Darkest Days: A Southern Zombie Tale (16 page)

Cara had stood up when the first shot was fired. When she felt a tug at her jacket, she spun around accidentally side stepping the attack and then screamed. The speed with which everything happened surprised her. Her throat flexed and strained as the strange sound escaped her. She did not know she could even sound like that. The creature lost its balance and smashed through the window under which Bryant had chosen to make his stand.

The somersaulting body landed to his right. Without a moment’s hesitation, Bryant whipped the gun over to the new target. The creature tried to stand, caught in a stoop as Bryant delivered a coup de grace. The skull shattered and the body fell over backward in a simple and straightforward fashion. Bryant paused to see if it would stand up again, but it stayed inanimate.

He turned his weapon back to the progressing demons. He eased back the trigger with the head as the target. If that one wasn’t getting up, these shouldn’t either. With a loud pop accompanying discharge, the third bullet to penetrate its hideous body killed it. He shifted the sight to the girl with the broken arms. He smiled and thought, “So we meet again.” She stepped forward and then collapsed uneventfully ten feet away from a smoking barrel. Only one bullet left. His eyes caught shifting shapes up the road and he knew he should reload.

Over fifteen bodies walked onto the narrow paved path from the surrounding forest. Three to fifteen in two minutes, Bryant ran around his trailer to the open back door. “Are you alright?” He immediately asked Cara upon returning. He superficially looked her up and down seeking signs of blood or cuts.

Cara nodded her head. “I’m fine.” She almost added, “just a little scared” but stopped herself. She did not want to admit that even if it were perfectly true and perfectly understandable.

Satisfied, Bryant rushed around her gathering bullets, shotgun shells and various firearms. “We’ve got to get out of here.”

She tried to get his attention but could not make eye contact as he bolted about the trailer. “Why? The radio said stay inside.”

“If they want in, the thin walls of this trailer won’t stop them.” Bryant retorted. The statement came out sounding menacing.

“Where will we go?” She asked, still standing in the same spot.

“I don’t know, my Mom’s I guess. It’s close by and an actual house. It’ll be sturdier than this.”

Now that they had established an objective, Cara felt ready to contribute. “Okay. What do I need to carry?”

Bryant handed her a duffle bag that felt like a sack of bricks. She let out a short grunt when he rested the strap on her shoulder. He turned and eyed her suspiciously. “Is it too heavy for you?” He asked with concern.

“Of course not.” She adjusted the strap and pretended that they nylon webbing had not felt like it was slowly slicing her arm off. “I can get another bag if you need me to.”

Bryant shook his head. “No. I think we are ready.”

The pair looked as if they had packed for a skimpy vacation, tossing two full bags into the back of his truck. The only things that dispelled that image were the expressions of seriousness on their faces and the small army gradually easing toward them. Soft moans carried over the diminishing distance between the attackers and their targets. The shutting truck doors blocked out the noise and Cara adjusted the knobs to drown out any sound that might slip through. The droning and occasional louder rattles caused her skin to break out in shivers. The grouchy cough of the engine and eventual steady reverberation from under the hood eased her frazzled nerves. The sound of an engine meant that they were on their way.

***

Rick looked through the glass and decided this was as good a place as any. The truck stopped on an unassuming section of road. The dusty shoulder didn’t worry him, nor did the dark. He was only afraid of those things. They couldn’t be called human. He saw in their eyes a lone desire to kill and nothing more. It was like looking into the eyes of a dog that has gone feral, nothing but instinct.

Martin leaped out of the bed of the truck. “You were going to leave me!” he accused.

“Shut up or I’ll fuckin’ knock you on your ass.” The calmness in his voice stopped Martin cold. Rick continued, oblivious to Martin’s shock. “What do you think happened out there?”

Martin blinked in confusion. “I don’t know.” He answered honestly.

“Come on, nerd! Think!” He barked.

Indignant, Martin cried, “Hey!” Rick slapped him before anything else could escape his lips. The red in Martin’s face had little to do with the sharp sting of an open hand. His sudden flush came at the indignity of it. A slap was what men gave women in old movies. Martin felt an irrational shame that Rick thought so little of him as to not even punch him.

