Zombie Fallout 12 Page 15

  “Ow, you little shit!” Marcus kicked out with his right leg and connected hard, sending the boy angrily spinning away. But it was too late; he’d been heard. It was dark, but not so dark we couldn’t see the nearby zombies beginning to converge.

  “You alright?” I asked as I helped him up as best I could.

  “He bit me.”

  “Did he break the skin?” Whenever a bite broke skin it was cause for concern; I didn’t know at the time just how much.

  “Maybe.” He was bending over to look.

  “We have to go.” I pulled on his arm.

  “Laura, I’m hurting, here.”

  “I know, but we don’t have time to think about it.” We had twenty feet on the closest of them–except for the tenacious boy who would not quit. He was back up and raring to go. “Didn’t your mama feed you?” I pushed on his shoulder, snatching my hand back just as he turned to bite where my fingers had been.

  By the time we made it off the sand, Marcus was walking with a more natural gait, though he had a slight limp from where the boy had bit. There was a hotel up the street; the lights were on but they had not attracted the type of company we wanted to keep. Every once in a while we could see and hear muzzle flashes and bullets coming from broken-out windows higher up. All in all, it was a place we wanted to avoid. The only good thing about it was that the light and sound were bringing in all the zombies from the area. The bad thing was we needed to cross the street but there was a slow parade going by. Where we were, we were mostly hidden in the embankment; it offered shelter from those looking for a meal, but not from the elements. The wind had picked up and the temperature was dropping. If I remember correctly, that morning my weather app had called for a fifty percent chance of rain, but given the current set of circumstances, it was most likely up to eighty or ninety percent by now. As if cued by my sour thoughts, I felt a large drop hit me square on the forehead.

  “I wonder if we should have just stayed in tonight,” Marcus said. I looked over to him; he was smiling.

  “This is somehow funny to you?”

  “Absurd, actually.” He kept on smiling, but then hid his face as he stifled a sneeze. My eyes grew wide. A group of teenagers were walking by; I was watching to see if any of them would react to the noise. I liked it so much better when they had their noses tattooed to their cell phones and only acted like zombies.

  “Look who’s back.” He was pointing behind us.

  “Shhh.” I motioned with my hand, all of my attention on the group. When the immediate danger passed, I turned to look. “Wow, you must really taste good.”

  “It’s the Nikes.” He held up his trainer; the front looked darker than the rest.

  “Street’s clear enough. Let’s go.”

  “We trying for the car?” he asked.

  “Maybe tomorrow. Tonight, we just need to get inside somewhere.”

  “You think the dogs are all right?”

  “As long as Danielle doesn’t open the door, nothing is getting to them through the fence in the backyard. I’m glad you convinced me to spend the money for the extra security.”

  “Bulldogs, Laura. Can’t be too careful. You know how many people would try to steal them?”

  “Personally, I think you watch too many crime shows.”

  Marcus pahed me as we moved as quickly as we could across. “A guy on 28th killed a man for thirty bucks and his shoes; what do you think he would have done for a bulldog?”

  “We already have the fence. You don’t have to keep arguing the point.”

  “I just hope they’re safe,” Marcus said.

  “Me too, honey.” Once across, there was a large apartment building. We checked it out for a long time and didn’t see any movement. “Got an idea,” I said as we began to move again. We circled to the far side of the building and went down a short flight of concrete stairs. “Thank you, God,” I said as I twisted the unlocked knob to the apartment building’s laundry room.

  “I knew I married you for a reason,” Marcus said, peeling off his clothes as we walked in, not even bothering to check our surroundings. “Brilliant,” he muttered.

  “What are you doing?” I wanted to punch him.

  “We’re in a laundry room…I’m gonna get some clothes. What do you think I’m doing?”

  “Oh right.” I hadn’t even meant it to be that fortuitous, but I’d take the credit.

