DEAD RAIN: A Tale of the Zombie Apocalypse (6 page)

13

A few miles away on the other side of town,
Emma lay tossing and turning in her bed. She had arrived home to find her mother asleep, and fought the temptation to wake her. To do so would only have opened a boiling kettle of worms.

Stealing a
Xanax from her mother’s nightstand she tried to get some sleep, but the pill didn’t help. She was still too rattled, overwhelmed with anxiety and perplexed about how and where to seek help when the morning sun rose. She considered taking more pills, but didn’t trust that they’d be any more effective than the first, and might just sink her into a helpless stupor. She longed for the blissful peace that sleep would bring, but wanted to sleep lightly, ready to spring awake if danger threatened.

She buried her face in her pillow, trying to wrestle her nagging fears away, to formulate a basic plan so she’d be ready to act as soon as she woke the next morning.
I have to tell Uncle Johnny. He’s smart, he’ll know what to do—if I can convince him to take me seriously. I’ll call him first thing in the morning. If I explain it all calmly he’ll have to believe me.

She finally felt like she had her nerves under control. But just as she felt herself drifting off to sleep, her anxiety reared up like a cobra. She gave up trying to sleep and went into the living room. Sinking onto the sofa she turned on the television. She needed a distraction and the more mundane, the better.

The local late night news was on. The weather lady turned her plastic smile toward a digital map of the Mid-Atlantic. “By morning the freaky fog will finally be gone, but that’s only because the rain will arrive.” She pointed to a swirling graphic over the Atlantic Ocean off the Mid-Atlantic coast. “This mass here is the nor’easter we’ve been tracking and you can see how large it is. Our storm tracker system shows it making landfall in the early morning hours, so commuters can expect wet traffic conditions for the morning rush. Unfortunately that will just be the start of it. The slow-moving storm is expected to hang around for at least three days, which means heavy flooding is expected. Coastal residents were advised to evacuate, but authorities say many ignored the warning rather than risk driving in the fog of the past few days. Wildwood officials put out a reverse 911 call urging citizens to move their cars out of the area or they’ll be ruined by floodwater. They also issued a warning that a minimal number of emergency workers will remain on duty, so anyone who has chosen to ignore the evacuation order will be responsible for their own safety. The storm should pass by—”

Emma
changed the channel. It wasn’t the kind of innocuous drivel she needed to distract her. She finally dozed off on the couch, as the host of a late night talk show made jokes about some urgent political problem that would never intelligently be resolved.

In her dreams the bosomy weather girl pointed out danger zones on her weather map, warning that any residents who hadn’t evacuated were doomed to a horrible death in the impending zombie storm. Her deadpan report segued to the host of the late night talk show, trying to interview a rotting corpse that was more interested in eating him. As he struggled to hold it at bay he cracked jokes, while the zombified drummer of his band hit rim shots.

14

Ryan found the deputy’s cruiser a block and a half from his home. There was no sign of the driver, just a disconcerting puddle of fresh wet blood on the road. He aimed his keychain LED at the glistening mess, looking for clues. There were flecks of shiny gristle and a torn strip of fabric that looked like it had been chewed and spit out.

Stepping to the side of the cruiser, Ryan aimed his LED flashlight through the driver’s side window, searching for more pieces of the puzzle. He saw the deputy’s shotgun in its bracket, but nothing to tell him what had happened. With the driver gone and his vehicle seemingly abandoned, the evidence
painted a comfortless picture.

He tried the car door, but it had been locked by the EMTs. He was tempted to break the window to get the shotgun, but from what he could see, it looked like it was locked in its bracket. And although he suspected as much, he didn’t know for sure that the deputy wouldn’t be back.
Don’t do anything rash,
he told himself.
You don’t know what’s going on. Don’t jump to any conclusions.

He thought about returning home, but decided it would be pointless, and unbearable, not to mention dangerous. The last thing he wanted to deal with right now was whatever had happened to his mother and his brother. He shuddered as he remembered the inhuman look on his mother’s face, and fought back tears, knowing if he let his emotions out now he would simply collapse.

His mind felt like jelly but his survival instinct was aroused, forcing him to take a deep breath, calmly and logically assess his situation, and act decisively. He had his mother’s Colt revolver for self-protection, and calling 911 obviously hadn’t worked. It made more sense to go find help, or at least get to someplace safe.

The Sheriff’s station seemed the obvious choice, but it was nearly two miles away. The local hospital was closer, and there was an all-night mini-mart nearby where his cousin Tim worked the graveyard shift. Between those two choices he’d have a good chance to get some kind of he
lp.

He padded off into the fog, skirting around patches of light from the streetlamps, trying to stay invisible and quiet as a cat. Most of the houses on his street were dark. With the summer season over, only a handful of year-rounders were in residence. And many of them were golden-age retirees, people too jaded or weary to heed the evacuation warnings related to the incoming nor’easter, which was expected to hit the area in just a few hours. They weren’t likely to be much help against the kind of violent maniacs who’d attacked his mother.

