Summer Of 68: A Zombie Novel (11 page)

Chapter Twelve

Jake and Russell refused to break stride, not until they had reached the paved roadway where Sid had first dropped them off. By now, that was a little over an hour ago. They jogged across the shimmering asphalt, eventually losing steam. Huffing and puffing, they began to walk. Their legs wobbled and stung. A brutal thirst developed in their throats, and a thick sweat broke, speckled on their foreheads.

Jake’s lungs burned, as though scorched by brimstone and fire. Sulfur coursed through his veins—at least that’s how he felt as his legs came to a stop. Glancing over his shoulder, he saw that Russell fared no better. The poor child was caked with sweat and grime, his chest heaved with every intake of breath. Neither of them said a word as they doubled to their knees, using the other for balance and support. Their young bodies were tired and sore. Joints and muscles screamed for respite.

“What are we going to do now?”

“I don’t know,” Jake replied between deep gulps. He wiped the sweat from his brow and flung it aside. A glob of perspiration pelted the asphalt, drying instantly beneath the California sun.

The boys fell into a deep, thought filled silence.
Lost in a moment of collective agony, where the only audible sounds were the deep rattling breaths that erupted from the chests. They were tired and sore, their young bodies wrung through Hell, shuffling painfully from foot to foot—cautious of their blistered toes.

After a few moments, Russell broke the silence by posing a question he seemed embarrassed to ask. “Can we go home?”

Jake shook his head, eradicating the mental cobwebs from his mind. He knew it was a sound idea, but it just wasn’t what he thought they should do.

“I think we ought to find the Sheriff,” he said firmly.

“Well, I think we should find mom,” Russell protested, “she’ll know what to do.”

Jake nodded, biting his lip as though to stem the flow of conflicting thoughts. He knew Russell was right in his own respect, but their mother held no jurisdiction over what the boys had seen, nor did she carry the authority to handle the crimes they had witnessed. On the other hand, she was their mom and as a rule of thumb, mother
always
knew best. He reckoned that their best bet was to get the law involved, but knew that convincing his little brother would be an uphill battle.

Jake had all but stomped his foot when he retorted, “Sheriff Baker!” The authority in the child’s voice surprised even him, and was an outburst befitting his age.

Around them, the shadows grew, stretching out across the ground like elongated ghosts.

Jake turned away, knowing that anything else would result in a sibling dispute of epic proportions. To his surprise, Russell didn’t protest, didn’t pout, cry, or scream.

“Do you think that man killed someone back there?” Russell asked. His voice was cold and distant, far removed by the fear that overshadowed his former youth. 

For a couple of seconds, Jake didn’t respond. He didn’t know what to think, his mind swirled in an all-encompassing tailspin. He shook it away, failing to cease the neurotic palpitations of his heart. His thoughts felt dizzy, causing him to take a seat upon the blacktop.

“I think we need to find the Sheriff,” he repeated. His voice was quiet and less demanding than before.

Russell shook his head and shrugged, dejected at the prospect.

Jake continued, “He’ll know what we should do.”

“Yeah…” Russell said, stabbing his brother with an angry index finger. “We find mom first,
then we go and find the Sheriff. Mom will help us, she will—she’ll know exactly what we should do!”  

“The Sheriff’s one of the good guys, he can help us find mom. He has to, it’s his job!”

Russell was hesitant, Jake could see it in his expression. For Russell, his world revolved around the black and white ideology of cops and robbers, cowboys and Indians. Everything was justified by
good
and
bad
, with no grey in between.

Finally, Russell nodded in agreement.

“C’mon,” Russell said. He held his hand out from his brother to take. “I just want to go home.”

“Me, too,” Jake replied, pulling himself from the ground. He looked back at the sweat marks he left on the pavement where they began to dry.

He added, “Me, too.”

***

Shoulder to shoulder, they walked. Regardless of how tired they were, they managed to continue on, stepping down the street like battle weary soldiers returning home from war. Every step was a near stumble and fall. The time they spent resting was much needed, replenishing their stamina, even if it was only momentary. They moved with the grace of toddlers, learning to walk.

Before long, the oak trees gave way, birthing single story houses and liberally decorated storefronts. It was a scene they’d seen a hundred times over, now it felt different—dead, the town was dead, still, eerie, and utterly void of life.

