Darkest Days: A Southern Zombie Tale (14 page)

***

Rick’s newly washed truck pulled off of Highway 171 in Tuscaloosa County at a gas station, which existed solely to supply the dry county of Fayette with alcohol. The county line sat only a quarter of a mile behind Rick and Martin. The ride had been an awkward one. Rick didn’t speak to Martin for ten full minutes. Instead, he sang along to whatever country songs came on the local radio station.

Martin tried to listen and pretend that he liked it. Honestly, he did not care for country music. He couldn’t even convince himself to listen to Fayette’s WLDX even though he would be supporting his hometown. Martin wondered if the trip would be worth it. Surely, no girl would sleep with him just for buying beer. Still, there had to be some secret that differentiated guys like Rick from guys like Martin, appearance or athletic ability never crossing his mind.

Martin felt uneasy. Fake IDs, underage drinking. Was fifteen minutes of fun really worth possible jail time?

Even though several trucks flanked the country stop-and-shop, there was a curious lack of movement. Usually, patrons got in and got out. A few sometimes milled about, taking a moment to throw one back before hitting the road. Rick’s eyes narrowed at the seemingly deserted store and for the first time in what seemed an eternity, Rick spoke. “Must be a slow night.”

“Come on, let’s go.” Rick casually commanded him with the ease of someone used to being in control. Really, what would Martin do, say no?

Both doors swung open. The only sound after the killing of the truck engine was the crunching of shoes on smooth stones as they shifted under the weight of the two boys.

“I can’t believe this. The place is usually packed.” Rick’s voice echoed off the concrete blocks composing the outer wall. He shot a stern look at his cash cow. “Let me do the talking.”

Martin tried to respond but his throat felt constricted with fear. Peer pressure had forced him to commit acts that he didn’t believe in. Not only that, but he was risking his exemplary record. It wouldn’t be the first time that Martin had cursed his timidness, but it would be the first time that he cursed his reliance on his family’s money and social position.

Rick opened the glass door and stepped inside. He leaned back to call his new sycophant. “Hey, what are you waiting for?”

Martin trotted to catch up to him. “What are you going to get?” He managed to choke out.

Rick laughed. “Whatever. It doesn’t matter. They’ll drink anything.” Then he ducked back inside. Martin caught the door before it closed, and followed him in.

The inside of the store contrasted the dark outside thanks to many fluorescent lights. A wooden panel partitioned the store into two halves, a liquor store and a barbeque pit. Only a smashed bottle of brandy near the entrance signaled any recent human habitation. Rick paced up and down the aisles touching each label with his index finger. Off in one corner of the ceiling, a convex mirror, which no one was watching, reflected the young man perusing the selection. Finally, he had traversed the paths and came up to a tall counter adorned with a simple cash register and a sign that read “Attention Shoplifters! Win a free ride in a police car!”

Martin’s voice quivered. “Why is it empty? Where is everyone?” Oppressive silence filled his ears but a loud thump caused both boys to jump. Martin’s entire body clenched and he turned toward the source of the sound. He heard a second thump and realized it came from the door he had just entered. When he glanced out, he saw a mangled face and a hand with the pinky and ring finger missing pressed up against the glass. The mouth worked back and forth as if a particularly tough piece of jerky were inside. The mutilated hand continued a steady rhythm of slapping against the door, smearing blood with every thump.

The curious sensation that Martin felt was that everything he had imagined in his nightmares suddenly stood before him. He tried to make sense of that feeling, but as with anyone else that has ever encountered it, the only way he could cope was to let out a primal scream of disbelief and fear.

Before Martin could scream, however, Rick screamed for him. He looked at Rick’s face and followed his shocked gaze. A bloody hand slapped the counter beside the register with a wet sound like a soaked towel hitting the floor, and dug its fingernails into the wooden top until one of the nails snapped. A face peered over the counter as a hideous corpse pulled itself up and over the bar. A low airy sound from the mouth of the beast followed the cry of unbelief from Rick.

A bell attached to the glass entrance jingled. The filthy man outside had divined the use of the pull bar across the door. The humanoid thing swung its limbs in a strange shuffle as it entered the tomb that was once a liquor store. It wasted no time in chasing after Martin and Rick, jumping forward in a quick gait.

