The Reaper Virus (41 page)

Most of the house was dark from the blocked
windows. I was able to navigate it effortlessly thanks to a mental
map perfected over the years. Within seconds I was back in the
bedroom. If Sarah really thought I was going to make it home she
would have left one of the two guns we owned. I threw open the
closest and lunged toward its right corner, finding a hard plastic
case containing a Maverick twelve gauge shotgun.

“I love you too, baby,” I said, comforted by
the sign of faith.

Soon I had an inventory of my supplies spread
across our queen mattress. The shotgun had three boxes of slugs
totaling seventy-five shells. My nightstand was permanently stocked
with a decent flashlight. These, combined with the ever faithful
Kukri, and I felt like I had a fighting chance of at least escaping
my cul-de-sac. I loaded everything into an old backpack that had
been collecting dust in my closet. After a stop in the kitchen to
load up on a few bottles of water and snacks I was ready. The last
thing I needed was the keys for the shed padlock hanging in a key
box at the kitchen entrance.

When I reached for the ring of two identical
keys I noticed that they danced on the small hook. The entire house
was vibrating from the increasing assault of undead. There had to
be dozens of them gathered around the front of the porch now. Back
in the bedroom I tucked the shotgun under my arm and left the rest
of my supplies inside. Crawling back through the trapdoor I quickly
felt vulnerable without my blade. I knew though that if there were
any zombies in the backyard that the Maverick would make short work
of them, but using the gun would draw a lot of premature
attention.

The padlock on the shed was cold even through
my work gloves. It took some serious fiddling with the tiny key to
get the mechanism to release. Clutter greeted me inside the shed.
Scraps of wood were everywhere from the sloppy job I’d done on
boarding up the back windows. Thankfully, I’d spent a lot more time
securing the front of the house. If I hadn’t then I wouldn’t have
the luxury of being casually outside. I took hold of the metal
ladder roped to the ceiling. It yanked free, crashing to the
clutter beneath it. I wrenched at the noise I was creating.

“Easy does it,” I grumbled aloud, “it doesn’t
matter if they know you’re here now.”

Once the ladder was outside and propped
against the rear fence bordering our neighbors’ yard, I quickly
scaled up it to look over. The yard was completely barren with no
activity around the house. Our house was at the end of a cul-de-sac
that backed up to another neighborhood’s cul-de-sac. The two
neighborhoods connected eventually, but it would take easily ten
minutes to reach the house behind us by road. Most of the infected
presence appeared to be on our end of the street. I’d started
feeling dreadfully confident that I was the only living soul left
in the entire area. That reality aside, it would have been easy
enough to slip over the fence and escape. However, I needed to make
sure the zombies would have their attention elsewhere when I had to
loop around and pass the same area I crashed my bike last
night.

Back at the shed, I ignored the mess to reach
for my targets sitting atop a shelf. It was a bit of a struggle to
drag the pair of two-gallon gasoline jugs back to the bedroom
window. One of them was about three-quarters full with month old
gas. I’d filled the second canister when world events began to turn
sour. A loud thud vibrated the wall when the filled drums fell
inside. I paid it no mind and walked over to the back deck. Banging
from the other side of the property echoed like a hungry cacophony.
Time was running out and I knew it. Pondering the insanity of my
plan only added to the unreal feeling of the day.

Sarah and Maddox evidently pulled the boards
from the stairs, so I had to climb atop the wooden railing. I set
the twelve gauge down on the deck to use both hands. When I
released my grip on it, I noticed a spot just beyond it was
colorful. Crayon had been used to sketch a sweet little butterfly
onto the wood plank. The artwork was signed carefully with,
“Calise”, in six different shades. A tear trickled down my cheek
but it was joined with a smile. I could picture my little princess
sitting patiently while her mom and brother worked on destroying
the stairwell. I fiddled with our propane grill, longing for the
little one that sat here days before. The canister wasn’t empty but
for the life of me I couldn’t recall how much was inside. It
clanged loudly when I threw it off the deck then rolled closer to
our bedroom window. I followed it down and heaved it through the
opening just like the gas cans.