  “This is heavenly!” Marcus tossed me a towel that was still warm from the dryer. Fifteen minutes later we had found enough clothes to wear to keep an orphanage warm through the upcoming winter. The only thing we couldn’t change out were our shoes, and I wasn’t about to announce our location by having them tumble around in a dryer, though, judging by the lighting, it looked like the power was off anyway. We had pulled out most of the clean clothes and made an impromptu bed; it was a good long while before Marcus came out of the cocoon of clothing he had made for himself.

  “I was in a bit of trouble there, Loo. I want to say thank you for helping me.”

  “Totally selfish reasons…you pick up most of the puppy poo,” I told him as I gave him a light kiss. “Are we going to get back there? I can’t think of much worse than something bad happening to those magnificent little beasts.”

  “We’ll get there. We’ll get a fresh start in the morning; hopefully by then whatever is going on will be over.”

  I wanted to believe him and I almost did, right up until there was a soft thud at the door. I would have ignored it, if it hadn’t happened again. We had set up our camp on the far side of the laundry room, a bank of machines between us and the door. Marcus got up to check what was going on.

  “What are you doing?”

  “Seeing if someone needs our help.”

  We’d locked the door; if I had my way we would have put a machine in front of it as well, but Marcus was concerned we might need to leave in a hurry or that someone might need to get in quickly.

  He’d walked half-way across the room before he stopped. “Jesus Christ,” he said; tough to tell if it was in reverence or as a swear.

  “What?” I was nervous to look.

  “That kid is here.” He didn’t need to elaborate; I knew exactly who he was referring to. “He’s like a bloodhound! I hate to say it, hell I hate even to think it, but I feel like we should have killed him when we had the chance.”

  “I don’t know what chance you’re referring to Marcus. Do you mean when he was trying to gnaw through your shoe? Or when you were scrabbling in the sand to get away?”

  “Smart ass.”

  “And we can’t just go around killing people, especially kids. What if we find out he’s just got some weird sickness that passes in twenty-four hours?”

  “Pretty sure this isn’t a food poisoning problem from the fair.”

  “You don’t know that! Could be tainted churros.”

  “Loo, the kid tried to eat me.”

  I wanted to forget this day had ever happened, pretend that everything that was going on was some elaborate hoax. Maybe a demonstration of sorts or a military training exercise. But it would be impossible to forget those people that had been pulled apart and eaten or the ones destroyed by the Octopus ride.

  “So what are you going to do? You can’t let him in.”

  “No, I suppose you’re right. Maybe he’ll leave.”

  I don’t think either of us believed that. It was a great many minutes before Marcus rejoined me on our bed. We did not get much sleep that night as the child repeatedly banged his head into the door. I was glad that on my third walk around the room I stumbled upon Jenny Addison’s notebook, replete with a rainbow and unicorn cover. I decided while Marcus slept that I was going to write down everything that had happened today. Maybe it was because it would make the events more concrete, I could stop wandering around like I was in a dream, a surreal dream. But more importantly, I’m not all that confident we’re going to get home. I hope it’s just the night that is making my spirits so bleak, that when the sun ri
ses so will my hopes. But right now, I feel like I am writing my last words. If that’s the case, I want to leave a record of who we were/are. That, and I need for anyone that sees this to please, PLEASE go to my house at 436 Crescent Street, Long Island, and check on my dogs. We have three adult English Bulldogs and six puppies from two different litters. Please! They don’t deserve this. I’m going to sleep now, hopefully all this worry and panic will have been for naught. God Bless America.

  Chapter 8

  The Demise

  “Geez, hon…I was going to cuddle with you, but you’re like eleven hundred degrees.” Laura reached around and touched her husband’s forehead. Her hand was wet with sweat when she pulled it away. “Fever must be from the cold water.”

  Marcus grunted a reply.

  Laura fell back to sleep, hoping he would be better in the morning. When she awoke, a thick ribbon of bright sunlight was streaming through the sidelight window.

