seek out the living. I wondered if she were screaming inside as she approached me. The center of her head disappeared, and I made my way to the back of the car. I wanted to close my eyes but couldn’t. I glanced down and saw…
…nothing on the bumper. No sticker, no scratches where Lee might have taken it off. The weight lifted, and I turned my attention away from the car, from what I had thought was Jessica’s Chevy, and to the more pressing advancement of the dead. I counted six. Among them were two kids, both clearly under the age of ten.
I backpedaled toward my truck, slung the rifle off my shoulder, and aimed. One down. Two down. Backed up. Ran for the truck. I reached inside, grabbed another gun, checked the rounds, and fired off two shots. The children were last to go, slower moving than the rest and further off. I hated the feeling of nausea that swept over me, the way sweat spilled from my pores, the empty feeling in my chest as I first took down the little girl then the boy. They could have been siblings. Maybe even twins.
Urgency swept over me as another realization kicked in. No matter how much I viewed these rotters as once living, breathing, loving people, they were still dead, and they would just as soon kill me and tear me apart than let me walk out of there unscathed. It didn’t matter that they were still inside those bodies. They weren’t in control, or at least I didn’t believe them to be. I turned in a circle, scanned the street, and saw no one else.
I got in the truck, backed it up to the car, and popped the release for the gas tank. As a kid, we learned the art of siphoning and even with the safety features on new cars, a hose could go down into a tank easily enough. Thankfully, a hand pump system made it easier. I grabbed the gas cans from the back of the truck, opened each one, and set them by the car. I opened the car door. The dead man slumped a little but didn’t fall out. Bending down, I pulled the gas lever. At the back of the car, the small door popped open. The siphon hose went down into the car’s tank easy enough. I squeezed the white rubber bulb several times until gas flowed through the hose and into the cans.
Another one of the dead came from behind one of the buildings. The front of her blouse was torn, exposing a ruined breast. I took a deep breath, let it out after putting her down.
With the cans full, I closed all but one of them and set them back in the truck bed. I poured the last one into the truck’s tank.
I hopped into the truck, rolled the engine over, and pulled off. It was still early in the morning by the sun’s dial. Noontime was a good two hours away. More supplies were needed, and a convenience store sat a few buildings away. I parked the truck, again pointing it toward the interstate. I slid from my seat.
“Hang tight, Humphrey,” I said then added, “Don’t leave without me.”
The window to the store had been shattered. A brick lay on the floor a few feet away. I stepped through the opening, glanced around the dimly lit space. Glass crunched under my boots as I stepped slowly toward the first aisle. It still amazes me how ransacked some places were and how untouched others were. In this case, the place had been ransacked, but there were still plenty of canned goods on shelves.
At the checkout counter, I grabbed a handful of bags and stuffed them with as many cans as I could. Four bags went out to the truck, and then I was back in for more. From the corner of my eye, I saw the lurching man, his large stomach split open, a trail of intestines dangling between his legs, his mouth slack and bloodied. Even in death, carrying all that weight appeared difficult. I took a deep breath, aimed. A second later, he fell backward, his arms flailing forward as gravity pulled him down.
Back in the store, I stopped at an aisle holding chips and candies and other things that in another life weren’t all that good for you. A man sat in the center of the
…nothing on the bumper. No sticker, no scratches where Lee might have taken it off. The weight lifted, and I turned my attention away from the car, from what I had thought was Jessica’s Chevy, and to the more pressing advancement of the dead. I counted six. Among them were two kids, both clearly under the age of ten.
I backpedaled toward my truck, slung the rifle off my shoulder, and aimed. One down. Two down. Backed up. Ran for the truck. I reached inside, grabbed another gun, checked the rounds, and fired off two shots. The children were last to go, slower moving than the rest and further off. I hated the feeling of nausea that swept over me, the way sweat spilled from my pores, the empty feeling in my chest as I first took down the little girl then the boy. They could have been siblings. Maybe even twins.
Urgency swept over me as another realization kicked in. No matter how much I viewed these rotters as once living, breathing, loving people, they were still dead, and they would just as soon kill me and tear me apart than let me walk out of there unscathed. It didn’t matter that they were still inside those bodies. They weren’t in control, or at least I didn’t believe them to be. I turned in a circle, scanned the street, and saw no one else.
I got in the truck, backed it up to the car, and popped the release for the gas tank. As a kid, we learned the art of siphoning and even with the safety features on new cars, a hose could go down into a tank easily enough. Thankfully, a hand pump system made it easier. I grabbed the gas cans from the back of the truck, opened each one, and set them by the car. I opened the car door. The dead man slumped a little but didn’t fall out. Bending down, I pulled the gas lever. At the back of the car, the small door popped open. The siphon hose went down into the car’s tank easy enough. I squeezed the white rubber bulb several times until gas flowed through the hose and into the cans.
Another one of the dead came from behind one of the buildings. The front of her blouse was torn, exposing a ruined breast. I took a deep breath, let it out after putting her down.
With the cans full, I closed all but one of them and set them back in the truck bed. I poured the last one into the truck’s tank.
I hopped into the truck, rolled the engine over, and pulled off. It was still early in the morning by the sun’s dial. Noontime was a good two hours away. More supplies were needed, and a convenience store sat a few buildings away. I parked the truck, again pointing it toward the interstate. I slid from my seat.
“Hang tight, Humphrey,” I said then added, “Don’t leave without me.”
The window to the store had been shattered. A brick lay on the floor a few feet away. I stepped through the opening, glanced around the dimly lit space. Glass crunched under my boots as I stepped slowly toward the first aisle. It still amazes me how ransacked some places were and how untouched others were. In this case, the place had been ransacked, but there were still plenty of canned goods on shelves.
At the checkout counter, I grabbed a handful of bags and stuffed them with as many cans as I could. Four bags went out to the truck, and then I was back in for more. From the corner of my eye, I saw the lurching man, his large stomach split open, a trail of intestines dangling between his legs, his mouth slack and bloodied. Even in death, carrying all that weight appeared difficult. I took a deep breath, aimed. A second later, he fell backward, his arms flailing forward as gravity pulled him down.
Back in the store, I stopped at an aisle holding chips and candies and other things that in another life weren’t all that good for you. A man sat in the center of the
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