Summer Of 68: A Zombie Novel (5 page)

Ruth obliged without protest, plopping down with a grunt.

“Could you please walk us through what happened?” he asked.

Ruth sighed, licking her lips. “It was terrible,” she looked away, fidgeting with the hem of her dress, rolling and stretching the fabric between her thick fingers. “I was heading on out there to the barn, gonna feed the animals, ya’know?”

Neither of the men nodded, nor did they blink. They remained motionless, meditating on every word.

“I was out there—just a little ways past where ya’ll parked, when I started to hear ‘em all hollerin’ going crazy-like.”

Baker furrowed his brow. “Are you talking about the livestock?”

Ruth nodded. “Yessum, they sounded the way, well…you know the way a dog gets…when it’s about to get in a fight?”

She gave them a second or two for it to register, and in that time, she turned away, growing lost within her own neurotic musing. “It was worse than that, I tell you. Those poor little things, they sounded like they were losing it...” she fell silent and her eyes bulged, heavy with sadness.

“And then what?” Cohen asked.

“Oh, I, uh,” she cleared her throat, “I saw three of ‘im at first. They were moving very slow-like. I thought they were drunks…I’m sure it wouldn’t be the first time. You know, a couple farmhands hit the bottle the night before and get themselves lost. I figured all they needed was a good scare to wake them from that booze-shit, so I went over to the window and gave it a peak—so, you know…I knew what I was dealing with.”

Ruth fell silent, her eyes glistened. As she turned away, looking helplessly toward the curtained window, Baker clocked Cohen with a nervous shrug. The first sniffle caused them to
look back. Both shame and fear had since rekindled in her eyes.

“Miss Miller,” the deputy coaxed, “you looked through the barn window, and then what happened?”

She signed, pawing at her tears with the back of her hand. “There were more of those men in there—” her voice trailed off, only to snort back in a hailstorm of tears. She shook her head, feebly regaining as little composure as possible. “Some of ‘im were on top of my horse—ripping at the poor thing. My baby whined and bucked, but that goddamn sum’bitch kept pulling her back to the ground.”

Baker gulped, but his mouth had gone dry. He watched the woman cry and believed every word, and when she continued, he imagined it vividly.

“One of ‘im wrapped its arms ‘round her neck and just started gnawing at the hide, ripping through it like butter.” Ruth shuttered, crying immensely and in a great deal of emotional torment.

“Let’s get this straight,” Cohen said, “you said that they were biting your horse?”

She looked up at him, dotting her rosy cheeks with a small handkerchief and nodded. “Yes sir,” she mumbled. “They were goin’ at the poor thing like a pack a’ wolves.”

“I see,” he replied.

“That’s when I saw that there was more of ‘im coming, too.”

“More?” Baker asked, surprised by the statement. One nut job would have made some sense and gave credence to the possibility of mental defect, but the idea of more made his mind wonder back to the dead.

“How many more were there?” he asked.

Miss Miller shrugged, throwing her whole body into the motion. “I dunno…a few, maybe.”

“Can you define
a few
?” Baker asked, “Two, three, four, fi—”

Morosely, Ruth shook her head. Her shattered thoughts unable to bring about any feasible number and so, she sighed. “Four,” she said, her voice heavily uncertain.

Cohen and Baker nodded, exchanging another round of glances.

“I just wanted to kill ‘im,” she heaved. “I came back to the house an’ got Charles ol’ hunting rifle…I couldn’t do it. I lost my nerve when I drew a bead on ‘im, I never fired at anything, let alone a man. So, I fired up an’ over their heads. Thought maybe then I could scare ‘im off. I wanted ‘im dead, but with my aim, I couldn’t hit the barn, even if I tried…so I called ya’ll to deal with ‘im freaks.”

Her thunderous sobs tore through the farmhouse at an unnerving volume. Every time she stopped to sniffle, the men would hear the familiar sound of the grandfather clock. It served as an anchor, and strangely kept the situation grounded in reality.

“I just don’t know what I’m going to do!” she whimpered and slowly brought her sadness under control. “Without those animals, I just ain’t got a’ thing anymore.”

Baker stepped forward and gingerly placed a reassuring hand on her shoulder. He wasn’t sure she’d respond, but it seemed to work, and she didn’t flinch. The old woman felt warm, her body radiating heat through the thin shroud of a dress.

“Miss Miller,” he counseled, “I don’t mean to be out of place, but you gotta understand…Animals
can
be replaced.”