  “Better,” she said as she sat up and stretched. She reached over to shake her husband awake. “How are you feeling?” He was slow to turn; when he did, she screamed. His face was blue, mottled with lines of red and purple. His eyes were clouded over and opaque. The thumping at the door, which had continued through the entire night, increased as the boy sensed that his prize was now in danger of being claimed by another.

  “Marcus…?” Laura asked, simultaneously wanting to help him and get away. An alien sound gurgled forth from his throat and open mouth. Marcus sat up, his eyes never leaving his wife’s. If he had not gotten tangled by the small mountain of sweaters wrapped around his legs, he would have grabbed hold of her long before she could get her feet underneath her.

  “Stop!” she pleaded as she headed for the door, thankful that she had heeded her husband’s advice and not barricaded it. She still had the child to think of, but between the two dangers she was exposed to, she’d take her chance with the smaller. “Come on, come on!” She fumbled with the lock, never daring to take her gaze off her husband. When she opened the door, she realized the boy had brought his entire extended family with him to the party. She tried to shut and latch the door again. It was all in vain as her head was wrenched violently back. Blood plumed from the rend in her flesh. The boy zombie and his father came to join in the feast, when they were done they headed out to the boardwalk in search of another meal.

  Chapter 9

  Mike Journal Entry 7

  “Holy shit.” At some point while reading, I had gotten up and started walking around the destroyed Octopus ride. When I finished, I’d already made up my mind.

  “No!” BT roared when I told him what I wanted to do.

  I ignored him as I asked Winters how far the address in the journal was from where we were.

  “Mike, I understand they’re bulldogs and for whatever reason, you have an affinity for the slobbering fools. But it’s a zombie apocalypse and even if they escaped the first barrage, what makes you think they could survive out in the wild? I love Henry; I do. He’s a wonderful dog, and yeah, he sounds an alarm once in awhile, but do you think he’s capable of going out on a hunt? Of dragging down food? He gets tired heading to the kitchen. I’ve seen him fall asleep mid-migration. If a rabbit doesn’t willingly walk into his jaws, he isn’t going to catch it.” BT was not going to let it go. Thing was, neither was I.

  “This is a sign,” I said as I shook the notebook in his face.

  “You’re the last person that needs another portent to how crazy you are.”

  “Ten miles,” Winters said, looking up from his map. “And it avoids the zombie horde. There’s a way we could go, swing us right around; this address is on the way.”

  BT shot him a glance that made the other man begin intensely studying what was in his hands.

  “You heard him. It does not distract from what we already have to do.”

  If BT’s body had been supplied with gaskets, they would have blown.

  “Five minutes! Five minutes to check the house out. That’s it.” BT turned and was heading back to his van.

  “Mount up, people! We’re heading out.”

  “Zombies have cleared out?” Stenzel asked.

  “Detour. We’re going around,” I told her. She knew something was up by the way BT was storming around, but left it at that.

  Winters turned off his radio. “Sir, it’s not technically on our way; it will work to get us around the zombies, but it’s going to add forty-five minutes to our timeline. That’s without meeting any problems.”

  “Will we still make the departure time?”

  “Just, and that’s if you take the Gunney’s five-minute search to heart.”

  “Thank you for your discretion.”

  “About that promotion.”

  “Ah. An ulterior motive. We’ll talk when we get back.”

  “Fair enough, sir.”

  We made good time; in a half an hour we were standing at the top of a cul-de-sac. The house was a beautiful ranch style in a suburb I don’t think I could have even afforded the taxes on. The neighborhood was quiet; it hadn’t always been that way, though, as the shell casings, blood stains, and carcasses would attest to. But right now, yeah, it was eerily quiet.

  “Make this quick. Someone around here sees a black man they’re likely to call the cops.” BT was looking around, he had his mean face on.

  “I’d call if I saw you; you’re a terrifying man.”

  “Good,” he replied to me.

  “Better get moving, sir.” Winters was looking at his watch.

