Sometimes We Ran (Book 1) (3 page)

I walked for a few hours till I found another gas station. That’s how I measured my walking. I go from gas station to gas station. Usually I find some useful stuff, but as I got further and further away from my hometown, the stations get emptier. I considered making a switch to supermarkets or mini malls for my distance markers.

My legs and feet were burning with dull pain. I didn’t know if it was middle age, or the new boots I was wearing. It was my third, no, fourth pair since the outbreak. I carefully leaned my rifle against a nearby gas pump, and removed my right boot to relieve some of the pain. I had a really strange thought that my right foot was bigger than my left, or maybe the boot was a little smaller.

As I leaned against one of the gas pumps rubbing my aching foot, I began to miss my car again.

It was quite an automobile, a bright red sporty job with a convertible top and black interior. I fitted a performance exhaust, so it roared like a lion when I stepped on the gas. I don’t know if it added a single horsepower, but that exhaust was pure sex. My poor car did not deserve its fate. I had to abandon it at the school/shelter when an army of the undead broke through the chain link fence to feed upon the survivors in the parking lot. I broke from the car and ran. I hope somebody somewhere is getting some use out of my abandoned car. Likely it’s still sitting there as masses of zombies orbit it for a meal. Yeah, it deserved better than that. Gia loved that car. She looked real good in it, too. She loved to put the top down and take long rides on mountain roads. Her long red hair flowed in the breeze as we sped along burning expensive premium unleaded. I used to sit in the driver’s seat and wonder how I got this beautiful creature to marry me. My goofy ass was able to snag this goddess. For God’s sake, we met on an Internet dating site.

Tears welled up in my eyes, but I stopped them cold. You can’t get too sentimental about the old days when things were normal. You get sentimental, you go soft, and then you give up. Then little girl zombies come in the night and eat your guts out.

I put my boot back on and turned my attention to the abandoned gas station. It was picked clean. The pumps were even stripped of all their parts. Why would anyone steal gas pump parts? I guess nothing made sense at the end. I stopped to ponder this thought, when something in the grass caught my eye. It turned out to be a silver plated revolver with rubber handles. It was pretty small, around a .38 caliber or so. Although not a great weapon against a crowd of undead, it might make a nice last resort weapon. When all hope is lost and the bad guys are closing in, it could serve as a good close-in gun. Or if things went real bad, a great way to end it all. I shivered at that thought.

I picked it up and saw that it was fairly clean and fully loaded. The former owner never fired a shot. I stuck it in one of the pockets of my cargo pants and started to walk on down the road. There were no bad guys at the gas station, for which I was thankful. The station had been a nice, refreshing break. It might have been my imagination, but the numbers of the undead seemed to be dropping. The little girl zombie I offed last night was the first close encounter in a while. Most of the time, I saw small groups of two or three staggering on the road. The really large groups had evaporated. Maybe they’re going away. Maybe things can start to get back to normal.

I wasn’t finding too many survivors either. All the places I stopped at were empty. I sometimes found evidence of a survivor, but most of the time, the discarded belongings were covered in dust and mold from months of disuse. The last living person I encountered was another guy on the road who tried to take my stuff. It didn’t end well. I was starting to think I was the last living being on earth.

Where was everybody? Maybe they were hiding, or trying to build a community somewhere. I wish I could find a friendly community or two. I was getting a little lonely.

So lonely in fact that I would talk to myself or other inanimate objects to occupy my mind. I also made up games like counting my steps as I walked, or making lists of objects in my mind to check off like road bingo. Anything to keep myself sane and walking. I didn’t think I was crazy …yet.

Sometimes though the post-zombie world can be too quiet. So quiet in fact, that you can actually hear your inner voice. At first, the voice encourages you to keep going. It says you’re doing well, and everything will be okay. After a while, the voice starts to turn. It tells you all hope is lost. It tells you to lie down.

It tells you to give up. That little voice had been getting a little louder as of late.

Just keep walking. There’s got to be people and safety somewhere.
I kept telling myself that, over and over.

I walked a few more miles into the outskirts of a small town. My grip tightened on my rifle, and my senses went into overdrive. Small towns could be bad news. Large groups of undead and turned dogs sometimes congregated in small towns. Before you knew it, you were running for your life from a large group. It happened to me before, and it’s not a pleasant experience.

