The Restless Dead

[Tendrax]

HUNTER!

GET THIS THING OFF ME!



Man, this stuff is great. MOAR!

[majorhavoc]

HUNTER!

GET THIS THING OFF ME!



Man, this stuff is great. MOAR!

Somebody give this man a gold star.

[FIDO]

HUNTER!

GET THIS THING OFF ME!



Man, this stuff is great. MOAR!

Somebody give this man a gold star.

Okay.
(Turns to hand over a sticker) "Huh? Where did you go?"
A soft coughing alerts person, "Do you want your star or what?
Smoker attacks. Smoker kills victim. Smoker takes gold star.

[Tendrax]

HUNTER!

GET THIS THING OFF ME!



Man, this stuff is great. MOAR!

Somebody give this man a gold star.

Okay.
(Turns to hand over a sticker) "Huh? Where did you go?"
A soft coughing alerts person, "Do you want your star or what?
Smoker attacks. Smoker kills victim. Smoker takes gold star.

*Gasp* How did you know I smoked?

[majorhavoc]

If you like this story, please post! If you have constructive feedback, I'd love to hear that as well. Let me know what works, what doesn't, what you'd like to see more of, less of, etc. Thx! - MH

EDIT: external chapter links deleted.

[majorhavoc]

I was wrong; it was still there. We found it lying outside, less than 60 feet from the pump house door, beneath a large ash tree. Splayed out in the damp leaves like some monstrous toy action figure, rejected severely and thrown from the playroom window.

Zoey refused to go near it; retreating back into the pump house, begging me to leave it alone. Even I felt a pang of irrational anxiety as I painfully knelt down beside it. As if it might yet spring up and finish the job it came so close to completing the previous night. But I had my reasons for working through that particular fear.

Know thy enemy.

It had been human once; evidenced by the tattered remains of a hooded sweatshirt and ripped denim jeans. And it looked like it initially went through the normal stages of necrosis and zombification, judging from its skin, which was riddled and pocked in places where flesh had rotted away.

But there the similarities with regular zombies ended. New tissue had grown it place of the old rotting flesh, filling the voids left by decomposition. Bony areas with hard, spiky protuberances had developed around its bare feet, knees, elbows and hands. Its skeletal structure had changed. The upper limbs were elongated and overdeveloped, like that of an ape. The whole shoulder area and upper torso was unnaturally broad and knotted with muscle and sinew. Its hips and legs were narrower and more compact, but with vastly overdeveloped thighs and calf muscles.

But the most disturbing changes were to its face. Its upper and lower jaws had somehow narrowed slightly, and become slightly pointed, protruding forward of the rest of its face. Its teeth, though the same rotted black hue of the typical zombie, were now rows of glistening, fang-like incisors. And then there were the eyes. Slightly oversize, inky black orbs. Lacking any visible pupil or cornea, I couldn’t fathom how they even functioned. The only clear conclusion I could draw about them was that they were unnerving to look at.

It’s hard to say with certainty what finally killed it. The fall from this tree didn‘t help. Nor did the narrow, splintered stump that it landed on, punching a rather sizable hole in its side. Then there was the obvious skull fracture across the left side of its head, a near perfect imprint of the crowbar.

Who knows, the machete wound that cleaved its shoulder clear through to the clavicle and the stumps where a thumb and three fingers used to be might have contributed to its permanent lack of mobility.

It’s even possible that its thoroughly crushed larynx played some small supporting role in the pig pile of massive trauma that finally brought this beast down.

But the smart money has to be on the two small caliber bullet holes. One passed through the side of its neck where one would expect to find the jugular vein. While not strictly speaking a zombie-killing shot, this wound certainly hadn’t been good for its health. But the second bullet, which passed through its right eye and out the side of its head, was exactly the kind of wound that reliably brings down any adversary, living or undead.

Zoey only remembered pulling the trigger once. I had to swing open the cylinder and show her the empty shells to convince her she had fired the revolver two times. She spent the entire night laboring under the misconception that she still had one round left in her weapon.

Knowing that she had fired our final two rounds certainly would have spared the girl a physically grueling night. Though I doubt she would have drawn much comfort from that, knowing that she was completely out of ammunition when that thing might still out there, plotting its next attack.

I’m not sure what I found more impressive, that she held a 1 ½ pound revolver at arm’s length, trained on the doorway, all night long, or that she put both rounds on target.

Sure, it was point blank. But it was also under extreme duress, against a moving, aggressively hostile enemy, in near total darkness and with absolutely no help from the gun sights.

So exactly what was I feeling as I knelt next to that creature that morning? Gratitude that Zoey had saved my life? Pity that she put herself through all that unnecessary exertion and anxiety? Relief that this monstrosity was dead? Maybe even a twinge of shame for passing out when it really mattered?

Certainly. I felt all of those things.

But I was genuinely surprised at the clearest, strongest, purest emotion that I felt that morning.

Pride.

She stared down this goddamn beast and put a bullet straight through its eye. And then shot out its jugular for good measure.

Atta girl.

[majorhavoc]

It takes us until midday to reach the outskirts of Drexel Hill. In part because I can barely walk, even with the primitive crutch we fashion from a forked tree sapling. But our forward progress has also been much hindered by the fact that we are now scared of our own shadow.

Setting out the day before, we were uninjured and armed with no less than four weapons, including the revolver. However limited, we each had developed some successful experience combating zombies. We set out with the very reasonable expectation that we could handle any one zed we encountered, two in a pinch.

But then we ran into this thing, this hunter zombie. After just one brief skirmish, we have sustained a 50% casualty rate, a loss of 75% of our armaments, half our supplies and we’re so diminished defensively that it’s not at all clear that we can survive another encounter with even one normal zombie. The only thing that’s kept me from updating our rules of engagement to ‘Zoey run like hell’ is the sure knowledge that she’ll bean me with the damn crowbar if I do.

