The Undead Situation (2 page)

A mom and pop grocery store stood across the street from my building, next to the book store. It looked thoroughly looted. Windows were nonexistent and rotting corpses lay on the ground. I figured there had to be some sweets still available in there, though. Who went for things like candy when the mindless dead were seeking them out? No one, of course, but I got grouchy without a good sugar fix. I was also bored and wanted to leave.

Even though the streets looked abandoned, there was no way the undead weren’t waiting in the shadows for lunch to come strolling by. I’d have to be cautious.

A simple backpack would suffice for raiding. It was big enough to hold a lot, but wouldn’t get too heavy and weigh me down. After a thorough search of my apartment, I dug up a crowbar to use as a silent melee weapon. I was taking my 9mm, not because I was trigger happy but because it was necessary. Despite my abundance of ammo, using the gun would only draw more attention. A gun shot was a dinner bell; one I didn’t want to ring.

Weeks had passed since I had last left the apartment. I wasn’t sure I could step out of it without being eaten alive by the pesky undead. But I had to try.

After unlocking the three deadbolts and removing the extra wooden plank across my door, I peeked out. The hallway was scattered with random junk and the walls were smeared with dried blood. Only one or two of the apartments were open. Down the hallway was an elevator next to emergency stairs. The elevator was partially closed, with half a corpse wedged between its doors. The door to the stairs was closed.

When I passed the open doors, I shut them as quietly as possible. I wasn’t sure if zombies could open doors, but it wouldn’t hurt to close them. One of the rooms revealed a man, an undead bag of skin and bones, who had apparently hanged himself early on. His throat was torn up, but he still tried to groan in relief at the sight of me. He swayed as he tried to come after me, overwhelmed that a meal finally stumbled his way. The rope was Kevlar, a material he’d often expressed fondness for. Between the quality of the rope and his barely existent weight, I wasn’t surprised he was still hanging.

His name was Rick Johnson, I remembered, as I stared at his face. Years ago, when I moved into the apartment, he tried desperately to invite me to dinner to meet his daughter. My lack of interest ended in a fight, after which we never spoke to one another again. That suited me just fine.

I shut that door, writing Rick and that story off all together.

Except for a dull thudding noise behind Apartment 8’s door, the creaking of Hang-Man’s rope, everything was quiet. The silence was ominous, especially when I considered what horrors lay behind the closed doors. My mind ramped up with thoughts of ghouls eating themselves as a last resort, or just standing around in the rooms forever, or at least until someone came and killed them.

My luck held, and I made it down the flights of stairs without incident. The main and only entrance to the apartment wasn’t broken in any way, but why would it be? There wasn’t really anything to loot in here. Someone would have to be desperate to raid a low-class apartment building like mine.

Before I left the lobby downstairs, I studied the street from my new ground view. Paper and dark blood coated the sidewalks and the street. I could barely make out the asphalt from all the debris. There were body parts everywhere. Half a torso here, an arm there. One lower half still twitched, but since it couldn’t do me any harm, I didn’t care.

The carnage was interesting to look at—in a modern art kind of way—but I didn’t want to spend too much time surveying. This mission was a run in run out kind of deal. No matter how long I waited, or how hard I looked, they’d still be there.

Slowly, I pushed the door open and slipped through, glancing up and down the street. A single zombie stumbled out of a clothing boutique, but hadn’t noticed me yet.

His arms were gone, with only a few scraggly tendons and nerves left dangling from sockets. A hideous smashing of skin, bone, and muscle made up his face. I doubted he could even see, so I took advantage of his oblivion and made a dash across the street.

My boots slapped against the ground and echoed loudly. It couldn’t be prevented, but the noise made me cringe. Running was a zombie’s second favorite noise. It meant breakfast, lunch, or dinner. Maybe all three. (A Zs favorite noise was people screaming—that generally meant he got lucky.)

