Darkest Days: A Southern Zombie Tale (23 page)

“Listen Mark, I know why we are still alive. We have to warn others; get the world prepared. We may even be able to stop them before it gets to that point. We can beat them.”

Mark faintly whispered, “There is no purpose, no fate, no savior. We’re just wasting time until we rot too.”

Martin missed the preacher’s condemnation. “What was that? You were talking into your chest.”

The slam of a door attracted both men’s gawking stares. Rick walked out of the library pulling a girl by her reddish-brown hair. His face held a sinister smile that made him think of a shark. The rediscovered companion let go of the girl and poked at her with the barrel of shotgun. “You like that, don’t you? Is it because it’s big and black?” He let out a sharp laugh reminiscent of breaking glass.

Martin’s jaw was a gape. Mark slid from his friend’s grasp and sat in the floor looking sleepy. “What the hell is this?” Martin interrogated.

“She’s my prisoner and stress reliever. I told you that I would get you laid tonight.” He absently stroked the stock of his weapon as he spoke. When he noticed the look of horror on Martin’s face, he continued. “Besides, it’s her punishment for not sticking to her own kind.”

Martin leaned his rifle over his shoulder. “You didn’t do anything to her did you?” The words fell out hesitantly, afraid of the answer.

Rick laughed. “Don’t worry, Martin. Your virgin ass will get a turn, too.”

Martin snapped the gun into a firing position pointing it at Rick. The butt pressed into his shoulder and he felt a cold sweat break over him.

The swaggering athlete grinned. “Whatcha gonna do? I’m not the bad guy here. There are hundreds of bad guys outside eating people that we know and you want to point a gun at me?” His voice had the same effect as fingernails raking across a chalkboard. “Martin, trust me. This girl is a nigger-fucker. She’s lucky that we are even letting her live. Her genes may be fucked up.”

“Put down the shotgun and let her go.” Martin tried to sound stern, but the command more closely resembled a plea.

“If you shoot me, so help me God, I will pull the trigger and waste her. What do think? Is she going to be so grateful that she sucks your dick?”

Martin’s voice rose to a screech. “Let her go! I mean it!”

“Fuck you, pansy.” The young man responded with non-chalance.

Martin lowered his gun. His smile, formerly inspired by his stern determination to overcome, dripped off his face like wax sliding down a lit candle. When the butt of the gun rested on the floor (with his hand on the barrel), something snapped. He decided to act. Actually, decided was the wrong word. His body revolted against him and lashed out before he could stop himself. It was an impulse that rapidly took hold and demanded to be fully expressed. Rick was too immersed with gloating over his skillful use of peer pressure and humiliation to notice that (under tightly drawn lips) Martin gritted his teeth anticipating the blow. The strike took only a fraction of a second, but to Martin the wooden stock formed a slow wide arc moving toward Rick’s head. The hands of the rapist rose to protect his face but in the inch-by-inch perception, Martin knew the gun would strike first. The bludgeon finally connected and life returned to a normal speed. The sight of Rick sprawled on the ground with the force of the hit gratified Martin.

He looked at the body waiting to see conscious movement but only saw the rise and fall of Rick’s chest. He turned to the girl and asked, “Are you okay?” She found herself having trouble speaking. Eventually, she just nodded hoping they would leave before Rick regained consciousness. She tried to walk on shaky legs unsure of whether or not to trust him. “I need some help. Do you think that you can help me carry the preacher?” He had asked her, and then impatiently added. “Come on, we have to hurry.”

She watched him bend to pick up the wounded man and saw the anguish in his face when he couldn’t lift Mark alone. His eyes watered as he pleaded with her, still straining to lift the holy man. Slight warmth trickled through her chest. This was a man she could trust. He had saved her and now he fought to save another. In a flurry of movement, Stephanie found herself sharing the burden, one child under each arm carrying a fallen Brother in Christ and behind them, Rick found a temporary peace in oblivion.

***

Bryant grimly smiled while eyeing the sinking needle on the fuel gauge. “I’ve got to stop and get gas.”

Cara groaned. “Will we be able to find a gas station not crawling with those things?”