“Listen chubby, I was in the truck. The radio said that this is happening all over town. Gangs of people are murdering everyone they see. When we get to the strip, it could be very bad.” His voice lowered to a whisper. “I’ve got a rifle and a few shells, but we need a place to go. If you stick with me, I might just save your life.”

Martin seemed overwhelmed by the information. “The town? The whole town?” He repeated the words like the facts were going to change.

Rick ignored him. “We’ll drive closer to see what state things are in, but we need a place to go just in case.” He looked expectantly at the shorter boy.

Martin realized that it was apparently his duty to come up with a place. “Umm, we can stop by my house. There is a church right next to it that is a fallout shelter in case of emergency.” He helpfully offered.

“That might do.” Rick commented, and then ordered. “Get in the cab.” The driver turned around and opened the door. Again, the vehicle sped toward a dying town.

***

After the first announcement, the radio station’s phone began ringing constantly with reports, questions, and a few requests to avoid interrupting the songs. Most of the questions were of the “are you serious?” variety. The most disturbing call came from the police station. After hanging up with the remaining law enforcement officers, DJ Jeremy distributed the new information to his listeners in the form of a public service announcement.

As he spoke, his normally professional voice changed pitch as the seriousness of what he relayed made itself apparent. “The police department has declared 911 currently out of order.” He swallowed. The notes he had jotted down seemed too absurd, but it was legitimate. “Also, if you believe in home protection, the guaranteed way to put one of the attackers down is to shoot them in the head. I will repeat that. Shoot them in the head; shots to the body seem to have no effect.”

Jeremy, a college student only working in the booth for extra money, wanted to cry. He knew why 911 was off the hook, but he wouldn’t say it on the air. The caller had merely stated the truth: The surviving officers were trapped inside the station along with civilians who had gone there seeking sanctuary. Now, the firepower of an entire police station couldn’t combat the horde waiting outside. They were all royally fucked.

In the next room, Eric Wagner poured hydrogen peroxide onto the bite in Randy’s shoulder. He tried to utilize his good bedside manner, but was having trouble. A speaker above him broadcasted Jeremy’s voice and depressing message. Eric tried to ignore it and concentrate on the trucker. “So, you look like a man who can take care of himself. I’ve seen a lot of people with not even half the survival instinct as you.”

“Man,” He responded in a thick Southern drawl, his tone full of modesty. “It’s luck. I’ve got three bullets and a wrecked diesel. The girl that I tried to help is dead, and I’m dying.”

“Hey,” The M.D. argued. “I’m a doctor. You might have trouble using that arm, but you’re not going to die.” Eric smiled reassuringly.

The DJ walked in. “I just recorded that message and programmed it for twelve hours.” He looked down at Randy. “How’s our buddy?”

The wounded man gave a good-natured chuckle. “In constant pain, you S.O.B.”

“I’ve got some news.” Jeremy, the voice of WLDX sensed ears picking up. “It’s not spectacular but it may be useful. Those things are afraid of fire.”

Eric looked up from the bandaging. “How do you know?”

The DJ avoided the trucker’s eyes. “Well, the truck is burning.”

Randy hung his head at the sound of these words.

Jeremy continued. “As soon as the flames started, they high-tailed it away. They looked scared as piss.” He unexpectedly laughed. “You know, I keep saying ‘those things’ but they are people, right?”

Eric shook his head. “I have no clue. I mean, I’ve seen them eat the people that they kill.” The doctor frankly stated. “Why would someone suddenly turn into a cannibal?”

“Cannibals?” Jeremy looked disgusted. “I haven’t seen them attack each other. I mean, how do they know who’s with them and who’s against them? I haven’t seen any of them stop and ask ‘Excuse me, are you a cannibal too? Jolly good! I won’t eat you, then’.”

Eric thought a moment. “Actually, you have a point. They don’t even look right. You can tell them apart from regular people at about two hundred yards. They’re something different.” He did not know if he should say what he thought next. He worried about the effect it would have on his patient. In the end though, he could not contain it. “I saw a regular man come into the emergency room and turn into one of them.”

Instead of looking worried, Randy nodded. “The girl I was tryin’ to save was bleeding but normal. Then she attacked me.”

