The Hunt Chronicles (Volume 1): Awakening (11 page)

He kept referring to the zombies as Zulus.  I don’t know why, but it kind of got on my nerves.  I mean, if a duck is a duck…

Up until that point, I thought all I had to worry about were zombies.  They were bad enough.  I thought back to when I had approached the FEMA camp.  There was a figure running through the hoard of zombies as it fled the area.  They were trying to grab the person fleeing, but he was too quick… too agile.  It had to be one of those things. 

I also remembered what Sarah said to me:  “I’ve seen what happens to the ones that don’t die!”  Those words rang through my head.  No wonder she freaked out when I told her I had been bitten.

I reminded myself not to tell Fish about my bite and to be careful about taking off my shirt in front of him.  Sarah may have run from me but I had a strange feeling Fish would try to do me a favor by putting a bullet in my head.

“Why do you think she’ll come back?”  I asked, still grimacing from his sloppy stitch work.

“I was camped out in a two-story house,” he said as he added the last few stitches.  “The two guys that tried to rob me were only a few houses down.  They thought I left the area after I shot one in the hand.  Anyway, I saw a scab track them back to their house.  The damn thing waited till one went out back to use the bathroom, and jumped him.  Ate half the man right in front of me.”

Fish, ever
not
so gently, twisted my forearm for a better angle at stitching one end of the wound.  Then he continued.

“The scab stalked the other guy for a few more days, probably waiting till it was hungry again.  During that time, its first meal got up, turned into a Zulu.  I guess the scabs can turn people into walking dead too.”  He paused a moment, lost in thought, then continued.  “Anyways, that scab waited on the second guy for a few days.  I think the poor bastard knew he was being stalked.  It was only a matter of time before he became dessert.”

“Jesus,” was all I managed to say.

“Your scab knows where a meal is.  It’s probably not going to forget it.”  He wiped up the blood from the wound.  His stitch work was sloppy as hell, but the wound was barely bleeding now.  The gash was only an inch and a half long.  I felt lucky. 

Without warning, he poured more peroxide on my wound, making me cry out in pain. 

“Can it, pussy!” he grunted, then continued.  “It won’t attack the same way the second time, of that I’m sure.  Like I said, they’re smart.  You lucked out today.  We have a couple of days before she comes back, I think.  They heal fast, but not
that
fast.  I hurt her pretty bad.”

I decided not to remind him that I shot it once myself.  He probably would have responded with some smartass comment and I really wasn’t in the mood for that.

I wrapped gauze around the wound and grabbed four Motrin, swallowing them without water.  I looked over at Boomer.  He was breathing heavy, and I could hear faint whines as he slept on the floor near the table.

“Thanks,” I said.  “What about the government?  I saw a C130 flying by a few days ago.  They have to be somewhere, taking back ground and rescuing civilians.”

“Yeah, I checked that out,” he said with a sarcastic smile as he started wiping the dark camouflage off his face.  “That plane was dropping leaflets.  I got my hands on one, but it didn’t say much.  Just gave a frequency for H.A.M radio operators, and basically said Florida is a lost cause.  The radio was saying how what’s left of the government was moving out west.  I guess they’re trying to set up relief camps away from any heavily populated areas.  The recorded radio messages stopped playing two days ago, and as I’m sure you’ve noticed there hasn’t been a plane in the sky since.  We’re on our own, kid.”

I stared down at my bandage.  The news was depressing.  Sure, it was good that some sort of civilization was being organized.  But we couldn’t be any farther away from it.

“Anything else?” I asked, not hiding my despair.

“Not really.  I wasn’t sitting around the radio night and day.  I really only listened when the rain was coming down.” 

His face was almost completely wiped down, except for light smudges of paint.  His eyes were tired.  I could tell he needed a good night’s sleep.  He didn’t seem like the type of guy that needed to hear that, though, so I was careful how I worded my next sentence.

“Boomer here keeps a good eye out.  Even if he’s knocked out asleep, he’ll wake up if any danger comes by.”  I looked around.  “If you want, you can crash on my mattress.  I’ll take the couch.”

