Bowie V. Ibarra (5 page)

The sign of the cross.

“Amen.”

Looking out the window to check if the coast was clear, George exited the vehicle, closed the door and quietly began his mission as the five o’clock April sun bathed Branton and the surrounding area in a warm wash of light.

THE DASH ACROSS the street was swifter than expected as he positioned himself behind a tree, yards away from the school. Behind him, George noticed nothing peculiar by his car and the brush beyond it. Peering behind the tree towards the school, he saw the zombies were shambling around. It seemed like they hadn’t noticed him.

In front of the school there was a covered walkway supported by brick columns. They were too high to jump straight up to, George reasoned, but perhaps if he angled a jump from one of those brick pillars, reaching the roof could very well be possible.

George prowled to a red car in the parking lot for a closer look at the angle. Crouching behind the car, George checked all sides. He hadn’t been noticed by the walking corpses.

Not yet, at least.

Taking a deep breath, George sprinted across the bus lane in front of the school. Focusing on the pillar, George slowed his stride and leapt toward it.

Perhaps it was the speed, or maybe the shoes, but the first flight from the pole to the edge of the roof fell short and George crashed on the pavement of the walkway with a highly audible, “Oooof!”

A zombie a short distance away, who had been meandering meaninglessly in front of a window, turned his head at the noise and watched George stand up. It then began to stumble toward George, moaning in a relatively loud fashion.

George turned and saw the zombie walking his way. It was yards away, but at the clip it was advancing, George would only have a few moments to get the jump right. The zombie let out another wail. George began his second attempt.

Another zombie several yards away in the opposite direction heard the first zombie’s wail, turned, and saw George’s second attempt fail. It shambled towards him, releasing a hissing groan.

George made a third attempt. It failed.

The two zombies crept closer, their cries attracting more attention.

Fourth attempt, failed. Fifth. Failed.

“Fuck!”

In desperation, George reached for his gun, not caring that the blasts would attract more attention.

Fortunately, he wouldn’t have to worry about that because the gun wasn‘t there.

“FUCK!”

He realized then that he had left the gun in the car. In his obsession not to be seen, taking the gun off the passenger seat had completely slipped his mind.

So fucking stupid…

The zombies were yards away, but would be on him in seconds. He had a choice. Running to the car would only draw them to him, and George had no way of knowing if the path back to his car was clear now. Thinking about how he would be tailed, (perhaps from all sides if he ran to the vehicle now,) he pictured the car he saw in the ditch earlier.

That gave him the answer to what he needed to do.

“If at first you don’t succeed,” George mouthed as he jumped towards the pillar.

His right foot planted, his knee bent. He pushed himself off the concrete post and grabbed the roof, first with one hand, then the other. George pulled himself up as one of the creatures reached for his shoe. He felt fingertips brush his ankle as he pulled himself all the way up.

He made it.

The roof was surprisingly hot. The rocks spread across the tar on the roof were uncomfortable to sit and place his hands on, so he stood. He could hear and see zombies gathering below. Taking a deep breath, George closed his eyes and made the sign of the cross in appreciation.

Safe and swift.

He crept across the rooftop in the direction of the room he taught in, keeping out of view of the zombies below.

A gunshot fired in the distance. Smoke continued to billow into the sky from a neighborhood several miles away. What could have been a scream echoed from an unknown position far away.

George wondered how everything seemed to be falling apart in just a matter of days. Several days earlier he was entering grades for the end of the semester. Now he was running for his life. It was crazy how things came unraveled so fast.

George walked towards one of several skylights. This one was closest to his room. However, before he had a chance to smash it a thought crossed his mind.

How the hell are you going to unlock your door, genius?!

He hesitated. Plan B was now shot, especially considering that there might be monsters inside. The glass shattering would surely gather a crowd. He came up with another solution.

Nearing the edge of the main building, George scanned the grassy courtyard area behind the school. A practice football field was in the distance. Green grass and dandelions, as well as some weeds, decorated the spot.

Several zombies crept around the area. George counted at least five in the vicinity, with one solitary creature standing in the middle of the football field, facing away from the school. Three of the five were an immediate threat. They shuffled around below him, by his classroom, near the window he planned to break through and enter the building in. The zombies that were in the vicinity were far enough for George to take a chance, but too close to risk jumping down and smashing the window.

A distraction was in order. George figured these creatures were relatively smart, smart enough to follow a sound they might consider lunch, like a dog responding to a dinner time bell. It was the oldest trick in the book, but George figured it should work.

He picked up a rock from the roof and tossed it in the corner of the building.

The rock clapped against the white brick wall of the school, like a hand slapping flesh. It echoed across the building.

All five zombies turned their heads and looked toward the location of the rock clap.

George held his breath for a moment.

All five zombies then turned their heads and looked toward George on the roof.

“Fuckin’ shit, man,” groaned George as the zombies approached his position.

- Which also meant the window he planned to break through.

- Which also would mean the end of plan C.

George climbed to the edge of the rocky roof quickly, ignoring the pain the rocks caused his forearms and elbows.

Clumsily hanging from the roof, the hot tar and rocks biting his fingers, George fell to the ground, falling square on his back. The wind rushed out of his lungs for a moment, stunning him for several seconds. The zombies approached, slow but steady, emanating a bizarre gurgling vocalization.

Gasping air back into his lungs, George scrambled to his feet. He removed his red flannel and wrapped it around his fist. With the zombies drawing ever nearer, George caught a whiff of their collective funk as he punched in the glass window. After gagging, he cleared the glass from the window sill just enough to crawl through.

