Darkest Days: A Southern Zombie Tale (22 page)

He stepped slowly, lightly dragging his feet to avoid the hard clacking of soles against the hard floor. The progress eventually brought him to the end of the bottlenecked entrance. The room opened up and Rick was unsure whether to traverse the center, where he might be forced to defend in several different directions at once, or slink along the wall where he could easily become cornered. He decided to move, hugging the wall, pointing the shotgun into the center of the room. The small sound continued, making him want to call out and see if it were indeed human. His mind overrode that desire, though. The human voice might attract them.

As he reflected, the truth came bubbling up. The battle that he had just fought scared him. His physical prowess barely saved him against two of those monstrosities. While driving through the town, he saw hundreds of them aimlessly walking. In less than twelve hours, the streets were piled high with the dead (at least the ones that hadn’t gotten back up).

The town was gone. The people who once knew him were gone. Rick became a little boy, a lonely little boy. Specifically, he remembered a camping trip at the age of six. He had walked away from the campfire into the surrounding woods only to realize that he was by himself. The dim glow of fire had disappeared from view and the only life around him rustled in the underbrush. His wide, frightened eyes could only make out the silhouette of treetops and the tiny points of twinkling light hanging thousands of light years above him. That was when the immensity of the world crushed his egocentric mind. Eventually, the swinging beams of flashlights found their way to him and he was safe once more. Ever since that moment, the world outside his predictable hometown secretly frightened him. In Fayette, he was important, a big fish in a small pond. In the surrounding world, what was he?

In a high school hallway fighting for his very existence, the fear returned. He was not the main character in the play; he was not the action hero on the screen. If he died along with everyone else, no one would single him out as a tragedy. He would be added to a list and forgotten about, another nobody in a catastrophe.

“Fuck it.” He breathed. He was dead regardless of his actions. From that point on, no inhibitions would constrain him. If he was going to be toe-tagged along with everyone else, he was going to spend his last hours his way, shooting anything that moved and being a general bad ass. He slid his feet forward and noticed that the whimper had stopped. Suddenly, he had no idea which direction to move. Whatever made that sound could be anywhere in the darkness. An eruption of sound struck his left ear as a chair scooted across the floor, like someone had collided with it. His eyes strained to pick up on the slightest movement but everything had quieted. Nothing stirred.

He heard a grunt and something hard collided with his nose, sending him falling back into a bookcase. “Shit!” He felt the bruised cartilage structure with one hand while keeping the gun pointed in the supposed direction of his attacker.

A feminine voice spoke up. “Don’t shoot. I thought you were one of them.”

“Who are you?” Rick growled, still touching his tender nose.

“Stephanie Mills. I go to school with you. I dated Derrick Shaun.” Recognition flashed through his mind. She was a sophomore white girl who only dated black guys.

“Dated? You guys broke up?” He lowered his weapon.

“He died. Just about everyone is dead.” She stepped into view, shafts of light coming through the few windows on the back wall. Rick surmised that she had been crying, due to the puffy eyes. They were probably red too, but the low light robbed everything of its color.

A sinister urge began to take control as he asked, “Do you have a weapon?”

“No, why do you think I threw a book at you?” She stepped closer.

“I have a shotgun and a few other guys with guns. You’ll be safe with us.” He reached out and offered his hand as she stepped around the furniture. He smiled a big, false grin when she accepted his offer of help. He felt her fingers close around his and he jerked her forward.

“You listen to me, you stupid bitch. We are going to fuck, so I can get that nigger loving shit out of you!” When she tried to struggle, he tapped the barrel of the twelve gauge against her. “You dumb, dirty bitch. You have no idea what’s going on, do you? The world is ending. If we can survive this, it’ll be up to us to repopulate. So you better get used to it.” He really had not thought about the world completely ending, but when he said it, it felt true. However, some part of his mind knew that his excuse was just that, an excuse. His petty rationalizations meant nothing to him really. He was going to do it because the act represented control in a world that no longer had it. He couldn’t control the walking dead; he couldn’t control losing his truck or anything else. But by God, he could control her. He could force his will upon her and pretend he still had some say in what happened.

