Zombies Ever After: Sirens of the Zombie Apocalypse, Book 6 (3 page)

He took off his new shirt.

I need to travel with wet wipes!

Using a small pocketknife, he cut off one of his sleeves. It would
provide enough material to clean the gun, but it would still allow
him to wear the shirt. He wasn't fond of walking around in the hot
sun without one. He'd done too much of that already. His shoulders
were well-burnt.

The tan rag gave him what he needed to grab the gun and clean most
of the mess from the grip. He was sure there were still microscopic
traces of blood, but he hoped there wasn't enough to infect him.

With his shirt back on and the gun in his pocket, he ascended the
stairs and went back to the ground floor window. He studied the
outside for a couple of minutes until he'd convinced himself it was
safe enough to make a run for it.

The door opened outward and was silent. His shoes were also quiet,
but he couldn't stay out of the zombie's line of sight. The call went
up from a few zombies on the ground floor lobby, which was echoed by
a greater number of the infected up on the second level.

He avoided a couple of clumsy zombies near the broken glass window
where he'd entered the building earlier that day, and ran into the
bright light of the afternoon. Across the street, he could see the
much larger hole where his mom drove the Tiger tank through the front
lobby of that skyscraper. He feared there would be government
agents—or even zombies—but the street was surprisingly
empty.

The zombies followed him in the windows of the lobby, rather than
exit through the broken glass. They were nice enough to box
themselves in and give him a head start.

He took off at a jog.

Only six easy miles to Victoria.

Seemed simple, which was why he was on the lookout for anything
that would cost him time.

The rhythm of the run soon captured him. He relaxed as he found
his pace, and hit his stride running down the middle of the narrow
urban street. His father, the marathoner in the family, had run these
streets many times—and he'd been there to cheer. His current
fears were the potholes and many open manhole covers, along with
numerous corpses littering the route.

He breathed in and out, as evenly as possible. Nearly three weeks
of poor diet and no sleep almost made him forget these basic things,
but they came back soon enough. The pack and rifle made things a bit
tougher, but it was a small price to pay for the ultimate protection
on these streets.

Running by the glass frontage of a newer building allowed him to
see himself in profile. Unless it was his imagination, he looked
older, now. He appeared more competent in what he was doing. Running.
Fighting. Thinking. He was sixteen, calling himself seventeen, and
going on thirty. Dog years of the Zombie plague.

And what was behind those glass windows? As he ran by, he tried
not to think about or look too closely in the windows. There had to
be both survivors and zombies in most of the buildings around the
city. His sincere hope was that all the buildings were locked, just
like the one he'd exited. But, if zombies did run out, he was ready.
His pace would keep him ahead of them.

He looked up. An irrational part of his mind pictured zombies
falling from high up the canyon of skyscrapers, but there were none
in the air.

“Just everyone stay inside, m'kay?” he said quietly,
over his heavy breathing. The pack and rifle, and the uncomfortable
way the Glock sat in his front pocket, had an effect on his
endurance. He considered stopping for a quick break.

Four weeks of hard living and my base is gone...

At that moment a white drone buzzed by him from behind, about ten
feet over his head. It drew his attention ahead, where he saw
evidence of more zombies. A small park sat nestled along the street,
between a large Greek-looking building and a row of parking
structures. The drone made directly for that area and hovered and
rotated among the zombies there.

He ran up to a newspaper kiosk—long since looted—and
waited to see what was happening. Alternate routes formed in his
head.

The drone was bigger than most drones he'd seen of late. It was
about the size of a refrigerator, and looked like a small helicopter,
rather than the style with fans on all four corners. It was very
agile and seemed to work its way through the small crowd, avoiding
the many trees with ease. After a few minutes, it raced off toward
another block.

He took off at a run again. He stayed on the broad street but
crossed to the far side so he wouldn't run by the infected souls
inside the tiny park. They appeared to be lying on the grass and on
the numerous benches surrounded by huge piles of garbage. He was too
fast to get caught.

