Eat, Prey, Decay: 7 Tales of the Apocalypse (Zombie, Dark Fantasy, Dystopian, Horror, & Post-Apocalyptic Boxed Set), page 4
I raised the Magnum. Just as my grandma lunged at me, I shot her between the eyes. She fell with a thud.
You see, my darling, kill-shot, I heard her say, and then I heard her no more.
Her body twisted once then fell into a peaceful slumber. I dropped to my knees beside her. Every fiber of my being wanted to pick her up and hold her. But then I remembered, the man from the CDC had said to avoid physical contact. I saw she had terrible bite marks on her hands.
“I love you,” I whispered then rose, wiping tears from my eyes. I went to the tack room at the side of the barn and opened the door. There I found a Yamaha dirt bike, another of Grandma’s recent purchases. I jumped on. It started with a kick. Careful to close and lock the gate behind me, I gunned the engine and peeled down Fox Hollow Road.
Chapter 6
Fox Hollow Road emptied at the base of Morrigon Hill. I made a sharp right toward the elementary school. I drove across the playground. At its other end, I found myself perched at the top of Kelly Street which looked down toward the community center. There were 50 or more of the sick outside. The crush of them had nearly broken down the door. The only other exit, the door to the medical center, was also surrounded.
Help them. I breathed deeply—in, out—I turned the bike and gunned it.
Moments later I dropped down onto Main Street. Around me, five or six of the diseased were moving toward the community center. I pulled out the Glock. “Brain activity,” the man had said, “brain activity.” I raised the gun and fired directly toward the brains of the sick, the…undead who lunged at me. The first three shots were a hit. For the last two, I missed again and again. Finally, I took down the woman. Just as he reached me, I managed to hit an over-sized man who I didn’t recognize until the last second as Mr. Lewis, the hardware store owner. The realization made me feel sick to my stomach. He’d always been so kind, so funny, always had some stupid joke to share. And I’d shot him in the head. The sadness of everything threatened, but I blocked it out. I had to.
Distracted by the gun shots, some of the undead at the community center turned toward me.
“Please, please help me,” I whispered, not sure who I was praying to. I pulled out one of the grenades and gunned the bike again. I dodged a few of the undead who tried to grab me, getting in as close as I could to the community center and the mass of undead crowded there, then slowed the bike for a split second. Pull the pin. Toss. Hit the gas.
The bike tire squealed as I hit the gas hard, turning toward the baseball field across from the community center. Seconds later the grenade exploded. The bodies of the undead flew everywhere. The roof of the community center porch collapsed, trapping the others.
Looking dazed, a group of about twenty or so undead began walking toward me. I sat still, letting them get a fix on me. Once they had clustered closely, I lobbed another grenade then tore out of there. It exploded with a bang that made my ears ring. Once I had gotten out of harm’s reach, I stuffed a cartridge into the Colt. I hit the gas, speeding back onto Main Street. I was then thankful I had spent my youth and early adult life in fencing practice. With balance and dexterity that can only be acquired over time, I managed to drive with one hand and shoot with the other. I set off a spray of bullets into the remaining undead who wandered about aimlessly, confused by the sounds. I peeled the bike around and made a second pass, shooting any newcomers drawn in by the sound. At last, after several more shots, I didn’t see any more of the undead moving. The place was still.
I pulled the bike into the parking lot and unsheathed the shashka. I stared at the building. I was only thirteen when my grandmother and I had come to the community center for a white elephant sale. Ethel, who was manning a benefit table, had asked my grandma if she could bring by a few donations. Grandma always had more knick-knacks than anyone could need. She’d come up with a box full of trinkets.
“What is a white elephant sale?” I remembered asking my grandma.
It was a windy spring day. It had been raining all morning, and light mist still dampened the air. Much to my teenage embarrassment, my grandma had donned her heavy yellow rain slicker and put on a plastic rain bonnet. She also wore three pink curlers in the front of her hair. No matter how long she wore those same three pink curlers, her bangs never curled. I huddled beside her under a partially broken black umbrella. Grandma had tried to give me a rain bonnet, but I couldn’t take the humiliation.
