Surviving the Day (3 page)

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The Boreling camera drones followed the man named “Richard” as he escaped the battle at the convenience store and ran down a nearby road. Or at least jogged as fast as his big frame could carry him.

He didn't know what the hell happened at the convenience store. People jumped out of the truck and started trying to grab him. He yelled for his mom, only to see her fall out of the truck with the guy from the back seat biting her and pulling at her head. He started back to help, but someone came out of the store and grabbed him. He turned and punched the guy in the side of the head. As the man fell, he latched onto Richards’ work boot with his teeth, so he kicked him in the face with his other steel-toed boot.

The guy let go and stayed still. Richard ran away from the store and turned to look back toward the truck. It was surrounded by people who were clawing at his mom. He screamed at them to stop. A few looked toward him, their mouths bloody and covered in gore. They stood and shambled in his direction, holding their arms out and moaning like zombies.

“No way,” he said. “NO WAY!” he yelled. “What are you?!?”

They just kept moaning and reaching for him. He turned and kept jogging up the road. He heard a scream and looked back, thinking it sounded like that “Jennifer” bitch.

“Good, maybe she bought it,” he thought. He turned and walked quickly up the road. He knew this place. It was mostly businesses until it reached a small shopping center. In that center was a Rick's Sporting Goods. An EMP was bad enough, but friggin' zombies was wicked worse.

Richard looked back toward the store where his mom lay, covered in zombies and dead or dying.

“Or undead,”
he thought.

He turned and looked away. “Time to gear up, I guess,” he said. He blew out a big breath. “So long, mom.” He started walking up the road, thinking,
“That kid'll be at the gazebo. Let's see how he likes a .30-06 round up his ass.”
His spirits lifted as he imagined the kid in his sights, falling backward as the big round went through the center of his forehead.
“Not his ass, but good enough,”
he chuckled, then started whistling as he alternated walking and jogging up the road.

There didn't seem to be anyone around the businesses, which was odd. Perhaps they'd walked home after the EMP and before some of them became zombies.

“What the hell is that about?” he wondered. “Must have just scrambled their brains,” he laughed. Then he thought about his mom, getting killed and eaten... or perhaps eaten and killed. He shrugged.

Then he thought about his son and his face turned red. His hands curled into fists and he looked around for someone, something to beat to death. He spotted an open door to a building and ran over, thinking maybe there would be a weapon or tool to replace the tire iron. He spotted a big pipe wrench and picked it up and hefted it in his hands.

“That'll do,” he said. He exited the building and looked around. He could see that the zombies were still following him. He looked toward the shopping center, maybe a quarter mile away. He took off again at a jog, but he wasn’t in shape to run very far. He slowed to a walk.

He was getting thirsty. “Should have checked that building for water,” he thought. He plodded on until the Rick's store came into view. It was getting a bit darker, but still light enough to see.

“Better do this fast,” he thought. He jogged up to the store lot, still unable to see anyone. The shopping center was a bit off the beaten path, and there weren't too many cars in the parking lot. He saw movement in one car and walked over to it. A hand struck the glass and teeth chattered just behind the window. He peered in and quickly stepped back.

Looks like a child turned and attacked whoever was driving, but then couldn't get out of the car.

“Hrumph,” he said, walking toward the front of the store. There were a couple of zombies hitting the automatic doors, but clearly they couldn't figure out how to get in. “Get enough of them banging on it and they'll break through,” he muttered.

He casually walked up to the first one and bashed its skull with the wrench, then leaned back and swung it against the other one. They were so slow it was almost no fun.

“Not bad,” he thought. “One hit each.”

He put his big hands between the doors and pulled them open, then stepped inside. “Hello store!” he called. A head appeared from behind an island of women's running shoes.

“Hello,” said the head.

Richard recognized the voice. “Jeffrey?” he asked. “Jeffrey, izzat you?”

“Richard you son of a bitch!” answered the head.

Richard laughed. “Damned if I didn't half expect to see you in here!” he said as he walked over to shake Jeffrey's hand.

“Yeah, same here old man,” said Jeffrey. He looked past him. “Where's Richie?”

Richard's features grew hard. “Killed by a bastard kid out on route 2 a few hours ago, shortly after the EMP hit,” he said darkly. “But I know where he's headed, and I'm here to gear up and go after him.” He paused, then added, “You in?”

“Ain't got nuthin' better to do during the apocalypse than help my best uncle,” said Jeffrey.

“So you figure it was an EMP too?” asked Richard, walking to a case and pulling out a bottle of water. He downed it quickly and tossed the bottle aside.

“Yep, EMP,” agreed Jeffrey.

“Alright then!” said Richard. “Bastard's got no chance with the two of us hunting him.”

Jeffrey nodded and turned to the back of the store. “Hey kid!” he yelled. A frightened young man hurried up. Jeffrey gestured at him. “Found this poor excuse for an outdoorsman working in the shoe department,” he said. “Seven customers walked out a half hour after the power went out, and so did three workers. They told me I needed to leave, that they were closing the store.”

Richard laughed. “Yeah? What did you say to them?”

“I told them I had cash, and would like to get some boots first.”