We are all but defenseless. And that’s a fact.

Another topic I have chosen to not discuss with Zoey is the real reason why I’m moving quite so slowly. After seeing me drain an entire water bottle this morning, Zoey insisted I take another, which I also drank empty. She then gave me a third water bottle, which likewise was quickly downed. I haven’t pissed since yesterday afternoon and I’m still parched. I doubt Zoey knows much about combat triage and what this probably means, but I do. I’m down at least three units, and I’m sure as hell not bleeding anywhere on the outside.

The protective cover of our woods taper down to nothing when the Drexel Hill exit ramp diverts us off the highway and terminates at a “T” junction with Old Town Road. East of us, to the right, is open farmland with no structures in sight. Town center is to the left, across the highway overpass. But it‘s an exposed approach that will leave us easily visible for several hundred yards in all directions. In my condition, it’ll take me at least three minutes to hobble across that overpass.

On the other side of the highway we see a stone wall running along the south shoulder of Old Town Road, and a number of large trees, all offering good cover. After weighing the options, we have no choice but to reverse direction, retreat into the woods, down along the exit ramp again and back along the highway for a hundred yards or so. Only then do we cross over the travel lanes to the woods on the other side. By the time we get back up to the Old Town Road on the west side of the highway, it‘s been almost another hour.

By then I’m hot, dizzy and lightheaded; I can barely stay on my feet. I wait, slumped against the stone wall while Zoey is off scouting the area ahead. It isn’t prudent for her to be off alone, but I’m more hindrance than help at this point and we both know it.

* * * * *

I awaken with Zoey kneeling in front of me, shaking me like a rag doll.

“Bill! Bill! Please, Bill!“

“Zoey, what the hell? Calm down child.“ I say thickly.

“You scared me, Bill.“

“Taking an nap is scary? After what you faced last night, you think an old man napping is scary?”

“Jesus Bill, you’re as pale as a ghost.“ She’s feeling my forehead, my cheek. “You’re so dry. You look like hell.”

“Yeah, well I feel it too.”

Zoey rummages through the pack and produces a water bottle. Our last one. She uncaps it and holds it out for me.

“No Zoey, I can’t take that.”

“Bill you’re parched, I can tell.”

“And you haven’t had a drop to drink all day.”

“We both know you need this more than I do.”

“Yes, you‘re right, Zoey. I do need it more than you. But are you familiar with the expression ‘spending good money after bad‘?”

Zoey’s back on her knees, in my face. “Stop right there, mister. Just stop with that kind of talk, OK?”

“Ah Zoey, I’m just being realistic here, I --”

“Shut. Up.” Zoey’s got me by the shoulders now. “Bill. You are a cantankerous, foul-mouthed, uncouth old fart, OK? You’d already been to hell and back before any of this even started. That makes you one tough old sonnofabitch. And far too stubborn… and stupid…. to let something as minor as a, as a freakishly strong, undead super hunter zombie killing machine even slow you down, OK? So just fucking drink this water and then you’re going to fucking get up and stroll down this road with me so I can fucking show you the safe room symbol I found.” “Got that, Bill?”

“Safe room?“ I ask, perking up.

[majorhavoc]

We follow the safe room signs to a low brick commercial building on the edge of town, a hardware store. A little bell rings above the front door as we open it. Not a buzzer and not some plastic box with a sound chip buried inside it. It’s a real honest to god brass bell, hanging off a little metal bracket so the top of the door strikes it every time it’s opened.

We hear a woman’s voice from the back of the hardware store:

“In a minute! Come on in and make yourselves at home! We’ll be along in a jiffy! Frank? Frank! We’ve got customers!”

Zoey and I exchange nervous glances. I shift my weight on my crutch, looking around me. The walls are lined with signs and hardware posters from another era; another millenium. ‘Ray-O-Vac Batteries: Power of the Black Cat!’ ‘Turtle-Zinc Galvanized Screws and Fasteners: Keeps Tightness In; Moisture Out!’ ‘Honor-Guard Home Alarm Systems: Day and Night, Your Silent Sentinel.’

Beneath the posters are wainscoted walls slathered with so many layers of paint it’s hard to see where one board ends and the next begins. Worn hardwood floors lie beneath our feet.

Aside from the almost complete lack of store inventory, the only thing about this establishment that truly differs from something straight out of the mid 20th century is the arrangement of the freestanding store shelving units. They’re butted together and arranged to form a zig-zag pathway from the front of the store to the back. To reach the rear wall, visitors must turn 90 degrees and walk all the way to the wall to the right, step forward 4 feet, then walk all the way back across the storeroom to the left wall, forward another four feet, then back to the right wall, then all the way to the left again and finally walk back to the far right corner of this room. There, a steel re-enforced door with a small barred opening, framing the smiling visage of a white haired lady with twinkling eyes, smiling broadly in my direction. “Oh look Frank. It’s a young girl who dropped by with her grandfather!”

I lean over to Zoey and whisper: “OK, where are we? Mayberry or the Twilight Zone?

Zoey is considering my question when our greeter steps away from the small aperture in the door and is replaced by the barrel of a 12 gauge shotgun. It sweeps from my chest to Zoey’s, and back to me again. I’m guessing this would be Frank.

Zoey whispers back to me: “Twilight Zone.” I nod.

“Well Frank, aren’t you going to greet our guests?”

I’m not sure I’m comfortable with what Frank’s 'greeting' might be.

“All right miss, you and the old man, step to your right, come up one row, and then stop.”

“Oh Frank, must you go through this every time?”

“Mary! Hush! This is called ‘protocol’!”