“We’re about to find out.” Bryant scanned the road ahead, trying to ignore that in the distance a building burned and cast a red and orange glow near the tree line. The damned turned and followed the truck but as soon as the pickup disappeared from view, easily became distracted by movement elsewhere. Even on foot, they could easily be outrun, so any vehicle would leave them far behind. The real danger was sheer numbers, becoming surrounded.

Then, like a beacon of hope, a brightly lit, deserted Exxon gleamed on the corner ahead. Scattered cars littered the parking lot but nothing obstructed the pumps. The floor to ceiling glass windows and doors revealed several bodies inside but none of them moved.

Bryant looked at her and asked, “That’s it. Do you want to pump or cover me?”

“I’ll cover you.” She volunteered.

The trucked rolled to a stop at the pumps and both teenagers stepped out. With a pistol in her jeans and a rifle in her hand, she watched Bryant push buttons on the electronic pump.

“Do you have a credit card?” Bryant waited for her answer.

“No, why?” Cara almost laughed at the normality of the request.

“If we don’t pay at the pump, one of us has to go in and push a button at the register allowing us to access the gas.” His worried eyes reflected his fear that she would go inside.

“I’ll go in. I’m armed. Besides, the entire front wall is glass. You’ll see if I need any help.” She watched his face and caught every sign of hurt that she was inflicting. He still possessed a “damsel in distress” fixation that she felt inhibited her. “If we are going to survive, you have to stop trying to protect me from every single thing. I’m more of a burden if I can’t do things like this. I want to be useful and not dead weight or a distraction.”

Bryant nodded. She was amazing to him, which was why he was so protective. She valued her independence and knew that his shielding acts had the potential to create more dangerous situations. She had the bravery and resourcefulness to easily become a photojournalist reporting on another hazardous Middle East conflict or equally risky story. Of course, that hinged on the two of them surviving the current maelstrom. Truthfully, Bryant loved her, in part to that but also due to the lonely vulnerability she allowed him to see coupled with the fierce determination she embodied.

He watched her as she let the door drift close and walked to the cash register. Seeing that she had reached her destination without incident, he took a brief glance at the road. “Shit”, he muttered. They were already coming. Several blocks down the highway, a group of bodies walked toward him. It was hard to count an exact number from such a distance, but he estimated twelve or thirteen creatures. He turned to look down a street perpendicular to the main highway to see if that would be a safer escape route. More of them came from that direction. As slow as the enemies moved, Bryant knew that he and Cara would have time to escape but the presence of so many ghouls unnerved him.

Inside the shop, his girlfriend laid the rifle across the counter and began examining the register. Cara tried various buttons and combinations but the labels on the keypad had rubbed off due to constant use. Finally, the machine beeped in acceptance and the electronic window read, “Pump enabled”. Exiting the counter, she stepped into an aisle full of brightly colored snack foods. Unsure why, she started stuffing all the small packages of candy, chips, and snack cakes into her pockets. Down the aisle, a restroom door flung open.

The terrible visage bounding out of the lavatory wore a polo style shirt embroidered with the logo of the gas station and covered in thick, congealed blood. Its extended right hand lacked the index and middle finger, the wounds still open where they had been bitten off. Cara glanced back at the counter where she had left the rifle. She turned and sprinted, and pushing off with all the strength in her legs, jumped over the counter. She landed on the floor behind the partition and reached up to pull the gun off of the counter-top but the dead claws of her pursuer shot over the weapon as it scrambled over to join her. She reached down and grabbed the protruding pistol handle from her belt-line.

The beast started a head first dive on top of her when she pulled the trigger. At such close range, the head seemed to explode as the body toppled off into the floor. The heap of loosely connected dead flesh joined the rest of the rotting bodies soiling the convenience store tile.

Outside, Bryant heard the shot and looked up only to see his girlfriend stand up behind the counter and give him a shaky thumbs up. He glanced around and sighed. She could hold her own apparently without him. Unfortunately, he could not give her a positive gesture of reassurance. The ghouls were getting closer. The nearest one only had to cross the street. Cara walked out holding the rifle and tucking the pistol back into her jeans. She opened the passenger door and sat down without commenting on the appearance of more monsters. Bryant felt the squeezable handle of the gas pump “pop” signifying that the tank had been filled. The fastest zombie had just crossed the twin yellow lines bisecting the highway. It was definitely time to abandon the Exxon.