“Ehh, it is like a yard sale. People sell their junk to each other,” she replied as we walked toward the entrance.
“But why white elephant?”
“All a white elephant does is stand around, eat, and get looked at. What good does it do anyone?” she answered as she pushed open the door.
The room was full of treasure hunters, tables loaded down with tchotchkes, and town busybodies.
“Look around,” my grandma directed as she headed toward Ethel’s table.
I waved at Summer who sat beside her mother then went on a hunt for white elephants. Grandma was right. The place was full of junk. I passed table after table of glass vases, figurines, broken toys, old prom gowns, musty smelling luggage, and assorted dried flower arrangements. On one table, however, I found something unique. Mr. Beecher, a reptile of an old man, had recently closed up his antique shop. Displayed on his table, he had a number of leftover oddities. At once I was drawn to an old sword that lay amongst fishing gear, pocket knives, antique pens, and stainless steel lighters. I lifted the sword, but Mr. Beecher cautioned me.
“Careful, little Ruskie, it’s sharp,” he said.
I glared at him and pulled the sword from the scabbard. It was like love at first sight.
My grandmother came up beside me. “A shashka,” she said. “Where did you find that?” she asked Mr. Beecher.
“Auction,” he replied simply.
“What you want for it?” Grandma asked him.
Mr. Beecher turned serious. “Twenty.”
“Ehh, no, no, no. I give you ten.”
“Fifteen.”
“I say I’ll give you ten so I’ll give you ten.”
My grandmother never lost a negotiation. After a few more tries, Mr. Beecher finally consented, and Grandma started digging around in her sewing bag for the money. Ten dollars wasn’t much, but for an old woman looking after a young girl, it was a fortune.
“Just look. Only someone like that would buy a sword for a little girl to play with,” a woman sitting at the table next to Mr. Beecher whispered to her friend. The friend, a woman in a bright pink dress, laughed.
The three of us looked at the women. Giggling, they looked away. I recognized the woman who had gossiped about my grandma. She’d been to our house before. My grandmother looked long and hard at them both. She then turned, smiled at Mr. Beecher as she handed him the ten, and nodded to me that it was time to go. Her hand on my shoulder, she directed me toward the door.
“Thanks again,” Ethel, who had not heard the rude comment, called with a wave.
My grandma smiled at Ethel but paused as we passed the gossips. “Next time you ask me if your husband is cheating, I won’t lie to save your feelings. Talk to your friend. She knows more about it than I do,” Grandma said. “You see, Layla, fools are not sown, they grow by themselves,” she added then we left.
With my white elephant in hand, I smiled up at my grandma.
Now I moved toward the door of the same community center. A few of the fallen bodies twitched. A woman whose arms had been blow off by the grenade snapped at me. A snarling man who’d been blown in half pulled himself toward me. While I didn’t recognize them, my heart felt heavy. This was my home. These were my townspeople lying under the roof: neighbors, old friends, classmates. It was abhorred to realize. I felt nauseous. Sighing deeply, I ended their lives. I then climbed onto the collapsed roof and carefully made my way to the door. Before I reached the entrance, two more of the undead appeared. Taking careful aim, I shot them.
When I got to the door, it was locked. I paused for a moment then knocked.
Jamie, Ian’s older brother, opened the door. “Holy Christ, Layla! Is the Army out there or what?” he said looking over my shoulder. Seeing nothing, he looked me over, weapons hanging from every part of my body. “Jesus Christ,” he said aghast and pulled me into a hug, dragging me inside. I suddenly felt overcome by everything that had just happened. I leaned heavily on Jamie. My body shook. I closed my eyes, but then realized everyone must have been looking at me. I took a deep breath and stepped back.
I recognized most of the faces in the room. Neighbors, teachers, the Ladies Auxiliary, the firemen, all faces I knew though some names I did not quite remember. Several people were injured. The school nurse, Mrs. Finch—how white her hair had become—was going from person to person trying to mend wounds.
My eyes scanned the room for Ian. He was kneeling on the floor beside Kristie who was bleeding profusely from a shoulder wound. She appeared to be in intense pain.
