Alive in a Dead World

reason why that would change now. She would give Paul two or three hours at the most to get what he needed and get back. If he wasn’t here, she was going to seek out a more hospitable location to spend the night and the next morning she would resume her search for Michael. Nothing ensured her continued existence more than staying with the penultimate survivor.

The only flaw she saw in Michael was his commitment to others, although that would work in her favor this time because he would not leave until he had the rest of his raiding party with him.

Brian stirred restlessly in his fever-soaked dreams, Mrs. Deneaux pushed his shirt up to watch the ever advancing infection as it branched to his heart. Once it got there, nothing could save him, except a priest and that would only be his eternal soul.

Paul felt completely exposed as he walked down the road. He looked longingly to the brush-covered street sides, but time was of the utmost importance. He hesitated. Who would know if I turned around now? I could tell Deneaux I didn’t find anything. She’d suspect and I’d know, he thought, chastising himself.

Paul had started walking again when he got a creeping sensation at the back of his neck. It was that same feeling he got so long ago at the gas station when that man had begun to approach him, when this whole thing had originally started. He had ignored that feeling then and almost fell into the same trap. “I’m going to be pissed if I turn around and there’s nothing there, I’m just scaring myself,” he said aloud much like people who enter a dark basement whistle so as to abate their fear.

At first, what he saw just didn’t register. Luckily, his lower reasoning abilities of survival kicked in. Two speeders, a large male and an even larger female, were bearing down on him. Paul involuntarily cried out as he began his own sprint. Cognitive thought slowly came back as Paul tried to do some basic calculations in his head. Had to have at least a couple of hundred yards head start on them, should I turn around and look? No I’ll lose time. He could swear on more than one occasion, he could feel fingernails narrowly miss his neck and he would put on another short burst of speed.

He had gone less than a quarter mile and knew his time of running was rapidly coming to a close. “Can’t… keep…this…up!” He huffed. He stole a quick glance over his shoulder, hoping the zombies had stopped their pursuit. No such luck, the lead zombie dressed in tattered camouflage gear was, at the most, twenty feet away.

I’m screwed, Paul thought. Okay, okay. His mind going into overdrive. What would Talbot do? Even in the dire situation, he smiled a little at the comparison to the popular What Would Jesus Do? slogan. Paul held his rifle up to his face, not sure what he was looking for or if he’d even be able to tell as the firearm swayed violently back and forth in his field of vision. I think I see red. Does that mean the safety is on or off? How many bullets do I have? What are the odds I could hit him with the rifle over my shoulder, about as good as you stopping and aiming. He swore he heard Mike say that last part.

Paul planted his left leg to turn and make a shot, the force of his forward momentum causing his ankle to roll. He fell and spun hard from the pain. Camo man had not broken stride as Paul rolled over two complete times. Tears had already welled up in Paul’s eyes as the Camo man lunged for him. Paul pulled the trigger of his rifle. He couldn’t have placed the shot any better if he had put the rifle on a gun stand and fired it off. The bullet struck Camo man squarely in the forehead. The zombie’s forward progress halted immediately as brackish, gray-green matter leaked out the entry hole, and the smell of sulfur-laden, stagnant water assailed his nostrils. Paul’s triumph was short-lived as the Amazonian woman who had been struggling to keep up was now gaining by leaps and bounds on the prostrate Paul.

Paul sat up to get a better shot, the pain in his ankle throbbing with every beat of his heart, which at this moment, meant it was pretty much a continuous pain. “Gotcha now, bitch!” Paul screamed as his well placed shot slammed the woman in her calf. Her immeasurable bulk slammed to the ground as the bottom half of her right leg snapped in two.