“What’s going on?” Jake said, looking around.

Russell looked around, his eyes skimming along a row of abandoned cars. “Where is everybody?” Russell’s concern only seemed to grow, as did Jakes. By any measurable standards, it was a small town. Regardless of which, by now, they should’ve seen someone. The boys stopped, looking around for the slightest hint of life and found nothing—not even the lonesome chirping of birds.

Russell frowned, fear shown in his eyes. “Where did everyone go?” he asked.

Jake shrugged and replied as honestly as he could. “I…I don’t know…wait a minute—” he pushed past Russell and barged into the street.

It was no surprise that the street was devoid of traffic in either way. Cars parked, were done so at crooked angles. Still, Jake remained cautious and looked both ways before venturing out into the middle of the asphalt.

“What are you doing?” demanded Russell.

“I wanna see if I can see anything.” Jake stopped in the center of the road, craning his neck and scanning the roadway, both front and behind. After seeing nothing, he cupped his hands to his mouth and yelled, “Hello, is anyone there?” His childish voice carried a deafening report against the absent sounds.

Weary and tired, he glanced to Russell and as he was about to scream again, when a murder of crows took to the sky. Their pulsating mass directed towards the center of town, like a flesh and blood entity they flew
.

Out of reflex, the boys flinched, jumping at the sight of the cawing birds.

They shielded their eyes, watching as the birds flew, utterly oblivious to the spying children below.

“Where is everyone?” Jake asked as the crows dissolved into a murky spec on the opposite shore of the Sacramento River, a quarter mile ahead.

“Maybe something happened, maybe that’s why there’s nobody here,” Russell said.

Jake was taken back, but he hadn’t thought that the absence of life could very well be the result of some unforeseen tragedy.

“Maybe you’re right,” Jake said after a moment of contemplative silence. “Come on, we ought to get moving.”

Jake took a couple of steps forward and upon realizing Russell hadn’t budged, stopped and looked back at his little brother. A look of confusion played across Russell’s face.

“Is everything alright?”

Russell nodded. “Yeah, I’m just thinking, is
all.” 

“Thinking about what?”

Russell shrugged, giving it plenty of thought before he spoke. “I’m trying to figure out what happened…I mean, where did everyone go?”

Russell was scared and Jake could hear it in his trembling voice.

“What do you think happened?” he asked.

Looking back over his shoulder, Jake shivered. “I dunno,” he replied, “but I reckon something bad happened…”

“What do you have in mind?”

Jake shrugged and gave it some thought. After a moment, he said, “Maybe it was the Reds. Maybe those Russians finally got that war they’ve been wanting, ‘heard Sid talking about it once and he said it was high-time that they did something or another.”

“Wouldn’t we have heard the sirens?” Russell’s voice was riddled with confusion, and his young mind growing muddied with each new question and answer posed.

“Well,” Jake muttered, “we were pretty far out there, maybe we couldn’t hear them from out there…or maybe it was too late for ‘em even to sound. Like a sneak attack or something.”

Russell sighed. “Yeah, maybe you’re right.”

A breeze carried past the boys and with it, came a soured aroma. They frowned, furrowing their noses. Jake considered it, but couldn’t put a finger on it. The smell reminded him of the previous summer, when his father pulled a dead raccoon from the attic and for the rest of the day, a horrid stench filled the house.

They continued on at a slow pace, cautiously watching their surroundings. The streets were spotted with a sporadic house and the occasional storefront. After a couple of minutes, they passed a car that was crookedly parked along the road. What set this one apart from the others—the windows were shattered and the driver side door left ajar. It was a haunting sight. Jake and Russell didn’t stop to investigate. It was so bad in fact, they wouldn’t acknowledge it. The sight of the ruined automobile pushed them forth, causing them to step faster than before.

More often than not, Jake glanced back and was fearful in his mind to see the waterlogged tramp galloping up the street. He turned back and shook his head, wanting to clear his thoughts but couldn’t. His opportunity to do so didn’t come until his brother spoke up.

“What if it’s something else?” Russell asked with a wonder filled voice.

“Like what?”
             

Up ahead, they spied the marking of a bridge as it appeared against the smoky horizon like an ancient monolith, chiseled from the old world. The bridge connected both halves of town. Between it, the Sacramento River snaked through with venomous water—poisonous and green.

