Sirens of the Zombie Apocalypse (Book 1): Since the Sirens (8 page)

Grandma merely nodded, giving him a grim look. Studying him.

Liam wondered for a moment if she was proud of him for making his
decision. Or was she disappointed he was putting himself in danger at
her expense? Hard to tell with the look she was throwing his way.

“Well then we have to decide what we're going to do to
survive. I'm afraid staying here could be a problem. If there are
robbers about we won't have much hope of stopping them from coming
in, and the sick people like Angie aren't going to make getting out
of the house very easy either. The police were saying we have to
evacuate to safer places, but didn't say where to go that was any
safer than here. The most obvious place is somewhere out in the
country where there aren't as many people. Maybe your mom and dad's
place?”

Liam considered. He had thought along the same lines and was proud
he had come up with essentially the same ideas. Getting to mom and
dad's did seem the most sensible plan, even if he did have a little
fear of showing up at the house after illegally driving across town.
Many of the miles he'd logged in pursuit of his learner's permit had
been driving dad to Grandma's, so he knew at least one route home
fairly well.

“Can we take Angie's car? I don't think she'll need it. It
was parked on the next street over. Not sure why she put it there,
but it was covered in lots of blood and had a foot in the front
seat.” Liam made a horrible face at the last bit. “I
think someone stole it from the garage. Or maybe she was sick while
driving home? I don't think we'll ever know for sure.”

“Also, there are no keys inside it. I checked because I
thought about driving it back here.”

They both looked at each other with the realization.

“We have to go up into her flat and find a spare set of car
keys.” Grandma said it without enthusiasm. Liam guessed she was
worse off than she admitted about losing her friend.

5

They agreed to spend the night in the flat. For Grandma this gave
her time to recuperate after her ordeal. For Liam it gave him a
chance to pack up everything he would need to help get them out of
the city. This included such valuables as her mostly full bottle of
Ibuprofen, some water, her walker, and a few bites of food. Just
enough for a long drive through the inevitable traffic.

After packing the essentials, they sat down to eat a heaping
dinner of spaghetti and meatballs—his favorite. If they were
leaving, it made sense to try to use any remaining food they could.
The electric was out, but the gas for her old stove was still
working.

Packing his backpack was initially exciting—a “real
adventure” his friend texted him earlier in the day—but
as he realized this was a true emergency, with real bullets being
fired, his excitement withered. Now he wasn't relishing going outside
one bit. He was quietly moving the long noodles on his plate, but
hardly eating them. That seemed to get Grandma's attention.

“Eat Liam. You will need your strength.”

He looked up and resumed eating with a little more zest.

She began talking again, her tone a bit more somber. “Liam I
want to talk to you about something important. I know you and your
family have your ways, but I want you to seriously consider returning
to the church.”

Inwardly, Liam groaned. He knew Grandma had lamented the choices
of his family to stop going to church every Sunday—his mom and
dad often talked about it—but he saw that as extra free time he
didn't want to give up. Sunday services were a bore he dreaded each
time he went. He was unwilling to make promises to her based solely
on the mysterious disruptions outside. Surely the government would
get things fixed and everything would be back to normal. What then?
And was it right to profess faith in God only because you need
something? How wrong would it be to tell her he found God, but not
really mean it? He saw this as a massively complex question his brain
was unable to process with spaghetti hanging off his lips. He felt
the shadow of silence growing long. He needed to say something.

“I'll think about it Grandma. Really. I will.”

That should do it.

He went back to eating, hoping to indicate the conversation was
over. But he felt Grandma giving him a hard stare.

He was thankful she dropped it, though it made the rest of the
evening a bit awkward.

Before she finally went off to bed she pointed Liam to one more
piece of their survival gear. “I want you to go downstairs, way
in the back in the farthest corner and look for a black plastic box
up in the rafters. It is something your father put there for me.”

As instructed Liam made his way into the dark basement, struggling
even with his flashlight to weave through the piles of old junk his
grandma insisted be kept down there. Not one to let go of old stuff,
she had quite a collection of aging rocking chairs,
long-since-replaced light fixtures, and many pieces of furniture,
tools, and equipment left by her late husband.

And there in the corner, high above everything else, was the
promised black box wedged up into the rafters. Liam had to use an old
walking stick to poke it from its perch and make it fall into his
waiting hands.

The box was very heavy. Surprisingly so. But Liam held tight.

As he walked it up the steps he had a pretty good idea what it
was. For years his father had taken him to the local shooting range
to practice with a variety of weapons. First it was BB guns, then
airsoft guns, and finally the ubiquitous .22 caliber rifle. In fact
it was his late great-grandpa who had insisted on giving it to him
when he was still a toddler. It was auspicious timing, as he passed
away not long after...

Liam knew the size and shape of firearm cases, and this was
clearly a container for handguns. Roughly sixteen by sixteen inches
when viewed from the top, it was about eight inches deep, and he knew
it would be packed with gray insulating foam inserts to keep the
contents from shifting inside.

He set it up on the coffee table in Grandma's living room. Using a
small light, Grandma produced a key which unlocked the safety gun
lock which was securing the container. It popped open and just as
Liam suspected there was a handgun inside. Two in fact.

Picking up the first gun with both hands, Grandma placed it on the
table.

“You probably didn't think your old grandma knew anything
about guns, eh?” She was smiling as she said it. Liam wore a
blank look on his face.

“This is heavier than I remember. This is a Ruger Mark I
Target .22. The other one is identical. Your great-grandpa bought
both of these way back before you were born. There had been a
break-in on our block and Al told me he wanted me to be ready in case
something like that ever happened again.”

Grandma sat back in her chair as she continued.

