I can feel the force of his breath as he screams in anger and pain and hunger. I spin around as the dirty, bloody hand of his good arm grabs for my poncho. His long, sharp fingernails slide off me as I swing wild again and feel the cleaver dig up and through his armpit. The blade finds the bone of the shoulder socket and slides free.
He pauses for a moment, both arms useless now. I see his head shaking back and forth as a strangling, gurgling fury erupts from his throat. A moment of panic seizes in my chest as I fight to keep the adrenaline from overrunning me. “Dickhead,” I spit at him.
He charges again. In the near total darkness, I can hear his jaws snapping through the horrible roar. He brings his arm with the shattered elbow up, but I stomp him hard in the chest and bring him down flat on his back. I pick up my heavy work boot and slam it down onto his face. As I twist my foot around to get a shot at his neck, I feel his teeth biting and tearing at the hard rubber
sole of the boot. I push down with my foot and wedge his mouth open before bringing the cleaver down again and again and again until the head is no longer connected to the body.
The body falls limp but I can still feel the fucker trying to bite me. I scrape down and away with my boot and free myself from the head. I can hear the jaws snapping together, teeth breaking on teeth. I lean down and bury the cleaver into the long side of his skull. For good measure, I stomp on the shattered melon until it is fully ground into the mud.
I am out of breath. I hunch over for a moment, hands on my knees, breathing heavily. “Fuck me,” I say to no one. I stand again quickly and look around to make sure there are no more.
I see the flashlight on my pack and walk towards it. Without the light on, I might never find it out here in the darkness.
I reload my gear onto my back and head off the way I had originally started. “Game, set match,” I sputter as I stop and wipe the cleaver on the back of one of the now fully dead zombies. A flip of the handle and it goes back in its sheath, as it is now too heavy to carry.
After a few minutes of walking, the barely discernible black shadow of a building appears at the top of the next ridge. Hopefully, it will be empty.
Of Zed and people. I pull my .45 auto out of its holster. “No wonder I’m tired,” I say as I jack a round in the chamber. “One more gun and I’d have to get a little red wagon to pull behind me.”
I pull out the flashlight again and hold it under the .45. I listen first and then shine the light all around the small metal barn. A built-in ladder leads to a small loft with a few bales of straw. “Holiday Fucking Inn,” I smile as I slide the big metal barn door shut behind me and latch it. Jam a stick through the clasp. It won’t keep any humans out, but Zed isn’t smart enough to work locks or latches.
Doorknobs sometimes… definitely not an internal latch.
I crawl up into the loft and take another quick look around before sliding my pack off. “Heavy goddamned thing,” I say. My voice sounds too loud in the metal building and I stop and listen for a moment after speaking to make sure I really am alone.
I feel taller and lighter without the pack. I pull out my little sleeping bag, and shuck my wet and bloody clothing off before climbing in. The black blood has a stink about it that I’ve never known before. Like old sweat and rusted iron.
Tomorrow, I’ll go back and take a closer look at that tree. There’s got to be some sort of reason for going to all the time and trouble to hang a bunch of Zed in a fucking tree out here in the middle of nowhere.
“Cleaver on the left, .45 on the right. Here I am, stuck in the middle.” I repeat the same bedtime ritual every night. “Single shot by the cleaver, rifle by my head.” I turn the flashlight out and put it by the cleaver. Pack for a pillow. Sleeping bag zipped up tight. And I don’t know why I came here tonight…
Away in a manger.
“Good night, John-boy,” I tell the empty barn.
A flash of lightning answers back.
I am asleep almost instantly.
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