She nodded. “I know,” she said in a tone, which didn’t rightly agree with the sudden talk of replacing her livestock.

Baker was thankful she didn’t protest. He knelt beside her, his knees popped. Behind, Deputy Cohen stepped forward a couple of feet. Together, the two men formed a wall around her as though to tell her it was time to do their job.

Baker asked, “Are they still out there?” He held his breath, as the question formed a tight knot deep in the pit of his stomach

Ruth looked him square in the eyes and shook her head. “I don’t know,” she said. “The entrance faces the east, I can’t tell without going out there.” 

Baker’s throat had gone dry, realizing they were about to head blindly out. It was the perfect
ambush for both teams, the only question was—who would reach who first?

“Ruth,” Cohen spoke, disrupting Baker’s worried thoughts, “I need you to do something for us, okay?”

She nodded.

“When we go out to the barn, please stay here.”
Cohen posed it as a question, though voiced it as a command.

“I can do that.”

“Good. And when we’re gone, you need to lock that door and stay back from the windows. If anything happens, keep out of sight. Do you understand?”

Again, Ruth nodded. “I will,” she trembled.

Cohen nodded, looking back to Baker. “You ready to get this done, sir?”

“Yeah,” Baker grunted, wondering about his confidence in front of his deputy and Miss Miller. “I’m as ready as I’ll ever be,” he replied standing upright. Like before, his knees popped and his back ached. It felt like every bone, tendon and sinew of flesh resisted the inevitable, even his heart palpitated madly and his palms sweated. Baker felt as though he was falling apart at the seams.

He thought back to the shooting star that he had seen only a couple of hours ago. It felt like days had gone by since he’d seen it. Its memory flashed beneath his eyes. He heard the voice on the radio and the taste of cigarette smoke rolling across his tongue. He now knew that everything was leading up to this.

This is just too much to be a coincidence…

Turning to Cohen, Baker sighed, “Let’s go.
”. 

When they reached the threshold, the two men turned to Ruth. The old lady hadn’t moved an inch, her massive girth firmly planted in the seat of her trusty old armchair.

“Remember,” Cohen said, pointing his finger at her, “lock this door the moment we’re outside.”

“Yeah,” she breathed, “I will, I will.”

Baker felt her eyes on the back of his head, watching as they walked across the room. The only audible sound was the patter of boots clomping across the hardwood, coupled with their fluttering hearts and nervous breaths. He reached for the door and stopped, palming the doorknob in his hand. If worst came to worst and everything she told them was true, he knew the intruders wouldn’t go without a fight, and for that, people were going to die.

Cohen leaned forward and whispered. “Baker, are you alright?”

Baker nodded, opening the door, sunlight rushed through the gap, cleansing the room with a heavenly glow. It was another warm California day and yet, both men shivered. The Sheriff and his deputy stepped onto the porch, closing the door behind them. Neither spoke to the other as they marched down the steps, back to the car.

Baker moved quickly, popping open the driver side door, and scooped the CB radio into his hand. Meanwhile, Cohen moved around back to the trunk.

“This is Sheriff Baker to dispatch, over.” He depressed the button and listened to the silence. He counted off five seconds and repeated, “This is Sheriff Baker to dispatch, over.”

His eyes drifted to the rearview mirror, the open trunk obscuring his line of sight. He heard Cohen rummage through its contents, as he listened to the static bleed across the radio waves. He frowned.

He tried again, “Dispatch?” he asked and still got no response. “Janet, come in.”

With impatience, he fidgeted with the cord, thinking it could have been the fault of bad wiring, no matter what he tried, he couldn’t reach the station.

His heart plummeted, weighed down like a stone. His nerves twitched and for a moment, he felt like vomiting. He measured his breaths, and when the sickness ceased, he tried again. “Janet, I don’t know if you can hear me, but we don’t know what we’re walking into… I think we’re gonna need some more bodies out here. Get us anyone you can get and get them here fast.”

He depressed the button one last time and listened, remaining naïve and hopeful he’d catch a bit of dialogue, something…anything…to ease his troubled mind.

“Goddamn it!” he snapped, slapping the handset against the dashboard. It hit with a thud and bounced back, falling between the floor peddles, the tethered wire swayed back and forth. He watched it twirl for a moment before returning to the cradle.

A sudden flurry of movement to his right made him to flinch. His heart leapt from his stomach, straight to his throat.
             

“Shit,” he snapped, realizing it was only Cohen.