He was mostly right. The zombies didn't get up and run after him.

In fact, a couple of them waved.

4

Liam did a double take. The men—and a few women—were
lying or squatting in piles of garbage stacked around the
once-pleasant urban park. It was a long, thin park about one city
block long with a crisscross of paved walkways and some glass-block
sculptures that looked more like restroom walls than artwork. Old
trees mingled with several telephone poles the length of the park.
The dense canopy shaded the area.

He ran on for a few more yards but forced himself to stop. No real
zombies were behind him, and whatever was happening here certainly
warranted asking the question.

“What are you guys doing out in the open?” he shouted.

In response, several of the people shushed him, then waved him in.
Seeing no immediate threats, he obliged. The closer he got, the worse
the smell became. It appeared as if the group had scavenged through
every dumpster in the city, and made sure to bring their prizes back
to the park. Here he saw a huge mound of rolled up diapers. Next to
it was a big pile of bones—from meat and fish, as best he could
tell. Both piles were smothered by flies. Other stacks had bottles,
cans, and newspapers, as if these people were conscientious about
recycling. He tried to refrain from holding his nose, but when he got
into...the trash fort, he had to pull his shirt over his nose to
block the smell as best he could.

“Yeah, it grows on ya, lil' dude,” said a man of
unknown age. He was filthy beyond words, with a beard down to his
sternum. It, and his hair, and indeed all of him, was covered in
blotches of ketchup, mustard, blood, and much worse. Only his voice
gave a clue to his older age, as it was rich and deep.

“You live here?”

“Mmm hmm. Since s'start.”

The man's eyes were bloodshot and unfocused. Liam suspected the
other people nearby were similarly affected. Perhaps there were
toxins in the trash.

“How? Aren't the zombies here?” He was sure they were.
He and his mom had driven the tank not two blocks over. There were
plenty of zombies around, though he didn't see right then.

“Nah. Those sick dudes leave us...uh, alone.” The man
pulled up his hand—which had been hidden—and put a
hand-rolled cigarette in his mouth and took a deep drag, evidently
satisfied. He puffed out the smoke, and Liam understood it wasn't
quite a cigarette.

He searched his literature. There should be no reason these people
survived this long if they'd been in the park since day one. The
thought of zombies staying away from trash didn't add up. As time
went on, they were becoming more and more filthy, too. Being out in
the elements for three weeks, combined with never taking a second to
clean oneself, would make anyone a mess. He'd been lucky he'd spent
so many adventures in and along rivers, as that gave him the
opportunity to “hose off” once in a while. Also, back in
Victoria's room, they capitalized on some of her cleaning products.

The man was no longer looking at him and seemed to have no
intention of speaking more.

“Hey! Sir?”

A slow turn. The man noticed him again. “Oh, yeah? I
remember you. Got any papers?”

Liam looked around. It made no sense.

“No. I'm, uh, going to Forest Park. I saw you guys here and
wondered why you haven't been...”

A couple of flies bounced to and fro on the man's beard. His eyes
showed no hope that he would finish the thought.

“Well, you all should be dead,” he said with a tense
laugh.

A couple of other trash people wandered over, including one
woman—again, he couldn't give her an age beyond older than him
and younger than Grandma—wearing a full-length sun dress with
faded paisley swirls. It might have been pretty at one time, but now
it was covered in the same filth as the man's clothes. Like she'd
been collecting trash
and
rolling in what came out of each
bag. But she also had something on her arm. A kind of big rubber band
up near her shoulder. The lower part of her arm was purple. He was
tempted to say something, but it was too creepy. Surely she had to
know her arm wasn't right?

The man stroked his beard, which revealed a couple cigarette
butts, a shiny blue pen cap, and a moving bug or two. He tried to
focus on Liam. “We dead. Been dead for a lonnnng time.”