“No Frank, this is called ‘being rude to our guests’!”

“Frank’s right to be cautious ma’am,” I offer. “These are trying times. You can’t be too careful.” Zoey and I move to the right wall, step forward, and stop.

“Well, aren’t you the most accommodating gentleman! Don’t you think we can trust these nice people, Frank?”

“A little too accommodating, if you ask me. I’ll ask you two to not speak unless spoken to! You may move to the left and proceed one more row, and not a step further!”

“Oh Frank! Now you just made that up, that nonsense about ‘not speaking unless you’re spoken to!’ That isn’t part of any protocol you’ve ever come up with before! You two out there, pay no mind to Frank. You feel free to speak whatever you please!”

Zoey and I exchange glances. Frank’s the one with the 12 gauge. Speak our minds, or get our faces blown off? Minds, faces. Speak, die. Shutting up sounds like the low risk option at the moment. I nudge Zoey. “Definitely Twilight Zone,“ I mouth silently, nodding.

We cross back to the left side of the room, step forward and stop.

“Well, I hope you’re happy with yourself Frank. You’ve managed to put the fear of God in those two. Look at that poor gentleman! Why, he’s a white as a ghost! They’ve reached the second row without the least bit of fuss and that means they’re good people. So just stop pointing that ugly, ugly, despicable rifle!”

“I’m in charge of protocol, Mary and how many times do I have to tell you this isn’t a rifle it’s a shotgun, a 12 gauge shotgun, you have to use the right terminology because it sounds more intimidating than ‘rifle‘! And until we know what kind of people they are we need to intimidate them!”

Zoey to me: “They do know we’re right here, listening to all this, right?”

Mary now, to Frank: “Well I know what kind of people we are, or at least I am! And we don’t intimidate visitors who get to the second row without any fuss. Now put that silly thing away this instant!”

Frank, bellowing: “No Mary, I’m in charge of protocol!“

“Well Frank, that may well be, but I’m in charge of cooking. And I was thinking about making something special with that rhubarb Gavin brought in from the garden yesterday. But now, I just don’t know. I think it might be too hot. Yes. Far too hot in the kitchen to do any baking.

I nudge Zoey. “I got it: ‘The Honeymooners’.” She stifles a giggle.

“The cobbler you make with the brown sugar?

“Possibly, I just can‘t seem to remember, Frank.”

Zoey, in a hushed baritone: “One of these days, Alice. Pow! Straight to the moon!“ I snort.

“And molasses and the quick oats?”

“Well I don’t know, Frank. I think I’m just too hot and too upset to remember exactly what I was thinking of making. No mind, I’m sure it’ll come to me. In a week or two. Or three.”

“Oh, Mary, you know I was gonna let ‘em come on up as soon as they got to the third row. You never let me intimidate ‘em to the third row!”

“Oh for goodness sakes, Frank, haven’t you ever heard of judging character? If some big hulking brute with leather and tattoos comes in, I’ll let you intimidate him right up to the steel door! But look at them, just a pretty little thing and her ailing grandfather. Poor old man, being all polite and accommodating and he can barely hold himself up with that stick of a crutch anyways. So you just put that thing away, Frank, and greet our guests like a proper Christian gentleman.”

Zoey, in a whisper: “I got it! Looney Tunes.“ I almost lose my footing, trying so hard not to laugh.

Mary struggles with the bolt. “Frank! Help me with this thing! Now you two just hold on and - ah! There we are!”

[majorhavoc]

The door swings inward. Zoey looks to me, the open door and then back to me again. I nod. She enters the safe room cautiously, like she’s expecting an anvil to drop on her head. Or a frying pan to come swinging around the corner. I follow her inside.

“Welcome to the Drexel Hill Safe Room. We’d like you to think of it as your safe room away from your safe home! Frank, are you going to -- Ahhh! Frank, I said to put that thing away!”

Frank has the 12 gauge shouldered again and aimed at my chest . This time he looks ready to do a bit more than intimidate. “Mary! Step away from those two. Get back here!“

“Frank! What’s gotten into you?”

“I said step away from grampa; get behind me, Mary!”

“Frank,” I say, levelly. “If we’re not welcome here, that’s fine; we’ll turn around and leave. Otherwise I’ll ask you to lower your weapon.“

“Oh, you’d like that, wouldn’t you? Let my guard down!“

Zoey now: “What am I missing here? A minute ago you said we’re OK. Is there some secret password we were supposed to use? What changed?”

“What changed is I got a good whiff you and gramps here. And you both stink to high heaven of zombie! Seems to me you two have had a close encounter of the undead kind! And your old man here isn‘t looking too well. Not looking well at all! Hmm, what do you suppose that means?”

“Listen Mister. Three things. One, we’re immune to the virus, OK? Two, he looks like he’s not feeling well because he isn’t, and he needs help, OK? And three, he is so not my grandfather!”

“I see you’re not denyin’ you’ve been around zombies, miss. So I’ll take that as an admission as to why you both smell like a graveyard. And do you actually expect us to believe you’re magically immune to something that’s wiped out half the planet?"

Mary, placing a hand on Frank‘s shoulder: “Oh I think it’s a lot more than that, Frank. The last count was over six billion. Before the TV stations stopped working.”

“Mary, must you correct me on every little detail? My point is there’s no such thing as immunity to the virus. They’re just saying that because they’re desperate. You’re either un-exposed, un-dead, or on your way to becomin’ un-dead. My guess is that these two are on their way.”

Zoey: “Please Mr., er- Frank. You have to believe us. Look!” She says, tugging her shirt off her shoulder. ”Look -"

“- Uh Zoey?”

“See? This is where I was bit! And I’m not a zombie!”

“Zoey?”

“And Bill here. He cut himself real bad on a jagged piece of glass that not one, but four zombies had just bled all over!”