“No luck?” Cohen asked.

Baker shook his head. “Nope,” he replied, stepping from the car. Cohen handed him a shotgun, which was kept in the trunk. He took it, griping it tight as though seeking comfort from the deadly device. Between his clammy fingers, the metal felt cool to the touch.

“Nothing?” Cohen couldn’t believe it. “You don’t think we’re out of range, do you?”

Baker could barely stomach the thought, no matter what he tried. First, it was the radio, then the haunting broadcast and its sudden failure. All of which was followed by the call to the Miller farm, and now this—a lack of communication between them and dispatch. The implication sent his mind into a tailspin, burning like a wildfire.

They remained silent. Baker turned, looking wearily towards the farmhouse. Ruth Miller was there, standing before the window, the curtain peeled back as she pressed her face against the glass. In that moment, their eyes met.

She’s probably wondering what’s taking us so long,
he realized.
The poor thing must think we don’t believe her…

Baker knew that deep down, Ruth was a God fearing woman and wouldn’t for any reason, lie about such a hellish thing. Baker looked back to Cohen. The deputy stared towards the
horizon, an absent gaze clouded his eyes as he was lost within the trappings of his own mind. He knew the old woman was telling the truth, and didn’t have to ask if Cohen believed it to know that he felt the same. Since arriving at the farm, Cohen had grown increasingly reserved, even hesitant.

And then there was the barn...

Baker sighed, exhaling his breath like a punch to the gut.

In his grasp, the shotgun felt heavier. Even the weight of his holstered revolver fought to drag him down. With his stomach at his knees and bile flooding his throat, Baker snapped his fingers a couple of times, catching Cohen’s attention. In return, Cohen offered an affirming nod.

“Now or never,” Baker said. “Let’s get a move on things.”

Glancing sidelong at the barn, Cohen echoed the sheriff’s statement with trembling hands. “Yeah,” he said, “now or never…”

Chapter Five

The two men made their way toward the barn, cautiously. They kept low, weapon’s poised and at the ready. Every so often, Baker stopped abruptly, signaling Cohen to follow suit. Tense moments like those were always the worst—the fearful reality that their world could crash down at a moment’s notice. They would wait and listen, looking for anything out of the ordinary. After an excruciating minute, Baker waved them forward.

Baker regulated his breathing, doing so felt like a chore, the urge to hyperventilate, scream out and cry was the only avenue he wanted to pursue. Most importantly, he wanted to do anything possible to release the stress, which had built within—the least of his concerns was to act and look professional. Electrical currents through his nerves came with a jolt, sending shivers down his spine, cording the muscles in his neck as he clinched his jaw and ground his teeth.

Around them, a subtle breeze shifted across the land. It teased the grass and rustled through the fields of dry wheat. Baker flinched with every step as a dry heat radiated up from the gravel below, pummeled by the elements at every angle. The twine of his nerves continuously frayed, splitting more and more with every footfall that lead him closer to the barn.

He thumped his fingers across the gun’s stock, tapping it with the rhythm of a tribal drum. He hated the fact that they were operating blind, going about this themselves and without the aid of additional firepower. The truth was... they should’ve waited, just as they should’ve loaded the old lady into the backseat of the car and returned to town.

Baker’s mind swam and was twirling in a never-ending list of
shouldn’t
, with the first one being—they
shouldn’t
be doing this.

He swallowed his fears, tightening his grip on the gun. His palms were sweaty and his hands shook. A quick glance over his shoulder revealed Cohen in the same nervous boat as he.

Ahead of them loomed the ominous looking barn, backlit in the rising sun. Its shadow fell across their heads, casting a cool change in temperature as they crept through the gravel. From a distance, the whole scene possessed a peaceful, if not serene-like charm, similar to a delicately painted landscape that one could find in the lobby of a dentist’s office. Up close, it was different, appearing more like the dilapidated ruins lifted straight from the set of a Hammer Film, rather than a quaint slice of Americana that it was.

Decades ago, the barn had been painted red, years of bitter winters and blistering summers left the once apple red exterior withered and worn. Chips of browned paint peeled from its wooden surface, littering the ground.

It didn’t take long for either of them to realize that they were not alone. New sounds broke the isolating silence, resonating from within the rotten boards. The sounds they heard were obviously of a manmade origin, yet unnatural at the same time. Low, deep, and guttural whimpers rose through the wood. The lawmen froze, their blood froze to a bitter slush.

