Dead World (Book 1): Dead Come Home (19 page)

Mike had noticed that the store had a plethora of .38 caliber rounds. So he filled up another duffel bag and grabbed a snub-nosed .38 revolver, not bothering to load it. It was the only .38 caliber firearm in the place, which probably explained why there was such a surplus of ammo for it.

I guess that, when the world is going to hell,
Mike had thought,
everybody wants to have the biggest guns
.

Mike sent Joseph on to the Blazer with the last few duffel bags of ammo and gave the shop one last inspection. He was ecstatic to find an AR-15 assault rifle, in pristine condition, hidden in a compartment behind the counter. However, his enthusiasm quickly faded when he realized there was no ammo for it. After a short moment of internal debate, he decided to leave the rifle behind and stepped out into the alley.

What he saw sent chills running up his spine.

Joseph had locked himself in the SUV, now encircled by well over a dozen zombies. They were beginning to rock the vehicle and Mike worried that they might be able to flip the Blazer onto its side. He also feared more would be coming soon, from only God knew where.

They must’ve been hunkered together in one of these nearby buildings when they heard us bash down the door.

Mike got their attention when he picked the first one off with a blast from the
Desert Eagle
. He had to be extra careful in his aim, shooting so close to the vehicle. One round through the engine block, he knew, would be more than enough to bring their journey to a very abrupt halt. The zombies turned away from Joseph and the Blazer, and began lumbering towards the more available meal. As they came away from the vehicle, Mike zigzagged as he shot, doing his best to fire at wide angles so as to avoid hitting the vehicle. Unfortunately, this made it extremely difficult to get off a solid shot. He fired eight times, and only managed to put down six of them … not his best moment as a marksman. Soon enough, he found himself wishing he had taken a moment to load the .38 revolver, which sat empty in his pocket.

Mike now found himself standing alone. Wisps of smoke curled upwards from the open slide of the pistol in his hand. He was out of ammo, and had yet to break his way clear to the vehicle where Joseph was waiting. He looked over the heads of the zombies before him and could see his new “partner in crime” arise from the sunroof of the vehicle. Seconds later, he saw Joseph draw out the Winchester.

Is he gonna try to shoot them off of me? Oh, SHIT! He IS!!!

“Don’t you even think about it!” he scolded loudly as the undead assailants sauntered towards him.

Joseph lowered the rifle and gave Mike a questioning, hands up gesture, as if to say “What the hell?”

“You just stay put!” Mike commanded with a pointed finger. He shoved his pistol home in its holster and reached for the hatchet at his hip. “You won’t do anything but draw their attention back to the vehicle. I’m fine!”

A quick scan of the situation and Mike had a headcount of six. He thought about the odds and remembered that he’d gone toe-to-toe with almost as many angry Bosnian soldiers in the not-so-distant past. And he’d been drunk at the time, not to mention that those Bosnian boys he scuffled with had been combat trained, young, fast, and (perhaps most importantly)
alive
. These things were slow, clumsy, and dumb as rocks.

I should be able to handle this easily enough with close combat.

The comfort of this thought didn’t last long. He could handle the situation, yes. However, he didn’t like the idea that a single bite or scratch would be the end of him. Fighting at close quarters is a dirty business, and Mike recalled the injuries he’d walked away with from that brawl in the Balkans. His face and neck had been scratched up something fierce, and he’d suffered a pretty nasty bite wound that left a lasting impression on his left forearm. In the situation he now faced, he could not afford any such wounds. Mike knew he’d have to do this quick, and somehow keep clear of their fingernails and teeth. As he contemplated the what-ifs, his assailants continued to draw closer.

No pressure, Mike. But thinkin’ ain’t exactly doin’. And this might be a helluva good time to move your ass and start doin’ somethin’!

Mike adjusted his grip on the hatchet and shuffled closer to the advancing zombies, making sure to provide appealing enough bait to keep them coming. He waited for one to draw closer than the others, waited for one to reach out for him … and he didn’t have to wait long. The fastest of the group proved, oddly enough, to be a considerably fat fucker, and his girth was making it hard for the others to maneuver around him. He reached out for Mike, grabbing at him with nothing but a thumb, a pinky, and a few bloody stumps. Apparently, his other digits had been gobbled up as “finger food,” if you’ll excuse the pun.

Mike stepped back and to the side, just out range. The fat zombie overreached, causing his head and shoulders to come farther forward than the rest of his body. His target now available, Mike brought the hatchet down with as much force as he could. The skull split open like a rotten coconut. The impact made a squishing sound that was almost sickening. Certain that his first attacker was down for good, Mike immediately recovered and prepared to repeat this process. It was then that he noticed a shadow moving across the tarmac extremely close to his own. Problem was … the sun was to his back. Which meant …

“Check your back side!” Joseph called out from the SUV.

Mike’s training took over. He raised his left elbow, shifted his weight, and pivoted on the ball of his right foot, catching the zombie sneaking up at his back across the face, briefly stunning it. Mike brought the hatchet around and caught the rotting flesh eater at center ear. No sound of a cracking skull this time, no sickening rotten-coconut-squish. The hatchet blade stuck in place, embedded in the side of the zombie’s head. To make matters worse, Mike realized that his strike had somehow managed to miss the brain and spine, since the thing was still moving. And, for all he knew, there were still five more coming his way, slowly but surely, from behind.

