips curled back over the teeth in a snarl. “You fucking shits! You almost got me killed!”

Martin could visualize the events that were about to transpire. Rick would slowly rise and determinedly walk over to him. He would bring his fist back and break Martin’s nose with a fierce punch. No, that wouldn’t be enough for him. Rick would stand up and lift the shotgun, turning the instrument of salvation into one of destruction. His mouth would form a hard, tight line and he would fire. It wouldn’t really matter who he hit because both had refused to help. Rick had fought for his life and the pair of turncoats had just watched him, spectators of a man’s brutal death.

Rick’s movement during his slow recovery interrupted Martin’s rambling imagination. The reality was that the athlete stood up, gave one last look at the people that had so disappointed him, and walked further into the darkened hallway.

***

Eric Wagner looked like a totally different man than he had earlier that morning. The white coat had long since been discarded. His tie was lost in one of the life or death scuffles. His dress shirt sported brownish-red stains. His face was drained of color except for bright pink patches on his cheeks from exertion as he peeked in-between boards covering the windows. His eyes darted around nervously. Those things were everywhere.

The backdoor leading outside loomed in front of Jeremy as he watched Eric back away from the window. The young boy smiled. “I’ll flip a coin. The winner gets to stay in here. The loser gets the unenviable job of taking the gun and running to the shed.”

Eric let out a nervous laugh. His untimely death could be decided by a random guess and a coin toss. His fingers twitched nervously as he tried to steel himself against the fear. “So, let’s recap.” He found himself talking only to stall the inevitable. “The winner guards the door to prevent them from getting into the station. The loser takes the pistol, runs about twenty yards through carnivorous living dead to a shed and comes back with a can of highly combustible liquid. Anything else?”

“Nope. That’s the plan.” The DJ pulled out a gleaming silver coin. “Heads or tails?” Then he expertly flipped the quarter so that it alternated flashes of an eagle and General Washington’s profile.

Eric knew he had a fifty-fifty chance, as the coin seemed to somersault in slow motion. Every action seemed to last forever as if they were struggling to move through syrup. His lips tried to form a word but his mouth had gone dry. He choked out “tails” and closed his eyes, knowing that his fate rested in a flipping piece of metal about to land in the palm of a boy ten years his junior.

The young man caught the coin and gave a nervous cough. “Guess what buddy, you’re it.” The DJ handed the pistol to the M.D. “Good luck.” His face was no longer jovial. He understood the consequences of the doctor leaving. If Eric did die out there, the gun would be lost. Jeremy would be trapped inside without weapons of any sort.

Eric opened his eyes to see the butt of the handgun extended toward him. Hesitantly, his shaking fingers wrapped around the cold metal. It had more weight than he had expected. He examined it closely and his dry, constricted throat only allowed one choked interrogatory. “How many shots?”

“Three.” The disc jockey avoided his eyes by staring intently at a spot by his foot. Jeremy felt relief and guilt vying for emotional dominance. The next thing the doctor said caused guilt to gain the upper hand.

“I guess I’ll see you in a few.” Eric’s good-natured farewell pitifully attempted to cover his near panic. A shiver ran through his body like an electric charge when he imagined a set of dead teeth biting into his flesh the same way a hungry animal would - no hesitation.

The DJ stepped back allowing the ill-fated doctor a wide berth, as if Eric had something contagious and he might catch it. Without occasion or ceremony, only a deep breath, Eric Wagner (barely over thirty) rushed out into certain death. Jeremy waited with his hand on the doorknob, ready at a moment’s notice to shut the door should his champion perish.

Eric vigilantly glanced around as he sprinted toward his goal. Two creatures converged on his left and one on his right. The vacant eyes and silently masticating mouth made them appear as inhuman as any wild creature. The waxy, pale complexion and bloodstains around the jaws canceled any doubt in Eric’s mind that a trace of humanity was left within them.

His pounding feet tossed about damp grass. Realizing that he could not stop due to the combination of the panicked sprint and moisture on the ground, the luckless hero slammed into the thin, metal doors of the shed causing a loud pop as the metal flexed outward and sprang back into shape. For a brief moment, he had to shake the fuzziness out of his head. When clarity returned, he could sense the impending attack. The bastards were closing in on him.

Eric grabbed the sliding doors and tried to throw them open but a padlock held both doors sealed. “Damn it” he shouted. It was not fair. His head snapped to the left, then to the right. Three approaching zombies added a fourth to their ranks as another edged around the cinder-block corner of the building.