Russell’s eyes were locked on the street leading up to the bridge and afraid to look elsewhere. “I’m not sure…maybe something happened, you know—like out of the movies, like a giant spider, or an ant or something!” When he first spoke, Russell sounded worried and quickly shut his mouth as he pondered the thought. Before long, his worried frown transitioned to a wide and toothy grin.

Jake smirked. “There ain’t
no such thing as a giant
anything,”
he teased, “and even if there was, what would make you think you’d be man enough to take ‘em on yourself? You’re just a kid.”

Russell retorted, “Yeah, well, so are you!”

“I know I am, but what makes you think I’d want to take on some giant space monster, anyway?”

Russell thought it over and was about to reply when something caught his attention. “Look,”
he said, pointing excitedly across the bridge. Their view of town was obscured, veiled beneath a dense cloud of smoke.

“What’s happening?” he asked.

“Something’s burning…” Jake replied.

“Yeah, I can see that,” Russell said, an unexpected breeze carried the noxious fumes their way. Each step took them deeper into the ebbing thicket. Inky gray tendrils crept in, slithering around their ankles and embraced their shoulders like the hug of an old friend.

“Careful,” Jake warned. Up ahead and through the smoke, he spied dark silhouettes hidden behind the haze. His heart leapt, hope for humanity and salvation ushered him through the pain, erasing the agony that engulfed his legs.

“Look at that,” Russell whispered.

“Do you think…”

There was no need to speak, to answer the question, not with the optimism that presented itself at that moment.

“Let’s find out,” Jake said, and together, they hurried along and passed the stalled cars. Stoic figures materialized through the smoke. The excitement they shared soon became a crushing blow, complete and utter disappointment. Hitting the opposite shore, the smoke cleared like a curtain, revealing the telltale signs of a traffic jam, which looked to be a couple dozen cars deep and heading towards the main drag of town.

This was the biggest congregation of automobiles they had seen since their journey began, and a plausible starting point to find their much needed help. The biggest problem it presented was the destruction that polluted every square inch of concrete with scrap metal and broken glass.

Now, the smoke had grown unbearable. They coughed, rancid air filling their lungs. Their most recent defeat slowed them down to a sluggish pace. They walked across the bridge, weaving between the shells of abandoned vehicles.

Hitting the other side, panic and fear crippled them both, yet youthful curiosity egged them along. It would’ve been so easy to lie down and wait for help to arrive, but it was their unspoken vow as children to poke their noses where they didn’t belong. And so, they trudged along.

Chapter Thirteen

Sheriff Baker drove slow, his foot gracing the gas pedal, tapping it softly and fearful to stop. These last few miles crawled by at a snail’s pace. His eyes scanned the horizon with reserved caution. He exited from the main road and took an alternate route, the same shortcut Cohen had driven an hour or so prior. Veering down the side streets, the scenery abruptly changed. Where it was once a seamless prairie of farmlands and fields, was now replaced by recently constructed housing developments—front yard’s sprouted children’s toys, alongside gnarled oak trees and beautifully painted homesteads.

They zipped by as Baker gunned the engine. The motor roared, faster and faster. He tasted copper, blood, and swallowed it greedily down. His journey was finally reaching its end. Soon, he’d be at the station, gather his men and his mind and hopefully get this shit squared away.

Up ahead, the road branched into a T-shaped intersection, where suburbs met suburbs. In the center, two cars sat—post-collision. Broken glass and shredded metal peppered the pavement. The same could be said for the unfortunate drivers, whose mangled limbs and blood spattered the cracked windshields from within. They were dead. The extent of their injuries proved that neither one of them would reanimate anytime soon.

“Shit,” Baker whispered at a sharp clip.

He felt no pity or remorse for their deaths, save for a mild irritation. The wreckage sat in the center of the intersection, preventing him from a clear shot back to town. He intended to skirt the suburbs and now had no choice but to venture into their heart. It was a sour deal and he wasn’t familiar with these streets.

With a final look at the accident, he gave his vehicle a wide berth as to escape the strewn wreckage. Once he was clear, he hit the gas. The road’s curve took a sharp right, leading into a blind spot. Unthinking and anxious, Baker increased his speed until it was too late. 