“Jamie, more will be drawn in by the noise. They are scattered everywhere, all over the town,” I said, forcing myself to look away, to focus on something else.
Jamie nodded. “All right guys, we need to post a watch until we get ourselves together. Everyone with a gun muster up,” Jamie called then turned to organize the group
Several of the men came up to me.
“Was that you out there, Layla?” Tom, one of the firefighters, asked. Tom had been in Jamie’s class in school. Too shy to ask himself, he once sent his younger sister to ask me if I would go to a dance with him. Unfortunately for both Tom and me, I said no. I had a crush on a boy named Ian Campbell. As I looked up at Tom, however, I remembered that I’d always found his hazel eyes striking.
I nodded.
“Nice shooting,” Gary, a squeaky little man with thick glasses, added. I remembered Gary somewhat. He used to come to Grandma’s cabin to help her with her taxes. Gary shook my hand then followed Jamie’s band of armed men outside.
“Thank you, oh, thank you, Layla,” Ethel said, coming to kiss my cheeks. “Layla, where is Grandma Petrovich?”
I looked down and fought back my tears. Unable to speak, I just shook my head.
“Oh no,” Ethel cried out, and turned, putting her head on Summer’s shoulder.
“Sorry, Layla,” Summer said and set her hand on my arm, “but thank you all the same. Good lord, where did you get those guns?” she asked absently as she guided her mother toward a seat.
I looked back into the room. Ian was calling for water. Kristie’s cousin, April, was hovering over them. Kristie had gone into a seizure.
I followed the armed group outside. A couple of gunshots rang out as they took down a few of the approaching undead.
“Man, that’s Mr. Corson. Here you go, asshole. Thanks for failing me in Chemistry,” Jeff, Kristie’s cousin, said with a laugh as he fired at the approaching man.
“Not cool, brother,” Will, a high school aged relative of Summer and Ethel, chided him.
I leaned against the handicapped railing and looked at the bodies lying under the collapsed roof. Their arms and legs stuck out. I felt like I might be sick.
Jamie came and stood beside me. He eyed me over. “What are you doing here, Layla?”
I opened my mouth to explain when April came to the door. “Jamie, we can’t talk any sense into Ian. Kristie’s gone. We gotta put her down before she turns. He won’t listen. Please, come help.”
Jamie turned. I half followed but then heard Jeff.
“Someone ask Layla to do it. I’m sure she’d have no problem,” he said.
Jamie stopped. “Can that shit right now, man. That’s your cousin dying in there,” he said, silencing Jeff. Then, casting an apologetic glance toward me, he went inside.
I turned back. Overhead, a hawk shrilled and flew out toward the lake. The creature had no the world was ending.
Then I heard grunting behind me. I turned to find a young child, perhaps seven or so years old, running toward me. Her mouth was dripping with bloody saliva. My hands shook. I pulled out the Magnum. I raised the gun and aimed. I couldn’t pull the trigger. The little girl kept getting closer.
“Layla,” I heard Tom call in warning behind me.
The girl got closer. I couldn’t do it.
“Layla,” Tom called again, panic filling his voice. A second later, a shot rang out. The girl fell with a thud.
I turned to look. Ian was standing on the collapsed roof, gun in his hand.
His eyes met mine. He cast me a knowing glance then went inside. Moments later, another shot—inside the building—was fired. I knew then that Kristie was dead.
Chapter 7
It took about two hours before the undead who had been drawn to the community center were dispatched. Inside, discussion then argument began about what to do next.
I stood by the door and listened. Tom, Mr. Jones who owned the local gas station, Jamie who had done two tours in Iraq as a medic, Pastor Frank from the Baptist Church, and Mrs. Finch seemed to be leading the discussion. Many of the others looked too scared or too shell-shocked to think let alone talk. Ian sat on the floor near Kristie’s body, her face covered by someone’s coat. He stared absently at his hands.
“What the hell are we gonna do now?” Jeff asked as he removed his hat and rubbed his sweaty forehead with his forearm.
“We need to gather all in one place,” Mrs. Finch said, her finger pointing.
“No. We are safer in our own homes,” Mr. Jones said.
