K. T. Swartz (6 page)

The trailer had another door besides the one she entered, and it read ‘Manager’s Office’. The source of the smell. She licked her lips as she slid across the floor. She knocked, but the room beyond was silent. The door itself would open inward, the hinges on the inside. She held her gun steady, wrapped her fingers around the knob. It turned. Still no sound behind the door. Her mind kept skipping back to the janitor in the hospital closet; she felt his teeth on her collar. But pushed the door open.

A black cloud of wings and bloated bodies rushed around her. They slammed into her, buzzing in her ears, her eyes. They got caught in her hair, tickling her face and neck. Their buzzing drowned out everything else as she shrieked and ran for the stairs. The cloud of flies swarmed like a mad tornado around her. She beat the air with her hands as she thundered down the steps; raked her fingers through her hair, and slapped at the flies still clinging to her clothes. The cloud broke apart in the evening sky as she sagged to the ground, tears running down her face. A shudder had her teeth clacking together. Phantom wings still beat against her face, crawled across her skin. Even with her hands over her ears, she couldn’t drown out the sound of thousands of wings beating the air.

She didn’t move until her cheeks dried, until her shaking hands held the gun steady. On her feet, she climbed the steps but couldn’t help stopping by the secretary’s desk. With the flies came the fresh stench of death. Bracing herself, she stepped into the doorway. Seven dead men huddled inside, their bodies nothing but patches of skin over bone. They all wore heavy cloth shirts and jeans, work boots, and tool belts much like the one around her waist.

‘Of all the dead things I’ve seen – with their intestines hanging out, their ribs poking free, and their teeth showing through gaping holes in their faces – the saddest thing I’ll never forget are those poor people that gave up hope. Men and women who take their own lives, like those men in the trailer. They were honest, hardworking guys still wearing their hardhats and tool belts. Yet the fear and absolute despair they felt were enough to convince them that death was better. They did the only thing they could think of, and while I understand why they chose the bullet, on the other hand, I can’t. Because if I can survive, so can they.’

She put her gun away and knelt beside the bodies. Went through their belts. Found the gun used to put holes through each of their temples. She stuck it and the extra bullets in her pack. The manager’s office had very little else she could use, so she stood, picked up her flashlight.

With her hand on the doorknob, she looked at those seven, no-longer terrified bodies huddled together on the floor. A few remaining flies buzzed lazily about the room but certainly didn’t disturb them. She took a deep breath and closed the door.

Leaving them to their rest, she left the trailer and headed for the work trucks. Three four-wheel drive, club cab trucks sat side by side. She went through each, found a cartridge of bullets to match the gun. She took those, then jogged to the second trailer. Stopped. And backpedaled to stare at the metal boxes on either side of the trailers. Her course altered, flashlight beam bobbing as she approached.

‘‘Don’t be another a/c unit, don’t be another a/c unit’ kept running through my head. I’d already seen one of those, but without electricity to power it, it was useless. This time, I got my wish. They weren’t a/c units. They were water-powered generators.

I had to bite my tongue to keep from screaming in joy. Now, if only I could get them to work.’

She knelt, set her flashlight aside. Bit her lip as she flipped the ‘on’ switch. Near the quarry lake, something gurgled. A motor sputtered and spat. She turned it off; let the generator die for an instant before turning it back on. She ran for the quarry lake, where the gurgling came again. The pump lay on its side. She grabbed it, dug her toes into the gravel and pushed the bulky machine upright. Water bubbles burst as the hose fell into the water. She adjusted everything she could get her hands on – the nozzles and hoses – twisting and readjusting until they refused to move. The pump kicked on. She snatched up her flashlight and ran for the first trailer. She sprinted up the steps and burst through the door. Carefully closed it behind her. Once inside, she flipped the light switch. Fluorescent light splashed across the walls.

She screamed. Jumped up and down until tears blurred her vision, until she was gasping for breath and laughing so hard her sides ached. She bent over, sucking in deep breath to get her pulse to return to normal. Her hands stopped shaking. She had power – electricity – for the first time in years.