Liam took a step back, into a nearby pile of empty trash bags. He
jumped when one of them yelped. A small mangy-looking chihuahua
hopped out. It fared no better than its humans.

“Well, thanks for talking. I should get going.”

“Wait. Have you seen ma' husband?” asked the woman.

“No. Sorry.”

She cussed heavily, and angrily. The thrust of her complaint was
that her husband took off with the drugs. Others nearby were
similarly agitated by the story.

“Did you take his stuff?” she asked sadly.

“I don't know about that. Sorry. I have to go, really.”
This time, he purposely stepped into the pile of trash, through the
same gap he entered.

“Wait, kid,” said the bearded guy. He'd trailed Liam
to the outer line of debris, and made like he didn't want the others
to hear. After an impressive effort to steady himself, his eyes
almost looked focused and normal. He expected to be let in on their
survival secret.

“Do you have any papers?”

Liam had known a few stoners in school. The type of kids who
smoked weed and partied hard on the weekends. Several of them, he
found through friends, actually got their “agriculture”
from their parents—because they saw no harm in it. But that was
about the limit of his exposure to drugs. He'd heard about harder
stuff—smack, spank, crank, or whatever it was called, but his
friends weren't in that scene. His group spent their money on
Mountain Dew and monthly subscriptions to their online games.

But these people. They'd been afflicted in the worst way by drugs.
He could see that now.

Do drugs make a person so dead inside even the zombies don't
want them?

The incident would have to go in his book. He'd try to get back
here, someday, and see if he could figure it out. For now...

“Good luck to you,” he said in a normal voice. If any
of them heard him—they were looking right at him—they
said nothing to show it. The woman spoke to herself in low, angry
tones, and the man continued to stare straight ahead. Others picked
through trash or sat dejectedly on the benches. One man stood against
a telephone pole and repeatedly struck it with his head.

He turned and ran into the street again, seeking cleaner air.

5

He ran two blocks before seeing zombies again. Ahead, several
loitered near the broken windows of a row of sandwich shops and
trendy boutiques. A few more hovered near a super-long black RV
tipped over in the middle of an intersection. They seemed lethargic,
rather than their usual roaming selves, but he figured they'd not
seen prey in a while. Somehow they'd missed the action with the tanks
and gunfire further back in the city.

He walked backward, hoping to use a cross street, but both
directions had zombies standing around. He studied the area, hoping
not to have to backtrack. Running past them was an option, too, but
he didn't think it was smart to run
toward
the zombies if he
didn't have to, yet.

On the other side of the street, there was a low-rise structure
with a huge word spray-painted on the front brick wall which said
“SAFE” with an arrow pointing to a single wooden door.

Better safe, than sorry, eh old bean?

His imaginary voice sometimes carried a British accent.

He ran for the door, disappointed to see several of the zombies on
the other side of the road turn as they heard him approach.

Luckily, they didn't come running. He was too fast for them to
have any chance of catching him, even if they did.

The door was unlocked, so he pushed through and stepped into a
narrow hallway. Steps leading up to another level were about ten feet
beyond the entrance. Once the door was closed, he held it—and
his breath—to see if the zombies would follow and bang on the
door. He was sure they would...but a minute went by, and nothing
happened.

“That's odd,” he whispered.

He stood up straight and collected his wits. A small window above
the door allowed a little light into the chamber, but it remained
dark and stuffy. Safety meant many things these days, and having a
door between him and the zombies was close enough to it.

“Let's see what's upstairs,” he murmured to himself.

He took two steps and then felt the sensation of free fall. The
wooden floor had given way, and he dropped almost straight down. His
reflexes kicked in, and he managed to cushion his fall on the hard
floor and roll himself forward to further save himself.

On all fours, he caught his breath from the fall and the fright of
it. He'd been totally off guard.

Are things falling apart this quickly?

There would be no more maintenance of infrastructure…

His thoughts were squelched by the moans of zombies.