The grocery smelled foul before I even went inside. A thick scent bombarded me, choking me as it hit in waves. It wasn’t just the smell of rotting food. A body I had spotted earlier was slimy and covered in maggots. This one had been dead for a considerably long time and was extra gooey. (I never knew organs took on such bizarre colors when rotted.)

With my back pressed against the wall, I turned and peered through the corner of the broken window. I couldn’t spot any Zs above the short aisles, but they could be crawling or crouched too low for me to see. The whole place was the poster child of an apocalypse. Only a few items remained on the shelves. Rotting dairy products had turned green after falling from the refrigerators. There was a puddle of curdled green goop just beyond the doorway. I tried to breathe through my mouth and not acknowledge the stench.

Without thinking twice, I jogged into the store, stepping carefully as to avoid the wet patches on the ground. I shrugged my pack off and unzipped it, keen on shoving in as many goodies as possible. The candy section was practically untouched, save for a lone arm rotting near Snickers bars.

Glancing around, I pilfered Life Savers and listened intently for any zombies. A soft squeaking caught my attention as I stuffed Hostess cupcakes and Twinkies in the top of my backpack. As the squeaking grew louder, my pilfering sped up.

A torso pulled its way along the floor. It was a woman, once, but I could only tell because of her chest. Her hair had come off in clumps, leaving behind a ragged, bloody skull. Her face had been scoured off, leaving nothing but tattered gore behind. White, foggy eyes bulged out of her skull. Intestines followed behind her, creating bloody trails on the checkered linoleum floor.

I was quiet. Didn’t move a muscle. A slick pool of blood in front of her hindered her progress. Torso Woman ground her teeth in frustration and let out a loud, teetering groan as her arms thrashed about.

Somewhere outside a chorus of replies sounded off, reverberating down the street and into the store. My position had been given away. In a world infested with undead, if there were two entrances, then there was only one exit. The one you came in by would be the one zombies filed in through. For me that meant no exits. My luck with the immobile Torso Woman would run out once other, more capable zombies saw me.

After I zipped and secured the backpack, I approached the woman and killed her with one swift whack from my crowbar. I went to the entrance and took the risk of running straight out.

The armless zombie was steps away from me. I darted past him, scanning the street as I went. Behind him another two followed. To my other side, multiple Zs were staggering out of storefronts, excited by Torso Woman’s call.

My apartment was just a walk across the street. If I ran fast enough, I’d be able to shoot right by them without taking time to put them out of their misery. I took that option.

Gnarled hands grabbed at me as I barreled through, wrenching the door open the moment I was close enough. There was no time to lock it since they were right behind me, salivating for my flesh. Adrenaline carried me up the stairs faster than a hunted rabbit.

As I entered the hallway to my apartment, a zombie lunged from the side. My sidestep would’ve worked if there hadn’t been a sour patch of blood and other coagulated liquids resting on the maroon linoleum where my boot struck. Instead, I slipped and fell onto my back, the undead going right with me. His ridged hands clawed at me while he snapped his jaws at my exposed neck. Crowbar long forgotten, I reached into my holster for the 9mm while I held the pus laden beast away. With one burst of strength, I knocked him off and brought up the gun simultaneously, squeezing a bullet into his head. Grabbing the crowbar and holstering the handgun, I scrambled to my feet and rushed down the hallway. All the apartment doors I shut remained shut, except for mine which I had left open.

How could I have done something that dimwitted? I wanted to take my time and check the rooms, but couldn’t risk the delay, so I walked straight in, slamming the door shut. After quickly locking the bolts and dropping the extra board into position, I stood still and listened, already questioning my decision to lock up so early. But I’d rather fight one or two Zs trapped inside than the horde coming from outside.

No noises gave away an undead, but that didn’t mean one wasn’t there. Crowbar on the ready, I glimpsed into my spare room. It was empty, as was the bathroom next to it. Leaning the other way, I took a step forward, glancing into my bedroom. It, too, was clear.