“Oh those were the days. Simple times. We took these guns
out to the country a few times, and I even shot them. Can you believe
that? Got pretty good too. But like so many things in life, it just
became too much trouble to practice, to maintain them, to think about
them. Someday I'll tell you about my lasso rope that fell into
similar disuse.” She chuckled a little at her own joke.

“Anyway, a few months ago your dad was here telling me I
needed to be prepared for anything that might happen in the city—you
probably don't remember all that rioting business last year? I told
him I was fine and that I even had two handguns. Well he was not
impressed. He had me show him where they were, and then he took them
and said he was going to clean, service, and make sure they were
working properly for me. The next week he had them both back to me in
this case, with this small box of 1000 rounds to go with it. I'm sure
he knew I would not be able to use these anymore, but he told me
where he was going to put the box and he said it would be there 'in
case of emergency.' I guess he was pretty smart about that!”

Liam sat looking at the shiny black objects sitting there. In the
darkness he could only see the harsh lines of the Mark I, but he knew
it well. In fact, he was beginning to believe his father was smarter
than he ever let on. How else could one explain that Liam had spent
considerable time training on a Mark I with his dad? He never thought
to ask him where it came from, but it sure seems likely he got it
from Great-Grandpa too. And now at this critical moment, he would be
carrying the same model he had trained on. Did this make him the
gardener with the deadly spade?

Everyone has a skill.

Dad always said the .22 was the best training round because it was
so cheap and had very little recoil. He said eventually Liam would
graduate to more powerful rounds, but if you could master the .22 all
the others would fall in line. It was all about stance, awareness,
and a steady arm. Plus the danger of breaking any of the cardinal
rules of gun handling was minimized during the learning period with
the tiny round. He assured Liam it was still quite deadly of course,
and assassins had used the small and quiet caliber to good effect for
many years.

Liam never pushed for bigger guns because he absolutely loved
going out and “plinking” with the little gun. At least he
used to enjoy it. Lately his dad would drag him to the range no
matter if Liam wanted to go or not. Looking back, he realized he was
acting like a whiny baby each time he complained he didn't want to go
shooting.

Now he looked at them with a silent appreciation for the lessons
he'd been taught.

“I just hope we don't need these Grandma.”

“Me too.”

“Why don't you hit the hay and we'll get started at first
light. I'll be sleeping right out here on the couch. I hope you don't
mind that I don't go sleep downstairs?

“Not at all. Why don't you keep one of these by your side
from now on?”

Liam picked up the gun. There was no mystery to it. It was just
another item in the toolbox pre-positioned by his own father.

Liam couldn't help but feel a longing to see his dad.

A distant explosion faintly rocked Grandma's china cabinet.

“I can't wait to see the sun rise again,” said Liam as
much to himself as to Grandma.

“I'll pray for us before I go to bed Liam.”

“Thanks Grandma.” He was an agnostic—didn't know
what he believed—but was respectful of Grandma's overwhelming
faith. “And I meant what I said about considering going back to
Church.”

She gave him a kindly smile, turned around, and was off to her
room.

The last thing he remembered of that night was the sound of a car
speeding down the street at high speed, followed by the unmistakable
sound of squealing tires under extreme braking. He held his breath
waiting for the sound of an impact but it never came. Thirty seconds
later he remembered to breathe again.

He didn't get any quality sleep that night, but it did serve as
the deep breath before his own journey. Was it destined to end in
extreme braking? Would he and Grandma meet their demise as raw sounds
in someone else's bedtime story?

He drifted to sleep while jumping fences—Angie close behind.

Liam woke up dreadfully tired. When he did sleep, he had horrible
dreams of zombies, lots of running, and pulling the trigger on a gun
that would never fire as he was overwhelmed by plague victims.

The actual gunfire, speeding cars, and screams from nearby houses
insured his slumber was sporadic and infrequent all through the
night. He also heard a big explosion nearby, but was absolutely
unable to pull himself out of his comfy sofa cushions to check it
out. He was glad to get things moving at the first sign of light
outside.

He went to Grandma's door and found her already up and sitting in
a comfortable chair.

“I'm an early riser.” No complaining about the noise.
“Two houses behind us blew up last night and burned to the
ground. I was watching to make sure the fire didn't spread.”

Liam looked out her back window while asking, “Did you get
any sleep at all?”

“Oh, I got enough. I slept most of yesterday.” It was
true enough, but not really a straight answer. Nothing could be done
now. “And I made you some eggs and bacon. Have to get rid of
it.”

Liam wasn't a morning person, or a breakfast person, but he took
the time to shovel down the home cooked meal.

“Sorry for eating so fast. I just want to get up there and
get it over with.”

“I understand. I can make you plenty more if you're still
hungry.”

“No Grandma, but thanks. You stay here and I'll be right
back. Shouldn't be that hard to find Angie's keys in her small
apartment.”

Grandma gave him a little salute and watched him walk away. She
said she would conserve her energy and stay in her chair to wait for
him. “And be careful up there.”

“The zombie from up there has already come down.” As
he said it he realized it was in poor taste but he couldn't take it
back. Instead he hurried to the front of her flat, through the access
door to Angie's stairwell, and then up the steep flight. The door at
the top was already open, giving him access to the upstairs living
area.

It was still fairly dark because the drapes were thick and dark.
Very little of the early morning light was making it through. He
didn't have his flashlight with him. The floor was covered with
debris, so he had trouble moving to a window to let in some light.
When he finally did pull back the curtains he was stunned at what he
saw in the tiny apartment.

Blood. Lots of blood.

There were lots of clothes scattered on the floor, along with sofa
pillows, what looked like a tablecloth, and smatterings of shoes,
purses, and other accessories. It looked as if Angie's entire
wardrobe had spilled out onto her floor for some unknown reason. For
a further unknown reason, everything got covered in blood.