Surviving the Day (2 page)

—————

Joe

Ninja Girl and I were ready. She reinforced the door so that we could make a slit to fire through or poke at zombies with our weapons. She had her Super 90 in a sling around her shoulder, her baton in her right hand, and the KA-BAR in her left.

My rifle was slung and I had the saws-all attachment on my drill in my right and a jack with the hubcap blade on my left.

“Here we go,” I told her, then began sawing at the door between the two-by-fours in the middle. I started to see blood splatters and stopped. “I'm hitting zombie meat.”

“Disgusting,” said Erin. “You have some goggles or something?” I had several safety glasses on the workbench, and a bandana in my pocket. I gave a pair to Erin and put one on myself, then put the bandana around my mouth. Geared up again, I went back to the door and continued sawing, with a few splatters hitting the glasses I wore. When I was almost finished cutting out the rectangle, zombie hands, some with chewed-up fingertips, began trying to reach through and grab me, so I pulled the saw back and stopped.

It took a few pulls and bashes, but the zombies finally finished the job and opened up the slit. I waited to see a face that I could poke, but Erin was ahead of me. She'd replaced the KA-BAR with her machete and was slicing off anything that came through the slit.

“Damn, Erin, wait till they poke their heads in!” I told her. Besides, she was making a slippery mess in front of the door.

“If they ain't got fingers, they can't grab us or the slit in the door and pull it open.” She chopped again. “Besides, I don’t think their faces are
that
thin,” she added, gesturing at the slit.

She was right, dammit. When it comes to zombies, she's the expert. I decided right then and there that I was going to follow her orders...as far as zombie massacres go at least. I looked around the workbench for something I could use to hack off arms, and there was a small hatchet I used for making kindling. I grabbed it and alternated swings with Erin, chopping at the arms that reached through.

Some of those zombie things must have been chopped all the way up to the elbow. I stopped chopping and raised my hand. “I think...” I stopped, realizing that I was about to take charge. “Do you think we should start killing them now?” I asked the smart one. She took the question seriously. I know she did because she stopped chopping.

“No, but let's stop chopping. I want to see if the ones with arms left make their way to the front.”

So we stopped and stepped back from the slit and just watched as stubs of arms would appear and disappear, then a face would show momentarily, teeth gnashing. Some of the creatures had missing eyes—probably got bitten before they turned, if zombie movies were to be believed.

“So are these, like, regular zombies in a movie or something?” I asked Erin.

“I never watched zombie movies,” she answered, “but I know the general idea.” She looked away from the slit. “I don't know, Camo Joe, are they normal zombies?” she asked with a twinkle in her eye.

Just then one of them moaned really loud, just like a regular movie zombie.

“Yep,” I said. “Normal zombies.” She laughed, just for a brief moment, then the smile disappeared and she was Ninja Girl again, all business. She looked back at the slit, and I followed her gaze.

“Looks like you were right,” I said as a pair of arms in a long-sleeved business suit reached through. I chopped at the arms. The creature didn't even attempt to remove its arms, it just kept reaching for us. “Now who would be in this neighborhood wearing a business suit in fu... freakin' San Diego?” I asked, censoring myself in front of Erin.

“IRS or ATF,” said Erin, deadpan.

“It was a rhetorical question,” I said, laughing.

Erin grabbed a push broom that was leaning in a front corner of the garage and swept away the arms and bits of flesh on the floor, moving them near the back of the Jeep. I stopped chopping since I'd run out of arms to cut off and waited for the zombies to shuffle themselves like the small bits of cereal that end up at the bottom.

“I'm going to miss Honeycomb cereal,” I said. Erin stopped sweeping and looked at me like I'd gone completely insane. She opened her mouth to speak, then closed it and shook her head. She mumbled something, but I didn't hear it. “What’s that you say?”

“I said I'm locked in a zombie-infested house with an insane huge black Army guy wearing camo pants and wielding an axe,” she said. “And he's been chopping the arms off the neighbors and storing them in his garage.”

“I don't think you mumbled that much,” I told her.

“I mumble in shorthand,” she said.

I laughed and resumed chopping. The creatures didn't seem to bleed very much, like their blood, or whatever was powering them, clotted fast. I stopped and watched the slit as Erin walked up next to me.

“How many do you figure?” she asked.

“Not sure,” I answered. I set the bloody axe on the workbench and flicked on my gun light. I counted the arms, then went to the corner and counted the rest of them, shifting them with the broom until I had an accurate count. “I counted twenty-seven arms,” I told her.

“So we've got a one-armed zombie out there maybe?” she asked, turning to look at me.