“Zoey?”

“I mean, all over. Why, he practically got a zombie blood transfusion! And look at him now!” She gestures to me like an over-caffeinated Vanna White. “The picture of health!”

“Zoey?”

“Oh! Oh, here’s the kicker! We both heal real fast! Like scary fast! Like it's just not normal! In fact, it’s unnatural. We’re both unnatural!” Zoey concludes, smiling.

“Zoey, this is not helping our cause one bit. If we manage to get out of this, I’m handling the negotiations from now on.”

“What? I took debate in college. I’ll have them on our side in no time, Bill. You’ll see.”

“Enough! Mary, open up the cooler. OK missus, I’ll ask you to drop that pack on the floor right there, and then you two freaks of nature can just mosey on down into that nice special room we have for you over there.“

[majorhavoc]

“The cooler” is a semi-finished basement storage room, 10 by 20 feet, with four narrow, barred casement windows, two each high on the north and south walls. Two beds butted up against the southern wall, with a side table between them. On it are a hurricane lantern and a flower vase, which is full of water. I drink it dry.

Wooden stairs ascend steeply along the east wall to a landing on the main floor, At the landing is another steel reinforced door. It also has the small, barred aperture, which again frames the face of Mary, who seems incapable of uttering a single word without a smile.

“Here’s that water you asked for, dearie. Your gentleman friend certainly has quite a thirst. And these are the clothes we talked about. You two are going to have to change out of your old things and put them in that bucket down there."

Zoey takes the bundle of clothing and water bottles without a word, retreating back down the stairs. She places the water bottles next to me on the bedside table, the clothes on the other bed. I sit up, painfully, and drink half of one in a single, long pull. “You might try saying thank you, Zoey. At least they’re accommodating us.”

“Thank them for what? They stuck a shotgun in our faces and marched us off to their private little gulag. This isn’t what the safe room network is supposed to be about.”

“Put yourself in their shoes. We have been around zombies. We reek of the undead. And when you get that close to zombies you do tend to get bit. They’re just being prudent.”

“But we’re immune! This is completely unnecessary!”

“You’re immune. The jury’s still out on me.”

“Bill, you are so immune. There’s no other explanation for why you heal so quickly. Just like me.”

“I hope so. I could use some of that miraculous healing right now.“

“How badly hurt are you?“

“I told you, some broken ribs.“

Zoey’s eyeing me warily. “Is there anything else I should know about?“

“Yeah, you should definitely get a tuition refund for your debate class, because the professor was an idiot.“ I get up stiffly. “Now, I’m going to go inspect that corner over there so you can change.”

“Bill, how long do you suppose we’ll have to be down here before they decide we’re telling the truth?” Zoey asks, changing her clothes.

“Well, this assumes they don’t decide to shoot us beforehand, but according to the news accounts, the longest recorded case was just under 20 hours from exposure to full presentation,” I reply to the wall in front of me. “Assuming those two upstairs saw the same news reports, that’s our minimum sentence down here.”

“Great. That’s just great. Because unlike you, I really need to pee.”

I feel a shirt hit the back of my head. “You can turn around now.”

Zoey is wearing some kind of polyester capris and a button down top printed with a pattern that would be right at home as wallpaper in a 1970’s kitchen. Predominantly avocado green and harvest gold.

“Not a word, Bill. Not a word.”

Growing old involves the slow surrender of your dignity. From invasive testing procedures that begin after age 50, to clothing selection that emphasizes hiding your body more than showing it off, getting old just sucks. In spite of the pain, I manage everything well enough below the waist, but I simply can’t get my t-shirt off. I have to ask Zoey for help undressing myself.

She senses my embarrassment and to her credit, she doesn’t tease me, she doesn’t make a big deal about it. She just comes over and acts like helping a 66 year old man lift a t-shirt over his head is perfectly normal. I turn to grab the fresh one.

“Jesus, Bill. Look at your back!”

“That’s kinda hard for me to do these days." I gingerly lift my left arm and crane my head around. What I can see of the skin around the broken ribs is almost jet black. I smile. “How far does it go?”

“Oh my God, it covers all of your lower back on your left side. It looks like it goes down your butt too. What is that?”

“That? That's the best news I’ve had all day. That’s one big hematoma.“

“Hematoma? That doesn’t sound like good news to me.”

“It is compared to the alternative. It’s basically a really bad muscle bruise. Maybe even a little tearing of the interstitial muscle between the ribs." I twist at my hips for a better view. "That looks to be about three or four units down there.”

“Units?”

“Of blood. It‘s pooling beneath the skin. Which means it‘s not coming from anywhere inside the stomach cavity.”

“Is this why you‘ve been so thirsty?

“Yep. Except I was thinking I had a ruptured kidney or a torn spleen. That would have been bad, very bad. Compared to that, this is great news.”

Zoey gives me a reproachful look. “And how long have you known this?”

“This? About 30 seconds. Since you told me to look at my back.” Zoey drives her fist into my shoulder. Another bruise. The girl does pack a surprising punch.

“No, you old coot! How long have you known that you might be bleeding to death?”

“Oh that. I guess from the moment that thing decided to use me as a punching bag on the embankment last night.”

“And when were you planning to tell me?”

“When I knew for sure.” Another solid punch to the shoulder. “Ow, Zoey! You know, technically this is elder abuse.”

“You’d only be sure you’re bleeding to death when you’re dead!” “Bill, I need to know this stuff! Before you drop dead!”

“Tell you what: next time I think I’m going to drop dead, I promise you’ll be the first to know.” I brace myself for the third punch, which never comes.

But she was thinking about it.

[majorhavoc]

At Mary’s request, Zoey pushes our old clothes through the bars of the door at the top of the stairs.

