Zomb-Pocalypse (2 page)
My phone is buzzing when I wake up. It’s been making all sorts of noises for the last 20 minutes, each ring pulling me further and further from the dream I am desperate to hold onto. I groggily reach for it with a groan of annoyance.
“911!!!”
The newest text message flashes before my eyes, and I touch the screen to reveal a series of messages and missed calls from my best friend Abby. The phone begins to ring in my hand as though she has a sixth sense.
"Someone better be dead!" I snap into the phone. "You know I was up late at Cheer Regionals."
I’m not sure what kind of response I’m expecting, but I definitely don’t expect to hear the ragged sob of relief that bursts through the phone. "Thank God you’re alive!" Abby manages to get out before she starts bawling.
That cuts my tirade short. "What's wrong?" My annoyance instantly evaporates. All sorts of scenarios are playing through my head.
"You haven't looked outside yet, or watched the news?" she asks after a minute of snuffling as she struggles to get her crying under control.
"I just woke up." I defend myself, not wanting her to make a big deal about all the missed calls and texts.
I can hear her taking a deep breath on the other end of the phone. "Dead people are coming back to life, it's all over the news. They're everywhere outside,” she pauses for a breath before expelling it in a rush, “Oh God, are your doors locked?"
I sit bolt upright in bed. "That isn't funny." She knows I hate zombie stuff, and she’s obviously trying to scare me. My toe gets caught in a stray thread on the comforter, and I wiggle it free as I continue to listen to Abby’s heavy breathing on the other end of the phone.
"I know how this sounds Jane, please though, you have to believe me. I swear on everything that is holy—the dead are walking the earth." She sounds close to tears again, and I begin to feel the first prickle of apprehension, though I quickly stomp it out. I’m being ridiculous.
"Alright," I say, climbing out of the bed. "I'll bite, just this once. I'm going to look outside, but if there aren't any zombies out there, I'm never talking to you again!" I rise from the bed with an exaggerated huff.
"No!" Her voice yelps through the phone before she hastily lowers it to a whisper. I don't know why she is saying these things to me, but I begin to freak out a bit. Something isn’t right, it isn’t like Abby to mess with me, and she’s usually such a terrible actress.
"Turn the lights off first, and don't open the blinds, just look out quick and then, get away from the window." Adrenaline spikes through my body in response to her words, but I try to shake it off.
I tell myself she is just being a goof. My light is already off, so I creep out of bed and head for the window.
"Are you still there?" Her voice crackles in over the line, making me jump.
"Yeah, hold on," I mutter as I reach my finger out and push the blinds apart to take a quick look.
My breath escapes my body in a whoosh of shock. For a full minute I can't even comprehend what I'm seeing. Cars and garbage are littering the once pristinely manicured cul-de-sac. There’s even a car on fire a few houses down. Everywhere, illuminated by the harsh, noon day sun, there are bloodied bodies staggering around with stilted, jerky steps.
My throat closes up with fear. I actually feel my bowels quiver, wanting to let loose their contents.
"Abby." It's the only word I can squeak out around my full blown panic.
I should look away from the window, but I don’t. I see a man down on the ground, dragging the top half of his body around with his arms. His entire bottom half is a ragged, bloody stump trailing what looks to be stringy bits of his intestines. As if he can sense me, his head snaps around, and he stares right at my house. I drop to the floor and begin to hyperventilate.
"My parents aren't here." The thought occurs to me at the same time I speak it aloud to Abby. They are in New York this weekend and have left me home alone because I am responsible, and nothing bad ever happens in our quiet neighborhood.
Abby doesn't have a chance to say anything because her Mother takes the phone.
"Jane, sweetheart, are you okay?"
I manage to get out a shaky yes in between my chattering teeth.
"That's good." Her voice is very soothing, like the way someone might talk reassuringly to a wild animal. "We are almost packed up, and then we are coming to get you. We should be there in 20 minutes. Stay inside, stay away from the windows, don't open the door until you see us." Her voice is shaking now, and that makes me more scared than anything else. "Pack a bag, only things that you will really need: fresh clothes and food. Keep it light because you'll have to carry it. Do you understand?"