“Thanks,” he said as he got up, “but I’ll take the couch.  I’ll sleep better if I’m sitting up.”

The sun was close to going down.  I figured we had less than an hour left before dark.  Even though I knew I could use a nap, I decided to clean my weapons. 

Fish hadn’t told me he was a former soldier yet, but I really didn’t need him to.  He used enough military jargon for me to know he’d been in the Army.  I guessed he was probably infantry or some other combat MOS.  I hoped that cleaning my weapons would show him I wasn’t as much of a pogue as he thought.  I was being a little childish, like the new kid in school trying to impress others to make friends.  At the time, though, making a friend and not being alone were pretty damn important to me.

“You got duct tape, kid?” he asked.

“Yeah… why?” I responded.  I’m not sure why, but I had this image of him duct taping me to the chair.

“Cause I don’t like the idea of a broken window near where I’m sleeping, dumbass,” he retorted.  I forgot about the busted window in the living room.  The break wasn’t that big, but the window was missing a good square foot of glass, and there were cracks throughout the whole pane.

He used the tape and spread it across the whole window, securing the glass and covering the hole with a piece of cardboard.

“This will do for the night,” he said to me or himself.  I wasn’t sure which.

He grabbed a pillow and sat on my couch, putting his dirty boots on my mattress.  Yep, he was an asshole, all right.  I shook my head, trying to ignore his rudeness.  Grabbing the cleaning kit I took from Dave’s locker, I sat down on the mattress across from where he put his feet.

“You were right, kid,” he said as he lay back on his pillow and closed his eyes.

That shocked me.  I had known this man for less than a day, and he’d probably insulted me a hundred times.  I didn’t think he was capable of compliments.

“I was?”  I responded while I took apart the Glock.

“Yeah,” he replied.  “That dog of yours.  He saved your life today.  I was still unstrapping my .45 when he jumped on that scab.”

“Boomer’s a good dog,” I said, glancing under the kitchen table where he was resting.  He was lazily staring at Fish.

“How long have you had him?” Fish asked, releasing a slight yawn.

“Only a few days.  I found him down the road, trapped in a house with a zombie.”  I started scrubbing the inside of the Glock’s barrel.  It was dirtier than I thought it would be.

He tiredly chuckled.  “You saved a dog from a Zulu?  Good lookin’ out, Supply.”

“One of the best decisions I’ve made so far,” I said.  Fish didn’t respond, though.  I could hear a light snore coming from behind me. I turned around and saw that he was laying there with his arms crossed over his lap, pistol in hand. 

Boomer got up and lay down next to me on the mattress and watched me work.  After I was done, I checked him to see if he had broken anything.  He was tender in some areas, but I was sure he was still intact.

“Thanks buddy,” I whispered to him as he too fell asleep.

I grabbed my duct tape and wrapped both of my sledgehammers with six layers, making a decent grip.  “That should help,” I told myself. 

I glanced around as the light started to quickly fade.  The rain had stopped, and I could hear moans out in the streets.  Another night in hell, but this time, I wasn’t alone.  I collapsed onto the mattress next to Boomer.  His breathing was quick, probably still worked up from the fight earlier.  Poor dog got hurt trying to save my life.  I owed him big.

I looked up at the ceiling, and listened to the sound of zombies in the streets.  As thousands upon thousands of the dead started to moan, it created a reverberating hum throughout the city.  The first week or so, it had been eerie.  Is it bad that I was starting to grow used to it?

Fish had told me how bad the country was.  From the news I saw the night before the dead rose, I could only guess that the same thing was happening worldwide.  The thought of
everywhere
being like this made me sick.  I didn’t think there was any hope.  I hoped the government really did get its shit together and make a safe area in the Midwest. 

I didn’t want to dwell on it anymore, though.  I could barely go five miles from where I was now.  I didn’t even want to think of the logistics it would take to make it to Arkansas or Kansas, or wherever they had decided to make a stand.