“Think you might wash these for us?” Zoey asks. “No offence, but the outfit you gave me isn’t exactly my style.”

“Oh course dear. Just as soon as Frank decides whether or not to shoot you. Now, could you be a sweetie and take this guest book downstairs so the both of you can sign it? We do get the most interesting visitors here!”

Zoey comes down the stairs with the guestbook, shaking their head. “I think they’re both insane. Certifiably insane. And they have us locked in their basement. I'm beginning to feel like Clarisse from ‘Silence of the Lambs’.”

She sinks onto her bed dejectedly and cracks open the guestbook. “Hmm, they do get a fair number of visitors. I wonder how many of these people ended up on the dinner menu?” She withdraws the tasseled pen and begins writing.

“The whole world is insane, Zoey. Maybe those two are the new normal.”

“Normal should be ’We’re all in this together, so we just have to trust each other’. Bill, if they ask me to put on skin lotion, I‘ll start screaming.” She hands me the guest book.

I see that Zoey has signed her name as ‘Zoey Fuck you!’ and written ‘Sucks to be me‘ for a comment. I simply write ‘Bill’ for my name and for comment, I provide what I would if I were a prisoner of war: ‘RA62118603 SF Operational Detachment-A, 5th Army Grp, Sgt First Class’.

Mary, humming some tune, appears at the door at the top of the stairs with a plate of cookies, which we exchange for the guest book. This is getting surreal.

We can hear them bickering upstairs, discussing our fate. I bite into a cookie and give Zoey an approving look. These aren’t half bad.

“Now let’s see what they wrote in our guest book. Oh my. Frank? This gentleman seems to be some sort of military official. Can we quarantine a military official?”

“This is the apocalypse, Mary, we can do anything we want.”

“But I think he’s probably more used to giving orders than taking them, don’t you think?”

“I don’t care if he’s a four star general and the Pope all rolled into one; he can still turn into a zombie!”

“Oh dear, yes, I suppose you’re right. But I do hope we don’t end up having to shoot them.” “This poor girl, look what she wrote: ‘Sucks to be me‘. Doesn’t that just break your heart?”

“Don’t get attached to these people, Mary. I don’t think they’ll be people much longer.”

“I bet it’s that anorexia thing. That’s why she’s so down on herself! I read all about it in Harpers magazine, remember? These poor girls have such a negative body image, they just come to hate themselves. Can you imagine? Skinny little things, but they look in a mirror and all they can see is a big fat blob. So they starve themselves! Absolutely starve themselves. Dear girl. She does seem a little thin. Oh dear, now you don’t suppose she does that, now what do they call it? Do you remember, Frank? What do they call it?”

“Mary, I don’t have any idea what the hell you’re carrying on about.”

“Oh now don’t be difficult!”

Mary, calling through our prison door: “Please excuse Frank! He can be a little surly when he might have to shoot someone!”

“Now Frank, we were just talking about this last night at the dinner table, remember?

“Maybe you were talking about it. I was probably doing something else. Like trying to ignore you.”

“Now I’ll just have to get my Harpers out and – oh yes, here it is: 'purging'! That’s just a polite term for throwing up, you know. Poor dear. I do hope we don’t have to shoot her." "Now what’s her last name? I can’t quite make it out; looks French. Oh dear. Oh dear. Ah! Now I see, of course: that letter is an ‘H‘! You just can’t imagine what I thought it looked like at first. Now let’s see, that would be ‘Fuchquoi‘? Zoey ‘Fuchquoi’. Such a pretty name. Why Gavin, you’re home!”

Mary’s voice drops to a hush and moments later, a young man, maybe twenty, appears at the window of the door at the top of the stairs. He waves sheepishly, like he’s embarrassed for us. I like him already.

“Gavin, meet Zoey Fuchquoi and Bill...., what’s your last name, Colonel?”

“Gottohelle.” I reply. “Pleased to meet you, Gavin.”

Mary: “Such unusual names today! Now how do you spell that, Major Gottohelle?

“That would be “G-O-T-T-O-H-E-L-L and, ah, an “E” on the end. Ma’am.”

“Well you seem to be looking a bit better, Captain Gottohelle! Perhaps we won’t have to shoot you and Miss Fuchquoi after all. Now yours is a German name, is it not?”

“Yes ma’am, German. Very perceptive of you.”

“Well, aren’t you polite, Lieutenant Gottohelle. Frank, haven’t I always said military men are simply true gentlemen?”

[majorhavoc]

Dinner follows an hour or so later. As far as I can tell, the plates they pass down to Zoey and me are the same meal they’re having upstairs: fresh beets, zucchini, yellow squash and mashed potatoes. After a steady diet of snack foods for the past 2 weeks, this is absolutely delicious. Zoey and I eat in silence, trying to pick up as much of the upstairs dinner conversation as we can.

This Gavin, we gather, is some young man who elected to stay behind with Mary and Frank Sturtevant, who refused to comply with the military evacuation order for the town. Apparently it was a dangerous decision for all three; by that point the military was shooting anyone who didn’t comply with the forced evacuations. The official thinking was that citizens left behind were eventually going to swell the ranks of the undead anyway. Better to nip that future problem in the bud.

I can’t help but begin to admire this Gavin. He doesn’t appear to be related in any way to Frank and Mary. It sounds like he stayed behind to take care of this elderly couple, and help them set up the safe room. Frank and Mary clearly adore him, and rely on him to make daily runs to forage for supplies in town, and to tend some sort of garden in back of the building. I can’t pick out why, but the way they’re talking up there implies something is preventing Gavin from getting into the heart of the town, where most the fruitful scavenging would be.

