K. T. Swartz (10 page)

The sharp blade ate through rotting, thin skin. Flashing strobe lights illuminated great arcs of blood and muscle flying through the air. Their weakened, bloated bodies leaked fluid heavily, the stench of putrefying organs pulled her lips from her teeth, but the long weapon sliced off the fingers still gripping the door. She slammed it closed. Rammed the doorjamb under it and locked it. From the other side, fists and open palms beat the glass, but it held. She back-pedaled until her back thumped the counter. With a sigh that drained her strength, she sagged to the floor. Just listened to moans mix with screaming alarms. The smell of rotting flesh reached her nose. She rose slowly, peeked over the counter. But only the door and her clothes were painted in a bouquet of odors that were – unfortunately – too familiar.

She stood, sheathed her machete. No more time to delay. She had supplies to acquire. For the first time, she actually looked around the store. The automotive department still had its rows of tires, with an assortment of radios and cd players above them. On the other side was the craft and fabric department. She righted a fallen buggy, pushed it past the bolts of fabric – only to stop and then back up. Winter was coming, and she would need heavier clothes. Thick winter wools and cotton, in particular.

She skipped the floral patterns, the polka-dots, and checkered patterns for the bolts and thick, leather-like material. She pulled on it, stretched it. Shone her flashlight on it, but no light bled through. This stuff – whatever it was – would make good outer layers, so she took that and the thicker cotton bolts. Needles and thread went into the buggy, and she moved to the shoe department, picked up another pair of boots and athletic shoes. She restocked her clothing supply for the coming temperature drop. The paint department got a cursory glance, just long enough for her to clean it out of paint thinner. In the garden center, she added gallons of weed killer and liquid fertilizer to the cart before raiding the health and beauty aid for medical supplies and vitamins. Whatever powdered drink mixes and energy bars that weren’t expired, she took them too. She tore off the wrapper on one and chewed on it as she walked.

The buggy stopped in front of the make-up aisle. It looked as if it hadn’t been touched. She popped the cap off a tube of red lipstick, twisted it so the color showed. She capped it, rolled it between her fingers. But shook her head, stuck it back on the shelf. She had no use for it, now that Jeremy was gone. She cleaned the store out of nail polish remover and moved on to the household cleaners, where a second buggy was required: bleach, bathroom and kitchen cleaners – powder and liquid. What little space was left was filled up when she stopped in the Hunting Supplies department. She smashed the glass cases in, took all the rifle cartridges and a couple hunting rifles. No 9mm ammo though. She was going to have to find a pawn shop or a gun shop somewhere or find another handgun. The idea wasn’t appealing, considering how familiar she was with this one.

She dropped both buggies off at the garden center before grabbing a third for groceries and house wares. Only when it was full did she wheel it back to its overstuffed mates. Everything but her clothes went in the truck bed; the clothes she folded and stuck in the cabin. Once everything was loaded, she cleaned out the propane cage and headed for the automotive center. Outside the garage, she watched the zombies’ heads turn toward the sound of the engine. She sat behind the wheel for a moment, as they pawed as the glass, leaving black streaks behind. Those closest to the glass were smashed against it. Their skulls popped like squashed grapes, their brains and blood oozing down the glass. She climbed out of the truck to grab a propane tank.

The handle squeaked as she opened the valve all the way. With her crowbar, she smashed in the glass from the door, and a forest of waving arms reached out for her. With both hands, she picked up the tank. Too heavy to throw, she swung it back and forth like a pendulum. And let it fly through the window. It smashed into a zombie, knocked a few back. Then thumped loudly on the concrete floor. A few unfortunate zombies tripped over the cylinder. She soaked a rag in lighter fluid and took out a lighter. Climbed up on the hood to wait. The door shuddered but held against the press of bodies.

With so many in the room, none could climb out of the window, though they tried. Even those with clear eyes clawed at the window frame, desperate to get to her but couldn’t. They pushed against their companions with one hand and grasped the air with the other. But their actions were futile. She waited a few more moments, until she caught a whiff of propane through the window. The soaked rag burst into flame, the fire sending a puff of smoke into the air. She tossed it through the window and ran. Dove into the truck as a cloud of fire rolled through the garage. Glass exploded from every window and forced a tremor through the concrete floor and up the truck’s tires. The garage and all its occupants caught fire and only fueled the flames’ hunger. Cracks rushed up the walls and across the ceiling.