The zombie woman landed on her face, and her teeth broke out as she made hard contact with the ground. As she rose, Paul noticed white jagged pieces of her shattered incisors poking through her bottom lip like shards of glass used on top of rock walls. She looked in sorry shape, but yet she rose. Paul sat there, watching her in stunned silence as she got to her feet. Her knee-high skirt did little to hide the hideous sight Paul was gazing at. The zombie advanced slowly, her left foot landing normally on her sneaker-clad appendage, her right foot and a full six inches of her lower leg folded away at a ninety degree angle as it came down. Paul could hear the bones in her leg as she cut through her calf muscles and made contact with the pavement. The sound was mind-numbingly sickening. It sounded like a wet fish being slapped down on a marble table, Paul was mesmerized with the horror of it. The zombie cared little for the irreparable damage she was committing as she approached. Blood spurted from the veins and arteries in her leg as she ripped through the tender vessels.

Paul pulled up his rifle, realizing at this distance even he would have a hard time missing. He pulled the trigger, or more correctly “tried” to pull the trigger. He was not even rewarded with the satisfaction of a dry fire. He tried the trigger again, nothing. He turned the rifle over, an expended brass cartridge was lodged half in and half out of his rifle. Paul pulled back repeatedly on his bolt, the piece would not move and Stumpy was gaining.

Paul turned over and used his gun as a makeshift cane to prop himself up. He thought sourly that this would be the time it shot, while it was firmly entrenched in his armpit. How many horror movies have I seen like this? Paul asked himself as he limped away, the injured zombie nearly on his heels. His ankle was swelling. He could feel it testing out the boundaries of the boot he was wearing. If he took it off now, he’d be lucky if he could get a sock to stretch over it.

Paul nearly spilled a second time as he paused to look over his shoulder. Stumpy was losing ground and height as she continually splintered the bone in her calf. A little while longer and she’ll be down to her knee, Paul thought. Would she keep trying to walk with an exaggerated swaying gait? Or would she drop to her knees and come after him that way? Paul really didn’t want to wait, fearful that at any moment, he would run into another zombie, and with no other weapons than an unwieldy club, he wisely decided that confrontation would not be in his best interests.

It was another two hundred yards before Stumpy fell over. Paul heard the thud and possibly a low soft moan, of that he was not sure. The zombie opted for the crawling mode of transportation. Paul was relieved; the savage pain in his ankle was impeding his forward progress. He could slow his pace down now, he was in much less danger from her now than he had been moments earlier, but he was still a long way away from safe.

When Paul pulled his gaze from his traveling companion, he realized that he was on the fringes of a residential area. The house on his immediate left had been abandoned long before the zombies had come. Signs warning of danger and to not trespass were displayed prominently on the front door. It looked to Paul like the only thing holding the house up was force of habit.

The house on the right did not look much better, but as of yet, had not been officially condemned. He thought about going into that house, but it looked eerily similar to a house that a young couple had gotten trapped in, in some zombie movie Mike had made him watch. Paul was under the impression that if a movie didn’t star Charles Bronson, it wasn’t much worth watching. He had suffered through it to appease Mike, but mostly because Tracy had made some unbelievably good queso dipping sauce and he had brought with him a near insatiable case of the munchies.

He limped further down the road. The next house on his left looked like it could stop half the Mexican army. And if they couldn’t get in, what would be his odds?

“I’m going to the next one,” Paul said as he turned to look at his pursuer. Her arms and hands were bloodied, but yet she still came. “It’d be way cooler if you’d stop,” Paul told her, but she paid him no heed.

The next house had some promise, scary promise, but promise all the same. The front door was intact, however, it was wide open. That was not a common sight these days. “Well,” Paul reasoned, “whatever got in at least had a way out.” That reasoning held sway with a zombie, but if humans had ransacked it, little of any value would be left for Paul to use. “At this point all I want is a chair and two aspirins. That would be just about the best thing I could think of right now. Twenty-four Mapledog Lane it is,” Paul said as he made way for the door. Stumpy changed her course to match Paul. “I’ll get us some tea ready,” Paul told her.

The house was pitched in darkness; Paul expected no less. He did a quick scan of the entry room and then immediately opened up the drawn shades to let in some much needed diffused curtain light. Dried blood coated the far wall and even abundantly dotted the ceiling. Bits of matter, the origin of which he cared not to dwell upon, littered the small throw rug and wood floor.