Only The Dead Don't Die by A.D. Popovich Page B

talk to—” Scarlett screamed in midsentence. He stood before her, staring at her as a chunk of oozing flesh from his neck plopped onto the dining room tile. But that’s not what made her scream. He was one of them— now . His bulging eyes protruded from his eye sockets, and saliva dripped from two rows of snarling teeth. She looked into his eyes; she was too close, close enough to see into its black-soulless eyes. He seemed to be in as much shock with her appearance as she was with his.
    “Uh, OK, sorry, I’ll just be on my way now. Uh, you might want to get that looked at,” she whimpered, staring at its flesh-torn neck in utter fear, knowing all too well that he— it did not understand a single word she said.
    She edged her way backward towards the front door, one hand sliding against the wall and one hand gripping the bat so hard her fingers started to go numb. It didn’t seem to know what to do next. It just stood there ogling her, as if lusting her. The horrible gurgling sounds started. And, once again, she ran. She ran out the front door and directly to her safe home.
    ***
    Now she had an idea of what Kevin had been referring to in his bizarre text messages. Had he been planning on taking her to one of the Major Shelter Centers? Had the government taken him to one of the shelters? And, what about Miss Purlie’s grandson? And why had Miss Purlie killed herself? She had lived a long, hard life and was used hard times and difficult situations. Why had she decided to call it “quits” now? Something horrible was happening . . .
    It was time to leave Roseville. That night Scarlett packed two suitcases by candlelight. She even packed all the unperishable foods in bags and loaded the car, figuring food to be a valuable commodity during a crisis like this. She decided to wait until dawn and try to retrieve the neighbor’s rifle if it was still in the courtyard. She had an uncanny feeling that he— it would not need it any longer. She should probably check out the shopping cart and rucksack for supplies as well; she had a feeling it wouldn’t be needing that either.
    Scarlett tossed in bed for what seemed like most of the night speculating on what type of event had occurred. It must be a disease, for the other day her neighbor had appeared to be healthy. After the encounter with the creeper, he had apparently become afflicted. But how did he wound his neck? The image of his flesh flopping onto the floor still haunted her like a gruesome afterimage burnt into her brain. Whatever it is, it must be highly contagious. And, if the disease was airborne, she was screwed.
    Her thoughts rambled on and on: The wound on his neck . . . Did the creeper attack him? He was searching for supplies and was attacked and wounded. Then he shot the creeper. Then he was immediately infected and turned into a creeper—within a few days, hours or minutes? She had no idea how long ago he had been attacked. But, she hadn’t noticed anything unusual yesterday, for as she recalled his gate had been chained.
    So the event, whatever it was, had occurred recently as far as she could tell. It seemed so . . . unreal: like some far-fetched scene right out of a grade B horror movie starring Vincent Price and Boris Karloff complete with hokey looking extras playing the deranged, mangled victims turned into real-life monsters. Impossible?
    Scarlett’s mind was set, and so was the alarm clock: she would leave at dawn, for that’s when they , the creepers, seemed to be the least active.

Chapter 7
    Scarlett’s attempt to leave Roseville turned out to be much more complicated than she had anticipated. Every interstate on-ramp she had tried was cluttered with abandoned vehicles, blocking the on-ramps and exits of Interstate 80.
    Around noon, she finally decided to try her luck with the back roads and drove west on Baseline Road. Much to her relief, the country roads were clear. Occasionally she passed an abandoned vehicle on the side of the road, but