She put the truck in reverse and backed away as chunks of ceiling fell; fire belched clouds of smoke into the air. A second explosion rocked the garage. Its doors bulged outward; shrieked in agony with the shrapnel tearing holes through them. The concrete building collapsed as she slammed the accelerator into the floor. Pieces of concrete rained from the sky. Bounced across the blacktop. Burning chunks of flesh and bone splattered the hood. She turned on the windshield wipers and watched blood and cleaning solution swish from side to side as she drove out of the parking lot.

She took 4
^th
Street to the only two pawn shops she knew in Danville and was rewarded with 9mm ammo and an extra handgun. Outside the store, she stopped; let her gaze roam the empty street and nearby low-income houses. Several apartment complexes were down the road, closer to town, and the potential for being overwhelmed teased her. Before she wandered into a hornet’s nest, she tore open another granola bar and water. Considered her next move. While the firehouse and trailer made good homes for three seasons, neither was fit for winter. And while the generator would keep the trailer warm, running it for possibly five months before the temperature rose again was just asking for trouble.

She needed a place mostly underground or a location with a wood-burning stove and thick walls; then she’d need a whole lot of logs to keep it stoked. She grimaced. Winter was absolutely the worst. Cold, shivering, and never warm. The only good thing was that the zombies had no body heat, so they froze quickly, making them much slower and easier to kill. Not much consolation, considering. Some of the older houses downtown would have wood-burning stoves; they were probably her best bet. Now, if she could just get there without too much of a fight, she’d be all right.

She opened the truck door. Stopped with the rustle of bushes. Her 9mm was in her hand as she slowly turned. She steadied her aim when the rustling stopped. A small orange and white tabby cat stuck its nose out of the brush. Ears perked, it stared at her. It was the first living animal she’d seen, except for the vultures. No other birds flew overhead. Though the cat was no threat, she couldn’t lower the gun, even when it turned tail and ran. Her eyes followed it. Strange that it had survived so long. Food had to be scarce with people no longer around. What did it eat now that all the other animals were gone? Why was it still here?

On the long trek from Columbus to Danville, she’d seen a few animals, mostly chewed up by the undead, but never a zombie animal. When the Out-Break first hit, there were a few scares where the disease seemed to jump species, but no. Only humans succumbed. She climbed behind the wheel; started the truck. And put the cat out of her mind. She had enough to think about without a small feline distracting her.

One house met her specifications, a bed & breakfast on the corner of 4
^th
and Lexington Avenue. It had a large front yard that ran all the way to the street. Old, thick oaks spread their branches over the two story building. The Black Swan, the sign read, as she pulled the truck up onto the driveway. A cobblestone walkway led to white columns and a long front porch. The pillars were spaced evenly apart, perfect for the sheet metal she planned to wrap around the porch. In fact, she could use the wrought iron fence next door for support. The yard was large enough to bury a few mines too. The houses around the B&B were close enough so she could attach rope ladders to the roofs – and several consecutive homes after that – for her escape, should the B&B ever become overwhelmed.

Several chimneys pockmarked the roof, hinting at more than one wood-burning stove. Hopefully one of them worked. If the B&B’s she and Jeremy had stayed in – pre Out-Break – were any hint, they probably did. And if so, the B&B would have its own supply of firewood saved up for their guests, including food, toiletries, and sheets. The only problem was she’d never been inside the building before. There was no telling how many temporary occupants had become permanent. A little caution and her refreshed supply of bullets would take care of that.

She stopped herself.

Such a mentality only cultivated a mindset for recklessness. Overconfidence would kill her quicker than a hungry zombie. No matter how many times she’d done this before, each home-raid now and in the future absolutely had to be like the first: just enough fear to keep her alert; steadiness to make her shots count; and caution to expect an attack from the most unexpected of places.