She cried out before he could cover her mouth. When his free hand sealed her scream, she bit down hard enough to draw blood. She felt droplets spill into her mouth making her want to retch. Dropping the heavy weapon, he swung hard landing a punch in her eye. Her teeth lost their grip and he began raining blows about her face. Consciousness slipped away from her with every forceful blow until her eyes closed and she collapsed to the floor.

***

Stephanie thought about Derrick. He could be so tender when no one else was around. Alone in his room, they just stayed under the covers, her body always snuggled closely to his. Her pale, naked skin contrasted his dark pigment. Outside that room, the world spun out of control, grades were falling, jobs were scarce, and the president was an idiot. However, in their sanctuary, nothing could hurt them. This one little room in the poor side of town somehow held the magic of an enchanted world. Within its dingy, squat walls, she was a princess and he was a knight in shining armor ready to protect her or rescue her if it came to that.

Reality of course found a way to destroy the illusion of safety. The door to Derrick’s room swung open and some filthy abomination lumbered toward them. Derrick sprang up and reached under the bed. When his large hands reappeared, he held a chrome-plated savior. To Stephanie there was no sound, only a flash and the acrid smell of smoke. The twisted creature jerked, taking the shot in the chest but continued coming forward. After another flash, the creature fell forward, arms outstretched.

Derrick turned and grabbed her shoulders, shaking her violently. His mouth moved but still, she could not hear. Her mind still processed visual input and she watched ashy hands reach around his throat from behind. The yellowed nails pierced his dark skin and an even darker color leaked out. Then the face appeared over his right shoulder. Stephanie stared into the vacant eyes and saw only hunger.

The poor girl awoke with a start and realized that Rick was thrusting into her. Her stomach turned as she tried to lift her arms and found that he easily held each one down. She tried to scream but her mouth was stuffed with the torn, ripped pages of library book. She thrashed her head from side to side only succeeding in banging the back of her skull against the table she had been splayed on top of. Her orifice was dry and the penetration felt as if it had torn something. Unable to free herself, frustrated tears spilled down her cheeks. No savior reached down and pulled the boy from atop her violated body. No God smote him down for his transgression. Alone on the dark with only the bigotry and hatred of another human, she prayed for death.

***

Bryant and Cara had no idea where to go. Sitting in his truck parked on a deserted street, they would only remain safe until something realized fresh meat waited nearby. They both sat thinking of locations and plans of action. The radio kept spewing out the same repetitious message. Go to the First Baptist Church.

Bryant looked at Cara and actually laughed. “Still trying to convert everyone.”

Cara squinted through the window. A shape slowly emerged from the shadows. The solitary specimen stumbled around the street, aimlessly swaying. “I think they’ve found us.”

Bryant did not look up. He stared at the rifle across his lap and asked, “How many?”

“Just one.” She worriedly looked at him.

“Hold on.” He pulled the latch sending the door bounding open. “Cover me but only shoot if it grabs me.” Cara wanted to protest but did not. Torn by a lack of ideas and fear of running into more of them, she let him go.

The first thing Bryant did was walk into a neighbor’s yard. Creeping slowly around the large house, the darkness hid him from Cara’s sight. She waited for him to reappear, cutting disturbed glances at the creature that now made a direct but slow line for the truck. Seconds ticked by as her eyes danced around the landscape finding motion in the places she did not want and a curious stillness where she wanted to see Bryant.

Without warning, Bryant ran from the shadows holding an ax with both hands and headed for the ghoul. Letting loose animalistic yells, he swung the blade side armed. The metal edge sunk into the demon’s collarbone, knocking it to the ground. Bryant swung again, bringing the weapon above his head and down into the tangled, groping arms. The monstrosity’s left arm snapped at the elbow as the wedge cleft the bone. The right arm continued gripping at the empty air while only a nub flailed on the other side of the torso. Bryant slammed the ax down again cracking the shoulder joint on the right arm. Another swing separated that arm from the body.