“And did you have cash?”

“Hell no, but they didn't know that.”

They both laughed as the kid fidgeted. “The manager and the kid here stayed to help me. The manager turned into some kind of rabid freak and came after us. This kid here screamed and ran behind a counter. I pulled my SIG .40 and put a round through his chest. Damned if the guy took it and kept coming.”

“Holy... after a round to the chest? Was he wearing body armor?” asked Richard.

“The mess on the Nike shirts behind him says no, but I didn't ask.”

Richard laughed.

“So anyway,” Jeffrey continued, “the manager kept coming. I put a round in his heart and one more in the chest. Double tapped bastard kept coming like a damned zombie. I double tapped him in the head, both rounds. He stopped coming then, you better believe.”

“Yeah,” said Richard, “I saw something similar.” He gestured toward the door. “One of those things killed my mom and was biting her. So yeah, zombies or rabies, I thought. But still coming on after massive trauma like that...”

“Zombies,” said Jeffrey.

“Yeah, zombies,” agreed Richard. “What do you think,” asked Richard, turning to the kid.

“Ya.. yea.. yeah, I.. I.. guess,” he stuttered.

“What's your name, son?” asked Richard.

“T.. Tr.. Trent,” he said.

“Okay Tra Tra Trent, listen up,” said Richard. “We have no more power or sophisticated electronics at all, and zombies on the prowl. You need to gear us up! Can you lock these doors?”

Trent just stood there.

Richard looked back at Jeffrey. “What's this guy's story?” he asked.

“PTSD,” replied Jeffrey. “He can walk, and sort of talk, but he's not much use.”

“Okay,” said Richard. “Lemme see your piece,” he told Jeffrey, who removed it from his back holster and handed it to Richard.

Richard hefted the P229, then looked back at Trent. “Show us the keys to the firearms locks,” he said, still casually holding the gun. Trent didn't say anything, but was shaking uncontrollably.

Richard held the small gun one handed and pointed it at Trent, just a few feet from his face.

“Go get me a soda from one of those front refrigerators,” said Richard.

Trent shook and looked like he was about to faint.

Jeffrey put his hands over his ears, his eyes wide.

“P.. pl.. please...” began Trent.

The sound of the SIG crashed through the store and Trent crumpled with half of his face gone. Richard handed the gun back to Jeffrey.

“Can't get good service anymore,” he said, smiling and feeling better than he had since his son was shot.

“Time to gear up and hunt another bastard,” he added. Jeffrey looked at his gun and back to Richard. He holstered the pistol and looked at his shaking hands.

“I didn’t sign up for
this
,” he muttered.

—————

Interlude: Ft. Hood, Texas

“Dammit!” yelled Private Matthews. He pulled the charging handle on the .50 caliber gun mounted on the otherwise mostly dead Humvee. Its headlights worked, but that was all. He pushed the trigger again and sent more rounds toward the approaching horde of creatures before the gun jammed again.

“Dammit!” he swore. He cleared the round and fired again. The big bullets had a pretty good effect. They sliced some of the creatures enough to slow them to a crawl, and a few lucky headshots managed to completely kill a few. The gun jammed again.

This time, the private just looked at the gun, realizing it was stopping after firing exactly the same number of rounds.

“The tracers?” he muttered. He pulled the handle and grabbed the warm round as it flopped out. He looked closely at the bullet. It had a red tip. He aimed and fired the big gun, and it jammed almost immediately. He popped that round and looked at it.

Another red tip.

“Son of a bitch,” he said. “The EMP messed up the tracer rounds?” he asked himself. At least he understood what was happening now. But it didn't help him. None of the boxes of ammo were pure ball—they all had tracers every fifth round. So he could shoot four rounds and the next one would jam.

He looked around. There were at least a hundred zombies coming at him. The building behind him was full of them too—he'd barely escaped to jump in the Humvee, fighting his way through at least a dozen reaching, moaning former servicemen. The MP soldiers in the Humvee were mostly dead, one of them had turned, and he'd shot that one and the others when they started to wake up. He tried to start the vehicle, but it didn't even turn over. The headlights worked, but the only thing they lit up was a mob of former soldiers and civilians heading for him. He couldn't even button up the Humvee because of the .50 on its roof. He fired at the crowd, four shots at a time. He didn't know if the .50 could fire single shots—all he knew was to push the trigger. He wasn't even sure he could switch the rounds if he found all ball.

He resigned himself to his fate.

“Hey, sis,” he said out loud. “Sorry I lied to dad about the four wheeler,” he continued, remembering how he'd blamed his sister for his own damaged ATV. She'd been punished and he got to ride hers.

He fired four rounds and pulled the handle.

“Dad, I did steal more than just the one comic and Twizzlers before I got caught. I'm sorry.”

Four rounds. Pull the handle.

“Mom, I love you. I wish I would have said that instead of getting angry when you had to leave.”

Rat tat tat tat. Pull the handle...

“Trish, I should have asked you to the prom.”

Matthews let go of the .50 and pulled a revolver he'd retrieved from one of the dead MPs. He shot four zombies crawling up the tank.

“Into thy hands...” he said as he put the barrel in his mouth and fired.