“Kyle Smalls, you get yourself over here,” Jasmine yelled suddenly, pulling Kyle from amused isolation.
Kyle’s smile quickly slipped away as he sighed and stood up. He walked over to the four of them, all heads turned his way.
“Is this true Kyle?” she asked seriously, her eyes boring down on him. “Is our family in danger of getting this sickness?”
“I’m sorry, but I think we are all in danger and we need to move quickly to keep safe,” he said seriously. He felt like a schoolboy again being asked by his teacher did he expect to get a good grade when he hadn't studied?
The five of them just stood there while Jasmine’s eyes studied Kyle. Time dragged on while Jasmine continued to stare at him.
“Okay,” she snapped, causing all four of them to jump quickly. It had been a long day. “Patrick, I have some clothes laid out for the kids on their beds. Get them packed in a bag, along with one toy of theirs. None of yours!” Patrick, just happy to get away from Jasmine's glare, ran quickly inside the house.
“James, we have some emergency food and medical kits in the shed, get them and put them into the back of the truck. Dump whatever is in there.” She continued giving orders as she turned to Yolanda. “Would you help me get some stuff from the kitchen Yolanda?”
"No problem," Yolanda answered sweetly. It amazed Kyle that these two got along so well.
"You can help Patrick, Kyle," she said, almost as an afterthought. "Make sure he doesn't get distracted.”
"Will do," Kyle said, and hoped it wouldn't take long.
Twenty minutes later Kyle was leading the trio of trucks to his house.
Abe spent the next five minutes running around Kyle's house looking for his cell phone. His heart, beating like a high-powered engine, wasn't helping him focus. He found the phone, elusive creature that is was, and dialed 911 only to receive a busy signal.
"Ridiculous!" he screamed to the empty house. Repeated calls and busy signals frustrated him to the point of giving up on the emergency number. He decided to call Kyle and let him know what he saw, but again received a busy signal. At this point, Abe's heart had slowed and his nerves, though still stretched, were coming back under control. He began to doubt what he saw.
"Surely, it couldn't have been a zombie?" he said again to the empty house. He stood still a moment. "I did see something and don't call me Shirley." He laughed at his own joke and decided to make sure he saw what he thought he saw. He walked into the trap of death that his brother called a garage, and pushed a box up to the window on the garage door, and jumped on it to get a better view. The neighborhood, though now looking more sinister, appeared the same as when he gracefully ran inside. Smoke still rose lazily from the house across the road and the street still seemed to be empty.
Muffled firecrackers rang out as Abe was continued to watch the street. “Not firecrackers, gunshots,” he thought. Abe tried to see the direction they came from but couldn't. Again, shots sounded and this time Abe could tell the direction; the end of the street that led to the entrance of the development. Abe continued to watch, his heart again starting to pound again with fear and excitement.
Abe moved over as far as he could to get the best diagonal view of the street, and that's when he saw a man being chased by the postman. Abe couldn't see much except that the man was stumbling, and every minute or so he would turn around to fire his pistol. Abe grimaced as he saw the man fire. He was no gun expert but he knew those shots were going wild. Kyle had drilled into him that movies were just fiction, and a man needed to practice with a pistol in order to hit anything. To add to that, Kyle had told him that moving while firing a pistol was almost impossible, unless you were an expert.
Indecision tore at Abe. What could he do? Fear gripped him and stole his ability to move, to act. “Screw it,” he thought, “I got a gun, I can at least help this guy out.”
The decision being made, he ran back through the house to the front door, where he pushed the chair aside and unlocked the bolt. He opened the door and took a few steps onto the front lawn. The man was still about seventy yards down the street and running erratically.
"Why didn't the guy just run full out instead of stumbling back and forth?" Abe thought.
"Hey buddy!" Abe yelled. "Over here!" Abe drew out his handgun and kept shouting at the guy.
After repeated yells, the guy noticed Abe and began running toward him. The postman followed. Though neither were moving very fast, they seemed to be Olympic runners now that they were moving toward him.
Abe dropped to one knee and got into a shooter's position, the way he had been taught. He yelled at the man to move out of his way. Close enough now to understand, the man tried to change directions too quickly and tripped over the curb on the street. Abe didn't pay attention to the man but saw the postman still stumbling along in his direction. He was covered with blood; it started from the top of his head and had poured down his face onto his uniform. His open mouth screeched at Abe.
"Hold it right there," Abe said, loud enough for the man to hear. The postman continued on, his movements bumbling but determined. Abe gave another warning, this one a little faster, his adrenaline pumping.
"Stop or I'll shoot!" he said one last time, not wanting to shoot the guy.
Abe lined the postman up in his sights and pulled the trigger. The gun didn't have much kick to it and that wasn't a problem, but the sound was ungodly and Abe had forgotten about that. Startled by the sound he dropped the gun. He looked to the gun on the ground and back up to the postman who was still walking toward him and only ten yards away. The man who tripped on the curve was nowhere to be seen.
"Shit," Abe said, and grabbed the gun from the ground and tried to calm his shaking hands. He sighted the man again and fired twice more into the chest. Nothing. Abe really began to shake and fear slowed his reflexes. All he could think was, “Run!” He remembered what his brother said and again put the gun's site on the ever-closing postman. He was close enough now that it wasn't that hard, except for his own arms which seemed to be of lead. The shots rang out and the postman dropped.