It’s unclear to me how this kid is surviving, going out day after day on his own. However he does it, he clearly has some very developed survival skills. I keep thinking of Zoey: this is the kind of partner she should have. Traveling with me is putting her at a severe disadvantage; our physical capabilities and survival strategies are completely mismatched. I’m already starting to formulate a proposal: that Gavin and I swap roles. This isn’t going to make anyone happy, but it makes the most sense.

Gavin appears at the door at the top of the stairs shortly after dinner.

“Psst! Can I talk to you guys?”

“That depends.” Zoey replies from her bed. “Oh whether or not you’re here to spring us out of Stalag 17!”

“Zoey!” I whisper harshly. “Let’s hear the boy out!”

Reluctantly, she joins me at the top of the stairs. “Hello, Gavin,” I begin. “It’s nice to meet you.”

“Likewise, ah -”

- Bill. Please call me Bill.”

Gavin does a double take when Zoey reaches the top of the stairs. “Yeah, sure thing Bill,” he says, absently, not even looking in my direction. “The pleasure’s all mine. Welcome to Drexel Hill, Zoey.”

“Yeah, whatever. So what do you want, guard boy?” Zoey says testily.

“Listen, I’m really sorry about Frank and Mary. You have to understand: we’ve had our fair share of problems with safe room guests. Things don’t always go as smoothly as RFH makes it sound.”

“Yeah, well, we see a few problems from our end too.” Zoey retorts.

“Well, if you want to be angry at someone, be angry at me. I’ve basically told them to not trust anyone when I’m not around. It would be really easy to take advantage of those two. Especially Mary. But they’re good people. Even Frank.”

“You’re doing a good thing helping them out, son.”

“It’s a long story. But basically I’ve lost everyone I’ve ever cared about, and they have nobody left either. They weren’t going to make it on their own. So, here we are. But listen, they said you two were talking about some kind of immunity?"

“Her definitely. Me possibly.”

“No,” Zoey interjects. “Him definitely too. He was infected two weeks ago. You’d need a bazooka to bring this bastard down.”

“How do you get this immunity? How does it work?”

"We have no idea son. Seems to be luck of the draw. Unless the virus itself has changed somehow. Maybe everyone’s stopped turning."

“No, people are still turning. I’ve seen plenty of evidence of that, including today unfortunately. There was another couple like us on the north side of town. I’ve been trying to look out for them too. They’re, um, they’re not people anymore. I gotta figure out how to break the news to Frank and Mary. She’s going to take it hard. They’ve actually been writing each other. I’m the mailman. Getting a letter from Sue and Phil was one of the few things Mary’s had to look forward to. Can you two keep that information under your hats?

“Sure, Gavin. That’s going to be hard news to deliver, but I’m sure it’s best they hear it from you.”

“So this immunity. Is it possible that one of you got it from the other? Can you give it to other people?”

“That occurred to me, son. But I just don’t know how these things work. I’ve never heard of any other kind of immunity being transferable. But then, we’ve never had anything like the zombie virus before. Maybe there’s a way to give it to others, like a vaccine.”

“I wish I were a scientist, or a doctor,” Gavin says thoughtfully. “So I understood these concepts better. This could be really important. For everyone, I mean. Zoey, you don’t need to hang back like that. Can’t you come forward? I don’t bite.”

Zoey seems determined to be surly with Gavin, who ends up bidding us good night, clearly stung by Zoey's hostility. I’ve got to figure out some way to get these two to like each other. By the looks of it, it’s not going to be a challenge for the boy. Maybe I can get her angry at me again. More angry than she is at Gavin and the Sturtevants. I am good at making Zoey angry. I got a real knack for that.

[majorhavoc]

We awaken in the middle of the night. Heated words from above. The sounds of struggling, crashing. A scream. Then a shouted order, indistinct, but repeated once. Then abruptly a single shotgun blast. Followed by an unsettling silence.

“Bill!” Zoey, whispering in a panicky voice. “What’s going on up there?”

“Shhh!” I’m bolt upright next to the bed. I’m trying to think of a plan, but I have nothing. We’re trapped down here; we have nothing to work with; no weapons, no escape, no options. I listen intently in the darkness. I think I can make out quiet sobbing. Then nothing.

We wait another four hours in the darkness, in silence. We haven’t heard a sound from above the entire time. Finally, as the light of dawn begins seeping into the narrow basement windows, we hear foot steps above. Someone’s upstairs, walking. We track the sound as it moves above our heads from one side of the ceiling to the other, stopping at the cooler door atop the stairs. A jingle of keys, followed by a metallic click and the sound of a heavy bolt being slid back. Then the footsteps move away. The sound of a chair scraping across the floor. Then silence.

I cautiously make my way up the stairs, Zoey behind me. I have no idea what to expect. I don’t know whether to call out first, or silently look through the barred window. Anything could greet us on the other side of the door. Anything from an intruder, to a zombie, to a shotgun blast. I wave my hand in front of the barred window, wait, and then cautiously step forward and peer through. I see the room as I remember it from the night before. A kitchen area, cupboards and shelves, clean dishes stacked neatly in the dish rack. I shift to my right and peer further around. The dining table, a figure sitting at it, face in hands, unmoving. The shotgun is lying on the table in front of the figure.

“Frank?” Silence. I push on the door. As I expect, it swings open a crack. I glance down the stairs behind me and motion Zoey to wait.

“Frank? It’s Bill. I’m coming out, OK? I’m opening the door now.” I ease the door open and tentatively step across the threshold. The seated figure stirs. “It's OK, Bill. You and Zoey can come out.”

Zoey pushes past my shoulder, and stops when she sees Frank, still seated at the table, unmoving. She turns to me, questioning. I shake my head.

“Frank?” Zoey is asking softly, as she moves closer to the dining table. I have my eyes glued to the shotgun, ready to rush forward if he reaches for it. But I doubt it's going to be necessary.