Hope rose in his heart as he saw Mr. Mendel’s house, with lights on inside. The retired widower was an agreeable neighbor who often did favors for Ryan’s mom. The boys joked that the old man had a crush on her and although Mary Ellen knew it was true, she routinely pooh-poohed the idea. Robust and sharp-witted despite his age, Mr. Mendel would know just what to do and would be willing to help. He would at least drive Ryan to the Sheriff station, of that the boy was certain.

Ryan dashed across the old man’s lawn but slowed as he approached the front door. It was hanging ominously open. Normally it wouldn’t mean much to find an open door in the quiet neighborhood, especially on trash night, but after the events of the evening, Ryan feared the
worst.

Gazing through the open doorway he saw shadows moving jerkily across the floor, and turning to the windows he saw silhouetted figures through the drapes, moving clumsily and strangely askew, looming at crazy angles.

His apprehension intensified. Cautiously he stepped closer and peeked through the doorway. Mendel was lying on the floor, with one hand clutched tellingly over his heart. Two people knelt at his sides, backlit by an overturned table lamp. One was a neighbor woman Ryan vaguely recognized; the other, a man in a ratty black suit. They were eating the old man’s flesh, biting chunks from his hands and his face.

Ryan backed silently away from the door. He didn’t breathe again until he was halfway up the street, safely ensconced in the fog.

What the hell is going on? Has everyone gone crazy?

He heard movement behind him—the sharp crack of a footstep on a dried twig—but when he whirled around, all he could see was fog.
He turned and ran off down the street, moving as quickly and as quietly as he could.

I’d better just get to the hospital
, he thought
. I’ll be safe there. And they might know what the hell’s going on.

15

The meat wagon turned onto Route 47, headed towards Route 9 with its siren wailing. Deputy Jurgensen and his attacker lay on stretchers in the back. The cannibalistic fiend would arrive DOA, his head half smashed to a pulp. The deputy was still breathing, if shallowly, when they loaded him into the van.

Kerri unbuckled Jurgensen’s straps and opened his shirt to monitor his life si
gns. They were barely existent. She felt his forehead. It was covered in sweat but his skin was icy cold. She checked the pressure bandage on his leg, then stepped forward and leaned into the cab.

“Hector, step on it, will you,” she shouted to be heard above the siren. “He’s not going to make it much longer. He’s barely hanging on.”

“Relax. We’ll be there in a few minutes,” Hector replied. “But I can’t see two feet in this peenchy fog.” He turned the siren off and picked up the radio to notify the ER to be ready and waiting. “Hello, dispatch, this is Unit Five, do you copy?”

Kerri turned back to check on the deputy.

He was standing right behind her.

16

Ryan turned a corner and paused to catch his breath. The fog was still thick and the narrow suburban street was unlit, too small for the county to waste
power for streetlights. Visibility was just a few yards but he could see the lights of Route 9 in the distance, three or four blocks away. He breathed a sigh of relief as he saw the comforting glow. He’d taken a few wrong turns on his journey through the fog, at one point wandering to the end of a dark cul-de-sac and having to double back.

He studied the houses around him for signs of life. Lamplight shone through some closed curtains, but Ryan knew the lamps were probably on timers, set to dissuade burglars in the largely deserted community. Most of the residents had evacuated to the homes of inland relatives to escape the expected nor’easter, taking such storms more seriously since the deadly destruction of Superstorm Sandy in 2012.

The night air was chilly and damp. Ryan regretted not grabbing his jacket when he bolted from the house.
Too late now. Just get your ass to the hospital. It’ll be warm there.
He slinked silently forward, moving cautiously through the fog, clutching the beefy little snubnose with both hands. The cold steel and Bakelite grips felt sturdy and strangely empowering. He wasn’t sure what would happen if he actually tried to fire the gun. It was practically an antique, and hadn’t been fired in decades as far as he knew.

He wished his mother had heeded his pleas to buy a more modern pistol, but she’d insisted the old Colt was solid and trustworthy. Her great-uncle Ed had been a policeman, and it had been his service revolver. Besides, new guns were expensive and she’d never really expected to need one in the sleepy little town.

A dog barked somewhere in the neighborhood, setting off a canine chorus. Like jungle drums they seemed to be sending messages back and forth, their barks echoing near and far. Ryan spotted a shadowy figure moving slowly along the side of the street. He retreated quietly to the other side, not wanting to risk a confrontation if he could avoid it. With his nerves on edge and visibility so poor, he was afraid he might shoot an innocent person by accident.

His heart skipped a beat as another silhouette lurched toward him through the fog. He nearly walked into it before he saw it coming. Just a few feet from making contact he switched on his LED keychain flashlight, brighteni
ng the fog with its icy blue light.