I went to the end of the hall, which opened up into the living area, and stopped cold. In the corner of the room, near my records, a woman swayed back and forth, facing the wall. Adorned in a tweed business suit with minor rips and stains, she appeared relatively normal. Her hair was still up in a tight bun, revealing mottled gray skin. The only giveaway was a bullet wound through the back of her neck.

She turned around slowly then caught sight of me. Her on switch triggered, she lurched forward, trying to close the distance between us. I took a step down the hall and watched as she stumbled, almost losing her footing. With steady hands, I gripped the crowbar and raised it above my head, waiting for her to stand up.

I brought the curved end down, lodging it into the top of her head. She snarled and gnashed her teeth at me, trying to move forward, but I held her at bay with the crowbar. It didn’t go in deep enough to actually kill her, but it kept her at a safe distance.

Thick brown liquid dribbled down her chin as she swung her arms out. I pushed her back, using the crowbar as leverage, until we were both on the balcony. Good thing I left the sliding glass door open.

Cracking indicated her skullcap was going to give way. I pushed her until she was at the edge of the railing, gave the crowbar a quick tug, releasing it and a chunk of bone. Before she had the chance to lunge at me, I gave her a hard kick in the chest, knocking her back, sailing down to the hard asphalt below. Her body landed at an odd angle and the back of her skull exploded. Safe at last, I tapped the crowbar on the railing until the piece of skull and hair fell off.

Inside, I dumped out my backpack on the dining room table. Candy scattered everywhere, and I sorted it by level of deliciousness, like a little kid on Halloween.

Mission accomplished.

* * *

I stopped keeping track after awhile. What was the point in keeping track of days when you didn’t have anything to do? No appointments, no dates, no work. Nothing. I didn’t have a calendar to begin with, so it didn’t matter. (Actually, now that I think about it, I didn’t have obligations before either. Only nowadays, I couldn’t leave the apartment if I wanted to. That was really the only difference of pre-apocalyptic life for me.)

Resources were not an issue. The city water had stopped flowing a long time ago, but water was easy enough to collect. I set every container possible outside to catch rain, which worked out well since I lived in Washington. I transferred full containers to the bathtub whenever possible.

Entertainment was an issue. Guns & Ammo didn’t amuse forever, which forced me to search the apartment for something else to do. There were a couple boxes of my old college books, so I set to work on those.

I read them all, then I read them again. If I had that kind of determination while in college, I might’ve stuck around. But I didn’t, and I don’t regret it. The apocalypse made me a smarter person. I wonder if the same could be said about other survivors.

(Ah, the history of college…Instead of finishing my degree in pharmacy, I found a buddy who forged an entire background for me. I got all the benefits of having the degree, without the work or debt. The whole idea seemed clever to me, and landed me jobs in drugstores.)

After I finished reading all those college books, I understood physics. My mind grasped how a light year worked, and I could recount the evolutionary history of man in a heartbeat. Even the lighter books were appealing, like art history or geography. If the world was ever rebuilt, I’d be one hell of a commodity.

For now, however, book smarts were useless at the end of an apocalypse day, so when I wasn’t reading, I was building my strength. If I let my body deteriorate, I’d definitely regret that. Every day I’d do as many exercises as I could remember, then I’d make up a couple.

* * *

Neighbors have books
, I realized one afternoon, upon finishing my fifth Guns & Ammo collage. Boredom often invoked irrational actions, and seeking literature in insecure rooms fell into the “irrational” category. But since my level of boredom was high, I ventured into the unlocked apartments, hauling out as many books as I could.

I avoided Apartment 8 and Rick’s place. No need to see him again. The thumping was relentless.

My book stock refreshed, I set to work. Even the kids’ books were appealing. Who knew Nancy Drew had it in her to solve so many mysteries? I had a good thirty or so of those, courtesy of a little girl’s room in 7, and read every one of them twice.