Surviving Beyond the Zombie Apocalypse (10 page)

     I had driven into a block that did not look familiar. I looked around trying to get my bearings and was relieved to find no shells visible. Unfortunately, there was also nothing familiar visible. A couple of more blocks went by, and I finally found a street sign.   

     W. Fruitridge Street. The name surprised me, because it meant that I had somehow travelled about three miles from the newspaper building. I spent a few seconds questioning how this could have happened before realizing that it did not matter. The only thing of importance was I now had an idea of my location and how to get back to Christina, Taylor, and Kat.

     I pulled over to the curb and pulled the GPS from my pocket. The suction cup did not stick well on the dashboard. However, I did not plan on a long trip today, so it would do. I pulled the cigarette lighter out of the socket and plugged in the GPS. I took a deep breath and held it as I pushed the little button on the top of the small screen. The screen lit up, displaying a map of the United States. A lively little tune played for several seconds.

     I pressed the screen and a keyboard appeared. My fingers trembled a bit as I typed in CheapMart and pressed Enter. In the fraction of seconds that followed, I considered the possibility of satellites being disabled and all those who maintained satellites being dead.

     The voice put an end to my useless considerations. “Turn left after four hundred feet,” the pleasant female voice commanded.

     The voice was certainly welcome since it meant the satellites were still operating, and therefore, civilization was too. Of course, it also meant that I had a guide back to the others waiting for me at the store. The only thing I had to worry about was the GPS leading me down a street that turned out to be blocked. The picture of getting stuck at a dead end and being surrounded by shells filled my head. I had no desire to see it become a situation in which I might really find myself. 

     No shells could be seen as I rounded the corner. But knowing how fast they could come pouring out of surrounding buildings, I did not take much comfort from this. Nothing moved, aside from a curtain fluttering from an open window on the second floor of one apartment building.

      For a brief instant, I thought I glimpsed a person looking through the window. I stopped the van and stared at the window for a minute. No one could be seen. I considered exploring the building for anyone in need of help but quickly pushed the idea aside. Still, it made me wonder how many, if any, of these buildings held people cowering in fear. Did they stay inside waiting for help? Had they decided to simply wait for the world to end? I had nothing but sympathy for these possible survivors, but my primary concern at that moment was simply to get back to my family.

     A glance in the mirror outside my window showed a trio of shells trotting toward the van. I stepped on the gas pedal and sped off, leaving the shells far behind. I watched as the shells shrunk away but still they kept trotting ahead. Would they simply keep following me until they caught up, or would they stop once something distracted them? It hardly seemed a question worth answering.

     My experience with the shells had taught me enough to know that they did not all behave in precisely the same way. My mind flashed on the time I spent watching the shells with Glen.

     We both looked to the ground as the mob swarmed into the narrow alleyway. They milled around and seemed to be without any idea as to what to do after finding the area empty. I watched the things below us and began to notice some similar characteristics. None of them showed facial expressions that could be recognized as anger or happiness. They all looked pale. At first, I heard no words spoken—only grunts and moans, but then another pair of them entered into the alley.

     “Where?” A tall thin man in dark green coveralls with ‘Tim’ embroidered in gold thread above his right breast asked.

     “Up there!” The muscular guy wearing a white t-shirt and blue jeans yelled as he pointed at Glen and me.

     As if sharing the same thought at being discovered, both of us jumped forward and yanked the ladder up from the ground. Glen flipped a hook over the ladder which prevented it from being accessed from the ground.

     Mesmerized by the scene below us, Glen and I studied every detail of the shells’ activity. The group seemed totally unorganized, shuffling here and there without any clear aim. But that changed when the two speaking members of the mob moved forward.

     “Go there!” Tim yelled and pointed.

    The simple, undeveloped speech reminded me of the old Westerns where Indians were shown as savages. It occurred to me then that these things might not be much different. The almost animal-like movements of the group fit the picture of primitive man. Before I managed to catch myself, a laugh burst from my chest, and Glen stared at me with concern and some suspicion.

     “You’re not losing it, are you?” he asked with a shaky voice and a shakier smile.

     I considered the question carefully before replying. “Perhaps I am. I don’t know. I was thinking that those things sort of look like cavemen.”

     An expression of confusion replaced Glen’s smile. “Look at them. They seem totally confused by everything, not able to put together a complex idea,” I explained.

     Glen was quiet and turned back to look at the things below us. Several of them stretched their arms upward pointlessly trying to reach the ladder which hung at least ten feet beyond their reach.

     A short woman with curly blonde hair in a worn white bathrobe had her arms stretched upward and was spinning around slowly. I am not sure why this woman more than any of the others struck a chord within me. For some reason, her appearance put everything into perspective. I imagined her at home nursing what she believed to be simply another cold. It may have been that her husband and two children had left the house that morning sure she would be fine when they got home. But now it seemed pretty clear that nothing was going to be fine for a terribly long time, if ever.

     The memory brought back thoughts of the young minister, but the sharpness of pain I had experienced previously had already begun to fade. The thing which really struck me about the recollection was that the simple intelligence and even the most basic communication skills of the shells appeared to have dropped or disappeared. The idea occurred to me again that without new shells appearing perhaps they would simply stop moving and turn to dust. I couldn’t help but smile at such a pleasant idea.

     “After one hundred feet, turn left on McKinley Street.” 

     The pleasant, slightly computerized voice brought me back to the moment and the campervan creeping down the street.

