figuring if he took out their leader the rest of the pack might lose heart. Seemed like a great idea until the pack began to swell, Brendon stopped counting when the tenth dog came through.
“Three shots at the zombie, one at the Labrador. That gives me six, and there’s at least 13 of you.” He looked to his truck. The husky followed his line of sight. Backing it up earlier which seemed such a great idea now might end up being the last great blunder in a long string of them. Cognitively he knew the husky wasn’t smiling at him but it sure did look like a shit-eating grin from where he sat. Two more dogs jumped up at him only to be met with varying degrees of fatality. The one that was shot in the throat would die much sooner than the one that had its paw blown off, but it was still only a matter of time.
A few of the dogs were paying no heed whatsoever to the melodrama playing out, too busy foraging for scraps that previous hunting parties might have missed. A particularly vicious fight broke out between an Australian cattle dog and a Boxer over what looked like a bloody hairpiece but was in fact some poor soul’s scalp. Brendon absently touched the top of his head. A good portion of the dogs began to rip pieces out of their fallen brethren. “Glad to see that cannibalism isn’t just a human trait.” Brendon said darkly. No matter what else was happening in the store the husky never took his eyes off of Brendon. It was unnerving and to make matters worse the dog had pulled back far enough to make any type of shot difficult. 'Does he know how much ammo I have left.' Brendon didn’t voice his thought for fear that the hound might understand what he was saying. It wouldn’t be the strangest thing that had happened to him in the last few weeks.
Brendon pulled his gun up again. The husky retreated even further, placing himself squarely behind an unsuspecting poodle. Brendon shot. “Fuck it, I hate poodles anyway.” Two rounds later the white poodle lay on its side and other dogs began to jockey for position to get some of the tastier morsels on the cadaver. The husky had circled back around. “You are starting to piss me off!” Brendon yelled. The dog curled its lips up, exposing blood stained teeth. “Come here good boy.” Brendon said in a cajoling voice. “I’ve got something for you.” A cur from the back came up. Its tail tucked firmly between its legs, the sound of a human promising treats sparked a fading memory in its rudimentary ken. The husky bit its hindquarters for its disloyalty. The cur yelped its way back to the back of the pack. “Well it’s not like I didn’t know who the alpha dog was anyway.”
The dogs dispatched quickly of their former mates. The meal did little to stave off the effects of starvation that the majority of them were feeling. Most would die by the end of the month, but that would do little for Brendon’s present situation. “Three rounds left, do I kill two dogs and then myself?” It sounded like a decent plan. He just couldn’t reconcile being eaten by animals. There was some base part of him that this thought repulsed to the core. Must have been a hold-over from the early hominids. It kept them from letting a saber tooth tiger eat them.
Brendon didn’t think matters could get much worse. He chastised himself for his lack of imagination when three zombies ambled down the street and into the store. At least one good thing came of it, the dogs having realized that they were also on the zombies’ menu moved out of the way as the new hunters joined the mix. Two of the zombies started to go after the dogs, a young man somewhere in his early twenties, however, locked on Brendon. The dogs moved as the zombie approached. Always staying out of arm’s reach but close enough that they could grab scraps once the dominant hunter had taken down its prey. Like hyenas they cackled around the lion.
Two shots and one broken open brain bucket later the zombie man was on the ground. The dogs avoided the carcass like the plague-infested carrier that it was. The commotion did not go unnoticed by one of the other zombies, who had peeled off from trying to catch the dachshund and instead focused on the non-moving prey, Brendon. The third zombie had somehow managed to corner one of the dogs and was tearing through it. The blood strangled barks of pain were ignored by the pack. 'Survival of the fittest.' Brendon said, as he stood on the shelving almost falling over when his left foot came down awkwardly on a can of Spam.
The zombie that was coming for Brendon was also in his mid-twenties or so and dressed as if he had at one time been going to a dance club, a tattered black silk shirt and a thick gold chain still clung to his grimy neck. No shoes to speak of but his pants were still in pretty good shape, considering. Brendon couldn't help but wonder if the three amigos had all been together when they changed over, did their friendship transcend the change? That question got resolved fairly quickly as zombie number two stepped on zombie number one's family jewels; the egg cracking sound of bursting genitalia got Brendon moving.