"Yes, Mrs. Washington." I squeeze my eyes shut tight and grip the phone like it's a lifeline.
"You're a good girl, Janie. Stay safe, we are on our way."
"You too." I manage to mumble before the line goes dead. I feel myself about to fall apart. I want to so badly, but there isn't time.
My hands are shaking so hard that I almost drop the phone. With fingers that don’t want to cooperate, I quickly dial my Mom’s cell and hold my breath. It rings and rings. Each ring making me feel worse and worse until the voicemail picks up. I hear my Mom’s cheerful voice instructing me to leave a message at the beep.
My voice cracks, and I revert back to a much younger version of myself. “Momma,” my voice trembles. “I really hope you’re okay. There’s bad things outside here…,” For a minute I don’t know what to say. Saying that zombies are murdering people sounds too crazy. “Abby’s parents are coming to pick me up. Please call me back, and let me know you and Dad are okay. I love you guys.” I hang up before I can completely break down and freak my Mom out worse. I remind myself that help is on the way and stuff my emotions down. I grab my school backpack and dump everything out in a messy pile on the floor.
My entire body is shaking, but I manage to stuff some spare clothes into the backpack and get myself dressed. I pull a hoodie on over my shirt. It isn't cold out, but not a lot of clothes are going to fit into my bag. I toss in my phone charger and my hairbrush. I walk past the bathroom, and then I go back to throw in some deodorant and my toothbrush, my mom would have insisted. My stomach tightens when I think about my parents. Is this madness happening everywhere or just here in Blairsville? I don't let myself think about it right now, my parents are going to be okay. They have to be.
I stand at the top of the stairs and stare down into the room below. My heart is pounding and my ears are straining to hear anything out of the ordinary. I don't hear any out of place noise, but I'm so scared that I can’t stop shaking. I run into my parent’s bedroom. I pause as a lump rises up in my throat when I glance at their bed. Where are they right now? Are they alive? Did this mess reach as far as New York? A tear trickles down my cheek, and I angrily wipe it away. I can’t let myself think about this right now or I will completely shut down. I run to their walk-in closet. For a minute my hand hovers over the knob in terror.
“Why would a zombie be in the closet?” I verbally slap myself before pulling the door open. Thankfully, the closet is zombie free. I grab a nine iron out of my dad's golf bag.
It doesn't make me feel much better, but at least it's something. I take up my post, staring down the stairs, this time with a golf club gripped in my hands like a baseball bat.
I take the first step and the stairs creak under my feet, and I feel my heart take the deep plunge down into my stomach. My throat burns bitter with acid, but I force myself to keep going. The Washington's are going to be here soon, and I have to be ready. I don't want to be left behind.
The lights are off, but sunshine streams in through the blinds, illuminating the room. I can hear a faint scream, but can tell it's coming from outside somewhere and not in my house. My eyes scan the kitchen. Everything looks so normal. I notice the dirty frying pan still sitting in the sink, I used to make myself a late supper of toast and eggs when I got home last night. I go to the pantry and hastily shove a few cans into the top half of my backpack. I don't want to weigh it down too much, so I settle on a couple cans of tuna and those small, plastic fruit cups. My eyes land on crackers and chocolate chip cookies. I grab those too, but the boxes are too big for my bag. I toss the cardboard and shove the crackers in. I have to squish them a bit, but it's better than nothing. I top it off with a couple bottles of water from the fridge and zip my backpack up. Despite my best efforts, it feels heavy and awkward. I set the bag by the front door, ready to go, my eyes scanning the kitchen for anything else I might need.
The knife block sitting on the counter catches my attention, and a shiver races down my spine. Could I really stab one of those things outside? I walk over, grab the biggest, sharpest knife and set it on top of my backpack. Maybe I could.
I return to the front door and stare out the peephole. My stomach gives a sickening jump as I count twelve zombies staggering around the cul-de-sac. Some are closer than others, and some are people that I know. I see two of the kids from next-door walking around with large bite marks missing out of their faces, their slow, staggering pace a sure sign that they have been turned into monsters.