As Bryant hopped in the driver seat, he asked, “To the church or out of town?” He twisted the key, starting the engine throwing the vehicle into gear.

Cara shrugged. “I guess we need to see if we can pick up a few survivors from the church before we leave.”

Bryant said, “Don’t feel morally obligated. We’ve risked our lives enough tonight.”

Cara spoke in a snappish voice. “What? Am I supposed to say we’re in full blown Thomas Hobbes Law of the Jungle territory and forget about everyone else? I want a clear conscience!”

“Understood.” Bryant felt pride in her decision. If she had wanted to leave without anyone, he would have tried to talk her out of it. Luckily, he didn’t have to. Oblivious to the throng of beings, he directed the truck toward the First Baptist Church. As the truck built up speed, one of the faster creatures fell under the spinning wheels and rolled with the momentum. When the body came to rest, it never moved again.

***

Eric watched the walking dead gather at the door leading to the back yard. The numbers grew and at least twenty monsters milled around the blocked entrance. Both men had been banging on the walls and shouting to lure the few guarding the front door. He excitedly glanced over at the DJ. “If they keep gathering back here, we should have an easy time getting to the car around front.”

Jeremy distractedly answered him. “Yeah.” His eyes drifted aimlessly as he wrapped a gasoline soaked shirt around a broken table leg. When he spoke, his voice sounded mechanical, like his mind concentrated on something else. “We’ll have to go soon. The fumes are making me dizzy.”

Eric acknowledged that his eyes burned slightly also and the smell singed his nostrils. He did not catch the young man’s preoccupied manner. “I’ve got the book of matches. You ready?” The doctor stood up from the crouching position he had been holding for the past several minutes. His knees popped as they straightened, reminding him of the age difference between his companion and himself.

Jeremy brushed the hair from his eyes and nodded. “I’ll run for the car and pull it to the door. You can jump right in and we won’t use the torches until we need them.” He braced himself with one hand against the wall and pushed himself to his full height. “I’m definitely ready.” The last words sounded false and he wiped trickling sweat from his forehead.

Eric paused once more and finally noticed something wrong with Jeremy. “Are you okay? You’re a little pale.”

The DJ mustered a pathetic laugh. “I guess running toward certain death will do that to a person.”

Eric thought, “Tell me about it. I’ve done it once already while you sat inside and watched.”

The pair walked through the station down the hallway and past the room holding the deceased trucker’s body. “Poor bastard,” Eric whispered. They continued past the booth where a recorded message of safety still played on its twelve-hour loop. At the front door, they stopped to set down the unlit torches and started removing the furniture blockade as quietly as possible from the WLDX doorway. A path quickly cleared and the DJ peeked left, then right, through the cracked opening. Then, wordlessly, he sprinted out.

Eric stepped up and watched him run, torch in hand, to Eric’s white Ford Escort. Keys jingled in one of his hands as he ran to the vehicle. The lock easily popped and he tossed his torch into the passenger seat. He slammed the door closed and tried to work quickly. Within seconds, the headlights flashed on, illuminating the face of the building and a growling engine enlivened the still air.

Eric stepped out of the threshold holding his torch and watching the car back up to him. The revving engine covered the sound of footsteps, and the lights distracted the doctor from the moving shape in the shadows to his side. A demonic cannibal lunged, catching the man unaware and knocking him to the ground. Frenzied snapping teeth ached for his still-living flesh and unfeeling hands tore at his clothes. Eric managed to sling the beast off momentarily with a forceful roll coupled with both arms exerting every ounce of strength against the dead creature. The blood pounding in his ears masked the sound of gears shifting. Eric rose to his knees and lifted the homemade torch high above his head. A sharp blow killed the body for a second time.

When Eric stood fully erect, he saw his car speeding away from the radio station toward away from town. A hoarse “no” was all he could shout before a moaning sound to his right reminded him that he was still in danger. He fumbled with the matches, getting one lit and touching it to the gasoline-soaked fabric. One thing that neither man thought about was that gas was combustible, unlike diesel fuel, which was only flammable. The explosion of flames singed Eric’s hand and he dropped the torch.