I also wasn’t sure what the deal with Fish was either.  He seemed mean, but trustworthy.  I hoped he would stay with me and Boomer, but I didn’t know what his plans were.  He came here just a few hours after he declined to team up with me.  That didn’t really make much sense.  After my run-in with the scab woman, I really didn’t feel like being alone.  Sure, Boomer saved my life, but so did Fish.  Boomer and I would both have been that thing’s dinner if he hadn’t shown up and blown a hole in it.

All of these unanswered questions about Fish would have to wait.  He looked like he hadn’t slept in days, and I wasn’t about to wake him.  Tomorrow, I planned to check out that house.  If all went well, I—or we—would move into it. 

I closed my eyes and attempted to flush all the thoughts out of my mind.  The low hum of the moans across the city rocked me to sleep.  Nightmares were a warm welcome compared to what I went through that day.

Chapter 10

A New Home

April 4
th
  Morning

The next morning, I woke up to Boomer whining.  That had become a daily ritual.  Unlike me, he couldn’t use the mop bucket as a bathroom.  I would check the backyard, making sure there were not any zombies nearby.  Then he would run outside, take care of business, and come back in. 

I really didn’t want to move, though, and he kept nudging me with his cold, wet nose.  My shoulder still caused me some pain, and my forearm hurt pretty bad as well.  I slowly rose and told him to hold on a second, then stretched the parts that didn’t hurt, which weren’t that many.

My stomach sank as I looked over to the couch.  It was empty.  Fish had left some time during the night, or at sunrise.  I wasn’t sure which.  Either way, it was depressing. 

“He could have at least said goodbye,” I told Boomer as I turned around to take him out back.

“What are you, a girl?” a voice asked sarcastically.

Fish was standing at the back door holding two large gym bags.  He tossed them in the kitchen and shut the door behind him.

“I-I thought you left,” I stammered, surprised he was there.

“I did.” He came in and opened up one of his duffle bags he had brought the night before.  “I had to go get a few more things.”

“I thought you said you were better off on your own?”  I was trying to sound sarcastic, but I think it came off more childish than anything.

“I am,” he said, and dug around in his bag.  He found what he was looking for, and pulled out an oil filter.  “But you’re not.  Besides, the house I was staying at was too dangerous.  I guess we’re going to have to check out this new place you’re all excited about.  We’re sitting ducks with that front window busted in.”

I really wanted to say something smart, like “I knew you needed me,” but thought better of it.  Fish may have had a sense of humor, but it was definitely one sided.

“Okay,” I finally said. 

“Where’s that Glock of yours?” he asked. I pointed down at my mattress.

“What are you doing?” I asked, even though common sense said he was about to put a suppressor on my gun.

“I’d rather not go into a house swinging sledges if we plan on staying there for a while,” Fish replied as he walked over and grabbed my pistol.  He sat down at the kitchen table and took out some weird tool.

“Giving me a silencer?” I asked.

“A suppressor,” he corrected harshly.

Fish made some adjustments to my gun and then started spinning a weird looking wrench on the end of my barrel.  After complaining about my choice of a handgun for thirty minutes, he finally finished.  I guess the barrel was shorter than what he preferred.   He then drew a line on the top of the black oil filter with a permanent magic marker.  That was because the oil filter prevented me from using the sights.  He said I just had to line it up with the top of a zombie’s head.

After that, we spent the next hour gathering the gear we thought we may need to breach the house.  He agreed that going in through the back was a good idea.

“Why do you think they come back?”  I asked Fish while we were loading our packs.  “I mean, when you shoot a zombie in the head, shouldn’t that be it?”

“Not sure,” he said as he put his rifle in the corner.  “Doesn’t really matter.”

I frowned at that then nodded over to his rifle.  “Not taking it?” I asked as I held my AR15.

“Nope, and you’re not taking that,” he motioned to my rifle.  “No sense.  More weight to carry, and if we have to fire a shot, I’d prefer it to be on the quieter side.”

I nodded, and put down the gun.  I didn’t have a setup like he did with his belt-holster so I grabbed a couple of old belts and jury-rigged one of my own.  Using my holster with the oil filter on the end was impossible.

