Stunned, Vin stood there for a few seconds taking the situation in. The victim lay dead, and blood was everywhere. The albino, whose leg bore a large crater, black, red, and the white of bone, pulled the skin and hair from the rear of the victim’s head and opened the victim’s skull.
Cop or not, Vin had to put a stop to this. He rushed up to the albino. Not noticing Vin at all, the albino now was eating the victim’s brain.
Vin shot the albino in the head at close range, and small bits of hair and blood hit Vin in the face. The momentum of the shot propelled the albino against the victim’s car door as a big cavity now occupied the albino’s skull.
The albino lay still. It was over.
How am I going to explain this to the police?
He sat down on the asphalt next to the two dead men, placing his shotgun on the ground nearby, closed his eyes, and took a few deep breaths. He hadn’t killed anyone in his life before. Even though he loved guns, he had not wanted the military life, content to be an engineer and part-time martial arts instructor.
As he thought about his life, staring at the dead bodies, the albino moved. He sat up and looked at Vin, who stared, transfixed. Then the albino took a swing at him. Vin deflected the attack with his left arm and punched him in his head wound. The albino snarled, and Vin jumped back in time for the albino to miss grabbing Vin’s neck. Vin picked up the shotgun, stepped back, and shot the albino again in the head. The albino slammed against the car door behind him.
Without understanding why he knew what to do, Vin kept shooting at the albino’s head, exploding blood, hair, and sinew into the air, until he pulverized it. Vin spit out the blood that had spurted into his mouth. With one chambered shell left, Vin blasted the albino in the neck.
Then Vin felt hands on the back of his throat, and he jumped back and turned to see the victim reaching up. Although the man’s face had color before, it was now as white as the albino.
What the fuck is going on here?
Vin stepped further back, holding onto his unloaded shotgun, and surveyed the situation. About half a dozen albinos—men and women—were bashing in car windows, pulling people out through open doors and smashed windows, or, in one case, eating someone’s brain. Some had severe head wounds that no one could survive from while others had misshapen skulls.
Vin had to get the hell out of there.
At least the albinos, preoccupied with their chosen victims, were not at all interested in him. He ran toward the river by the side of the road, and then traveled along its banks, the water to his right, the road about twenty yards to his left. He crammed more ammo into the chamber as he ran.
When he arrived in town, he hoped to find sheriff deputies, or any first responder. Instead, he encountered more of those creatures attacking people. A few victims animated and started attacking normal people.
It was a cancer, and it was spreading. It was impossible, but it was happening. He ran off the main road into a housing development, hoping to find a lower density of creatures, and he did, but there were plenty still milling around. Ammo at the ready in his left hand, gun in his right, he shot at several of them over the next few minutes, feeding the chamber when able. Then a young boy, pasty white with a bloody face, ran up to a young girl, both four to six years of age.
Chapter Eight
Day Zero
Marty grunted and wondered if he was out of his mind. A zombie apocalypse? Beaver Park in the throes of a zombie apocalypse? Kevin must have gone nuts. Or Marty. Marty had seen nothing first-hand, so he could just as easily have hallucinated all the phone calls. Oh shit, he’d made that call to Mohit!
What would he say to Mohit if he called him back? Sorry, buddy, you remember that terrorist thing? Just my deputy out of his fucking gourd. Or pranking me. Still, even Kevin wouldn’t let it get so far as Marty calling Mohit. Would he? It would be out of character. Kevin pranked no one as far as he knew . . .
And the roadblock? A hoax. No cars would show up. Nothing would come down by his house. He was all worked up over nothing. What was more plausible? Kevin insane or a zombie apocalypse? That answer was clear. He had to call someone else in the office. They would straighten him out.
So he called Steven—voicemail. He called Bruce—voicemail. He called Irvin—voicemail. Andrew—voicemail. He called another half dozen—all voicemail.
Panicking again, he called the police dispatcher, but the line kept ringing and ringing. To answer calls as soon as possible was the dispatcher’s duty. There was no voicemail because someone should pick up. After a minute, he realized that if this were a prank, then everyone was in on it.
Police-car sirens sounded. He looked out his window and cop cars drove down the wrong side of the road behind his house, lights flashing. Traffic jammed going south into town.
His heart sank. No one would orchestrate a hoax involving four police cars. They would be fired on the spot.
This was really happening. A zombie apocalypse.
These officers rode toward their doom.
And Jamie was across the road from where Kevin was overrun. Marty hoped the zombies passed him by.
“Run!” Emily’s father had said. She was so scared and sick to her stomach, but her father always knew best. He rarely commanded her to do anything, but when he did, things turned out all right. So instinctively, she picked herself up, and ran faster than she ever had before, vomiting onto her dress along the way.
After a
