Sven the Zombie Slayer (7 page)

Vicky’s groans grew louder and more frequent, and it seemed she might be trying to stand up.

Jane noticed, for the first time, that her own cheeks were wet from crying, and that her hand was outstretched in front of her, as if she were still holding that glass of vitamin C water.

She had just gathered her thoughts enough to know what to do next—it was hard with that smell in the air—when a not so faraway scream distracted her for a second.

Jane looked down at the thing that was crawling toward her, and as the room’s swaying became more violent, she forgot her next move.

15

He stood outside the storage room for a moment longer. Then, feeling cold, Sven picked up his shirt from the floor next to the bench and put it on. He stood in the basement and listened. Slow shuffling noises were coming from inside the storage room.

Sven dragged his bench press over and put it in front of the door, blocking it. He put the bar in place and, working through the pain, loaded it with all of the plates he had. Sven looked at what he had done. It should keep Lars in the room. But would it? Lars was so strong. Sven stood there a moment longer, his mind blanking again.

Ivan hissed, snapping Sven out of the sudden trance.

Sven went upstairs and found his cell phone. He dialed 911 and paced with the phone to his ear.

“Your call cannot be completed as dialed,” a robotic voice said. “Please hang up and try again.”

Sven dialed 911 again.

“Your call cannot be completed as dialed. Please hang up and try again.”

Sven dialed 911 one more time, with the same result. He tried some of his other workout buddies, including Brian and Lundgren, each of whom was resourceful and would help in a tight situation. He tried his mom, his lawyer client, Memorial Gymnasium across the street, Gold’s Gym, his favorite online bodybuilding supplement retailer, Yuan Ho Chinese Restaurant, Asian Express Chinese Restaurant, Whole Foods Market, and Ivan’s vet.

None of the calls went through.

Sven gave up, and with growing agitation and discomfort, tossed the phone on the couch. He walked into the kitchen, trying to figure out what to do next.

Then he heard scraping coming from the basement, and—

He at last saw what had displeased Ivan. There was a man in the back yard. It was Sven’s neighbor, Bob. Bob’s house was behind Sven’s. Bob was a tennis fanatic, and sometimes he managed to drag Sven out onto the tennis courts. Tennis was not Sven’s sport—he carried too much brawn for it. But it was nice to watch.

Sven stared out of the kitchen window at Bob. Bob wasn’t moving. It looked like he wasn’t even breathing.

Sven unlocked his back door and stepped into the back yard. He noticed that Bob looked thinner than usual. He was wearing his tennis clothes, complete with head and wrist bands, and he was clutching a tennis racquet with both hands. He just stood there, like a statue, his grey skin much greyer than usual.

Then Sven knew—this was the start of a very bad day.

16

Jane watched Vicky stand up. It had taken a few minutes, and horror-stricken though she was, Jane couldn’t make herself turn away. She was frozen in place, staring, the whole time.

Vicky’s whole body had creaked as she made her way up from the floor. It took Vicky several tries, propping herself up, and then falling back to the floor, as if she had forgotten how to make her body work, how to coordinate her limbs in time.

Vicky was up now, and Jane found herself trapped by the cold, dark gaze of her roommate, who, Jane was now sure, was not exactly her roommate any longer. Jane’s body was rigid, and though she was willing herself into action—any action that would take her away from her transformed roommate—she could barely manage a shudder.

“Vicky...” Jane said, her heart pounding in her ears. “Vicky? What’s happening? What’s wrong with you?”

Vicky groaned in answer, and began to stagger toward Jane.

Jane drew in a breath and tried to move her feet. They were so heavy, as if they were glued to the floor…and that smell, it was making her want to throw up, like she was turning into mush on the inside and her body needed to expel it. She tried to get her legs to move, but her muscles were frozen solid.

Of all the stupid images she could’ve pictured at a moment like that, Jane was now picturing a frozen, unthawed chicken breast under warm running water. If her legs were the chicken breast, and her mind the water, the thaw would take too long and…and what? What was Vicky going to do when she reached her?

Vicky dragged herself to within a few feet from Jane. Vicky raised her arm, bumping it clumsily into Jane’s shoulder. Jane recoiled but still couldn’t get her legs moving. Vicky’s hand tried to grab, but the rickety, uncoordinated fingers closed on air.

Vicky shuffled closer. Her mouth opened, and a thin string of drool began to make its way from her bottom lip to the floor. The string broke when it reached knee level and plipped onto the floor a few inches from Jane’s foot. Jane still couldn’t get herself to move, the muscles in her legs were clenched so tight now that they burned. Run, she kept telling herself, run, get out of here.

Vicky’s head came to within inches of Jane’s face. Vicky’s mouth was snapping open and shut in violent motions, sending the whole of her body into seizures with each snap, as if Vicky had no control over her limbs at all.

When Vicky snapped at Jane’s neck, Jane’s instincts finally, mercifully kicked in. She reacted, falling backward away from the bite, and kicked out with her leg, striking Vicky in the knee.