Screaming, he stomped his foot down on the brakes. With a nauseating shriek, the tires squealed. Billowing waves of dank smoke drifted from the pavement like a disease, lacking grace and elegance that came with the sultry rise of a wildfire. The cruiser skidded across the pavement. In the cabin, Baker was overcome by burnt rubber and other noxious fumes. Between his fingers, the steering wheel jerked sideways. He fought for control, summoning his strength to keep it in his grasp.

Baker screamed. Jolting forward, his body was slammed from side to side as the rear tires hopped the curb. Churning rubber dug furiously into manicured lawns. He pumped the brakes, stomping the pedal until his foot touched the floor. All around, grass and dirt kicked up, pelting the windows as though nothing more than a heavy rain.

Acting on instinct, he jerked the wheel right. It resisted, wanting to go left. With a resonating crunch, metal twisted, contorted and broke from the devastation of impact. His body slammed to the side, colliding against the driver side door. His head whipped around and hit the window.

Spots and stars—colors and shapes—danced together beyond the scope of sight. Blood fell from numerous abrasions as the window shattered. Dazed and slow to respond, sharp pains trickled through his neck, leaving him helpless. The car lurched once more as the trunk fishtailed, coming to a halt against the sturdy trunk of a tree, shy of the sidewalk.

As quick and sudden as it all began, the chaos ended with nothing but a whimper. In the cabin, Baker’s world went silent. Steam rose from beneath the hood with a serpent-like
hiss.
His whole body ached. Looking through the splintered windshield, he watched the smoke rise from the hood and struggled to regain his bearings after the whole ordeal.

His chest heaved, expelling breath in a low and raspy sigh, which competed against the continuous hiss coming from the radiator. Metal popped and tinged, settling into place.

“Damn it,” he groaned, rubbing the corded muscles in his neck. A quickened heart rate and surge of adrenaline left him dizzy and uncoordinated. If it hadn’t been for the seatbelt, he would’ve been dead and knew that in a couple of hours, he would bare the bruises to show for it.

It took a moment for him to kick the door open. He stumbled into the yard, knees wobbled, making him fall. He hacked and coughed, tears strolled down his face. Once the feeling of mortality past, he stood and looked around. He saw why the accident happened in the first place. He stepped forward and had to turn his whole body to look—his whole body was in agony. When he did, and what he saw, made his blood run cold.

A semi-truck laid belly up in the middle of street, dividing the asphalt in half. All around its steel carcass laid a shimmering field of broken glass and shredded metal, which sparkled like dew drops beneath the afternoon sun. Amidst the wreckage was an elongated smear of blood, peppered with gooey flakes of skin and gobs of squished organs. The carnage began some ten feet from the semi-truck and disappeared beneath the crunched cab.

Baker stepped back, taking in as much as he could stomach. His mind worked quick, years of crime scene visitations came as second nature as he began to piece it together. His hypothesis was simple—the truck driver was most likely in the same boat as everyone else and forced to take an alternative route. Everything was fine until a corpse staggered through the road. Panicked, he jerked the wheel, hitting the ghoul and lost control of his rig in the process.

Baker shuttered, looking to the neighboring houses. Many of them sat as they always had, looking no different than they would have on any given day, but the unquestionable racket the crashing semi, as well as his own mishap, Baker expected their occupants to be out and about, investigating or lending a hand, yet, he saw neither. The street was deathly quiet.

He was hesitant to call out. He did so anyways. His words were met with no reply. Baker considered climbing onto the truck’s undercarriage to get a better look, but decided against it. Instead, he walked around to the front with the intent of peering through the windshield. He stepped cautiously, mindful of the gore squishing underfoot. Around the front of the grill, he stopped dead in his tracks.

“Jesus,” he whispered.

The semi-truck had blocked traffic, clogging the road. From this vantage point, he saw no end to the impromptu gridlock. It appeared that the accident occurred in an orderly fashion, the first couple of rows sat as though on display in a sales lot. All four doors shut and locked, windows rolled tightly up. His eyes followed the trail, and he saw that the line of cars grew disorganized and unruly the further along they got. Many of the windows were down, doors left ajar. The sidewalk glittered beneath the sun as shards of broken glass sprinkled the surface.