“I dunno,” I answered. “I could ask them to raise their hands. If I see an arm, that'll be our guy.”

She shook her head and turned back to the slit. “Well, I guess it's time to put them down.”

I walked over to the workbench, picked up the axe and some old rags and wiped it off, then sprayed it with WD-40 and wiped it again. I put its sheath on and strapped it to my vest. Turning to Erin, I patted it and said, “Might come in handy again.”

Erin walked to the bench and copied me, cleaning her machete and oiling it. She looked at the edge and frowned. She put it in her sheath and asked, “Do you have some way to sharpen my machete? ”

“I think so,” I said. “It probably has some divots in it from hitting bone. An axe is better for that.” I dug around in a cabinet and pulled out a round metal file. “Better than nothing.” She took the file and unzipped the machete sheath, put in the file, and zipped it back up. It just barely fit.

I walked to the slit with my jack handle and jammed it into the eye of a zombie that was peering through the slit. It fell backwards without a sound, nearly taking the jack handle with it. Luckily, the curved end was aimed downward, so it caught on the edge of the slit and popped out, then clanged to the floor. I picked it up and killed the next zombie.

Erin just watched. “How am I doing officer?” I asked, jokingly. She didn't answer. I killed two more before Erin told me to stop.

I stepped back while she stepped forward and looked through the door at the zombies. “We won't be able to do this for long because they're stacking up and the others are standing on top of them. They're heads will be above the slit.”

“We can always make another one,” I said.

“Until the door falls apart,” she added. Another zombie stuck its head up to the door. I moved forward to stab it, but Erin put up her hand. “Let me have it,” she said.

I gave her the jack handle. She wiped it on another rag that had once been a t-shirt, then turned back to the door. She took a deep breath and said, “I'm sorry this happened to you.” Then she jammed the handle into a zombie eye and pulled it out. Another one took its place, and she did exactly the same thing.

“I'm sorry this happened to you.”

Three more times, then she turned and gave the jack handle to me, tears in her eyes. She gestured toward the door. “Mr. Airhead, Rodney, Mr. Poof, Trey, and three other kids from my school that I don't know.”

She took a deep breath and looked down.

“They didn't deserve this,” she said, then looked up at me.

I didn't know what to tell her.

—————

Mark

When I heard the gunshots, I recognized the survival rifle my dad had always kept in his truck. I'd given it to Jen before heading back to the convenience store and the working truck. She fired both shots at once, although it took me a second to figure that out.

If she followed my instructions, that means zombies, and now she’s on the run.

I scooted out from under the dump truck where I'd been observing the store and ran to the back of the equipment rental building where she’d been concealed beneath a spruce tree. I pulled my dad's 9mm M&P Shield semi-automatic as I ran and called her name.

“Jen!” No answer, but I did see some zombies near the tree, and two of them turned toward me.

“Dang it,” I thought. If I'd been quiet, I could have checked their direction and would have known which way she was going. Now I had no clue. I turned left and headed for the pieces of wood that I'd left after my last zombie battle, holstering my Shield as I went. Once there, I picked up the longest piece I could find—a two-by-four about the length of my legs, and the awkward pallet, pulling it out from underneath a dead zombie.

Deader.

Whatever.

The zombies didn't appear to be any faster than these others I'd dispatched, so I dropped the pallet and let one of them trip over it, ran past the creature and bashed the other one in the head. I took turns bashing them, remembering to shift my position in case another one snuck up on me.

Once I finished with them, I ran toward the tree and ducked underneath. My pack was there, as was the survival rifle. I didn't see the machete, so Jen must still have it, or at least had it.

Have it. Stay positive.

I picked up the rifle but left the pack by the spruce tree and started walking around the back, looking for any evidence of which direction she went. I loaded the rifle from the shells in its stock as I looked around. With the night coming on, I had to risk a flashlight. I took out a headlamp, put it on my head, switched it on, then once again. The first time it was switched, it would put out a red light, giving you some light but preserving your night vision. The second time it was switched, you got the regular white flashlight.

I walked slowly looking for tracks and listening. I saw the tell-tale shape of a shoe imprint—just an unnatural line in the soil—and checked its direction.

Into the brush. Saplings and vines and low bushes.

I walked quickly in that direction, looking left and right for any broken vegetation, any hint. I saw a couple of chopped tree branches ahead and moved quickly to them. Looking closely, I could see that they were freshly chopped, but I couldn't tell which way she took from there. I turned in a slow circle but didn't hear or see anything.

I should have given her my emergency whistle, with a compass, lanyard and filled with matches.

“Jen!” I paused for ten seconds. “HEY! JEN!” I paused again, listening. I heard something, maybe straight ahead. I started walking slowly ahead, and heard it again.