The propane tank took up most of the
nightstand. I had to maneuver myself past it, fearing that if it
fell over the gas cans would be crushed. Once inside, I saw that
the partly used can spilled a bit. Foul tasting fumes greeted me
the moment I made it in. Gas pooled slightly over the same spot I’d
originally landed on earlier that morning. Looking down at the
spill, I simply shrugged and righted the now half-filled container.
Sarah would have unleashed the full fury of her marital scorn if
she saw what I was doing to the bedroom.

“If she only knew…” I muttered in response to
my internal monologue.

I dropped my filled backpack out the window
and moved the partly spilled can just past the door to our bedroom.
Then I dragged the propane tank into the living room and positioned
it against the wall. It took up the same area I would have sat to
watch television; that was, if the couch wasn’t barricaded against
the front door. Opposite to the dirty white tank, I could hear the
wooden planks creak and crack against their securing screws. It was
amazing that my fortifications had lasted that long. I’d be happy
if the boarded windows lasted just a bit longer.

Walking back down the hall I paused at each
doorway to look around. This house had protected us for many years.
We moved in when Sarah was pregnant. It was good to the two of us
then, and before the world ended it was still good to the four of
us. But the house looked so different now. Everything was so dark
and disheveled that I knew my home was already gone. All that stood
now was a tool, a weapon, which could help me find them. There had
never been a time that I felt so focused on a goal while
simultaneously questioning reality.

The partially filled gasoline tank emptied
easily in Maddox’s room. I splashed it sporadically onto the walls
and furniture. There was just enough left in the can to coat the
bed and floor in Sarah’s and my bedroom with the dangerous fluid. I
attempted to leave a clear path for me to walk, but the fumes in
such an enclosed space made caution futile. Numbness set in under
my left arm where the shotgun was tucked. It remained there while I
toiled about trying to spread gas over the maximum area
possible.

Maintaining a controlled spill of the full
can proved difficult. At first, I spilled so much in Calise’s room
that I worried there wouldn’t be enough for the kitchen. While
working a combustible path down the hall I reached into the
bathroom and removed two towels, draping them both over my left
shoulder away from the gas. Moving on, it was the propane tank and
the immediate area around it that got the most thorough soaking. I
didn’t pour any around the windows; but it was hard not to. Hearing
the ravenous creatures right on the other side of the wall made the
thought of emptying every drop there a tempting notion. Gasoline
tainted all but the front windows and a broken path back to the
bedroom exit.

I threw the empty can to the side. It
clattered along causing an instantaneous increase in volume from
the monsters. The scene around me effortlessly redefined terror.
However, I gave my work an approving nod then smirked. While moving
to open the side table drawer nearest to the propane tank, I
noticed tingling in my fingertips. Gas had moistened both gloves
during the reckless hosing. The pair may be ruined but they may
have some use to me yet. Fumes tickled both eyes when I draped the
work gloves over my right shoulder. Inside the drawer, my bare hand
found the long stick lighter that Sarah always kept there for her
scented candles.

A loud snapping sound shot my attention to
the front. The wood was starting to splinter. I knew if there was
ever a time to enact this criminally insane plan, it was now.
Circulation returned to my side seconds after the shotgun returned
to its proper place. I stood upright and filled my lungs with
noxious air, the gasoline vapors making me dizzy. Then I let the
breath out in the loudest scream I could muster.

I stepped screaming over the gas trails
towards the faltering windows. The Maverick’s stock became a drum
stick that I banged against everything within reach. Outside, the
dead seethed with delight. Their droning was equivalent to colonies
of Africanized bees stirred into a rage. My nonsensical hollering
turned into a tirade against the apocalyptic circumstances.

“
I will NOT bow to this.
You fuckers can go back to Hell! I don’t care if you’ve made me
abandon friends, or abandon what is right and wrong, or even
abandon myself… I WILL NOT abandon them!
”

My shouting combined with the tainted air
made my throat feel like I’d just exhaled sand. Visible cracks
formed in the boards over the windows. The leftmost window
shattered after the continuous barrage of vibration.