Movement by the neighbor’s garage catches my eye, and I see old Mrs. Myers creeping along the edge of her house with her small dog, Pickles, clutched to her chest. Her fingers trail the vinyl on the side of her house as she walks agonizingly slow—though I can tell it isn’t the same gait as the zombies; she’s still human, just old. A bark reaches my ears, and my heart sinks. That damn dog barks again and several of the creatures head’s snap around, drawn by the noise. The dog keeps barking, and I can see Mrs. Myers desperately trying to shush him. The zombies are coming around the side of the garage now and she doesn't even know it. I fight the urge to run out there and yell out a warning. I don't know what I can do to help her, I’m just a kid. By the time she sees the monsters they are already on top of her. I can hear her screams echoing through the house, and my eyes are glued to the peephole, morbidly unable to look away. I see a spurt of blood arc above the crowd of zombies as an artery in her neck is torn wide open by several pairs of jagged teeth.
I pull my eye away from the peephole when she falls to the ground, still clutching a struggling Pickles with four zombies on top of them, clumsily following her down to the ground. The acid in my stomach shifts, and I vomit on the floor. My throat is stinging and my eyes have tears in them when I’ve finished. I think about grabbing a towel and cleaning up the mess, but stop myself. It's the zombie apocalypse, what is the point really? I didn't want to miss my ride with Abby and her parents. I step around the mess and pick my backpack up off the floor, slinging it onto my back. I throw on a pair of hiking boots and stand shivering by the door. The reek of vomit makes me feel sick again, but this time I manage to keep it down. Not that there's really anything to keep down, I didn't eat yet today, and with all those dead bodies walking around out there, I don't know if I will ever be able to eat again.
Two of the zombies that just ate my neighbour and her dog have wandered into my yard. My heart stutters in fear. How am I going to get out of here? They stagger around, not looking particularly fast. Still, they’re terrifying enough.
I press my eye up to the peephole in time to see the Washington’s Suburban come squealing around the corner. The vehicle is swerving wildly. Without even slowing down, it smashes into one of the zombies standing vigil on the sidewalk in front of my house. I watch as the body bounces off the hood and gets swept underneath the tires. The zombie’s head explodes like an overripe melon beneath the weight of the SUV, and I nearly puke again. The Suburban drives erratically up the curb and over the sidewalk, and screeches to a halt in the middle of my front lawn.
I can hear the faint sound of the vehicle’s idle as it parks outside my door, this is the time for action. I'm terrified, but I'm even more terrified that they're going to leave me behind if I don't get my ass in gear.
I take one last look out the peephole before throwing the door wide open and running for my life. I have the golf club gripped in my hand, but halfway to the car I realize that I forgot the knife. I press on, there is no way I'm going back for it now, every zombie in the cul-de-sac is looking my way. Surprise hits me as I approach the vehicle and see Abby in the passenger seat. Her neighbour Megan is driving. I grab the back door handle and pull, but it doesn't open. Adrenaline surges through my veins, and a scream is torn from my lips as I watch Abby scramble to hit the unlock button. It feels like forever. Out of the corner of my eye I can see that we are gathering a large crowd of hungry spectators.
"Abby!" I cry out, not even recognizing my own voice. I'm already calculating my chances of running back into the house before the zombies tear me to shreds. The sound of the locks flipping is the sweetest noise I've ever heard.
"Where are you parents?" I blurt out before I register the redness in her eyes and the tears. Her clothing is covered with fresh blood, and the hand that's resting on the seat is shaking like crazy.
Abby shakes her head, unable to answer. Megan jams the gas pedal down before my butt is even completely in the seat. She leaves a huge rut in the lawn, and for a minute I worry about what my mother will say, but then I remember. I fight down the urge to throw up again, to cry, or scream until my face turns red and the pain cutting across my chest goes away. Maybe I'm like Abby now and don't have any parents. I immediately push the morbid thought out of my head. I’m in shock.