Shamblers: the zombie apocalypse (14 page)

Final Chapter

Becky and I were trapped on that roof all night. Neither of us got any sleep.
She used her shirt to bandage my arm and make a tourniquet for me. It probably saved my life. I was also happy to see her in a bra. Her body was tight, American, and fat-free. Luckily for us, it was a pretty warm night for what I assumed was mid-September, so she wasn’t too cold.

In any event, we
huddled close as we stayed quiet throughout the night and into the next morning. Neither of us got any sleep. Eventually, most of the zombies were drawn to the smoldering wreckage of the town hall. Many of them drew to close in their undead curiosity and were set aflame. They wandered soundlessly as their flesh melted.

When most of them had cleared out, I
noticed that the armless creature that had once been Marcus was hung up against the broken, wire-fence. He was staring up at me through empty eye sockets and moaning in despair as he snapped his jaw left and right and tried to break free of it. There was barely any tissue left to him: I could see clear through the bits of sinew that clung to his ribs and held him together. Marcus was more bones than flesh. His hair and skin had been ripped right off his head. It looked like there were several bite-marks in his skull. His clothes had been torn right off his body: they were nothing more than tattered, stained rags now. Even his sneakers had been mauled as the zombies had tried to get to his feet, which were the one part of him that still looked intact.

Seeing as he was one of the few zombies around and we had the opportunity to escape,
we left the safety of our roof.

“Let me see that shotgun,” I politely asked Becky.

“Sure thing,” she said as she handed it over to me.

I walked over to Zombie Marcus and bashed his skull in with it. “There,” I said as I finished, “now he won’t be able to hurt anyone else.”

“Good work, hun,” Becky smiled.”

I handed the shotgun back over to her and smiled back.

By now, other zombies had been alerted to the noise. It was time for us to get going and so we did. By the end of the day, we made it back to the fire station that The Preacher and I (and I also learned that Becky and Marcus) had used for a hideout. We were tired, bruised, covered in gore, starved, and thirsty, but alive and unbitten.

The first thing we did upon our arrival was consume
a good amount of the food and the water that The Preacher and I had left behind as a contingency plan. After that, we both changed into clean clothes and slept the rest of the day (and into the next morning). I spent the next week recovering from my wounds, bruises, cuts, and aches.

The days and weeks passed. Becky and I
spent every waking moment of free time making love, being happy being alive, and gathering supplies and firewood in preparation for the winter. We also returned to Payne’s Creek several times to seize all the weapons, ammo, and supplies that had been left there.

W
hen we got done collecting everything, it amounted to a small armament. We now owned: an AK-47, a SAW LMG, a .38 revolver, a sword, a 9mm Glock, a Smith & Wesson Bodyguard 380 with a built-in laser sight, a number of shotguns, rifles, and revolvers, a .308 Mauser M12 sniper rifle with a mil-dot scope, and more knives than I could count. Try saying that five times fast.

In spite of all our weapons, life soon became quite simple for us. I didn’t need to shoot it out with anyone and I think Becky
was happy about that. The only, major project I took on during this period was fire-proofing a corner of the upstairs eating-area: this allowed us to have an indoor fire without burning the place to the ground or dying of smoke inhalation.

On
the day that the first sign of frost appeared, I finished my project. Later that afternoon, as I prepared to light a test-fire, I overheard two strangers talking outside. I ran over to the window and peeked out of it: a dark-haired man in a wool hat and a brunette woman with a ski-jacket and a scarf were scavenging for the winter as well.

I trained a bolt-action .22 rifle on them and called out,
“don’t move!” They looked up at me and stopped dead in their tracks.

When
Becky noticed me with my rifle, she also took heed of the threat. Without hesitation, she ran over to the vast stockpile of weapons we now owned and grabbed Karin’s old, 9mm Glock from among all the handguns. She then ran downstairs to search the couple as I made it clear that it was in their best interest not to move.