The sight that greet
ed him chilled him to the bone. It was a man, or rather what remained of one. The thing’s face had just a few shriveled strips of skin clinging to its skull. Its facial muscles were hard and brown and curled into knotty lumps, reminding him of the dried out ligaments of leftover Thanksgiving turkeys. Its tightly drawn grimace revealed rows of bloodstained teeth. Its eyes were skewed up and down at crazy angles. The skin around them had rotted away, making them bulge from their sockets. His suit reeked of dankness, covered with musty green mold.

Ryan stumbled backwards. His knees felt like water. In his backpedaling haste he twisted an ankle and fell. The revenant staggered forward, leering hungrily, its gnarle
d fingers reaching to grab him.

Ryan aimed at its chest and fired. The gunshot was surprisingly loud. A fiery yellow blast lit up the fog.
The lifeless walker tumbled backwards, knocked off-balance by the impact. His skinny legs buckled under him at an awkward angle and one of them snapped as he landed on it—but before Ryan regained his feet it was rising again, undeterred.

Ryan almost fainted as he saw the jagged white bones jutting through the man’s pant leg. Choking back a mouthful of peppery vomit he ran past the teetering wretch.

The barking dogs were now in a frenzy. A security light flared on outside one of the nearby houses, casting a circle of light on the street. Ryan stopped in his tracks. A handful of leaden figures were creeping towards him through the fog. He looked over at the newly lit up house, wondering if he should run for it. But he saw figures lurking in the shadows on the sidewalk, and realized it would be a dangerous risk.

A hand touched his shoulder. He turned to see his mother standing there. But it wasn’t his mother. It was a foul reanimated thing, drenched in blood, eyes like cold marbles. And beyond her he saw a familiar silhouette, one he’d seen many times in their home’s dark hallway while he hid behind a corner, waiting to leap out and scare his little brother. As Kevin’s reanimated corpse shambled closer he saw
the same dead black fish eyes of what used to be his brother.

Ryan stood frozen for a moment—it seemed like his heart would never start beating again—then he shoved his mother’s corpse away and turned to run—bumping immediately into another
lurching corpse. Like his mother, it was a freshly reanimated woman. Her chin and blouse were drenched with blood.

Her eyes were icy stones as she gripped Ryan’s forearm.
He tried to shake her off, but she dug her nails into his skin and grabbed his collar with her other hand, determined to feed on his flesh. As she opened her mouth to bite him Ryan raised the revolver and shot her between the eyes. Her head snapped back and she flopped to the ground.

Ryan leaped over her body and ran for his life. Stutter-stepping silhouettes moved toward him from all directions and he wanted to put as much distance as he could between himself and the things that had once been his family. He used the weighty revolver like a club to fend off a man in pajamas and shot another in passing.

Barely able to see through the fog and the tears that were flooding his eyes, he didn’t stop running until he reached Route 9. Just one lane in either direction, the historic old road had once been the main coastal highway, until the new Parkway was built a few miles away, closer to the beach towns. It was still the main road through a string of small towns, but most of its length was dimly lit.

Ryan looked around, searching the nearby buildings for signs of life. Most were businesses, closed for the night. The few homes scattered among them were set far back from the street, hidden down long dark driveways.

The fog suddenly brightened. Ryan turned to see headlights coming his way. He dashed into the street, shouting and waving his arms. The driver sped past him, unaware of the zombie menace and not inclined to stop for a teen with a gun.

“Wait! Stop!” Ryan pleaded, watching in despair as the car faded into the fog.

A second car sped past a second later, nearly clipping him. Then he was alone.

He looked around, hoping to see more headlights approaching, but there were none. It was not yet nine p.m. but traffic was unusually light due to the treacherous fog and the incoming storm. He decided he’d have to stick to his plan and risk the remaining quarter-mile to the hospital on foot. His chances seemed good if he was careful. He saw no zombies on the block ahead, and the revolver held a few more rounds.

Heartened by the sight of the hospital lights just a long city block away, he trotted cautiously down the gloomy street, keeping an eye out for any signs of movement in the fog. The closer he got to safety, the harder it was to fight back the thoughts of his family’s bloody demise. Tears blurred his eyes, as much from clouds of fear and sorrow as from the nipping cold.

A sudden clatter of sound erupted nearby. A ghostly figure appeared in the fog, shuffling awkwardly out of a driveway onto the sidewalk.

Ryan raised the gun and took aim.

A startled man looked up at him, dropped the metal trashcan he was carrying and ran back up the driveway toward his house.

“Wait!” Ryan shouted. “Stop, please! I need help!”

The man disappeared into the darkness.
Ryan heard a door slam. The lights of the house went black. He lingered for a brief moment, debating whether to risk approaching the house. The man was no doubt calling the police at that very moment, but who knew how long it would be before they responded? He might be shot by the nervous homeowner, or attacked by those…
zombies.
And if he survived until the police arrived, what would happen then? Between the disorienting fog and the weird events of the night, they might shoot him first and ask questions later, as the old joke went.

This is no time to ponder old jokes.

He turned and jogged off towards the hospital. Praying he’d survive to see the dawn.