The Dead Hunger Series: Books 1 through 5 (138 page)

Denny didn’t.  He was a big guy, pitch black hair and eyebrows like Brezhnev.   His arms were like tree stumps, and I was no match for him, even if he had just been the level of pissed off that he had once been when
Leona and I were doing tequila shots and blasted classic Foreigner at the top of our stereo’s capabilities.

Now he was either crazy drunk or attack-level angry.  He was moaning, and as he drew closer, I could see red shit all over his mouth and hands.  As I ran off the porch he jerkily changed direction.  The house to my left was owned by Mrs. Dunaway, who was a retired school teacher.  She was 73 years old, and now I saw her in her front lawn.

She was wearing a flowered robe, but the front was wide open and she was barefoot.  I waved my arms at her and yelled, “Mrs. Dunaway!  Get back inside!  Go in!  It’s dangerous out here!”

And like a parade of fucking crazies, she, too, began to head my way, her old tits swinging to and fro, almost as disconcerting as her lack of modesty.  She had the same jerky motion as Denny and the same lack of response.

“Fuck!” I said.  “Fuck!”  That’s not me, you see.  I don’t scream that word much unless something is really, really bothering me.  Well, let me tell you.  This shit was
really, really
bothering me.  And scaring me.  They were getting closer and I didn’t know where to go. 

I looked back at the front of my house and the blinds were being clawed at from the inside.  As I watched, they came down, and
Leona was there, buck naked and pressing against the glass, pounding on it, falling against it.

Finally, as I watched in horror, the front window shattered and my love fell through, the glass slicing deep into her in several places. 

Instinct took over and I ran to her, glancing back now and then at Denny and Mrs. Dunaway, who continued their slow but steady trek in my direction.

“
Leona!” I shouted again, like I was broken and it was all I could say.  She lay there with an enormous, triangular-shaped piece of glass jutting from her neck.  Leona gnashed and clawed at the ground and as I watched in heartbreaking agony, she chewed on the half of her tongue that remained, eyes locked on me as she tried to get back on her feet. 

There was blackish-red blood oozing from her wounds, but not fast.  Just coming out as if no heart muscle pumped it.

I staggered away from her again as she finally pushed herself to her feet, and she moved toward me once more, her eyes dead, her intention obvious.

Get to me.

I didn’t know then exactly what the end game was, or why everyone was heading toward me.  I knew that others were being attacked, but while biting is an age old method of fighting without a weapon, there was more behind the bites.  It was not just to inflict injury – otherwise, why chew long term like the news cameraman? 

It was then that I first realized the true horror.  These things – yes, even
Leona Skye, the love of my life – wanted to
feed
on me.

I turned and ran toward the porch railing, for Denny was now coming up the three steps.  Mrs. Dunaway was just outside the low rail on the north side of my house, so I put one hand on top of the railing and jumped over it and the hedge on the other side, into the yard.  I ran into the middle of the lawn and as one, they all turned toward me.

Not toward one another.  It was as if they didn’t notice each other – only me.  But if we had been on Sesame Street and this was a
One of these things doesn’t belong here
question, the answer would have been Dave Gammon.

I wasn’t the same as them.    I didn’t belong there.

Looking back on it now, I think of what I might have done differently.  Even as I was realizing that Leona was very sick, as were many others, intellectually, I think I knew she and everybody else were way too far gone to help.

Think of the questions you asked yourself in the world before zombies.  Did I put my dog down too soon?  Was she really in that much pain?  Or did I do it for my own convenience?

Guilt.

Was my dad really so difficult for me to take care of that I had to put him in that nursing home?  Or was it just because I wasn’t a good enough son and didn’t want the hassle.

Guilt.

Was Leona really a creature, beyond my help?  Or was I too frightened to risk myself to help her?

Guilt.  Late at night, even now, I ask this question of myself.  I know the answer because Flex, Gem, Hemp and even Charlie have shared their stories with me, and they all either killed or abandoned those they loved.

Still, it nags.  What would she have done?  Would she have allowed herself to become like me, just so we wouldn’t have to part?  It would be
so
Leona.

Either way, I ran.  I ran away from the three on my porch and I went to Denny’s house.  The man had guns and I didn’t.  Since he was a showoff, I knew where he kept them and I knew where he kept the key to his gun safe.

I didn’t count on almost falling over  his dead wife in the den.

*****

Beth St
eele lay on her back just inside the open front door where I charged in without looking.  Her neck was torn open, and there were clumps of her hair on the tile floor on either side of her.  To be more precise, the hair was adhered to the now sticky pool of blood that had initially flowed from her damaged skull, but that no longer possessed a viscosity that would allow it to course further. 

I leapt in the air as I came upon her, like a cat surprised by a jack-in-the-box.  I wasn’t shocked I had that much energy; I felt like a coiled spring, having seen in just ten minutes, more horror than I had seen in all of my thirty-six years.

Anyway, I flew clean over her, missing the sticky muck of blood, and when I stopped and looked back, I saw her head had been bashed open.  It had probably been smashed against the tile because I didn’t see any other weapon around.

The skull was pretty destroyed, and there were chunks of something I did not stay and get a better look at before charging though the living room, down a short hallway and into the den.

I saw the safe in the corner – nice and big.  The key was in the nightstand from what I remembered, and I opened it.

An assortment of vibrators and oils greeted me, but there was also a gun in there.  It was a revolver of some kind with quite a long barrel, but I didn’t know what kind, because while I liked and respected guns and wasn’t afraid of them, I’d
never really been that guy.  Denny had invited me to the range a few times, and I’d taken him up twice.  It was fun, and he paid for the ammo.