And then there was the blood, lots of it. It splattered the pavement and polluted every viable surface. Hand and footprints graced both the interior and exterior of the automobiles, looking like a battle had ensued.

“Christ,” he eventually finished.

The need to yell was strong, building in his gut and sliming its way into his throat. He wanted to know if anyone was out there. That was until a sharp
thud
sounded nearby, causing the Sheriff to jump back. An expletive crossed his lips

The sound continued, and with more force than before.

Thud, thump, thud, thump. . .

Whatever it was, it was close. Turning around, he glanced at the webbed glass of the semi-truck’s windshield. A bloodied hand smacked against it from within. The serrated palm left bloody impressions with every—

Thump, thud, thump, thud. . .

Any thought that the person could be alive vacated his mind as a face pulled itself forward, hitting the inside of the glass. Vacant eyes peered out, an open mouth and mangled face greeted him from within. The foul creature moaned.

Baker cursed his luck as the thing smacked the window once more. He wanted to scream at it, order it to shut the up and just leave him alone. Worst of all, if there was one, there would be more.

A tired groan echoed out. It was distant, but loud enough for the others to catch wind.

“Fuck.”

All around, moans drifted skyward as a dead world burst to life. Moan after moan rose both in and around the abandoned vehicles, cries from the unseen corpses seemed to multiply. There must have been a half-dozen, if not more.

Baker stumbled back and out of reflex, slapped his hand against his holster. The gun was there, but when he felt the cold steel against his sweaty palm, he remembered the barn and everything inside. That was a war he would’ve lost, had he not had a good man at his side.

He shook his head, “This is
not
good.”

He stepped back, moving quickly away from the semi. Inside, the corpse fought, breaking through the remaining glass, pushing it aside in massive plates. Baker looked among the cars. Between them, he spied their slow moving silhouettes, the mass of dead flesh thickened, blocking his escape. He spun on his heels, the leather of his boots ground against the pavement with a harsh snap. He jerked his head from side to side, searching for another route. The dead spilled out in the front yards of the once quiet houses, staggering through the grass and onto the street.

He caught sight of his car, wrecked and steaming, and cursed himself for being so careless. He had no choice but to go at it on foot.

From behind, icy hands gripped his shoulders. The sudden impact threw him off balance. The Sheriff growled in defiance, screaming out and threw his weight back. The corpse groaned as it was head-butted by its prey. The sudden force dislodged its grip and staggered back a couple of feet.

Risking a look back, more corpses spilled out from around the semi-truck. They moved at a galloping pace, funneling down the row of cars with monumental hunger. Their pace quickened as more and more joined their ranks through the narrow confines.

Baker heard a scream. It was shrill and piercing. He recognized it as his own. The zombie that had attacked him from behind returned for a second round, and tapered the Sheriff’s cries. It dug its fingernails into the fabric of Baker’s jacket and brought its face close to his own. The corpse’s face had been
mauled, its lips ripped away, revealing teeth and gum.

“Sonuvabitch!”
 

The zombie groaned. Its mouth opened wide, no longer restricted by the confines of flesh. Its jaws parted wider and wider, more than any human could.

Before Baker could react, the zombie plunged its teeth into the crook his neck. He screamed. His clavicle snapped between the cadaver’s grinding jaws. He shoved the corpse back, bringing a pulsating pain, which shot throughout his shoulder like lightning. Still, the corpse held strong. Warm blood gushed from the wound, and down his stomach. Mustering what he could, Baker delivered an open palmed shove. When the zombie fell back, it pulled the fabric of his jacket and shirt, ripping it away. The corpse staggered, tripping over the curb and lost its balance.

It gnawed the bloody patch of cloth in its mouth. Realizing it wasn’t the moist chunk of flesh it desired, it pushed it from its mouth with a black and bloated tongue. With a groan, it looked back to the Sheriff.

For Baker, it was too late.

Just as he had freed himself from the grasp of one corpse, another followed. They came at him from all sides. Baker looked around, his teeth clinched, his heart raced. His time had come. His ticket pulled. All around, the hellish crescendo peaked, growing into a cacophony of revered cries and guttural moans. Dead and bloodied hands reached in, pulling the defenseless Sheriff to the ground.