The two boys both bolted into the barbeque restaurant side of the establishment and ran through the greasy kitchen full of unwashed dishes. The back door, which they sought, turned out to be a small utility closet the dimensions of a vertical coffin. Despite the size, Rick and Martin crammed their bodies inside. Rick held the handle as the ghoul on the other side hammered its dead fists against the wooden barrier.

“Slide the bolt!” Rick shouted, even though his companion was pressed against him by the narrow confines of the room.

“What?” Martin shouted back, still tripping through a surreal nightmare that reality had become.

“The bolt, you idiot!” Rick flicked his head toward the deadbolt, both hands still grasping the shaking handle.

Martin looked at the door and finally understood. If he slid the deadbolt mounted about eye level, the door would effectively be locked. As he maneuvered his arm around the tight space, his fingers finally found the metal protrusion that would embed the thick metal rod in the wooden sheath on the door-frame. Just as he was about to turn it, the door flew open several inches revealing a glimpse of the hungry horror that awaited them. Rick, who was prepared, pulled the door right back, causing the lunatic to temporarily lose his grip. The sequence of opening and closing only lasted a few seconds, but Martin felt an eternity pass before his next breath. Then the door slammed, reverberating in its frame.

“Now!” Rick screamed as Martin heard the click of metal mechanisms launching into motion. Then the socially inept victim of circumstance turned around, searching for things to barricade the door. A lone forty watt bulb illuminated the cell, but it was enough for the boy to see the rung of a ladder mounted into the wall followed by several more leading to a roof access hatch.

Martin felt his body flood with joy at a possible escape route. He pointed it out to Rick, crying out, “We can get onto the roof.” His voice carried over the racket of multiple fists beating repeatedly against the door. Apparently more of the
things
had reached the hiding place and were intent on gaining admittance.

Martin grabbed the rail, his weak arms trying to hoist his girth against the gravity of terra firma. His hand, trembling with exertion, found the second rung. His feet kicked and scraped against the wall, using friction and his more powerful leg muscles to propel him upward to safety. With his bottoms of feet firmly planted on the lowest step of the ladder, he pushed the metal lid up, finding it luckily unlocked. A blast of fresh night air hit him as he felt the thrill of success.

Below, Rick let go of the door and leapt at the ladder. Being more athletic than his wheezing friend above, Rick found himself climbing much faster than Martin. At that moment, the weight and force of multiple murderous bodies forced a path inside via several splintering cracks. At least three of the beasts groped at Rick’s hanging feet. A cold hand snatched at his ankle, the fingernails leaving bright red streaks even through the fabric of his socks. He scrambled the rest of the short way up and slammed the lid, which closed with a loud clang.

Martin stared at the hatch as Rick jogged up to the edge of the roof. Any moment, one of those things would push up the lid and peer at the boys with hungry dark eyes. Neither of them knew what the bizarre attackers wanted, but Martin thought he had a good idea. He knew that at the end of his one-time excursion to “The Strip”, he would be dead (and all because he wanted to fornicate).

Rick’s voice snapped Martin out of his internal berating. “We can jump into the bed of my truck from here. I’ll get in the cab and we’re home free.” For once, the athlete felt alive and actually excited. This truly tested his ability. The outcome would not be a score on a board with flashing lights and an orange and black painted mascot tiger; this outcome was life or death. Survival of the fittest, baby!

Martin nodded. Even though he was terrified, he repeated the mantra, “It’s only twelve feet. It’s only twelve feet.”

Rick leapt without warning and landed in the metal bed with a resounding thud. The entire vehicle bounced on its shocks. Without any hesitation, Rick climbed over the side, slipping briefly on loose stones but regaining his balance.

Martin heard a rush of silence as the pounding on the door below him stopped. Then, the roar of a starting engine flooded the placid air. The truck moved forward but Martin had not jumped yet! “Wait!” he cried. Knowing he would die at the county line liquor store if he didn’t, Martin took three running steps and jumped. He landed in the bed of the rapidly accelerating vehicle and cursed Rick for attempting to leave him.

Martin saw the front door of the establishment fly open and human shapes hurrying out, chasing after them. He turned his head away, looking at anything other than those disgusting creatures, but his gaze found another one standing up out of a ditch beside the highway. It noticed the truck and started moving toward it. Luckily, Rick pulled the S-10 out onto the road and floored the gas. The store and the monsters disappeared into the darkness behind the two boys.