But she still had one more generator to test. She headed for the second trailer; fixed that one too before heading inside. It was empty of undead and also of the hopeless. Two doors inside this one: the first was a bathroom – with a working toilet and cold running water from the faucet – and she let the water spill into the basin for a moment, to flush out stagnant water in the pipes. The second door was a supply closet with paper towels, first aid supplies, unopened coffee tins, binders, toilet paper, and hardhats. She checked the coffee’s expiration date. Hmm, slightly stale coffee was better than moldy coffee, right?

She looked around the rest of the trailer, to the long couch against one wall… right below an a/c and heating thermostat. Holding her breath, she turned on the air and this time hoped the a/c unit worked. It rumbled, then roared. Cold air blasted from the vents. She closed her eyes, held her hands up in front of the vent. For the first time in six years, she had electricity and a/c, running water, toilet paper, and a couch to sleep on. She was roughly a half mile from her blood bag, with no evidence that any zombies were in the near vicinity. Maybe for a couple nights she could relax, wash her clothes, and bathe. She wouldn’t have to sleep on the floor or in a tree. As a temporary shelter, the trailer was perfect.

In a few days, she would start cleaning out the zombie infestation from her hometown, when the blood bags had drawn out as many undead as possible. There would be little sleep and lots of work. But for now she’d be comfortable, at least.

The parking lot of Morrow’s – Danville’s largest home improvement store – was a ghost town of abandoned vehicles and fluttering banners. The breeze plucked at the outdated, ratty, plastic 4
^th
of July flags that proclaimed amazing deals for the holiday. The Out-Break hit the USA six years ago, spreading quickly. Considering the banners, it was just in time for the holiday in Danville two years ago, if the outdated calendars were any clue. She wondered how many survivors had made it out of town, how many had died before fear became too much to live with. With a population over 14,000, there was the potential for all of them – not counting the Ceton University students, any visitors, and passers-by – to have been turned.

Danville was the largest small town she chanced staying in. But she couldn’t leave. She and Jeremy had tried for so long to get here, to save her mom and dad because they hadn’t been able to save his. To leave now would make his death pointless. That thought made her sick. So, she stood in front of Morrow’s, between an SUV and a rag-top, and simply watched the warehouse-like building. In the past ten minutes, nothing moved around the store or the chain of stores connected to it. The glass doors weren’t broken, and the many pots of leafy bushes and evergreens had grown wild, surviving where humans had not. Maybe the fruit trees had as well.

Her goal in coming here wasn’t fruit, but the opportunity was too good to pass up. Her arms hanging, shoulders hunched, with the scent of a freshly slaughtered zombie still soaking into her coat, she shuffled across the parking lot. Took her time. A vulture soared by, under thick, dark clouds. Those scavengers were never far off. Three massive clouds of them wheeled high in loose circles where the blood bags hung. In a way, their clustered appearance was a good thing. As long as the dead collected in certain areas, so too did the vultures. And as far as she knew, they didn’t succumb to the disease.

She shuffled past the garden-center gate, into a jungle of overgrown bushes and trees and perennials. The contrast between the emptiness she was used to and the wild beauty of nature just beginning to reclaim its territory made her stop. Give this city a few more years, and where man had paved over her, Mother Nature would lift her green hands high again.

She took a deep breath, inhaled the many scents of fresh greenery. Her feet stopped by a lilac bush; its leaves were green and healthy, but she was too late to see its blooms or stick her nose in its blossoms. Her favorite flower, and she’d have to wait another year to see it. She moved deeper into the garden center, to the fruit trees in the back, to the ripening apples, pears, cherry trees, and blueberry bushes beyond. She pulled an apple from the tree and bit into it.

‘Considering I haven’t had an apple in years, considering that my supplies consist of canned goods, dried meat, dehydrated foods, processed crap with long expiration dates, and vitamins, biting into a fresh apple was like fireworks going off in my mouth. Sweet, juicy, and just a little bit tart. And I didn’t even care that it wasn’t peeled.’