Zoey is sitting down in the chair next to Frank. “Frank? Are you OK? What happened last night?”

Frank looks up. “She’s resting now. I gave her something, and she’s resting now.”

“Who, Frank? Mary? What happened?”

“We asked too much of him. The boy was doing too much. Looking after the two of us, Mary’s garden, ranging all over town every day looking for supplies. It was only a matter of time, him doing all that. We never should have let him take those kinds of risks.”

“Gavin? Where’s Gavin, Frank?”

“He was so good to us. He had no business staying back here, but he did and he was so good to us. We never should have let him stay.”

“What happened to Gavin, Frank? What happened last night?

“But now she’s resting and I think maybe she should see her garden, don’t you? She’s missed it so much. Gavin did such a good job tending it, but it wasn’t the same. Mary loved her garden. She should see it again.”

[majorhavoc]

I look to my left, the hallway I saw last night. I make my way down the darkened corridor. Two doors in the dim light, one to the right, one to the left. I turn to the right hand door and press my ear to the door. Silence. I turn the knob and quietly push it ajar.

I see the feet first, Nike sneakers splayed outwards, legs disappearing beneath a sheet. I open the door farther and see the body stretched out on the floor, the sheet stained reddish brown where the head would be. The room I notice, is a boys room. I see a framed picture on the bureau. Not Gavin, but a young man about his age. One with Frank’s lanky physique, and his mother’s eyes. I begin to understand what Gavin meant to these people. I close the door.

I do hear sounds behind the other door, the soft sigh of breathing. It opens facing a large double bed and lying there is Mary, sleeping, her hair neatly brushed back. A fresh bandage is on the side of her neck, specks of blood soaking through. On the bedside table is an open first aid kit. A syringe and a small glass vial lie next to it.

Gavin, we learn, had told Frank and Mary about what happened to Phil and Sue later the previous evening. As he had predicted, the two were very upset, especially Mary. What Gavin didn’t share was exactly how he came to know the two had become zombies. He left Frank and Mary’s room after delivering the devastating news. He came back to their bedroom later that night. This second visit wasn’t to talk. This second visit wasn’t from Gavin.

It wasn’t hard to guess had happened. The boy had Mary’s letter to deliver; he had his guard down. No wonder he was so curious about immunity last night. I replayed the entire exchange in my mind. This additional knowledge cast the conversation in an entirely different light. The boy was desperate. He knew what was going to happen. If we weren’t around, offering the vague hope of some miraculous immunity, he might have even done the right thing. He was grasping at straws, and Mary Sturtevant paid the price.

The three of us talk at the table for a long time. Frank, in spite of his initial bluster from the previous day, does not take the easy, predictable route. He doesn’t lay blame, except for that which he reserves for himself. For allowing the last two people on earth that he truly cared about to play this reckless game. A game called human kindness.

Kindness is something that just might be a luxury people can no longer afford. Not in a time when the only true imperative is simply to survive. By whatever means necessary. This is how humanity dies. Not just with the passing of people, but by the slow, irrevocable erosion of everything that makes us human in the first place.

“I’ve got something for you, Bill, Zoey.” Frank says finally. He gets up slowly and shuffles over to one of the kitchen cabinets. Frank seems to have aged twenty years overnight. He reaches up to the top shelf and pulls down a coffee can. From this he extracts a green and yellow cardboard box and sets it down on the table in front of us. 50 rounds of .32 caliber ACP. “I found your empty revolver in the backpack. I imagine you could use these. I don’t have anything in this caliber laying around, but Gavin figured it was too valuable to pass up when he found it. The boy was always thinking ahead.”

Frank produces my revolver from a drawer, swings open the cylinder and ejects the spent shells onto the dining table. He begins reloading the gun. “This isn’t a gift; I need to borrow it for a bit. I hope you understand.” I nod.

I understand all too well.

[majorhavoc]

Later that morning, Mary appears in the kitchen, pale, sweaty, and unsteady on her feet. The signs are already showing. She‘s wearing a nightgown and a shawl draped over her shoulders. She doesn’t seem to notice the bandage on her neck.

“Oh my, I forgot we had guests, and look at me, not even dressed!”

“You look fine, Mary. Just fine. Isn’t that right, Bill, Zoey?”

“Like morning sunshine, ma’am. I can’t tell you how much Zoey and I appreciate your hospitality.”

“Thanks so much for putting us up last night, Mrs. Sturtevant. You have the nicest safe room I’ve ever seen.”

Mary waves at us dismissively, smiling. “Oh, stop you three! You‘re embarrassing me. Frank and I do this out of the kindness of the human heart, don‘t we, Frank?”

“That’s right, Mary. Where would we all be without the kindness of strangers?”

“In a lot of trouble, that’s for sure,” Mary agrees. “The human race would be a heap of trouble, and that’s a fact.” “But Frank, I had simply the most awful dream last night. It had Gavin in it and I woke up so worried about him. Has he left yet?”

“Yes, Mary. Gavin’s off again, looking for more treasures to bring home to us tonight. But he‘s fine and asked me to tell you how much it means to him being with you. Said he sees us as his family now and he feels so lucky. So very lucky."

Mary‘s eyes glisten as she hears this; she smiles in satisfaction. “Well, so are we, Frank. Aren’t we? We have a little family, and the company of fine people like yourselves,” Mary adds, looking to Zoey and me. “That’s all anyone ever really needs, isn’t it Frank? Friends and family. The rest is all just details.”

“Mary, I’ve got a wonderful idea this morning. What do you say the two of us step outside and take a look at your vegetable garden that Gavin’s been tending for us? Gavin said he thinks it’s perfectly safe. Said he hasn’t seen any zeds anywhere near here in over a week. Com’mon, it’s a lovely, sunny morning.”