An intersection appeared ahead of me, two state roads crossing on the outskirts of town. Beyond the intersection were brick buildings on either side of the road. When the town was younger the buildings were banks, clothing shops, and delis. Now, they were probably upscale shops and restaurants after a small-town urban renewal. I could make out new parking spots and potted trees lining the street. To my right was a busted-up shopping mall. To my left was a garage and junk yard. Plenty of places for old Mr. Zombie to hide and pounce.

The intersection itself was a scene of horror. Several cars were smashed together where the two roads intersected. Some of the cars were burned and gutted. A small sedan was flipped on its roof in the strip mall driveway to my right. There were even a couple of wrecked motorcycles. Even in this small town, panic gripped everybody. As I took in the destruction, I heard a familiar sound.

A low moan came from the road ahead of me. I couldn’t see them yet, but I bet there was a baddie or two waiting for me in the intersection. I ducked behind a junked pick up on the left shoulder of the road near the edge of the salvage yard. It was time for my handy-dandy zombie spotting binoculars. I put them up to my eyes and peered through the polarized lenses. I turned the knurled knob, and two zombies appeared in focus before my eyes.

One was a big fat one. Honestly, he looked like the kind of guy you needed a forklift to move. He was easily over 500 pounds. Chubbsey-Wubbsey looked relatively intact and hungry. He had on a mechanic’s shirt, so I assumed he was from the junkyard/service station. The other one was a little more dramatic. It looked like someone took the front side of his body and dragged it over a cheese grater. I could see his skull and ribs, but from the back he looked normal. He walked with a kind of bouncing gait, shaking his arms around. His head bobbed back and forth a little, too. He was wearing the last outfit he would ever wear: no shirt, jean shorts, and flip flops. He looked like he was headed to the beach. He was also making an ungodly noise somewhere between a scream and a laugh. I named him Jean Shorts.

As I scoped out the two baddies in the intersection, the binoculars suddenly went dark.

I dropped the glasses from my eyes just in time to see an ugly woman zombie standing in front of me, waiting to strike. I didn’t have time to react. I fell backwards on the road, as she stood over me, preparing to battle me to the death. She leaned down to start her meal. As she lunged to take a bite and add me to her undead entourage, I worked my tomahawk out of its holster and drove it into her skull. She screeched and tried to get away.

Stupid! How could I be so stupid?
I let my guard down. However, I didn’t panic. Just don’t let them bite you, and drive something into their soft, melon-like heads. These close encounters can be scary, but if you don’t panic, you’ll be okay. Still, the hand-to-hand combat left me a little shocked. I got to my feet, with my heart beating in my ears,and my breathing going full bore. I looked down at my new friend. She was still alive and kicking even with a hole in her head. I didn’t drive the tomahawk all the way home.

She used to be an old woman. I guessed her age at about sixty to sixty-five years old. She had long, greasy hair down to the middle of her back. Her face was intact, but sunken and skeletal. There was a rope of pearls around her neck. Her eyes were bright red. I hated the red-eye ones. They seemed to be superhuman. Sometimes they wouldn’t stay down.

This particular Red-Eye wasn’t getting up any time soon. My tomahawk had done a pretty good job, but it wasn’t complete. I pulled my handgun and finished her off; Now she was dead. I turned and started to collect my stuff. I located my binoculars and tomahawk and put them back on my person. That’s when I heard more growling. I looked up to see another zombie standing on the cab of the wrecked pick-up, crouched and ready to pounce. This one had been a fifteen or sixteen-year-old boy. Very intact. He was wearing a concert T-shirt, jeans, and some fancy sneakers. The only problem I noted was a broken ankle. He looked like a formidable feeder. These Red-Eyes are the alphas of the zombie universe. I have seen these guys chase prey for miles. Sometimes they even worked together to get their meal. This young one had been the old woman’s companion.

He launched off the pick-up in full zombie-attack mode.