Maybe a distant “Mark”? I moved faster. The brush was thick here, but I kept my light on and moved as fast I could without risking my ankles. I hopped over a low stone wall, probably built in the 1600s, and now the forest reclaimed these once cleared fields.

I heard a piercing scream directly ahead, so I put caution to the wind and ran. I tripped over a fallen log, rotted and hidden beneath the moss, picked myself up and ran on. I yelled for Jen again, and this time clearly heard “Mark!” a bit to my left.

I angled where I thought the call had come from and almost tripped over Jen, struggling on the ground with a zombie.

—————

Jen

I watched as Mark made his way slowly back toward the convenience store where the old couple's truck was parked. I sat back down underneath the big spruce tree. It was dry, and the branches—boughs?—whatever you called them, hung almost to the ground. It smelled of pine resin and reminded me of camping trips when I was a kid. Both the survival rifle and machete lay across my legs, and I closed my eyes for a minute.

It'd been an exhausting day, that's for sure. I opened my eyes and jerked upright. I'd heard some kind of noise. Maybe a squirrel? I didn't see anything through the barely-lit gloom of the evening.

Another scrape sounded, and something touched my arm. I looked down and saw a hand grasping at me. I gasped and jumped up, dropping the machete and the gun. I reached down, picked up the gun and fired toward the creature crawling at me, but I don't think I hit it. Then I dropped the gun, picked up the machete, scrambled from underneath the tree and started running. I screamed, but it didn't seem like anything came out of my mouth. It was like a dream where you're being attacked, but can't talk or call out.

I ran blindly into the woods behind the tree and stumbled on a hidden rock or log or something. I picked myself up, my hands hurt and scraped. I ran again and fell almost immediately, tripped up by a bush. I got up and heard a moan behind me.

One more fall and the zombie would be on me. I yelled again for Mark and started stepping as quickly forward as I could, taking small steps and scraping my shoes along the ground. It was barely faster than the zombie, but at least I wasn't falling down. My foot hit a wall and I stepped over it, falling again when I stumbled on a loose rock.

The zombie behind me fell forward on the wall, its hands almost reaching me. I screamed again and shambled forward, knees and hands hurting, barely moving faster than the creature. I looked back and it was right
there
, reaching and moaning. I swiped at it with the machete, but only hit the trees.

Then I heard my name in the distance.

“Mark! Mark, here!” I called after him and then my luck ran out. I tripped on a tree root and fell on my face. As I rolled over, I brought up the machete. The zombie fell on top of me, clawing and snapping, impaled on the machete, but still alive. Or undead or whatever they were.

I screamed and struggled to push the creature off of me, but it was too heavy. I screamed again, then saw a pair of gloved hands reach around the zombie's neck and pull it to the side. An arm flopped down beside me as a crashing BOOM sounded in my ears, leaving a high-pitched ringing. I looked up and saw Mark, bathed in light and standing above me, holding the rifle. The zombie’s arm still lay across my chest, so I scrambled out from beneath it and got to my knees, my chest and body shaking and my breath coming in ragged gasps.

I dropped the machete and looked at the gore on my hands, then looked down at my chest where the blood of the creature had run down my arms and dripped on my shirt. Oh, yech. I leaned over and threw up.

I wiped my hands on my pants and looked at Mark who had gone down on a knee.

“Here,” he said, removing his gloves and starting to take off his shirt, “You can clean up with this.”

I held up my hand. “As much as I might want to see you holding a rifle with your shirt off, I think I'll use mine since it's already messed up.” I started carefully taking off my shirt.

Even in the gloom, I could see Mark's face turn beet red as he turned away. I smiled. I needed to smile.

I wiped my hands in the dirt and spread my shirt out on the ground. “Hopefully this will absorb the nasty,” I thought as I ground the shirt in. “Can't hurt it.” I picked up the shirt and used it to wipe down my hands.

“All done,” I said, and Mark turned back to see me with my shirt still off. He jerked his head away.

“I think you're supposed to put that back on before you say 'All done',” he said.

“Okay hero,” I said. “All done for real this time.” He looked back to me, and I noticed his fearful and worried look for the first time. “Hey,” I said, “I'm okay. You saved me.” I stood up and took his hand as he stood up. I pulled him to me in a hug of relief.

“Thank you, Mark,” I said sincerely.

“I should have given you my whistle,” he said, holding my shoulders and looking seriously at me.

“What?”

“I have a whistle,” he said, “and...”

His voice cutoff as his eyes grew big. I felt a nudge on my right shoulder where he held me and I looked down.

A zombie had its teeth locked on his hand.