Real cool, Mike … you’re just John Wayne cool, aren’t you? Now what, pilgrim?

Mike gripped the zombie to his front by the opposite shoulder with his free hand, leaned back with all of his bodyweight, and spun on his heel. The zombie fell off balance and right into Mike’s throw, barreling in the direction of the mob to his back. Unfortunately, Mike also lost his grip on the hatchet handle, which had become slippery with the blood and saliva oozing from the head in which its blade was embedded. The careening zombie hit the others like a bowling ball, and those at the center of the group fell down like pins.

Had he hesitated, Mike may not have made it to the vehicle safe and sound. Seeing an opening in their line, Mike decided to chance making a break for it. He shot a beeline for the driver side door and fumbled with the handle for a second before finally getting it open. He slammed the door shut, hit the locks, and nailed the accelerator like a prom date. As they sped along the road out of town, Mike realized he had been holding his breath. He let out a deep sigh and began gasping for air. They were clear, and now had enough weapons and ammunition to get them to their destination and then some.

My God
, Mike thought in a rare moment of optimism,
we just might make it there alive after all
.

“Holy shit, Mike,” Joseph said as he climbed forward into the passenger seat and buckled himself in, “I vote we don’t try anything like that again. That was way too close for comfort.”

“Oh, really? Ya think? I couldn’t tell,” Mike replied between gasping breaths. How long
had
he been holding his breath? “And what in the
hell
did you think
you
were doing?”

“What?”

“With the Winchester,” another gasp of air, “What were you going to do? You could have shot
me
trying to hit
them
.”

For some reason, this suddenly struck both men as rather funny. They soon found themselves unable to resist laughing hysterically as they turned back onto the main highway, heading south. This moment of laughter would prove to be one of so very few, as the road they traveled would prove to be a difficult one. In fact, as they would understand soon enough, they may as well have been traveling on the path into hell itself.

Dead Come Home

Lily woke up face down on a bed that wasn’t hers. In the predawn darkness she could see vague outlines of the room. It wasn’t her bedroom. For a moment, the memory of the last few days escaped her. She had no idea whose guestroom she was in or why she was there.

Her right hand bumped into and closed around cold metal and rubber. She knew immediately there was a pistol with her in the bed.

Lily sat up and wiped the last of the sleep from her eyes with her left hand. With her right, she tucked the gun in the back of her waistband. She felt safer with the gun there, and it triggered her memory of where she was and why.

The morning after she shot Brian, she left the mill, her apartment, and her life on her own behind. She was trying to get home in a world gone to hell.

To the dead
, she corrected herself.

Last night, she stopped in a little town well off the beaten path in Oregon. She had spent two days driving down back roads, trying to get back to Haskell, Texas. Last night, she stopped in a built up area for the first time since leaving the Seattle area.

Lily could hear the sound of someone else moving around in the house. Instinctively she pulled her gun. Gun in front of her, she crept out of the bedroom and in search of whoever was moving around.

The lady, who introduced herself as Abby, had offered to let Lily stay as long she wanted. She had been driving home early yesterday evening and seen Lily’s truck on the side of the road. In an age where most people didn’t pick up hitchhikers out of fear of rapists and/or serial killers, the old woman stopped and asked Lily why she was pulled over. When Lily told Abby she planned to sleep there, on the side of the road, the old woman said “nonsense” and insisted Lily stay in the spare room of her home.

“I need to get to my family,” she said. “I have to leave tomorrow morning.”

Lily drove into the town proper and maxed out her credit cards on food, water, ammo, gasoline, and, almost as an afterthought, a tarp and bungee cords to cover her truck bed. She cringed at breaking her parent’s “twenty-five percent rule” on credit cards, but was certain they would understand given the current situation.

It was the first time in more than two years that Lily was happy she owned a truck instead of an economy car. For months, she had been considering trading it in for something a bit more gas efficient. Now, the cargo space was coming in more than handy.

In the parking lot of a small hardware store, she stretched the tarp over the bed, concealing her goods under it. She almost wished she had a camper shell; that way, she could lock it and not have to worry about someone getting into her stuff as easily. As a precaution, she stuffed a few days of food and water and all of the ammunition in the rear floorboard of the cab. It was mid-afternoon when she got back to the old woman’s house.

The smell of meatloaf and gravy greeted Lily when she opened the door. Dinner was meatloaf, mashed potatoes and gravy, and a mixture of green beans and carrots. The meal reminded Lily of her mother’s cooking. Under any other circumstances, she might have been choked up. As it was, it only reinforced the urgency of getting home.

Lily talked to Abby—well, listened anyway—until evening gave way to night. The old woman turned on the TV after a while to watch her shows. Lily slipped upstairs and packed the few things she had taken out of her backpack. She left a few toiletries out for in the morning. Some routines were just hard to get out of.

She heard the faint sound of brakes locking up, a long drawn out screech of tires. She didn’t hear much after that. Still, an uneasy feeling washed over her.

It was starting again … the infection had reached the area.

Lily opened the window and stuck her head out. Her truck was where she parked it, about fifty feet from the front door. Two trees stood at the end of the long driveway one on each side, partially obscuring the view of the road. She looked down the street, trying to find the source of the screeching tires. There was nothing in either direction.

She left the window open and went back downstairs. Abby was still watching TV.

Lily threw the deadbolt on the front door and set a chair under the doorknob. She didn’t count on it to hold for long if someone really wanted in, but it was better than nothing.