With his broken ankle, he couldn’t get a good leap. It was clumsy and avoidable. I moved aside, and he slammed into the ground face first. He got up quick, but I put him down with my gun. By this time, all the commotion with the two Red-Eyes had gotten the attention of Chubbsey-Wubbsey and Jean Shorts. They turned my way, and started coming slowly down the street. I wasn’t going to fool around with these guys. I moved my rifle into the ready position, and took a defensive stance in the middle of the street. The first contestant would be Fat Boy. One shot in the middle of his large, round face and he went down heavily in the middle of the road. Next, it was time to send Jean Shorts to hell. I paused for a minute. He was going to be tougher to hit, as he walked with a slight bounce in his step. He made a horrible sound, almost sounded like a maniacal laugh. It took two shots, but Jean Shorts went down. I took a quick scan around the area. All was quiet. Still I didn’t let my guard down. That was a good way to get overrun. Doing my best Navy SEAL imitation, I approached the intersection. Still quiet. Then I heard something come up behind me. Knowing my luck, it was probably a dog or another Red-Eye.

Please don’t let it be a dog.

To tell you the truth, I almost shot first, without looking. However, I paused with my finger off the trigger as I turned around to face my attacker.

“Don’t shoot! Please don’t shoot!”

It was human speech. I didn’t lower my weapon. It was best not to let my guard down. Maybe these things have learned to talk.

It was a girl. She was about twenty to twenty-five years old. She was a little thing, about five- foot-nothing and about a hundred ten pounds or so. Short auburn hair with pink highlights framed her face. She was wearing a slightly-too-big denim jacket, a white blouse, and designer jeans. She was also a little dirty, and she smelled pretty bad. However, her eyes were clear. She was a survivor. At least, I hoped she was a survivor.

“Please don’t shoot me,” she said, stepping closer. She was crying now. She started to raise her hands. “Look, I’m okay, not a zombie. My name is Claire.”

Curiosity got the better of me, and I went in for a closer look.

We stood there and looked at each other for what seemed like a long time. She looked like a survivor, but you never know. She could be a plant. A group of her buddies could be hiding and waiting for me to drop my weapon, to kill me and take my stuff. She looked at me with her watery, blue eyes as I circled around her with my rifle aimed at her head. I kept one eye on her and one eye on the surroundings. Her bad guy buddies could be waiting anywhere.

She wiped her eyes. “C’mon, now. Let’s put the gun down,” she said, soothingly. “Look. I’m okay. Look.” She took a step closer.

Time for a little action. “Stand still! Put your goddamn hands up,” I barked at her as I raised my weapon. The sound of my own voice scared me a little bit. I hadn’t talked to anyone in a long time, so my voice sounded a little weird.

Scared the hell out of her too. She froze in place and put her hands up.

Before I could trust her, I had to see if she was bitten. ”Let me see your arms.” Roll-up your sleeves …now!” She obeyed and rolled up her sleeves. Her arms were thin and covered in dirt, but I didn’t see any thing that looked like a bite. I took a step closer, with my weapon still raised.

“Raise up your shirt! Show me your belly,” I said in my most authoritative voice. I had to stay in charge. She could be armed.

“Jesus Christ! What the hell is wrong with you? Are you some kind of pervert?” she complained.

I was losing control. “Shut the fuck up and show me your belly or I’ll drop you.” Her resolve quickly crumbled, and she pulled her jacket and blouse up almost over her head. Again, a little dirty and pale, but no bites. She was extremely thin, and I could clearly see her ribs sticking out. She had on a little blue bra. Gia liked different colored underwear, too. A semi-erotic image of my dead wife in her favorite lingerie flashed in my mind. I shook my head slightly to chase her image out of my mind, and returned to the business at hand.

“Turn around! Show me your back! Do it now,” I yelled. She obeyed. Her back had no bites.

“Are you through looking at my body? Are you satisfied I am not on of those things yet? Do you want to see my ass or anything? I am told my ass is pretty good.” She sounded pissed. I’m satisfied she’s not a zombie, but she could still be a plant.

“Sorry. Put your shirt down. Are you alone?”

“Yes. All alone and pretty goddamn scared.”

“No buddies ready to jump me and take my stuff?”

“No buddies. I don’t want your stuff either. You might shoot my ass.” Great. A comedian. Just what I need.