“I just find it confusing,” I stated, continuing our previous one-sided conversation.  “My best friend out back, why did he collapse the first time I shot him in the head?  I mean, do they repair themselves or something?”  I had my own idea why zombies got back up after shots to the head, but I wanted his take on it.  He just seemed to want to let it go, though.

“Like I said, it doesn’t really matter,” he returned harshly.  “Knowing why isn’t going to change the fact that they get back up after you put a bullet in their head.  All we need to know is that they do and, to keep them down, you have to completely destroy the brain.”  He paused for a second.  He shook his head, as if he didn’t want to think about it anymore.  “Just make sure your gear is secure.”

After we were ready to move, Fish went into the kitchen and grabbed a handful of salt.  He went to the patio and threw it on the concrete slab.  I remembered a few movies and TV shows where they would use salt to ward off demons or evil spirits.  Did he think that would work?

“Are they afraid of salt or something?”  I asked curiously.

He chuckled.  “No kid.  But if that female or another scab comes looking in here, we’ll know.  When we get back, we use the back door.”  He grabbed another handful and put it near the shattered bay window.

I hated the fact that he talked to me like I was stupid.  I also hated the fact that everything he would berate me about made sense.

We left through the front door.  Fish told me to lock it and I didn’t bother to ask why.  I was sure the answer would just irritate me.  I didn’t think it mattered because the front window was partway bashed in from the day before and we left the back door unlocked. 

We moved down the road, careful not to attract any attention to ourselves.  Boomer alerted us to a few zombies that lurked around the sides of houses.  We carefully avoided being noticed, and I could tell Fish was impressed by the canine’s senses.

We cut the lock off the privacy fence, and moved into the protection of the back yard.  Fish was trying to take the lead, but Boomer wouldn’t allow it as we moved down the side of the house. 

Fish’s .45 was out as he moved tactically toward the corner of the building.  I was bringing up the rear, and made sure to shut the gate as quietly as possible.  I also made a special effort to not have my Glock pointed anywhere near where Fish was.  I did learn some things in the military, and pointing a gun, loaded or not, chambered or not, in someone else’s direction was a big no-go.  The truth was that I didn’t want to distract my new partner from what he was doing, and I was sure to get chastised for doing something that irresponsible.

I didn’t see Boomer alerting to anything nearby, but he was sniffing around.  Something was close, but not within striking distance. 

He rounded the side of the house. Fish stood there, scanning the back yard.  Most corner lots had more property than standard ones, and this was no different.

I came up behind Fish and looked around.  He motioned me forward and we moved into the back yard.

There were two large blue water collection barrels connected to the gutters on the roof.  They were actually pretty ingenious.  Instead of water just dumping into an open container, they flowed through a screen that covered the entire opening.  Mosquitoes and other bugs were always an issue in Florida, and that simple contraption would keep them and anything else bigger than a grain of sand, out of the storage tanks.

The two barrels had PVC pipes connected to them, leading out to a couple of large black tanks on the back of the house.  Small PVC pipes came off of one of those tanks which led to four rows of five gallon buckets with ten buckets per row.  Every one of them had some sort of plant growing out of it.  Fish stared at the strange garden, and seemed to approve of its design.  I later found out that was what they call a ‘self-watering garden’.

“Fresh veggies?” I asked with a smile.

“Can it!” he commented harshly, and pointed to the edge of the yard.  There was a shovel stabbed in the ground, and the beginnings of a hole were dug, but not too deep.  Well, it was a hole or a grave. 

Fish signaled for me to keep an eye on the patio while he inspected the dug up area.  He came back, shaking his head and motioned over to the patio.

The screened patio was pretty big.  Like the house I found Boomer in, it had a stone bar with a propane grill built in.  There was a sliding glass door in the back, and a single door leading to another part of the house.

We neared the glass door and saw a bloody hand print smeared across the top.  The blinds were still closed though, and were speckled with dried blood.  Something tried to get out this way.  Fish barely nudged the door to see if it would open, then shook his head.  Boomer gave off the signal that a zombie was near, and backed away from the door.  Fish put his gun to his lips, making the ‘Shush’ sign, and pointed toward the other back door. 