If I had unlimited funds I would likely have owned a few guns, but that had
never been the case.  I worked my ass off in construction, but I was still always hand-to-mouth.

I flipped on the light and looked the gun over.  It was a Smith & Wesson, which was good, I guess.  At least it wasn’t made by ACME.  I found what I thought was the safety and held the pistol out, squeezing the trigger.

It was locked. Not even a click. 

I was intent on avoiding that awkward moment when a demented person whose objective is attacking you is one second away and you first require a 2-second gun training course.

I looked the Smith & Wesson over again and flipped the switch back, then held it out and pulled the trigger again.

The explosion threw my unprepared arm back, and I almost dropped the gun.  A small hole appeared in the far wall of the room, and I immediately worried about police showing up.

Then I thought again.  If the news I had been watching was any indication, I would be low priority about now.  I put the gun in my other hand, careful to keep my finger off the trigger, and shook my right hand, trying to get the feeling back. 

I flipped the safety back on and shoved the gun in the pocket of my jeans.  It did not go in far enough and fell directly to the floor.  I bent down to retrieve it, and when I stood up, Denny was barreling through the goddamned door at me.

I staggered away and fell on the bed, where I spider-crawled, the gun in one hand with the safety on, and my other hand feeling for the opposite corner of the bed.

I reached it and swung my legs off and stood just as he fell onto the mattress, his eyes glowing pink and putting out some kind of strange vapor.  I ducked down, as the vapor seemed to be floating in front of his face.  Flipping the switch back off, I held up the gun and said, “Denny, man, I don’t want to hurt you!  What happened to Beth?”

He growled, snarled and ground his teeth and his hand reached to within four inches of me.  He didn’t look right.  His skin was like Leona’s had been, only worse.  More roadmap-type black veins and lines crisscrossing his face and arms, his movements unnatural and not in any way fluid.  His eyes were blistered with dark, bloody veins through a pinkish haze.

I squeezed my eyes shut and fired into him.  When I opened them again, there was a simple hole where his heart would be – almost center chest, slightly to my right – but nothing had changed.  His mouth opened in a grotesque display of hungry desire, and I staggered backward at the unexpected lack of reaction, slamming the wall.

I pressed myself into the corner, but Denny kept coming, tumbling off the bed and onto the floor.  He was no more than a foot and a half from my feet now and his hand reached out and snatched my ankle. 

I had no shoes on, and this touchy-feely shit was freaking me out good.  My adrenaline returned full force and I jerked my leg free of his grasp, springing over him as he scrambled to his hands and knees.  I jumped up onto the bed, and stood, the gun held down on him.  Though I realized the new danger I had put myself in by taking my current stance on the bed, it was too late to reverse the decision. 

My head immediately got wacked good with at least two blades of the ceiling fan.  Because it was probably running on high speed, combined with the fact that I just wasn’t prepared for it, I practically flew into the back wall, and fell off the other side of the bed, my shoulder smacking into the steel gun safe.

I was a fucking comedy of errors.  I
never thought I would write about it later, but after seeing what Flex, Gem, Hemp and Charlie included in their chronicles, I did not think that being embarrassing qualified anything for omission.

As I got back to my feet, I saw my strange adversary did the same, but now he was crawling back over the bed again.  I held the gun out.  Right at his head.  Again, I did not
wish to see the bullet go into his body, so I closed my eyes and fired, point-blank range, into his skull.

The boom reverberated.  I opened my eyes.  Denny was face down and still.

Mrs. Dunaway staggered into the room, robe still wide open, her dead old tits wagging, and she was moving toward me as fast as her vein-riddled, old lady legs would carry her.

As I raised the weapon, wondering how many bullets it held, I saw
Leona stagger up behind her and my heart caught in my throat.

I couldn’t shoot her.  I felt my eyes tear up, and it felt like I was about to
break down and bawl.

Now, as I skirted back around the bed away from Mrs. Dunaway, I saw Leona was worse.  Her skin had gone darker, her eyes had their own pink glow, but no mist.  I jumped back onto the bed, avoiding the dead man there as I got to the other side of the room by the window.  I stood there, the gun held out, saying nothing.

Leona stared at me and came around the bed while Dunaway crawled right over the dead body of Denny Steele without even a glance down.  My head, my brain, every part of me was screaming inside.  Nothing intelligible.  Just screaming.

I reacted out of fear and sorrow, but I wanted out of there so bad, and I couldn’t look at the woman who had caressed my heart with her unique brand of love for the past years; so much so that I knew she was my soul mate – even as stupid as that sounds to my own ears.

She was.  I shook my head, met her eyes and tried one last time to see any sign of recognition there, and saw none.  When Dunaway reached the edge of the bed and Leona was three feet from me, I threw myself through the closed window back first, tucking in my arms and lowering my head.  The framework broke away and I dropped to the bushes and grass below, feeling as though I escaped any serious injury.

I only just thought that I was as lucky as hell that Denny didn’t have hurricane windows.  I’d have been just dazed enough to feel myself getting bitten.  I didn’t know at that time that it involved any more than biting and chewing – the fact that they actually
consumed
human flesh was still a little nugget that I would have the horror of learning later. 

I hauled ass around and ran back to the front door, checking myself for cuts along the way.  I got back to Denny’s front entrance and ran inside again, this time yanking it closed behind me.  Then I charged to the bedroom where I had just been.  I stopped, breathing hard, watching Leona standing there staring at the broken window, as if she hadn’t a clue as to what to do.

Mrs. Dunaway had already dropped out the window through which I had retreated.   I saw the top of her head as she moved aimlessly around in the yard beyond.