     I followed the directions and turned left on McKinley Street. The sight surprised me. The area looked as if it had not been touched by any of the changes that had fallen upon the world. It was as if everything had simply gone straight by rather than following the directions; after one hundred feet, turn left on McKinley Street. The street before me looked normal with cars parked at the curb and nothing out of the ordinary. I wondered how this neighborhood had remained untouched. Did that mean those living here had been spared the horror of shells? I couldn’t imagine this to be the case. If true, there might well be people waiting inside the apartments.

     The image of three small children and a terribly worried looking woman huddled in the corner of a dark bedroom flashed into my head.

     “Mommy, I’m scared,” a little girl cried.

     The woman hugged her close and answered, “I know you are, honey. We’ll be okay, but we have to stay quiet for a little while.”

     A crash came from another room. The children screamed. In an instant, light filled the bedroom and a big shadow fell across the woman and her children.

     “Tom, you need to—”

     The shell landed on top of her before the rest of the words got out.

     “Get off my mommy, Tom!” The little girl screamed as she hit the shell’s back. 

      After a few seconds, the shell stopped abruptly and turned its head toward the little girl. She stared into the bloody face of the thing and began to wail in fear. The sound abruptly ended an instant after the shell launched itself onto the girl.

     The shock of the sight brought me back to the street in front of me.

     Everything remained still. The cars sat empty and dark. Once again, I was reminded of the eerie stillness of a production set. Something about it seemed too perfect, and the scene made me uneasy. That is why I was sort of relieved when the voice of the GPS directed me to turn at the next corner and I found myself in the middle of a group of shells.

     Directly in front of the van and slapping the hood stood a short, heavy woman with red hair wearing a red bra and nothing else. We made what passed for eye contact among the shells before I pressed down on the gas pedal. The van shot forward, and she disappeared from view.

     My surroundings now left no doubt as to the hellish state of the world. Most of the cars scattered along the street had doors hanging open. A few hundred feet away was a car with a couple of shells pressed into the passenger door. From the way they virtually trembled, it became clear the shells were eating. 

     The sense of disgust that I had had when observing the shells had evolved into curiosity. I kept the campervan creeping ahead, enough to move past the shells and still allow myself a view of the gathering at the passenger door through my window. As I got closer to the car, the shells turned toward me. This slight shift in position allowed me a clear view into the car. The torn and bloody body of what must have been a really tall man lay splayed in the front of the door. I started to look away, but movement in the backseat caught my eye.

     I stepped on the brakes and continued to stare into the car. For a moment, I saw nothing and figured that I had imagined the movement. I had begun moving again when the woman moved up from behind the seat and waved frantically. I saw her lips moving but heard nothing through the window. I slowly lowered the dirty window.

     “Help me, please!” The woman called in a voice that was not loud enough to be a scream. “Please, don’t go.” 

Chapter 7

     The van continued to creep forward, and I did not stop it. The image of the woman stayed in my mind. I wondered whether her voice was quiet from the strain of previous screams for help or if she had been too frightened to raise her voice. A piercing scream interrupted my thoughts.

     “Help me!”

     My foot reflexively stomped down on the brake pedal. I realized the scream had come from the car as the woman had obviously found her voice. I sat there in the van considering my next move. The trapped woman definitely needed help. In the next instant, the image of Christina, Taylor, and Kat filled my head. They had to be my first concern. I had to return to them and protect them. I could not risk their lives on the life of some stranger. For all I knew, the woman in the car might be responsible for the deaths of many others. I did not know her. Who was I to judge her life worthy or unworthy of the risk to those waiting for me to return?

     Instinctively, my foot pressed down on the accelerator. The van began creeping forward. In my head, the van travelled down the street far away from the open car and the screaming woman. However, reality did not agree with my head. The van simply inched a block away before coming to a stop in the middle of the street. 

     I sat there looking out of the windows at my surroundings. The shells at the open car continued to shift back and forth as they tried to get at the woman inside. Otherwise, nothing moved.

     After a moment, I slowly opened the car door. Naturally, the hinges creaked and made my heart jump into my throat. I froze and peered out for any new movement. My grip on the baseball bat tightened to the point that my fingers ached. The shells at the car did not give any attention to the sound. After nearly a minute of not seeing anything moving toward me, I eased out of the car and onto the street.

     I was no longer able to hear the woman in the car and wondered if the shells had gotten to her. The reaction that I had to this idea did not make me proud. It was a sense of relief and sort of happiness. With her out of the way, there would no longer be the need to risk my life trying to save a complete stranger. Instead, I could be heading back to the store and those for whom I cared. My feet stopped as I considered this possibility. I turned, and my feet had started the walk back when the woman screamed again.

     I actually rolled my eyes as I turned back around to face the pair of shells at the car. The things were focused so intently in the interior of the car that they remained unaware of my presence.

     “Snooze you lose!” The phrase echoing around my head had been a favorite of Rob Sanchez, a photographer at the newspaper, and his voice said it now.

     I crept up on the shells, surprised to make my way within a couple yards of them without being noticed. After standing there and staring at the backs of the shells as they ripped into the tall black body. I actually felt a bit impatient at the lack of attention and started tapping the baseball bat on the pavement.

     As soon as the sound rang out, the shells twisted around to face me. The one on the right was a short Asian woman with long black hair. Next to her stood a young man wearing a dark business suit that looked too big for him.