The humid Southern night left a thin sheen of sweat on Bryant. Perspiration dripped off his chin as he stepped back to survey his work. The torso writhed and the legs kicked but the imbecilic carnivore could not stand.

Bryant waved to Cara trying to instruct her to come forward. She opened the door to step out but Bryant called out. “No, bring the truck.” Cara complied, slipping the vehicle into drive and letting it roll at less than ten miles per hour toward the grisly scene. Through the windshield, Bryant smiled in a self-satisfied way. She moved the gearshift and put on the parking brake. Her fingers touched the surface of the ignition key and she questioningly looked at her boyfriend. He nodded to her and she killed the engine.

When she reached the body, it was still moving in its limited fashion. Cara’s gag reflex activated as she fought to contain her composure. Her stomach quickly settled back down after she forced herself to look. “It’s not that bad.” She found herself saying aloud.

Bryant knelt down beside the struggling victim. “What have we learned?”

Cara laughed. “Is this a classroom?”

“In a fashion, yes.” He smiled at her with an upturned face and an excited twinkling in his eyes.

She looked at the body and thought. “Well, it’s still struggling after it has lost most of its blood.”

“Bingo!” He jumped to his feet, obviously excited. “I’m willing to bet that when it stops bleeding, drained dry, it’ll still be kicking.”

Cara thought about that. “Well, if it doesn’t need blood, what does it use?”

“I have no idea.” He gleefully explained before lifting the ax above his head again. As he brought the blade crashing down, the creature’s head rolled away from the neck. What little blood had not leaked out the wounds of the arms now trickled from the throat. The body rapidly stopped twitching; only the eyes and mouth continued with uninhibited motion. The glazed, dead eyes followed the movement of the teenagers and the jaw flexed in anticipation of meat.

“Do you see that?” Bryant’s voice reached a feverish pitch. He knelt down again and extended his hand only inches from the cannibalistic mouth, taunting the head.

Cara felt frightened by his reckless behavior. “Don’t get any closer.” She reached out to grab him but stopped in mid-motion. Carefully, she pulled her hands back to her body.

“Look, it’s still trying to bite me!” He jerked the disembodied head up by the hair. “Let’s take it with us and see if it dies without the body.”

Cara rolled her eyes but didn’t protest. More than petty annoyance, she was concerned with carrying around a severed head that was not dying fast enough. However, they could learn something. She still possessed a scientific curiosity and while it disgusted her, further experimentation would probably benefit them. She watched him toss it into a school backpack and throw it into the bed of the truck.

***

Martin supported the hurt preacher as he had seen soldiers do in old war movies (an arm over the uninjured man’s shoulders who in turn had arm around the back of the wounded man holding his waist). They edged down the darkened corridor one painful step at a time. Rick had the keys and he was somewhere in the building hiding from them. Martin could not define why he had remained inactive during the wrestling match. He felt ashamed though. Already winded and frustrated with the slow progress of carrying the wounded, he began to truly appreciate the conditioning of soldiers to cope with such difficulties.

As he carried the burden of a heavier, older body, exhaustion made his mind wonder. The hours of tense muscles and concentration on keeping his senses keen for the slightest trace of the undead wore him down. Very few people know what it is to stay ready in the “fight or flight” mode for hours straight. In reality, Martin started to weary of the constant fight for life. Without friends to support him, encourage him, and force him to go on, his spirits continued to sink. The wounded preacher fell silent, too. Martin secretly cursed the man of God for not being more of a booster to him. He should be a chaplain comforting the battle-weary infantry. Instead, the only conversation was an occasional groan as the pain flared up.

Martin’s tired mind latched on to the war imagery and he suddenly felt depressed. As an American, he knew that U.S. military operations covered the globe but Martin never gave a thought to their sacrifices and obligations. Now, families in other parts of the country sat around living their lives not thinking about the struggling enveloping them all. The bastards would spread and then . . .

“Oh my God!” Martin exclaimed. He somehow knew they
would
spread. This same horror would consume everything if unchecked, and as of that moment, no one was prepared. He felt a renewed sense of purpose swell within him.