“Maybe it’s a virus. You know, like rabies?” The young disc jockey hypothesized. “Either of you ever read
Cujo
?”

Randy shook his head in the negative. His eyes betrayed his worry. “You don’t really think it’s a virus do you?”

Eric reassured him that there was no proof of that.

The trucker thought for a moment and spoke again. “That girl had bled to the point that she shouldn’t have had the strength to attack me.”

Eric added his own story. “The guy I saw was pronounced dead. I checked for a pulse and everything. The next time I saw him, he was killing some of the hospital staff.” The doctor felt a lump in his throat. He hadn’t particularly liked anyone there, but surely had not wished them dead.

Randy asked, “I saw some of them missing limbs and still walking around. How could they survive that? Shouldn’t they bleed to death pretty fast?”

Eric spoke up. “On a battlefield, soldiers have survived a pretty good length of time with little to no medical treatment after limbs have been severed. It’s not unheard of.” He cautiously stated.

The sound of banging echoed down the hall and reached the trio’s ears. Jeremy looked around nervously and asked, “Hey doc, you want to go see how that barricade is holding up?” He tilted his head using the motion to point in the general direction of the sound. Eric nodded and followed him out of the room.

In the hallway leading to the front door, the young man spun around to face the doctor. “Don’t bullshit, is he going to make it?”

The suddenness caught Eric off guard. For a moment his mouth fumbled with the words. “I. . . um. . .well. . .” He looked down at the floor as if he had found something interesting on his shoe. He rarely had to give such news since moving to the small town of Fayette. As always, he found his voice, although quiet. “I doubt it.” His voice, a whisper, barely rose above the noise of the ravenous ghouls entreating entry.

Jeremy spoke quickly, not wasting time. “Then I suggest that we take his gun. If he hallucinates or something, he could kill one of us. Plus, if it is a virus then he is infected.”

Eric stroked his chin in a clichéd pensive gesture. “Your infection idea. . .” He trailed off momentarily, but his voice returned stronger. “It has some merit to it, but this guy wouldn’t put up much of a fight in his condition.”

Jeremy felt a flush of anger at the doctor’s denial, but did not show it in his voice. “That’s what you both said about the ones that attacked you guys.”

Eric caught the lack of humor in the younger man’s face. “Good point,” he conceded before looking back down the hall toward the room where the trucker slowly died. “Do you think he knows that we’re talking about him?”

Jeremy shrugged. “How should I know? He’s probably just thinking that he shouldn’t have picked up a hitchhiker.” He gave a hollow laugh.

***

Randy felt light-headed. His shoulder itched. The pads of his fingers did not feel much as his right hand pulled at the bandages. His mouth felt dry, parched like cracked soil. He was thirsty, very thirsty. “I need water.” He thought he was shouting but his failing voice came out in a hoarse conversational tone. “Please.” He added, in a pathetic plea.

He could hear distant voices mutter phrases like “glasses?” and “a fridge in the other room”. All he could think was about was a cold drink of water. “No ice cubes” and “gun off the table” drifted by his ears.

The light changed; he could tell even through closed lids. His eyes lazily slid open and saw the wavering shapes of two men looking down at him. Something hard and cold touched his lips. Liquid splashed over his upper lip and ran down his chin. His skin felt hot and each drop cut a contrasting cool trail over his burning epidermis.

“More” he croaked out.

“Most of it went down your shirt, my man.” The youngest one quipped.

Eric observed the patient for a moment and motioned back to the sound booth. “I’ll stay with him. You report a new message. Tell them that the attackers are eating their victims.”

Jeremy met his eyes. “Jesus Christ! That’ll scare the shit out of people!”

Eric calmly stated, “They need to be scared.” Jeremy did not hear him as he left the room.

Randy snatched at the doctor’s hand but missed. “Doc, I don’t want them to eat me.” His eyes widened in a childlike fear. “Bury me, or cremate me.” He quickly added the second option as if it had just occurred to him. “Just don’t let them eat me.” His wandering hand found its way back to the wound on his shoulder.

“Quit touching it. You’re going to get if infected.” Eric chastised the trucker.

“What?” Randy’s eyes rolled around scanning for doctor Wagner. He couldn’t bring anything into focus.