Baker pulled the shotgun snug against his shoulder, until his arm fell numb and after a couple of moments more, he grew oblivious to its discomfort.

He caught his breath, as his stomach churned and quickened its rotation. In a matter of seconds, Baker was certain he was going to blow chunks of coffee and toast across the dirt.

Inside the barn, the low-groaned death rattles reached a fevered pitch.

He glanced down the length of the barn, but couldn’t find the window Ruth had looked through. Realizing that it must be on the other side, he glanced back to Cohen and mouthed the words,
wait there.
He turned, pressing his face against the barn. Its splintered surface dug into his cheek as he readjusted his angle and tried to look through another crack in the wood.

He could see nothing but shadows.

“Damn it,” he sighed.

Quietly—save for a low breeze, Baker strained his ears against the wall. No sooner had he,
when another moan drifted forth, fading quickly to the background. He staggered back, startled. It was a horrific sound, making his blood run cold. He cocked his head to the side and glanced to Cohen.

Cohen, in response, shrugged.

Together, the two men stepped towards the partially closed doorway. The closer they got, the more intense and louder the intruder’s cries became. A couple of yards shy and they were greeted by something more—a moist and sickening splash, which came packaged alongside a handful of wet smacks.

The deputy turned to the sheriff, his eyes were wide, and his stare unwavering.

Baker bit his lip, drawing a bead of blood as the moist smacks shifted around them like a thickened fog.

“Fuck this,” Cohen said.

Acting as quietly as possible, Baker racked the pump and chambered a round. Sweat streamed from his brow, down his nose and into his eyes. Cohen was no different and followed suit by loading his firearm. Both men stood along the side of the barn, hugging it close and mere yards from the door.

The scope of it all came into focus and neither of them could look the other in the eyes. Whatever was to happen, it was as clear as the sun was high—nothing good would come from this.

“Should we double back and try for backup, again?” Cohen’s question sounded more like a plea.

Baker thought it over and knew it would’ve been the wiser road. At the same time, he had to step back and look at it from a pessimistic standpoint. What would happen if they weren’t able to reach Janet—how would they get their precious backup then? They couldn’t, and would find themselves back at square one. It was a scary thought, but the truth. 

What happened to Janet, anyways?

Overhead, the sun had risen directly above. Baker looked skyward, squinting against the sun’s rays and reckoned it was already somewhere in the mid-nineties. He turned toward the surrounding farmland, studying the terrain and considered an ambush. For a moment, he couldn’t believe his eyes and thought he saw a blackened shape staggering through the tall grass. Blinking once, it was gone.

The sounds from the barn pulled him back to the task at hand.

He sidestepped his way toward the entrance, aiming the shotgun nervously. He took a few more steps and stopped, listened, and turned to Cohen. Cohen’s expression was dire. His face was ashen and void of color, appearing translucent in the shadowy light. The deputy turned away and fidgeted awkwardly with his gun.

“Stay here,” he said, quietly.

Cohen nodded.

Baker fell into a crouch and took off running. It felt like an eternity had passed before he reached the opposite side of the door. Once there, he was quick to throw his back against the wall and caught his breath. His lungs burned with every intake of air.

The breeze shifted to the south, rustling his hair in the opposite direction. It was in this time, the two men were assaulted by a horrid, stomach churning stench—the soured aroma of carrion and death. Baker peered through the rancid haze and realized it was nothing more than a swarm of flies. Bile rolled through his throat, and flooded his tongue.

In a similar manner, Cohen joined the Sheriff on the opposite side of the door. Neither of them mentioned the smells, or the squelching sound coming from within the barn. Their heightened pulse and rugged breaths echoed loudly in their ears. Baker turned, glancing to the farmland. With a sigh, he swallowed more of that death-filled stench.

Where did the birds go and what happened to the chatter of insects?
It felt as if the whole world was gone, ushered into a silent oblivion.

Baker turned back to the deputy, Cohen had yet to look away. The silence left the two of them sick. He shook it off, and with his hand, counted down the seconds.

Five—four—three—two—one.

“Sheriff’s department!”
Baker yelled, his thunderous voice boomed across the countryside.

They tensed, gripping their guns. From within the barn, the sounds remained steady. Those inside, remained seemingly unconcerned—possessing little fear for those in control, let alone, the weight of Baker’s words.

Baker waited a moment before repeating his command. This time around, his voice lacked authority, as he knew full well the uselessness of it all. 

Undeterred, Cohen huffed. He cocked his head toward the open door and yelled, “Come out with your hands up!”