The zombie was within arm's length. Brendon ran down the top of the shelf, gauging where a good jump would take him and then how long it would take him to get to the truck. The husky paced him on the floor. The zombie wasn't going to be a problem unless he jumped too far and knocked himself out on the top of the doorframe. The husky was the issue. He might have, against all odds, made it to the truck unscathed if his jump hadn’t landed him squarely in spilled dish detergent. His left leg shot out at an unnatural angle, the pain in his groin letting him know that if he survived it was going to throb for weeks. Brendon went down on all fours, traction was measured in inches when it needed to be feet. The clubbing zombie was closing in as was his friend that decided human tasted better than collie.
Brendon looked like an extra on Avatar with blue goo covering everything that made contact with the floor. The husky was able to avoid the spillage as it sank its fangs deep into Brendon's calf. He screamed as he rolled over to kick at the dog. The husky, like a professional wrestler, matched him move for move. The dog started to shake its head back and forth causing Brendon to nearly pass out from the pain. Red flowed freely into blue. Sparks danced in Brendon's field of vision. He didn't remember doing it, if someone had asked him later on he would have thought that someone else had taken the shot. The husky jumped away, a deep crimson gash perforated its side, rib bone protruded through the injury. Brendon turned back over to begin his crab walk out of the store. The clubber might have caught him if not for the same trap that had temporarily snared Brendon. The zombie went head first into a display of pickles, shards of vinegar laced glass peppered his face. Brendon stared in horror as the zombie tried to right itself, a jagged piece of glass sticking out of its now empty eye socket.
As it got free from the La Brea Dawn Pits, Brendon got to his one good leg and half hopped, half jumped his way to the truck. Blood followed him. He pulled himself into the cab and immediately shut the door. Some of the hungrier and more dominant dogs began to assert themselves, within seconds the truck was surrounded. The circle was only broken to allow the Clubber and the dog muncher entry. Brendon nearly broke the key in the ignition when the zombies smacked up into the side of the truck. The truck started immediately. He ran over at least one of the zombie's feet and had possibly hit one or maybe two of the dogs. Brendon had a mild sense of satisfaction when he left and saw three big dogs closing in on their former leader. 'That's what you get!' He shouted, spittle flying on the inside of the windshield.
He could not, for the life of him, remember why he had stopped at that little shit-hole, that was of course until the blinding yellow light warning of eminent fuel depletion started to blink. His leg hurt so bad he could barely think, he feared pulling his pants up to look at it, thinking that his calf muscle might only be secured to his leg by a severely chewed through tendon. Droplets of blood began to merge on the rubber floor mat, an ant might not yet be able to drown in the burgeoning puddle but it sure could go for a nice swim. Brendon's head began to swoon. The previous bright sparks of pain began to darken and become blotched and that was making vision increasingly difficult.
He drove until the tank gave out, which was fortuitous considering he passed out at roughly the same time. The truck came to an unaided gliding stop on a snow covered embankment. There he would have stayed until time eternal if not for a long range military patrol on a search and rescue mission.
'Is he dead?' Murphy asked his sergeant. As he looked through the windshield, his M-16 pointed directly at the occupant’s skull.
'Why don't you get your stethoscope and see if he has a heartbeat.' The sergeant said as he lit a cigar up.
'Shit he just moved!' Murphy yelled.
'Shoot him so we can get out of here.' The gunner on the second vehicle shouted. 'It's as cold as my first wife's tits out here.' The gunner thought about his statement for a second. 'And probably my second too.'
'How many times you been married?' The gunner on the tracked vehicle asked.
'Guys, this thing is moving.' Murphy shouted above them all.
The sergeant came up to the side window. 'Looks pretty pale and there's blood on the floor. He's a gomer, hurry up and shoot it, Dickens is right, it is as cold as his second wife's titties.'
That got a good round of laughter from everyone, even Dickens.
Brendon's eyes fluttered open. His throat was closed and as arid as the Sahara in high summer. He somehow