Jane fell backward onto the floor. The air was clearer there, and the fog in her mind and numbness in her body let up. She remembered where she was, who she was, and she remembered that she had to survive. It didn’t matter what was happening, she was going to survive.

17

Sven had seen this movie before. He had an idea of what was going on, but he had to make sure.

“Bob,” he said. “Wake up Bob. You wanna hit some balls today?”

Bob said nothing.

There was a faraway scream.

“It’s a great day for tennis, weather’s perfect.”

Bob just stood there.

“Nice headband, where’d you get it?”

Bob still said nothing.

Nodding in understanding, Sven picked up a branch and waved it at Bob. It was a soft branch, so instead of poking Bob as Sven had intended, the branch only caressed the immobile tennis player.

After a few tender, leafy caresses, Bob raised his head. Sven jumped back, dropping the branch.

After Sven regained his composure, he retrieved the branch and resumed the caresses, aiming the branch at Bob’s face this time.

Bob’s eyes snapped open to reveal dark, glaring eyeballs in too-loose sockets—just how Lars had looked in the basement. Then the tennis player’s head tilted sideways, snapping his neck, and sending Sven tripping backward over his own feet to fall onto the grass of the back yard.

There was another scream, much closer now.

Bob’s mouth popped open, and he began to sputter and pop toward Sven, clicking and gnashing his teeth. Sven got painfully to his feet, ran around the chomping tennis player and went back into his house, locking the back door behind him. From the kitchen window, he watched Bob make his awkward way to the back door. Then Bob began to bump into the door. He kept at it, bumping the tennis racquet against the door over and over again. He never tried the knob.

18

The knee kick sent Vicky staggering backward several ungainly steps. Then she stopped, steadied herself, moaned and resumed her pursuit. As she drew closer again, her dragging feet picked up shards of glass and scraped them along the floor.

“Stop!” Jane screamed, unnerved by the scraping shards stuck in Vicky’s feet. “Just stay over there, and, and I’ll get help. Just stay on that side of the room.
Okay? Don’t come over to this side,
okay?”

Vicky groaned and kept coming.

Jane remembered her gun. It was upstairs in the bedroom. She wanted to get it, but she’d have to go around Vicky. What was she even thinking? She couldn’t shoot Vicky. Was Vicky still Vicky? What was wrong with her? What was with the biting? People with colds and even the flu didn’t try to bite other people…right? I don’t know, Jane thought in exasperation, I’m an accountant not a doctor!

Vicky was getting closer, her saliva splattering the floor as she went.

Forgetting that she could get up, Jane crawled backward without taking her eyes off Vicky. She crawled until she bumped into the wall behind her and had to veer left, into the kitchen. Once Vicky’s staggering body was out of sight, Jane found it easier to concentrate. She got up, shook herself, and closed the kitchen door. She looked around the kitchen for something to prop against the door. Her eyes settled on the wine refrigerator. That would have to do. She dragged it over and set it in front of the door. At least the door opened inward—that was something.

Muffled by the glass of the kitchen windows, Jane heard a faraway scream. It was unmistakable—pure terror.

Jane’s mind began to race as she stared at the small wine refrigerator in front of the closed door, and listened to Vicky’s dragging, scraping feet out in the hall. Jane knew she had to get out of the house, and she cursed herself for ending up in the kitchen with only the one door. She looked at the windows over the sink. She could try to jump out if it came to it. She began to look around the kitchen, thinking about what to do next. Her eyes came to attention when they fell on her 32-piece, stainless steel knife set. She walked over to it. Jane felt her heart beating in her chest as she closed her left hand around the handle of the largest knife in the set. The plastic handle was room temperature. She pulled the knife out and stood there for a moment, thinking. Then she opened a drawer and took out a long, two-pronged weenie fork.

Holding her knife and fork, Jane turned back to the door.

19

Sven locked his front door and then submitted his body to agonizing pain by pushing the couch up against the door to the basement. Afterward, he hobbled upstairs to his bedroom where he retrieved his backpack and gym bag. He put on a pair of nylon track pants, a loose t-shirt, and his most comfortable pair of cross-trainers—a pair of Asics. Sven took his emergency supply of protein bars out from under the bed and put it in his gym bag. Then he grabbed all three of his stainless steel water bottles and a portable water filter and threw all of them into the gym bag.

Sven didn’t pack any clothes—except for his man-tard, which he put in his gym bag by rote. Realizing that he had packed it made him think of Lars, in his now bloody cat food-coated man-tard in the basement. They had gotten their man-tards together. Lars had introduced him to the man-tard. Before Lars, Sven hadn’t known there was a male equivalent of a leotard. Man-tards made lifting so much better. The mind-muscle connection that man-tards enabled just couldn’t be matched. Sven was crouched over his gym bag now, clutching the man-tard. He nodded his head, and as he did so, a single tear rolled down his well-muscled cheek. The tear fell, landing soundlessly on the man-tard.