I thought of something else. “Do you have any weapons?”

“Just a sharpened piece of rebar for ramming a few skulls. It’s in my backpack, on the ground near your feet.”

The backpack was indeed near my feet. I almost stepped on it. Keeping one eye on her, I bent down to take a look. I found the rebar with its very menacing point. The rest of the contents were a random assortment of everyday objects. A dead cellphone with a cracked screen, a computer tablet, a compact and other assorted makeup, about 10 or 11 ballpoint pens, and a couple of old magazines. There were also about a dozen tampons and some body spray. My fellow survivor must have been a college student. A pair of textbooks, math and American history, completed her survival gear. No food or water. She had to be hungry, dehydrated, and probably a little desperate.

I looked at her again. I was slowly calming down. She looked weak, wasted, and half-dead, almost like the things that walked around us. She started to cry again. Crying was bad, as it would dehydrate her further.

“Please. I’m okay. I need help. I don’t know what I can do to convince you.”

She was just a scared young girl. She looked like she had been through a lot of pain and suffering. She looked like she had lost everything, and was at the end of the line. I lowered my weapon. I didn’t think she was a threat anymore. “Put your arms down,” I said, trying not to sound scared. “You’re okay. If you had any buddies, they would have jumped me by now I guess.” I kept my guard up. I secretly hoped I was not making a mistake.

She lowered her arms. She looked relieved, and even smiled a little. It was a pretty cute smile. She must have been real popular with the boys before the world went bad. I realized I had forgotten her name. Clara? … Clarice?

“My name is Claire. Hello,” she said extending her hand. “What’s your name, soldier?”

Soldier? Did I look like a Guardsman? Maybe I did. I had on tan cargo pants, a black long-sleeved shirt, and my black boots. The pants are tucked into the boots. It cuts down on the brains staining your socks. I was also wearing a camo jacket with a matching backpack. Around my waist was my soft-side ammo case. On my head, I wore an old ball cap with some forgotten baseball team’s logo and sunglasses. The sunglasses were a gift from Gia. I grabbed them as I abandoned my car at the shelter. I didn’t need them, but there was some sentimental value. It’s the last gift my beautiful wife gave me. I then realized I might have forgotten my own name.

I remembered in a flash. “John …My name is John, and I’m not a soldier.” I took off my glove and grasped her hand to shake it. A handshake; yet another remnant of a dead world. Her hand was the first living flesh I had touched in a long time.

“Well, John, glad to meet you. That little thing we had back there was a little intense, wasn’t it?” she said, in a slightly sing-song voice. I had to admit, it was great to hear another human voice again. “You know, you still look a little scary. Can I at least see your eyes, handsome?”

Handsome? No one had ever called me handsome, not even Gia. Keeping a careful eye on my new friend, I stowed my rifle and removed my expensive eyewear. She stepped a little closer.

“Well, hey, handsome. How you doing?” she said, in that sing-song voice again. “You’re a looker, for an older guy.”

She giggled a little bit. She was just trying to put me at ease. I did not entertain any thought that I was anything close to handsome, or a “looker.” Rugged, maybe, but not handsome. Gia had always called me “cute,” and adorable, but not handsome. No, Claire’s idea of handsome was thin, tall guys with swimmers’ builds and designer shirts and pants. Maybe they drove cool, foreign compact cars and skipped class to go to coffee shops and surf the free Wi-Fi. Maybe so, but I still felt a blush coming up. I instinctively reached up to feel my two days of beard growth. I should have tried to shave today. My hair probably won’t set any hearts aflutter either. ”How long has it been since you’ve eaten?” I asked, changing the subject.

Her face darkened. “I’m starving,” she said in a low tone. “Pretty thirsty too. I think I am about ready to die. In fact, I have been passing out a lot lately.” Her eyes welled up with tears again.

She did look a little pale and wasted. My heart hurt for her. Even though I didn’t entirely trust her, I had to help. “Okay. Let’s get off this road and eat.”

Her smile returned, but it was a little weak. “Okay, but you may have to help me. I feel a little light headed.”

I took her hand and we walked over to the ruined strip mall to find a little shelter. I thought I heard her mutter, “Thank you, God.” She must have been praying someone would show up.