Again, they waited, and produced the same results.

The two men looked at each other in disbelief. Their eyes widened, hearing the sound of shuffling feet dragged across the gravel and dirt floor. A moment later, more feet joined in the shuffle.

Cohen took a deep breath and turned to Baker.

“They’re heading our way,” he said.

Baker nodded, his mind raced. Were they on the verge of fight or flight? He didn’t know. Not that it mattered anymore, anyhow. The bullshit parade had gone on for too long and he was tired of it. Regardless of the fear coursing throughout, Baker and Cohen had a job to do.

Acting quickly, he spun around and kicked the door inward. It jetted from the heel of his boot and slammed against the inner wall with an echoing
whack.
It shook and rattled the rickety structure. By the time the door began its return swing, Baker was in, and so was Cohen. Whatever courage either of them had mustered was gone—lost at the sight of the six men shambling towards them from across the open floor.

They moved awkwardly. Every agonized step followed a slow and wobbled pace. Each of the six of the men retained some sort of wound—flesh torn free from their arms, shoulders, faces and necks—hanging like bloodied streamers. The blood which covered them was far from fresh, but was old and congealed. There was fresh blood, too—lots of it. It glistened across their faces and dripped from their hands and mouth. They appeared like casualties of Hell, wearing more than a handful of blank expressions and absent stares.

At the sight of the lawmen, they pushed harder and grew agitated. Their lips peeled back, creating feral, beastlike sneers, while a couple of others remained slack-jawed and stoic. The ones that did, muttered another round of tiresome groans. 

Baker was once worried about his sanity and felt gullible for believing what he heard on the radio, now he had no doubt in his mind. Armed with this, the Sheriff felt serene and at peace, but he knew it was true—the dead
were
returning to life. A quick glance in Cohen’s direction reaffirmed it as true. 

Across the way, the six zombies continued their stagger. Drawing closer, their overall scent was unbearable—like sun rotted meat and ripe defecation bound together as one. Cohen and Baker took a step back in search of fresher air.

“Holy Jesus—” Cohen gagged.

Baker quickly glanced over to Cohen. Cohen’s shotgun was aimed downwards, focused on the ground, his watery eyes trained on the barrel. Baker saw what it was that had upset the deputy and wished to hell that he hadn’t. Scattered across the ground, lay the strewn remains of Ruth Miller’s livestock. Their maimed legs, torsos and heads stuck to the gravel in vast and murky puddles of viscera and gore. None of the species was distinguishable from the rest of the blood and the fur. Amidst it all, laid the eviscerated carcass of Ruth’s prized horse. The poor animal’s belly had been splayed open, its ribs cracked backwards—making it look like a clawed hand reaching for the Heaven’s. What little remained was littered about in nauseous chunks.

Baker looked from one zombie to the next, and saw the chunks of horse dribbling from their jowls.

Cohen drew a bead, struggling to find composure. “Freeze,” he yelled. His voice mimicked the nervous rattle of his gun.

The zombies failed to respond and before too long, gained a few more feet on the two men.

Baker swallowed. “Fuck it,” he muttered, drawing aim and squeezed the trigger. The shotgun barked, slamming against his shoulder. Its deafening report tore through the open barn and ripped through the shambling corpses. For a moment, everything was silent. Time slowed and soon filled the space with a shrill ringing in his ears.

Baker delivered the shot at a low angle, not that he intended to—all he wanted was to blow their damned heads off, but the weapon felt like a lead weight in his hands. In a split second flash, hundreds of pellets met their target. At once, the six corpses staggered back as newly formed wounds split across their abdomens, legs and thighs. From the wounds poured congealed blood, as thick as batter.

The dead remained oblivious to the attack. The closest of which, a Mexican field hand, fell back—arms outstretched as he flew through the air. It was as if he had been sucker punched by the hand of God. He hit the others and nearly toppled the whole writhing mess. Out of the six, he had suffered the worst and now sported a newly formed hole, where his stomach once sat—its contents erupted from the open cavity with a bloody splash as his intestines slipped to the floor.

The zombie groaned, oblivious to what happened. He rolled himself back and forth across the dirt floor, like a flipped turtle struggling to right itself.

The rest of the corpses suffered minor injuries—though fatal had the circumstance been different. Their expressions showed no hint of fear, discomfort, or pain. With the shotgun blast only seconds behind, they continued their advance as though nothing happened, and staggered across the fallen zombie as it continued in its struggles.