Before he could get completely through however, one of the creatures made it to him, grabbing him by the shoulders and trying to pull him back outside. George swiped the dead hands away, then ducked to his right, gaining momentum, and sent a hammer fist to the creature’s cods. It stumbled a bit, nearly regaining its balance before George pushed it down to the ground. Gagging again at the stench, he sprinted away toward the field. The quarters were getting a little tight and he needed a moment to regain his composure. He put his flannel back on, brushing off the stray bits of glass.

Creating a bit of distance between himself and the creatures, George looked to the ground for a stone. Though the zombie on the field was closer by a few yards, the other four near the window were the real issue that needed to be addressed. They all worked their way towards George, also therefore moving away from the now open window.

George saw a large stone in the ground, but it was stuck deep in the dirt. A brief attempt to remove it was futile. Rocks were useless -and if the previous rock usage was any indication -out of the question.

The zombies were closing in. Though George had an advantage in speed and agility, he still wanted a greater edge. Situating himself in the center of the advancing monsters, George stepped in a mud puddle near a leaking water sprinkler. It gave him an idea as the zombies almost encircled him, mere yards away.

Taking a large glob of mud into his right hand, George executed a front kick to the zombie from the field, delivering the boot square to the stomach. The creature collapsed from the blow, but not before regurgitating a gruesome black and red concoction of flesh, blood, and bile. George ignored some of the mess that stained his pants and, crouching down, he allowed the advance to continue.

When the lead zombie got close enough, George feinted left, drawing the creature that direction, then he pounced downward, grabbing the creature by the cuff of its pants and yanked it upward with all his might, causing the monster to perform an impromptu split, effectively knocking it to the ground. George maneuvered himself in line with the window, the mud dripping from his right hand. His plan was to smack one of the creatures in the face with the mud, blinding it temporarily, giving him a shot at the window. He didn’t need to get them all, just the one closest to the window. He saw an opening and took it.

Knocking away the hands of the two zombies closest to him, George rushed the one closest to the window and pied him perfectly in the face. Disoriented, the zombie was then shoved by George into the remaining two, knocking one to the ground and knocking the others off balance. While the other two were still trying to pick themselves off the ground, (the one kicked in the stomach was still regurgitating filth and the one that did the split could not get off the ground, probably due to a torn hamstring,) it gave George plenty of time to dash to the window, climb up, and enter his classroom.

He couldn’t help but grin at the way he had handled himself.

Safe and swift.

Walking towards his desk, George angled to his computer. Below the plastic figure of Super Mario that stood glued on top of the monitor dangled the gold crucifix. Closing his eyes, George recited a silent prayer to himself, gave the sign of the cross, and gently took the crucifix into his hand. After gazing at it for a moment, he hooked the memento around his neck.

He had it.

Moments after securing the necklace, the zombie that had lost its balance appeared in the window and was attempting to climb in. Without hesitation, George yanked the computer monitor off the desk, cords dangling, and hurled the huge cathode ray tube generator toward the creature, smashing it over its head. Not much else was needed. It quivered and stopped moving, little plastic bits of casing stuck in its head like shrapnel.

Necklace secured, it was time to get out. Nightfall was coming and who knew what 35 South would be like. The wails from the fracas would likely attract more zombies to the area.

It was indeed time to go.

George was at heart a sentimental person, moved by movies, emotional for songs, sad at goodbyes.

Today was different.

When the world was relatively predictable, and butterflies flew from daisy to daisy, sentimentality could be a choice for the romantic. And George was a romantic.

But the world was now a place turned on its ear, a place of fear, of terror, of a true vast unknown. It could be argued that the past was just the same, but all would certainly agree that today and tomorrow would be filled with fear, terror, and the unknown. The course of humankind was seemingly heading in a new direction. Life was being measured in seconds, not years. As George saw for himself more than once in the most eventful day of his life, mere seconds meant the difference between life and death and between friends and family. Yesterday, sentimentality was a virtue.

Today it was a liability.

Literally ignoring his classroom and the memories made within and without its walls, George strode to the door, clapping his hands together to flick the mud off. Opening the door without a bye or leave or even a glance back in, (something he would never consider doing several days before, knowing it was the last time he’d be in there,) George left his classroom, closing the door behind him.

Outside, behind the feet of the ghoul stuck in the window, the figure of Super Mario lost itself in the dirt, rock, and grass behind Branton Junior High.

WALKING OUT OF the faculty restroom, George wiped his wet hands dry on his blue jeans. The mud was no problem getting off, though it left the sink a bit dirty. The real problem now was getting back to his vehicle.

Dashing through the hallway of Branton Junior High, with the lockers a blue blur in his peripheral vision, George thought he heard a scream. For a moment, he flinched and stopped in his tracks. Zombies? He looked back down the 200 hallway and saw that his classroom door was still closed. But sure enough, another scream emanated from the 300 hallway. Having stopped at the crossroads between the 200 and 300 hallway, George had an idea where the screams were coming from.

Why the heck should I risk going to the 300 past all the windows?, George contemplated.

The hallway to the 300 hall was filled with windows to the outside. He knew that if any of the zombies outside the school were to see him run past the windows, they would surely try to break through them. At the moment, the hallways and the school were apparently secure, with only a few zombies still outside, though not necessarily threatening the building. Except, perhaps, at the window he entered through.

George thought about the creatures outside. They could have beenparents -parents waiting to pick up their kids. Another thought crossed his mind. How long had they been waiting? How long are they going to wait for children who will never arrive? Then a smile came across his face. He chuckled as he realized that he may well have beat down some parents, something he dreamt of a lot of times during parent/teacher conferences. Surely somewhere, George thought, a teacher was smiling.