Different alternatives crowded his mind. Run back and regroup? No, they would congregate around the exit that he used. The idea of using the front door to distract them from the back one occurred to him but there was no guarantee he could make it. Plus that one was barricaded. The logical choice involved shooting the lock off and using the remaining bullets to reach the guarded open door.

Eric pointed the barrel using a nervous, shaking hand. “Oh God, just let me make it inside.” He muttered his prayer just before pulling the trigger. The pistol roared in the eerie silence of the dying town. The pad lock fell to the ground, shattered. A low moan emanated from behind him and Eric dove inside. His hands scrambled over the objects in the low light of the shed, seeking out a red plastic container. He glanced through the open passage to see three of them blocking the path back to the station.

Eric found the gas can with his left hand. With his right he aimed the pistol and charged. The first shot entered squarely into the leading attacker’s forehead. Chunks of brain and skull splattered the two creatures behind it. The doctor, fueled with scenes from old Charles Bronson movies, hastily adjusted his aim and fired again. The shot clipped a zombie in the neck, sending it into an awkward spin.

Knowing he was out of bullets, Eric grabbed the barrel and tackled the third. He brought the handle down on the beast’s skull again and again. Each time he heard the sick cracking sound as bone gave way to the pistol grip. Eric felt a mixture of revulsion and freedom as he brutally beat the creature to death. He finally had a single entity that he could focus his pent up stress and aggression against.

The zombie with a neck wound had recovered and found its victim crouching with his back turned. Unnoticed, it came toward him. The fourth ghoul approached in Eric’s line of sight but the doctor was too enthralled with destroying the menace underneath him.

A human voice yelled with throat-tearing force, “Get inside! There are more coming!”

Eric snapped out of his homicidal, hypnotic state and scanned the environment around him. More had slipped through the trees lining the back yard of the station. He grabbed the can and heaved himself upward, causing a burning in his thighs. They were right behind him, swiping with gore-covered hands as he dived into the doorway. Jeremy swung the door shut as Eric leaped through the threshold.

Both men immediately went to work. The DJ locked the door with a deadbolt and Eric dropped the can and picked up several boards. Together they nailed them up, reinforcing the door. As luck would have it, both men hit a stride working together. The first dead fist to hit the barred entrance found it secured with standard locks and the door only became more secure as the two men continued.

Inside the hall, a young man and a slightly older young man slumped to the floor, breathing heavily. Eric leaned his back against the wall and stretched his legs across the floor. The hallway was so narrow that his feet almost reached the other side.

The DJ spoke first. “Let’s rest before running for the car.”

“Thank the Lord.” Eric wished that someone had a cigarette that he could light up. Despite knowing what tobacco could do to a person’s health, Eric felt justified in smoking after a trying day in the emergency room. Now, he practically foamed at the mouth for a steadying dose of nicotine.

“That was one hellacious pistol whip.” The boy continued the conversation after a lull in which the doctor caught his breath. “Do you have a family?”

Eric paused. “I used to. We married before I graduated med school. We were divorced just six months later.”

“Why?” The boy’s brown eyes showed little real interest, but Eric continued.

“I thought that I was hot shit, going to be a big time doctor. She was always second to my ego. I took her for granted, never shared secrets about myself with her. You hide something for so long and learn to live with it; you develop a selfish attachment. I kept so much from her that she wouldn’t trust me with anything. I took her for granted so long and one day she just left.” Normally, he could have told the same story with no emotion, but the chaos of the day had weakened his resolve. He could not make anything up. His ex-wife did not even know why he drove her away and he had refused to grant explanations. He covered his face with his crossed arms and pulled his knees up to his chest.

“Hey, as long as you’re alive, you have a chance to make it up to her.” The DJ hopefully added.

“No, that was over a long time ago.” He said with a stern finality. Trying to keep the repertoire going, he asked, “How about your family?”

“I have a mother, father, younger brother, and sister. They all live here, out in the country actually.” His voice wavered. “I haven’t been able to get through but I think they’re okay. Most of those things are in town right? So a trailer out in the country should be safe.” Of course, Jeremy only tried to convince himself with his words.

Eric nodded, seeing that the boy was in pain. “I’m sure they’re fine.”

***

After wandering away from the shameless cowards, Rick pushed open the door to the school library, searching for anyplace away from Martin and the preacher. Immediately, his ears caught a soft whimpering sound. The lights stayed strangely quiet, not shouting with bright fluorescent voices. His eyes had not adjusted yet. He knew that the walls were sheathed in filled bookcases, but the center of the floor was littered with variously shaped tables and scattered chairs. Just enough light filtered through the windows at the far end of the room to outline the many obstacles.