We made our way over and Fish checked the doorknob.  I could tell it was locked by the expression he made.  However, right next to the door was a decent sized window that showed a rather large master bathroom.  Two French doors opened from the bathroom to the master bedroom.  There were no signs of movement.

Fish seemed to know a thing or two about breaking into houses.  Either he had a checkered past, or he had been busy since the dead rose.  He took out some weird tool and started shimming in between the window frame.  He looked satisfied as the two locks clicked open.  He then quietly took out the screen and raised the window.  A horrid smell wafted out of the opening, almost making me gag.  He looked back at the sliding glass door and didn’t see any movement.

“Alright, Supply, let’s see what you’re made of,” Fish whispered. He placed his .45 down on a patio chair and linked his fingers together.  “Hurry up, before the Zulu hears us,” he whispered hastily. 

“Dammit,” I said under my breath as I put my own gun next to his. 

He heaved me up into the windowsill.  I fell, face first, into a large bathtub right below the window.  Clanking noises from my flashlight and other gear echoed through the house.  Within seconds, I could hear movement and moaning emanating from outside of the room.  I guess the bedroom door wasn’t shut all the way, because before I was on my feet, it flung open. 

A man lumbered in.  His face was dry and gaunt, worse than Dave’s ever was.  His cheek bones had pierced through the skin, and vile black ooze dribbled out of his open mouth.  He had no wounds other than a bullet hole through his left temple.  Behind him came another figure.   It was a boy, probably only fourteen years of age who had been mangled.  His throat had been torn out, and half of his left arm was chewed to the bone and hung limply at his side.  A revolver was stuffed in the boy’s pants.

The man had already made it to the French doors when an oil filter appeared above my head. I ducked, even though I was nowhere near the line of fire. 

CLANK! CLANK!

Two shots from Fish’s .45 put both zombies down. 

A hot shell discharged from Fish’s gun, going down the back of my shirt. 

“Ouch,” I spurted out, as I squirmed around in the bath tub.  There was nothing I could do, though.  I would have to wait for the burning shell at the small of my back to cool down.

“Stop crying and unlock the door!” Fish commanded.  

I climbed out of the tub, still doing a little dance as the shell branded my lower spine.  I unlocked the door and opened it.  Fish was there with my gun in his other hand.  He handed it to me while Boomer jetted in, sniffing around.  The canine went to the two dead bodies, as if checking them to ensure they were dead.

We finished clearing the bedroom and moved into a front room.  It looked like the family used this for a study room.  There was a couch and a love seat, but no TV.  There were two ways out. The first one was to the left near the front door of the house that hooked around to another room, and one to the right which held a large dining room table and a doorway leading to another area of the house. 

Boomer was sniffing to the right and walked into the next room.   

This room had an open kitchen that faced the living room, and to the left, we saw the other entrance back to the study.  On the other side was a hallway which we guessed led to the other bedrooms.  Most new homes in Florida had some sort of split plan layout like this one. 

Boomer sniffed toward the hallway and we tactically followed.  There wasn’t any noise that we could hear, though Boomer was showing some sort of tell.  I wasn’t sure if he was sensing a zombie or something else.  It wasn’t his normal reaction to smelling the dead.

There were four doors in the hallway.  One was already open and showed us an empty bathroom.  The first two bedrooms we checked were empty as well, and we moved to the other end.  The door showed signs that someone… or something had beaten on it.  Brown, dry blood lined the floor and covered the door in small handprints.  But they hadn’t broken it down, nor did they beat on it for too long.

We tried to push it open, but it wouldn’t budge.  That’s when we heard something inside.  It was just a small bump, like something moved.

“Another Zulu.” Fish said eyeing the door like it was the enemy.  “Something’s up against it though.” 

I looked down at Boomer and he was wagging his tail anxiously.

“I don’t think so,” I said, motioning to Boomer.  He sniffed at the door excitedly.  He would be excited if it were a zombie, of course, but he would be more alert, whiney, and hunched down, ready to attack.