‘Fear, steadiness, and caution. My mantra. To do none of them, or leave one out, is a death sentence. Jeremy would still be alive if we’d only shown more caution. Why didn’t I think of that? Just a little bit more caution, a simple “Wait, Jeremy. Maybe we shouldn’t” might have changed so much, and I wouldn’t be alone. I wouldn’t have to lie on the floor or in a bed by myself. I wouldn’t have this gaping, bleeding wound inside me. He was everything I had. I couldn’t imagine a day without him, even when he was overseas. But I live them now. And that will never change. I lost my high school sweetheart because we forgot to use caution. I’ve lost him forever, but I swear I will make them all pay. No matter how long it takes.’

She sat in the truck for a moment, considered the building in front of her, the years it had seen, what it could say if it had a mouth. Most of the buildings in this part of Danville were old, holding memories several hundred years old in their timbers. To see the city like this – polluted with the dead, scarred and empty because of them – made her sick. All this preparation made her antsy, because she should be out hunting down these things one at a time, until her bullets ran out and she was too weak to lift a gun. But she’d get herself killed that way. Instead, she had to wait, to gather her supplies, her strength, until the greatest weapon against the zombie hordes could be constructed. Then, it was only a matter of time until the city streets were free again.
Where would she go after Danville was clean? Would she stay? Would she leave? Her eyes closed, head leaned back against the headrest. Where would she want to go? Something wet slapped the passenger side window. Her eyes flew open, locked on the short, elderly female pawing at the glass. Arthritic fingers had lost the ability to uncurl, forcing her to stroke the glass with her knuckles. Steel grey hair was matted to her scalp, stained the same color as her rotting flesh. Deep, jagged holes cut up her face, showed bone along one cheek. A gaping hole had taken the place of her nose, but her eyes were so clear. They watched her pull out her gun. Open the truck door. Only a bullet through the forehead shut those eyes. She looked around but the old female was alone. Well, no more time to waste.

She pulled up her collar, zipped her leather coat all the way up and stuck a few extra clips in her carpenter’s belt. Gun in hand, she started to lock the truck but stopped. Shook her head. Sometimes old habits had a tendency to pop up when she least expected them. None were left in Danville with the capacity to pull a door handle open. There was no point in locking the door. Leaving it unlocked, she walked the cobbled path to the front porch. She peeked through each of the windows, but the curtains were thick, probably for their occupants’ privacy. She hopped off the porch, walked the building’s circumference. A two door garage sat against the back of the B&B, with one door open, showing another truck abandoned by its owner. Looters had come and gone, cleaning out the shelves. She hopped the low picket fence to check each window facing the backyard.

In the kitchen was a teenaged zombie in a tight tube-top and low cut jeans that were as black as her skin. With pigtails that hung down to her chest, she stood by the kitchen sink, cloudy eyes locked on nothing. With no reason to move, the zombie stayed in place. She left the thing there; finished her walk around the building to again stand at the front door. She was going in practically blind, with the curtains closed in all but two rooms. She tried the doorknob. Locked. Not wanting to jeopardize its integrity, she headed around back, into the garage, to the back door. The handle turned all the way. One hand on the knob, the other holding her gun, she let the door swing open. Nothing moved inside.

Flashlight leading, she stepped across the threshold. Grimaced with the soft squeak from the wood floor. The long hall was empty. Two doors to her left, one on her right, and a large room at the end. She took another step. The floorboard squeaked again. She froze with the shuffle of footsteps from the room ahead. A middle-aged male in a suit jacket and slacks rocked back and forth in the doorway. Cloudy eyes focused in her direction. She held still, her finger on the trigger. The flashlight beam tightened on his chest as he dragged himself toward her. She adjusted the angle of her shot. Squeezed the trigger just as another zombie stepped from the room closest to her. The top of his skull blew off, spraying blood and brain matter across the ceiling and white walls. He fell, face-first into the wall; slid down it to become a speed bump in the other zombie’s way. She backed out of the door as the well-dressed male stumbled over the sudden obstacle. Like a toppled pillar, he slammed into the floor.