  I looked to the journal, making sure I had the right address. I was nervous, like butterflies before a first date nervous. And afraid, too; afraid of what I might find in there. Humans, zombies…those were one thing, but something about seeing a dog injured or killed just shredded my heart. That’s a weird feeling…now that I’m thinking about it. What’s that say about me if I’m more concerned about the fate of a dog? Well, that’s not entirely true; if we’re talking family and friends it's very comparable, but the populace in general? Wait, did I say it was comparable to the loss of a friend? Maybe I’ll just let that thought lie dormant; some things are better left without voice.

  “Why am I here?” I asked myself as I placed my hand on the doorknob. The idea that any dog would be all right alone for all this time, never mind the new set of predators, was ludicrous, especially this particular breed. And now, even if they were doing well, what were the odds that they would want anything to do with me? They were puppies no longer and had not had human influence in a good long while; if they were alive, it was very likely they were feral. Seemed strange to picture an English Bulldog as feral, like, it would take too much energy to be ferocious, but I suppose it could happen. The door was unlocked. I didn’t take that as a good sign, though if it was locked, I’m not sure that position would have changed. I took one step across the threshold and the feeling of dread increased, the smell was not a pleasant one.

  The house was destroyed, but not in the zombie invasion type of way. Hope surged as I looked upon them; furniture destroyed by chewing, carpet well and truly soiled. There had been untended puppies here, no doubt about that. Now the question was, were they still here, and if so, would they be happy to see me or angered I had invaded their space?

  “Hello?” I asked shakily. No response. I walked through the narrow foyer and took a right; there was a small area in the living room sectioned off with plastic panels. This must have been where the puppies were kept. I gulped before I looked in, fearful for what I would find. I almost laughed, so thankful was I when it was merely overturned bowls, ripped up toys, and very old excrement. The gate that was supposed to keep them penned-in had been chewed clean through, a decent puppy-sized hole at the bottom.

  “Well, they got out,” I said the words aloud, mostly as a way to alleviate the quiet. If the rest of the house was a whirlwind of destruction, the kitchen was the epicenter. Cabinet doors had been ripped free in an attempt to get at the food inside, even the ones high up, which gi
ven the average height of a bulldog, was a mystery to me as to how it had been done. The table and chairs were on their sides, the fridge door had been pulled open, Tupperware containers ripped through, and a semi-solid, thick crust of spilled and dried condiments coated a fair portion of the floor. At least I hoped the brownish colored detritus was old mustard and ketchup.

  Once through the kitchen, I looked to the left where there was a series of kennels, seven in total. Six were empty. My heart jumped up into my throat where it was firmly lodged as I looked upon a large lump. It was covered by a dog bed, but it would be hard to ignore what the shape underneath was.

  “Poor pup,” was all I could manage to say with my heart pressed against my vocal cords. The timer in my head was quickly running out and as of yet, I’d not discovered anything to make me think this wasn’t a waste of time in addition to something that I would not soon forget–pretty much the definition of a double whammy. I was turning to find my way out when I caught sight of something outside in the backyard. I was looking at the white rump of a bulldog staring at a fence. It was stock still, so much so I mistakenly thought it might be a statue. From this distance, I couldn’t be sure. I found the French doors that led out; the tenants here had been as kind to the doors as they had been to every other impediment placed in their way. Meaning that the paint had been completely gnawed away three feet up and one door was hanging askew.

  “Pup…?” I said cautiously as I went through. Nothing. Didn’t even turn its head to ignore me further, a common trait among bulldogs. “Puppers!” I said a bit louder, not wanting to startle it if it was real. The dog kept staring at the fence. “What’s wrong with you, girl?” I noticed she did not have any tackle gear. I was afraid she was sick–or worse. “Pretty girl.” I was halfway across the modest yard and still nothing. I finally saw her lift her head as if she smelled something. Her large head was swiveling my way just as I heard a grumble, sounded much like I figure a train barreling down on your location might.