Deadlocked 5 (3 page)

Mutated zombies are immune to bacterial growth, and live on for years. While the original virus drove the creatures to attack only humans, the new mutated ones survived on both human and animal flesh, giving them the opportunity to feed much more readily. Now, after the virus had thrived for two decades, it was only a matter of time before it mutated further and allowed for transmission into animal corpses. Once that happened there would be no chance of survival.

I stared out across the yard in search of what made the sound. I'd done my best to secure the home by destroying the staircase and stringing cans near the entrances to alert me to someone's approach, so I wasn't worried about my safety. However, if a pack of dogs had caught my scent and tracked me here, they would circle the home for as long as it took, waiting for me to wander out so they could attack. Easy meals were hard to come by these days.

Man's best friend had become one of his worst enemies after the apocalypse. It took less than a month for house pets to begin roaming the streets in packs, and within the first year, dogs had overtaken massive areas. There were no more shih tzus, dachshunds, or other small breeds anymore, all of them were quickly devoured by their larger brethren. Now, the dogs that survived were mixed breeds that stalked anything they could devour. They were vicious, efficient hunters that wasted no time in murdering any human that showed weakness. I'd seen hundreds of corpses that were torn to shreds by dogs, and I'd learned to respect and fear the canines.

Weeds moved in the distance. I was fifty yards from the road, and the movement was halfway between there and my camp. I grabbed the binoculars that I'd set near the edge of the wall and spied the movement for any sign of what it could be.

Birds took flight from a nearby tree, excited by something on the other side of the road. Their mass turned the sky black as they swarmed above, cawing and spinning as they debated which way to flee. The new world, the one we were left with after the apocalypse, was overrun with birds. Their constant chatter was a burden on the senses, but a good indicator of danger. Any humans that survived this far past the end of days had learned to listen to the birds, because when you couldn't hear them it meant something was terribly wrong. The flock of birds that nested across my yard had suddenly decided to fly away, their chatter growing more distant as they sought a safer roost. That meant there was something moving out in the weeds near the tree - something bad.

The
weeds continued to shake, the movement getting closer by the second. I tried to see through them, but they stood a full four feet in most places and were nearly as thick as bundled wheat. I kept focused on the movement as it approached, spinning the dial on the top of the binoculars to adjust the focus.

I glanced up at the road, waiting for whatever had scared the birds to reveal itself. Something yipped closer to me, an animal in pain, and I focused again on the rustling weeds in front of the house. The hidden creature revealed itself at last as it pushed its way through the thick overgrowth and into the lower weeds that covered my yard. It was a dog, but unlike any that I'd seen in well over a decade.

It was a pug, and its back leg dragged uselessly behind it as the dog whimpered and tried to move forward.

I stayed silent and stared down at it in disbelief. This was not a breed that could survive in the wild. Survival of the fittest had wiped out small dogs like this long ago. This was a human's pet, which meant I was near a homestead.

I'd been watching the road for days, waiting for the caravan that used it to pass so I could follow them. This animal didn't wander here from a broken down vehicle, at least not one that I had seen on my trip here, and it couldn't survive without a human's protection for more than a few days at best.

The injury on its hind was severe. His brown fur was still wet with blood, as if he'd suffered it a day earlier at most.

Was someone using this creature to flush me out?

A dog barked from far away, near the road, and I brought the binoculars back up to look for the source. It wasn't long before I saw them. A pack of ragged creatures, mottled grey and black, thin with rib cages that were revealed with each exhalation, traipsed onto the road, sniffing in search of their prey. The sight of a feral dog pack assured me that it wasn't a raider trying to flush me out - while several people I'd encountered still used dogs for hunting, this pack was clearly not domesticated.

The pug whimpered as it staggered along below me, his wet eyes glancing around in search of an escape. He was terrified, wounded, and minutes from a painful death.

The pack caught his scent and darted into the weeds.

I was safe up in my roost, and slunk away, prepared to let the massacre play out below me. I'd made sure to carry buckets of my waste away from the house to avoid alerting any predators that I was here, and if I stayed quiet they might never notice me. A dog like this pug had no reason to be allowed to live. It was weak, helpless, and would be a burden to anyone that cared for it. This new world and I had no pity for the weak.

Cans clattered under me as the p
ug moved into the house, past my rudimentary alarm system. He whimpered and I could hear his leg dragging slowly over the debris in the foyer. His cries echoed through the barren halls.

The pack drew nearer and I cursed as I watched them. The smart thing to do
would be to wait and let the little dog die. It would be quick. The pack would tear him to pieces and fight over his scraps. There wouldn't be more than a second of his pained screams to endure. I'd listened to thousands of creatures die, and killed a fair amount of them myself, in the twenty years since society had collapsed. This was no different.

Where did he come from? How did he survive?

I crawled through the bedroom where I'd been camped. I moved to the hallway and hurried to the wooden staircase that I'd torn down. I could hear the pug below me, crawling through the splintered wood and nails from the demolished stairs. I couldn't recall the last time I'd seen a small breed of dog.

I saw the pathetic thing scrambling over a broken board, clawing at the side as it whimpered and tried to climb onto the pile of wood. He was so small, and I struggled to remember what size this breed usually grew to. I thought they were larger than cats, but this one was miniscule. Was he a puppy?

The puppy cried out as it fell backward and rolled off the first step. When I broke the staircase, I'd left the first three steps intact and lowered a knotted rope to use for climbing. The only predator that could reach me would be a fellow human. No zombie, or dog, could climb the rope and get up to where I slept.

The pug whimpered as it rolled over and tried to climb again. I hung my head down through the gaping hole in the floor and looked out through the front door toward the wiggling weeds that separated the road from the house. Any second now the feral dogs would burst through the weeds and charge into the house.