I moved right in front of the window and
pressed the barrel of the twelve gauge fire breather directly
against the boards. Pressure from holding it there with my body
weight reminded me of obvious injury within my core. Ravenous
impacts jostled the gunstock. With my free hand I pulled one of the
towels, wrapping it around the barrel. My hope was to isolate the
muzzle blast from the explosive vapors permeating the air, knowing
that if I failed, this hellacious nightmare would come to a fiery
conclusion.

I could see a glimpse of rotting jaws
snapping through a growing fracture. I closed my eyes and tugged my
finger against the trigger twice. The wood splintered away from the
devastating blasts. A wet slap of munitions tearing through flesh
broke through the chorus of moans. My head pulsed in objection to
the deafening boom. Light immediately beamed through the large hole
I made, telling me that whatever was on the other side suffered the
full wrath of the shotgun slugs.

I jumped back, nearly losing my balance over
the line of gas soaked carpet. Even my traumatized ears recoiled
from the flood of sounds that poured into the breached dam. Then
the light blinked out as suddenly as it appeared. An arm speared
through the opening. Whatever clothing once covered the appendage
was long since gone. Mottled gray skin highlighted by black veins
tore upon the splintered hole. Rather than blood, the ghoul leaked
gelatinous muck from its new injury. The wood began to cave; I had
precious seconds before the dead surged inward.

Moving as quickly as I could, I set up the
same arrangement on the second window. It was difficult to
concentrate through the dizzying fumes. Through my peripheral
vision I saw movement from the other window. I looked over and saw
one of the zombies hanging halfway inside. The creature wore a
soiled black jacket with a black and gold football logo stitched
onto the sleeve. I recognized him immediately as my deadbeat
neighbor from across the street. Gore caked a face highlighted with
jet-black eyes. He flashed jagged teeth inside a rabid mouth. I
fired the gun twice once again then exhaled, relieved the vapors
hadn’t ignited. Before the opening could be filled I sent a high
kick into the face of my undead neighbor. It was unfortunate I
wasn’t able to enjoy the satisfaction of connecting my boot with
the bastard’s nose.

Then I ran. Without looking back, I ran.
Echoes from the failed fortifications thundered behind me. Gasoline
sloshed under my boots as I rapidly advanced down the hallway. I
could hear the dead tripping over one another as they began pouring
into the house. The sheer insanity of the circumstances added to
the questioning of reality that bombarded my thoughts. Any
hesitation would mean certain death. A shambling, ravenous stampede
began to funnel in my direction.

By the time I reached the bedroom door it was
clear I’d underestimated the voracity of the infected. In the
moment of panic I thought to close the flimsy door. The hollow
wooden obstruction wouldn’t stop them for more than a few seconds.
Those precious few seconds would have to do, because I had no
intention of being in the room when they did force their way into
my former sleeping sanctuary. If I hadn’t put my pack outside I’m
sure it would have been forgotten in the intense flight.

A less than calculated dive took my
midsection into the window frame. Pain surged throughout my body
and nearly broke my focus. The pain faded and warmth overtook my
midsection. With a quick pat I checked for visible bleeding. My
hand returned clean and I knew that the bleeding was going on
inside my chest cavity. The drumming on the bedroom door reminded
me that there wasn’t time to consider the gravity of my personal
plight.

I pulled the gas soaked gloves from my
shoulder and located the stick lighter, astonished that I was able
to connect the volatile pair through my trembling hands. An
immediate flash of combustion singed the hair off my knuckles. I
lobbed the flaming fuse as far as possible back into my bedroom.
The room flickered from the meteoric trail of fire. Vapors burst to
life before the gloves landed about three feet from the door. I had
to quickly close the trap planking before the fumes included me in
their equalizing judgment.

I heard the muffled crashing from the failed
bedroom door when I was barely five feet from the house. I allowed
myself a psychotic smirk from the vindictive thought of ghouls
crashing into a room filled with fire. My recent experiences with
the undead had taught me that fire was no deterrent to their
hunger. It was even more comforting knowing that flames should
quickly spread to the rest of the house. When the propane tank
heated enough to burst, the house should be filled to the brim with
zombies following the pack. Over the past few days I obsessively
fought through horrors to get here. Now I was burning the source of
my obsession down so that I could escape.