***

Bryant’s dilapidated trailer came into view and the owner slowed his mother’s truck. When he pulled up the emergency brake and stepped out, he noticed how the quiet of the country - normally peaceful - took on a sinister quality. Dead air hung over everything. The home ahead of him disappeared in shadow as the moon momentarily drifted behind a patch of clouds. Cara walked beside him as they approached the back door. He whispered to her, “We’re going inside and turning on channel 8 or WLDX. Maybe they’ll have said something about the accident since we called it in.”

“I need to call my parents.” Cara blurted, not realizing how frightened she was for them. Rationalizing her fear, she added, “We have to explain why I’m not home yet.”

“Why didn’t you do that while we were calling 911?” His voice strained as he unlocked the door and stepped inside. Worry coursed through his veins. The incident on the road involved two people in shock that didn’t know any better and nothing else. Deep in his subconscious though, he realized that they were unnatural, abominations.

Cara knew that Bryant did not want to start a fight but just spoke to stave off his own fear. Surely her mother and father would understand them stopping to make sure that people were okay? Her fingers fiddled with the radio tuner and then she laughed at herself. The band switch still rested on FM. She flicked it into the AM position and twisted the knob until sound came through. The unmistakable voice of Johnny Cash sang, “If you want to save your soul from hell riding on our range . . .”

Bryant looked over at her. “Johnny Cash. Ghost riders in the sky.” He looked out the window pensively, before changing subjects. “Let’s stay put for a little bit. I feel like something bad is happening.”

She walked over to him and threw her arm around his shoulders, giving him a kiss on the cheek. “I am scared and I’m not sure why, but it would be a million times worse if you weren’t here.”

Bryant had to admit that he felt the same way.

Downtown Fayette had become a war zone. In between the two story office buildings on a side street, the police set up barricades made of police cars behind yellow and black saw horses. Police officers armed with small service-issue pistols fired into a crowd of writhing, bloody monsters. It did not matter that no one could tell the injured from the insane cannibals.

The bullets did not discriminate either, as Gerald (a thirty-four year old who had been laid off from the garment plant) found out. As he tried to flee to safety, one of the faster creatures grabbed a fistful of hair and spun him around. The other surprisingly forceful hand held his face steady by grasping his chin. The psycho then plunged its face forward biting into the man’s nose. The cartilage crunched between the undead teeth and a shrill scream escaped, as the man’s nose became a masticated mess. A stray bullet from an officer’s gun pierced his lung. As he expired, his vision dimmed only registering the blue and red flashing of police lights.

The attacker dropped the man and stumbled toward the officers trying their best to keep a few precious city blocks safe. A small army streamed forward in an out-of-synch march.

One panicked officer shouted, “I can’t drop them!” His voice jumped several registers as he lost control. “I can’t drop ‘em!”

Another man shouted back, “Keep firing! Some of them are staying down!”

The horde closed the gap, one shuffling step at a time. “Damn it!” Someone shouted. “We’ve got to retreat. Back to the station! We can hold them off there!”

In the hurried withdrawal, most of the officers left equipment and fallen comrades behind. One man, however, tried to carry his partner on his back. Officer Edmund Bradbury usually went by Ed. He barely knew the rookie weighing him down, but Ed prayed to God someone would help carry him out of the hell they had all awakened in if he were in the same situation. As the young man’s chest pressed against Ed’s back, he felt the heart beat ebbing away. A few steps down an alley, the man on his back expired. Two blocks later, the man revived and bit his savior’s ear off.

Ed had no idea what had happened. He had no theory on the attacks or the entranced state the attackers appeared to be in. All he knew was that a boy who had been on the force for less than two weeks had just ripped his ear off. Less blood than expected streamed down his neck and into the collar of his shirt as Edmund fell forward with the writhing lunatic on his back. Somehow Edmund rolled over and grappled with the resilient deceased. No recognition clouded the young man’s eyes. The glazed stare just sized up his body like one would view a piece of steak resting on a plate. The hands, however, were much livelier, fingernails clawed and scratched as both men tried to have their way. Ed wanted to break the young man’s hold and escape, while the boy only wanted to eat.