The smart thing to do would be to hide and let this pitiful dog die. Even if I wanted to save it, I'd waited too long. If I jumped down to get it, the pack would be on me before I had the chance to climb back up again. I was a survivor, and every decision I made was based on how best to ensure my own safety. Rescuing a puppy was low on my list of priorities, yet I found myself yearning to save him.

"This is stupid," I said to myself as if simply thinking it wouldn't be convincing enough.

The pug looked up at me. Its eyes were massive, and the right one drifted to the side as if it were looking at two separate things at the same time. Its snout was nonexistent, a characteristic of the breed that I hadn't seen in the wild for a long time. This pathetic little thing wasn't built for survival in any way.

"You're being a fucking idiot, Ben." I chastised myself as I grabbed the rope and took a deep breath. The only weapon I had on me was the knife. My guns were
in the other room along with my axe. If I was going to save this dog, I'd have to do it with my coveted combat knife, something my father would never forgive me for if he were here.

I swung down, landing with the puppy between my feet, and quickly swept it up into my left arm. It squealed in pain as I held it. I had my k
nife clenched between my teeth as I stared out the short hall, past the foyer, to the missing front door where the pack would soon charge through.

There wasn't an option of being gentle. I tossed the dog up through the hole above me and he
ard its fragile body thump on the floor. It yelped in pain, but it would live - which wasn't something I could guarantee for myself.

I held the knife out in front of me with my right hand and gripped the rope with my left. It was a nylon rope, the type used for mountain climbing, and was knotted in segments separated by a foot each. The knots helped provide grips that made it easier to climb, but the pack of dogs that were about to tear me to pieces would have no problem jumping high enough to catch me before I could climb out of reach. I was about to let the rope go and face off with the inevitable, deadly fight when I heard a string of cans set up at the entrance behind me start to clang together.

"Oh fuck me!" I screamed out as I saw a zombie at the back door. It must've been attracted to the noise the dogs were making and come to investigate. The hallway led right to the doorway, with the kitchen on the right and the living room off to the opposite side. The hallway connected the back and front door, with the staircase in the center that I hung down from. Three dogs, snarling and snapping their jaws, burst through the weeds in the front yard while the moaning corpse staggered in from behind.

"All this for a God damned puppy."

I let go of the rope and stood on the broken stairs. The pack was approaching, fearless and voracious, their paws kicking up fresh dirt as they scrambled to reach me. Two of them collided at the threshold of the house and the larger one forced his way in first. It was black, tall, and had short hair. His muscles were defined by a lack of fat, and his rib cage heaved as he lunged at me.

Dogs are vicious hunters, but hunger makes them careless, and they tend to be too impetuous in their attacks. The secret to their success is their tenacity. You might be able to fend off their first few strikes, but eventually they'
ll catch you off guard. Luckily I wouldn't have to worry about this one getting a second chance. I stepped backward, off the third and last step, and fell a couple feet to the floor below. I knelt when I landed, and the dog's trajectory sent it flying over my head. I wasn't content with just letting him land behind me though, and caught his underside as he flew, pushing him onward like a dog missile into the zombie at the back door.

The zombie screeched in surprise as the dog landed on its chest. The two of them fell backward and tore at each other, giving me a chance to fend off the rest of the pack. I turned in time to swipe the knife through the air and stall the second dog before it could leap at me. This one was a stout creature, broad shouldered and squat, with a long snout and beady eyes that studied me as I threatened it. When it growled, it bared its long white teeth and snapped in my direction, but kept its distance. The commotion behind me must have spooked it, forcing me to make a hasty decision. I could lunge and try to kill the dog, or I could dare to climb the rope and pray that the feral creature didn't take the opportunity to attack.

I stepped back onto the broken staircase and swiped down at the dog in an attempt to frighten it away. The bastard stood stone still, snarling and only occasionally glancing past me while the other dog fought with the zombie. Survival requires a distinct sixth sense, and mine was warning me that this dog would attack the second I was vulnerable. I kept my eyes on him as I reached for the rope. He took one step closer, seeming to know that his chance was coming. I swiped down at him and he retreated a step, but kept his eyes locked on mine.

Two other members of the pack sauntered in from behind the one that stared at me. They were thinner than the first two and kept their heads low as they moved to opposite sides of the hall, waiting for the stronger members of their pack to make the kill. I couldn't risk looking back to see what was happening between the first dog and the zombie, but their fight seemed to be over as the sound of scuffling had ended.

If the zombie had won, perhaps it would spend a few minutes chewing on the dog before trying to catch me. If the dog had won, then he would turn on me since the canines knew better than to eat the rotten meat of the walking dead. If I was going to escape, I had to do it now.

I put the knife in my mouth, the serrated edge facing backward, and gripped the rope with both hands. Then I pushed off the steps, swinging back and preparing to kick at the second dog as I swung forward again. To my shock, the one thing I hadn't expected was exactly what happened: I bumped into the zombie.

It wrapped its arms around my legs and bit into my thigh. I involuntarily cried out in pain, causing my knife to fall to the floor, and kicked back at him. My foot pressed against his chest and I used it to push off, sending the zombie stumbling backward and me swinging in a spinning motion toward the dogs. I flailed my legs out, hoping to collide with the stout dog if it dared to leap, and struggled to pull myself up the slick rope. I collided with the splintered railing that still hung down from the ceiling and was finally able to get a foothold on one of the rope's lower knots.

I gripped the floorboards above with one hand and used the other to securely hold onto the r
ope as I pulled myself up. The pug yipped at me as I struggled to safety, finally getting my torso over the hole and swinging my legs up after. The puppy crawled over to me on its belly, as if doing its best to be as submissive as possible, and licked at my nose when it got close enough.