No Flesh Shall Be Spared

Cody took another swig off his can.

'It was about that time I noticed Jocelyn McNabb coming up from the opposite direction. She was near the pumps and she went over to Boyd and sort of grabbed the man he’d bitten by the arms. Then, she took a bite out of him as well. I mean she bit his arm right through his shirt!'

'Jesus…' Dillard sighed and shook his head. 'Are you sure…'

'Look, if you don’t believe me, just ask them!' Cody said and pointed toward the front glass.

Outside, the aforementioned Boyd Chambers and Jocelyn McNabb stood staring wall-eyed into the store. Both of their faces looked jaundiced and a dark maroon—almost black—substance coated their faces from the cheeks down. Their eyes were empty and their mouths hung open. Drool dribbled from their chins and mixed with whatever it was that soaked the fabric of their clothing. Both kept touching the glass and, as if trying to reach through it, extended their arms toward those inside. Behind them, looking confused, was the guy from the Taurus. More of the dark fluid coated the front of his shirt. The meat of his neck looked like it had been hacked into by a garden cultivator.

'This is bullshit,' the voice from the back of the store said. The man, who’d come in with the pretty brunette standing by the magazine racks, was busy microwaving himself something to eat. He looked over the racks of merchandise with a haughty and arrogant look on his face. He’d not asked for permission nor yet paid for whatever it was he was heating up and from his demeanor, he probably wouldn’t be doing so, either. He was tall, thin and wore black slacks and a Polo shirt. His hair was pulled back into a tight ponytail which somehow added to his 'I think I’m better than you' vibe.

The brunette stood quietly by the magazine racks off to the side and seemed as if she was more fashion accessory than real person. She was pretty, there was no denying that, but there didn’t seem to be a lot going on between her ears. Dressed in a denim jacket, a tight tank top and even tighter jeans, her attire was obviously designed to garner attention. However eye-catching her appearance was, she seemed to be the intellectual equivalent of a child. As she occupied herself with fashion magazines and the sunglass rack, it was almost as if she was blissfully unaware of the danger that was quickly unfolding around her.

'No, sir,' Cody said. 'I saw ’em do just that.'

In response, Boyd and Jocelyn pounded feebly against the glass. Their fists left dark smears across the clear panes. The group looked at them and watched as they both pressed their mouths against the window and slobbered all over it.

'Say…' said the middle-aged woman who’d come in to use the public bathroom when all of this first started, 'is that glass going to keep them out?' The lady, who’d earlier said her name was Irina Kovalenko, wore her brown hair in what almost looked like a bob. It fell limply down, but not so far as to reach her shoulders. Bangs hid her forehead and the hairstyle served to frame her face. She wore a single strand of pearls, a grey sweater and Capri pants. Her car sat idling next to the Handicapped space outside. She’d left it running since she was only going to be inside the store for a minute.

At least that was what she’d thought, anyway.

Stanley Dillard stepped up to the window and looked the panes of glass over.

'It should. I mean, it’s plenty thick,' he said patting the surface of the glass. Outside Boyd made a feeble attempt to bite at his hand through the clear window 'I doubt even a gang of men could beat their way through.'

Betty suddenly spoke up from behind the counter and all eyes turned to her. 'Well, if things ever get bad and they somehow get in here, there’s a Count Out Room in the back. We use it to balance the tills. It has a safe in it and it’s kinda small, but there are no windows and the door’s reinforced metal.'

'Well, that’s good to know,' the man at the microwave said sarcastically. 'We can all pile in there like it’s a fucking clown car.'

'Mister,' Stanley said, 'I didn’t quite get your name.'

'Monroe. Phillip Monroe.' He nodded his head toward the brunette. 'This is my fiancee, Claire.'

Claire smiled and waved as if it were a very real pleasure to meet everyone.

'Hiiii-eeee,' she cooed.

'Well, Mr. Monroe, I’m not sure how you do things where you’re from, but out here in the sticks, we use a tone that’s a little more polite when people are talking about things that could save your life. Y’hear?'

'I’ll try to bear that in mind, Mr. Ziffel.'

Claire giggled and walked back over to where Monroe was standing. He smiled at her and opened the microwave in order to retrieve his now hot food.

They all stood around in silence for a bit, just staring out the window and watching Boyd and Jocelyn French-kiss the glass. After a few minutes of being frustrated that she had been unable to get through to the sheriff, Betty reached under the counter and switched the radio on to see if any of the local stations were broadcasting any clues as to what was going on.

At first, there was just a lot of static coming out of the little speaker, but as Betty spun the dial, snippets of different conversations could be heard. As each one tumbled into the next, a story began to unfold and, from the sounds of it, it wasn’t going to have much of a happy ending.

'…any dead person should be isolated…' a man’s voice said.

 'Human remains are returning to life… and… and… attacking the living.'

 'Stay indoors.'

Betty continued working her way through the stations. Only a staccato of hissing white noise and modulated voices came out of the speaker. She kept turning the dial—at first in an attempt to find something that didn’t sound crazy. Then, she kept at it in order to try to find something that didn’t make her feel more afraid.

'Do not attempt to leave your homes,' another man intoned. 'These creatures seem to stay alive, as improbable as it sounds, by… by consuming human flesh.'

'Every person who is killed will become one of them. If you are bitten, you will eventually die and become one of them as well,' a woman’s voice said, sounding like it came from a place just this side of desperation.

'These are not your family, folks. They are not your neighbors. They are not your friends… not any longer.'

The group all looked at one another once again; eyes scanning eyes in a vain attempt to gain understanding. The radio’s terrifying voices tumbled into the room like inebriated sailors.

'…the brain…

'These things must be eradicated as quickly as possible. There’s no time for sympathy or compassion. There is no time for religious services to honor them, no time for what one might call a dignified internment. There is only time enough for their destruction and their burning.'

Finally, Betty had had enough and switched off the radio.

'As long as these things have access to a food source… in other words, us,' the commentator said sadly, 'they simply will not run out of food.'

As the speaker went silent, one last sailor fell.

'If a day were to come that they did run out of things to eat, it would only mean that we were all dead and gone.'

Silence enveloped the store and the only sounds audible were the soft tapping and guttural moaning coming from the front window.

'Well, that’s just fucking crazy,' Monroe sputtered over his mouthful of microwaved burrito.

'It certainly is, Son…' Dillard said in a soft voice. 'It certainly is.'

The gathered group stood silently, each going over in his head what they’d just heard. The more each of them thought of it, it could only be that everything that was being broadcast on the radio was true. Given that Boyd and Jocelyn still stood leering in at them through the front window and more and more people who looked as bad as they did were now wandering the parking lot, it couldn’t be argued that something horrible was indeed happening. There were now at least a dozen of them outside, each with the same drawn appearance and the same sorts of splatters of red and black on their clothing.

As all of their eyes scanned the crowd outside, one by one, the locals were able to identify them. Fred Norwood, the mechanic at the Union 76 down the road was there, his face lacerated savagely. Nick Buford, who delivered the town’s newspapers in his little truck, wandered the parking lot aimlessly. From the looks of things, his