“Oh Frank, that sounds just divine! I so dearly miss my vegetable garden. It would be so nice to feel the sun on my skin again, smell those tomatoes ripening on the vine. Yes Frank, I have so missed that. I think that’s exactly what I need.”

Frank helps Mary out of the back door, looking once over his shoulder back at us. The look I see is one of gratitude. What else is conveyed in that glance, I cannot tell. The door closes behind them, leaving Zoey and me alone at the dining table.

“Bill! How can you just let them go off like that? You know what he’s going to do. We have to stop him!”

“No Zoey. We’re not going to do anything. We’re going to sit right here and let those two be.”

“But Bill, I don’t think he’s just going to kill her. I think he means to kill himself too!”

“Maybe.”

“How can you just sit there and be OK with that?”

“Zoey, this is something Frank has to do. This is what love means.”

“Killing yourself? How is that love?”

“It’s his choice, Zoey. We all know what might be in store for us, those of us left in this world. Who’s to say what is and isn’t for the best?

“I don’t understand, Bill. I don’t understand any of this.”

“Of course you don’t, Zoey. And that’s the way it should be. But someday, you will.”

We wait in silence after that. The only sounds we hear are the sigh of the wind, the birdsong drifting in through the back door, and the ticking of the kitchen clock. At 8:28, we hear a single gunshot. In spite of my speech to Zoey, I steel myself for a second report. But it never comes.

Several long minutes later, footsteps at the back door. It swings open and Frank steps inside. He places the revolver on the table in front of me. And joins us, sitting down at the dining table.

“I guess I have another favor to ask. If you’re feeling up to it, Bill. I could use your help. To bury my family.“

“I’ll help too.” Zoey says, reaching over to lay her hand on Franks wrist. “We’re glad you came back. That you didn’t -”

“ - Didn’t take my leave of this world? Go out with Gavin and Mary? No. I couldn’t do that. They believed in what they were doin’. Believed they were making a difference, every single day. If I took my life now, I’d be turning my back on all that. Everything they worked for. That would just be selfishness, wouldn’t it? No. There‘s work still to be done, Mary and Gavin’s work. Others who will need help. A safe place to stay.”

Zoey looks at me, back to Frank. “We’d like to help. Repay you all for your kindness. Is there anything we can do?”

“Well, I imagine you two will be wanting to move on soon. But you’re going to need supplies. That was Gavin’s job, but he never could get to the town center, where most of supplies will be. Probably even some guns that you folks could use.

“Why didn’t Gavin go into town? Too many zombies?”

“There were, at the beginning. But I imagine most have them have been cleaned out by now.”

“I don’t follow. By Gavin? Did he even have a gun?”

“Gavin? No. The zombies are gone for the same reason no one can get into town. And that's where you and Bill could be a real help to me. Some damn fool of a biker, all tattoos and leather, is holed up on top of the Shake ‘n Bake, shooting at anything that moves.”

[Tendrax]

I hate zombies.

I hate the woods.

I hate hospitals. And doctors, and lawyers and cops...

You know what I don't hate? I don't hate vests.









Man, I can't wait for MOAR!

[ForgeCorvus]

This series is really good.
You draw the pictures very well with so few words

[Hudsonhawk777]

Loving the story and how you've been developing the characters. I have also appreciated all the links at the end of the preceding section to find the next. That would be my only criticism. If I was to leave off somewhere in the middle of a section it would take me a while to find it again, as opposed to if you had posted this as one topic just with multiple pages ans chapters or however else you would want to divide it.

All that said I'm enjoying this enough I would go through and find where I left off.

Thanks much for the good story. Waiting for MOAR with the rest of the horde now.

[BearBait]

Sweet! Thanks, can't wait for more.

[MaconCJ7]

Liking the story, hating the lull between updates. It might only be a few days, but I don't really have much else to do in my off time but read stories and nit-pick at the update process.

Keep it up!

[majorhavoc]

That would be my only criticism. If I was to leave off somewhere in the middle of a section it would take me a while to find it again, as opposed to if you had posted this as one topic just with multiple pages ans chapters or however else you would want to divide it.

That's really good feedback, HH. And you're not the only one. I got a PM from another reader who said all the links were giving him whiplash.

I don't know what I was thinking dividing up the story into separate threads. Somehow I thought it might make things easier, but I totally see what you and others are getting at.

If anyone else wants to chime in and say it's still better to have it as separate threads, now's the time. Otherwise, I'm leaning towards asking the mods to merge all the individual chapters into a single topic.

Damn, this means I might actually have to come up with a title for this beast..........

[ZMace]

Merging it as one thread would be my preference too. Great story, after playing the game, it's neat to see your version of the back story.

[Tendrax]

+1 for merging them. I don't mind enough to have brought it up, but now that it's on the table it is a tid bit annoying.

Still though, great story so far.

How about Two Weeks Earlier for a title? I do believe that was the timeline in the game, that you're starting two weeks into the infection.

[majorhavoc]

+1 for merging them. I don't mind enough to have brought it up, but now that it's on the table it is a tid bit annoying.

Still though, great story so far.

How about Two Weeks Earlier for a title? I do believe that was the timeline in the game, that you're starting two weeks into the infection.

Fair enough. I think the masses have spoken. Not sure about the title though. I still plan on linking the story up with my first effort, "The Verdict". But from there I may take the story in a new direction, so I don't want to pick a title that limits me in any particular way.

Plus, a number of you seem pretty familiar with the game. You might even have recognized the setting for "The Verdict" as the Boat Yard level from L4D's "Sacrifice" add-on campaign. And if you've played that, you know what happens at the end. Something which I still haven't quite forgiven Valve for.