Becky’s
conversation with them only lasted a minute or two before she signaled for both of them to be on their way.

“What was that about?” I asked when she came
back upstairs.

“They came
down from Shingletown looking for food for the winter. I told them we have none and that this area has been pretty well-looted.”

“
Did they say anything else?” I inquired as I watched the two scavengers disappear out of sight.

“The
guy said they have a ham radio in their hideout. He heard that the shambler virus, or whatever it is that turns people into shamblers, has mutated.”

“How?”

“The rumor claims that the shambler virus is now airborne. It can be contracted without getting bitten now.”

I took that in and shook my head in disbelief. “Shit, I guess we had better
wear masks whenever we go out from now on,” I suggested. There didn’t seem to be any alternative if that horrible rumor was true.

I went about business as usual for the rest of the day. That night, I was haunted by nightmares of mutant
zombies with wings. They swooped down for me out of a pitch-black sky like angels of death. I awoke in a cold sweat.

The weather started to turn soon thereafter. Although we were in
California, we were still in northern California. The winters up here could be tough: throughout December and January, average temperatures for our area reached into the mid-30’s.

We received two inches of snow
, perhaps as early as December first (although I had no calendar to go by). As it got colder out, we ventured outside less and less. The few zombies we encountered on our rare expeditions also appeared to be slowed from the cold: we easily dispatched them with melee weapons. At night, we often huddled together to stay warm. We were also extraordinarily careful with our indoor fire so it never got too smoky (which could alert potential enemies to our location).

As we
kept each other warm one evening, we shared a can of chicken-noodle soup that we had stored away. I looked over at Becky and happened to notice beads of sweat on her forehead.

“Is the fire too warm for you?” I asked.

“No,” she declared, “I think I just have a cold. This weather hasn’t been helping.”

I put a hand to her forehead. “You feel really hot, babe,” I let her know.

“I think I’ll go lie down for a while,” she told me.

She went into the other room. I finished the soup and stretched out in front of the fire. I closed my eyes and felt its soothing warmth against my skin. I must have felt drowsy. The next thing I knew, I
woke up on the floor, shivering.

I looked at the fire. It was now just a smoking heap of coals. I had been asleep for a while.

I stood up and stretched. My back was sore and my legs felt stiff. The old bullet wound in my side ached slightly. My stomach rumbled. “Time for breakfast,” I decided.

I walked into the fire
house kitchen. Becky was standing there with her back to me. She was leaning over the counter.

“Morning hun,” I said cheerily. “Are you feeling any better?”

Becky turned to me. Drool ran down her chin. Her skin was pale. Her eyes were vacant and staring. She roared like some sort of feline cat and leapt atop me. This time, she didn’t intend to make love.

Right before
Becky’s teeth bit into my neck, I recalled her telling me about the virus going airborne.

THE END

Author’s Note:

I hope you enjoyed reading this book as much as I enjoyed writing it. I want to thank you for your purchase and support. I hope no one was offended by some of the things my cruel, racist villain said or did: his actions were done purely in the interest of storytelling. If you hated him, that makes two of us.

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Thanks,

Andrew Cormier

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Andrew Cormier was born in Lowell, MA. He moved to New Hampshire in 2006.
Shamblers: the Zombie Apocalypse
is his fourth novel.

His love of books began around the 3rd grade, when he read Jack London's
White Fang
and
The Call of the Wild
. He has continued to write novels in multiple genres ever since, including fantasy works:
The Winds of Change
and
What Tomorrow Brings
, and speculative fiction /supernatural fantasy
The Great Deceiver.
His other favorite authors include R.A. Salvatore, Robert Jordan, and George R.R. Martin.

In addition to his writing, Mr. Cormier enjoys playing guitar or video games, camping, and football. He is an avid Patriots fan. His
notable achievements include a BA in Graphic Design and Media Arts from Southern NH University and a black belt in Shaolin Kung Fu. He also attended a blacksmithing school in NC for the enjoyment of it.