She scoured the trees for all the ripe fruit she could find, eating as she went. Even pears, and she didn’t like pears. In a plastic bag she gathered up her treats and stuck them in her pack. Overhead, faraway thunder rolled across the sky. She looked up. The thick blanket of slate grey clouds hung low. Lightning flashed within their rain-bloated bodies. A cool breeze rustled the fruit trees’ leaves, carried the scent of rain with it. She looked out over the parking lot. Debris and dried leaves rolled across the cracked blacktop, disappeared down the slope to the bypass.

She ducked under the shed as rain slammed into the metal roof, like thousands of marbles spilling from a jar. Lightning flashed much closer, illuminated part of the dark store. A rotting face stared out at her. Bloated hands pressed against the glass, left smeared handprints behind as the female employee clawed at the door. May pulled out her gun. Held it steady. A low rumble of thunder started in the distance and built up power as it rolled over Danville. With a jarring crack, the sky exploded; at the same time she pulled the trigger.

A spider web of cracks blossomed around the bullet hole. The zombie fell. She lowered the gun. Where there was one, there would be more. In the shadows of the warehouse, figures moved. Dragging, shuffling steps, and dead, cloudy eyes stared out. They pawed at the glass, stepping over and on their fallen friend. Their moans mingled with the thunder. There was no point in hiding now. She ran for the towering steel and wood shelves that reached for the ceiling. Pallets of fertilizer and lawn equipment, pots, and plastic water-fountain bases were stacked high. She dug her nails into the wood to boost herself up.

Fists punched the glass; a finger wiggled through the bullet hole, dripped brackish blood and skin onto concrete. She slung a leg up and rolled over the bags of fertilizer. But one shelf wasn’t high enough. Lightning scarred the shadows; another crack of thunder had her teeth vibrating. Blowing rain made the metal slick, slid down her leather coat to soak into her jeans. She grabbed a fountain base as the glass door shattered. Cut and bleeding zombies poured from the store. She watched them spill like angry ants from their hill. No more time. With her toes against the frame, she pulled herself higher; fell into the fountain.

Below, the zombies spread through the garden center. One clawed at the sky, let loose a moan that attracted the others’ attentions. They looked up into the driving rain as lightning flashed. Only one gripped the shelf’s frame. The zombie’s moan floated through the air. She aimed, fired when another clap of thunder tore the sky. But it wasn’t enough to hide the sharp retort from her 9mm. The shambling dead reached for her. She put her gun away, pulled out her bow. Arrows were easier to come by than bullets.

She aimed, let her arrow fly. A zombie dropped, an arrow sprouting like an absurd headdress from his skull. One by one, she lined up her shots. Took a deep breath. Only when her hand steadied did she release another. With careful aim and a careful shot, she began picking them all off.

Behind her a foot thumped loudly against plastic. She spun as the zombie dragged his fingers across her back. Her bow fell out of her hands, clattered against concrete. Her crowbar caved in the side of his skull. She pushed him over the edge, ignored the crunch of bone. Another zombie head popped up over the edge of the shelf. She slid by the water fountain, toward the grasping fingers. Trying to climb up, they left streaks in the wood shelf; the piled fertilizer bags on the ground provided an easy ramp for the climb up. She flipped the crowbar around, buried the pointed end in the female zombie’s forehead. The undead toppled back.

But one more quickly took the zombie’s place. She pulled out her machete, swept the blade across grasping fingers, like a scythe through wheat. Black blood spurted from nubs, coated the bags of fertilizer and the metal frame. One zombie slipped on the gore, slammed into the concrete. She brought her machete down like an axe, splitting open a skull, showing the decaying brain within. She gagged at the stench, tore her machete free to gouge out another’s throat, not that the open wound was enough to stop him. He grabbed her boot. Jerked her foot toward him. Her crowbar struck the back of his skull, popped his eyes from their sockets. His fingers slid off her; with a fading moan, he sagged to the floor, the last one to fall.