“And what would I do in my house by myself? I don’t have any guns. I have no way to protect myself. And lights are going to go off soon,” Mrs. Finch retorted, her hands waving.
The more they talked, the more scared the rest of the group looked. Frenchie Davis’ two children, apparently the only two kids yet to survive, clung to their mother.
“We should get out of town. We need to head toward a military base. We need to get somewhere safe, get help,” Tom suggested looking at each of us in turn.
“The nearest base is more than 300 miles. We’ll never make it,” Jamie replied calmly.
“We don’t even know what caused it,” Mr. Jones said. “It could be anything. The food we eat. The water we drink. Something else in the environment. We don’t even know if we can eat the supplies we have. All of us could still get sick. With the T.V. out, we’ve no idea what’s happening.”
“The 911 system went down yesterday, and now the phones are totally dead,” Mrs. Finch added.
“Could be a bioweapon, a terrorist attack,” Tom suggested.
Jamie shook his head. “Whatever it is, I heard it hit Canada too. It’s spreading.”
“It could simply be the wrath of God,” Pastor Frank said solemnly.
Mrs. Finch frowned. “We need help. We need to all get together then head to a shelter, a base, something,” she said, her fist pounding her hand to emphasize her words.
And on they went. Some voices started to rise. The louder they got, the more unsettled everyone else seemed. The children started to cry. Finally, at some point, no one could hear anyone else over the shouting.
I noticed then that there was an air horn canister on the shelf beside me. Frustrated, I picked it up and blew the horn. The wooong silenced the room.
“Right now we have no idea how many people are still alive in this town. We need to secure this place and get an accounting. First, we need to clear the dead bodies—we can bury them in the baseball field. Then we need to go around and see how many people are hiding in their houses. Once we have everyone accounted for, we can call a meeting and ensure people like Mrs. Finch are paired with others and can be kept safe—maybe we could use the elementary school as a base. This town is easy to defend. The lake has us protected on one side. The forest is on the other. There are only two roads and one bridge leading into this place. We need to get the town cleaned up then barricade the roads and put guards there.”
“Well, Ms. Ancient-Warfare-Know-it-All,” April began, “what about the bridge?”
Knowing how much April loved Kristie, I let it go. “We blow it up.”
The room went silent.
“And how do we do that? I guess I could Google it, but the world just came to a fucking end,” Jeff said.
“Larry’s Tree and Stump Removal—he has dynamite.”
Silence.
“She’s right. We hunker down. We keep each other safe. Most of us here can hunt and fish. We can secure this place,” Jamie said.
I smiled at Jamie.
With a half-smile, he tipped the brim of his hat toward me.
“Until help comes, right?” Ethel asked hopefully. Her obliviousness to the situation saddened me.
Jamie smiled softly at her. “Ethel…everyone…the reality is that help is not on the way. No reserves have been dispatched to Hamletville. I mean, they could barely evac New Orleans after Katrina. We’re not exactly high up on a government list of priorities.”
“We can be safe here, if we stick together,” I offered.
Not everyone looked sure, but after some consideration, the survivors agreed to be divided into teams. Some were sent to patrol the streets. Some were sent to gather supplies and convene at the elementary school. Fred Johnson went to the town garage to get a backhoe to bury the dead. Jeff and a handful of others headed off to Larry’s Tree and Stump Removal. After his comment outside, I secretly wished Jeff would blow himself up. We’d decided that two rings on the fire alarm meant assemble at the elementary school gymnasium, four rings if help had arrived, and six rings meant danger. Everyone was given medical gloves and strict advice to avoid touching dead bodies.
Ian and April moved Kristie’s body from the community center to the baseball field. I watched Ian go. He did not look back. I went back to my dirt bike and got on. The body of the little girl still lay in the parking lot. I couldn’t look at it.
I was about to kick start the engine when Jamie came up to me. “Where are you headed?”
“Home. I need to bury my grandma.”
Jamie set his hand on my shoulder. His curly light brown hair, wet with sweat, stuck to his forehead. His blue eyes shined in the sunlight. He inhaled then exhaled heavily. “Sorry, Layla. Let me come help you.”