Abe forced himself back on his feet and let the gun drop. Utterly exhausted and scared, he just sat there and look at the dead postman. He had never fired a gun at a person before, and a sick feeling rose up inside him. He leaned over and threw up on the grass. Heaves shook his body as he cleared out his breakfast on the lawn. His body was finished, but Abe still leaned over, eyes closed. Sweat dripped down his brow and onto his nose to fall to the ground. He slowly leaned further over and picked the gun up to replace it in his holster.
Still feeling sick, Abe got up and walked slowly toward the postman. The dead man’s eyes were still open but they were filmed over, not showing his pupils. The blood made it hard to look at the man, but not so much as the small round hole at the top of his eyebrow. Disgusted Abe turned around, almost forgetting the other man.
Still too stunned to do much, Abe walked back a few feet toward the house and hoped there wasn't another sick person around because he knew he would be dead if there was. A small squealing sound came from the side of his house, back from where the man tripped on the curb. He was lying on the ground and convulsing on the ground.
"I got to tell you man, I wished you had hit him way earlier than this because we both almost got caught by him," Abe said, trying to loosen his own mood. Feeling a little better that there was another person to share what just happened with, he walked up to the man to see him shaking and trembling on the ground.
"Are you hit?" Abe asked anxiously. He kneeled down to the man and saw a bite wound on the man's shoulder. Abe quickly stood up and took a few steps back.
"Aw, just stay there and I'll get some water, "Abe said, and continued to back away from the man. He wasn't sure what was going on with this sickness but Kyle had told him that they were biting people and that caused it to spread.
Abe was almost to the door when the man turned his head and let out a terrible shriek. Abe, having enough of it, darted back into the house. He didn't even contemplate using the gun again, enough of that. He just wanted to lock the guy out. Abe slammed the door, and turned the bolt lock. The armchair went back in front of the door, and Abe hoped his brother would get there soon.
"All right boys, looks like the cell phones are down. Let's keep in touch with the radio. Check in 12:20." Eric placed the receiver on top of the CB radio in his truck. His two friends confirmed, and then they turned left onto the dirt road that they all lived on. Eric was never one to feel premonitions but he didn't have a good feeling about any of this. Dread. Yeah, that was the best way to describe it. His place came up first and he pulled into the long driveway that led to his place. His driveway led through tall maple trees that had been lining his driveway since his daddy's time. Eric tried to not gun the truck, and remain calm, but as he came out of the woods and first saw his house, he knew something was wrong.
Eric's house was a large light blue double-wide trailer that sat on a pristine front yard. It was a beautiful place and was across from his parent’s two-story older house. The problem was the front door being open. Actually, the front door being open wasn't the problem as long as the screen door was there, but now there was no screen door. His mother might have come over but she would never leave the screen door open to let flies in.
He pulled up to the side of his house and quietly got out of the truck, taking his AR15 with him. He also quickly strapped on his gun belt and checked his 9mm. He took a quick glance at house but was more concerned with his parents right now. His folks were both in their early seventies and were enjoying retirement. Eric saw both of his parent’s vehicles in the driveway and hoped that they were just watching a game show. He walked up steps onto the old wood porch and tried to listen for anything. With some hesitation, he knocked on the door and took a step back. He had slung his rifle but he had his hand on his pistol, ready to pull. Not getting an answer, he put his hand on doorknob and slowly opened the door.
"Momma, Dad, you guys home?" he asked. He did hear the TV playing in the living room and hoped they just hadn’t heard him. He slowly walked through the empty kitchen, something was still cooking on the stove. He peeked around the corner to see the living room and his heart stopped. In front of him, on the living room floor, was one of his neighbors. He was leaning over his father, eating his leg. Eric's world stopped and instant rage filled him like a volcano.
"Get off him!" Eric yelled, all thoughts except revenge receded. Without thinking, he pulled his gun free and fired seven or eight shots into the attacker. The man flew backward after being hit in the chest and head. Eric rushed down to his father's side and became dizzy when he saw his dad's throat. Or where his throat should have been. His throat, along with his face, had been torn or gorged out, leaving half his face in a froze state of terror.
"Dad," he said quietly. He put his hand on the good side of his father's face and gently closed the eye that was staring outward. Grief seemed to be a living thing that had risen in him. Captured him. Eric was reluctant to leave his dad, but thoughts of his mom prompted him to act. He jumped up, and after making sure the attacker was dead, moved down the hallway to his parent’s room.
He opened the door to find his mother laying down on the bed. She was dressed and had a rifle on the bed beside her. but she wasn't moving. Eric called out to her and moved to check her pulse. There was none. He quickly looked over her body for signs of a struggle or violence, but found none. Panicking, he tried to revive her with what little CPR he had been taught. Minutes passed and nothing changed. He began to notice that her skin was cool to the touch. He leaned back on his knees and looked at her. Heart attack? He didn't know what killed her, but he was grateful that she didn't have that look of terror on her face that his father had. It was small consolation at the moment though. Tears finally broke through and the grief gushed out as he leaned to down to hug his momma.
Hours later Eric sat mentally and physically exhausted. He had buried his mother and father in the front yard by a water oak that his mother enjoyed reading under. He had taken his neighbor and put him into a shallow grave not far into the woods. He was still in shock but his thinking was returning and he knew that he needed to check on his friends and their families.
Eric walked back to his truck and called out on the CB to his friends. No answer. He figured they were just away from their trucks. So, reluctant to leave his parents, he jumped into his truck, and after reloading his sidearm, pulled out and went further down the road.
Eric first made it to Troy's house, but noticed that both his truck and his other friend's truck were in the driveway. He was beginning to pull in when throaty growls reached him. He saw Troy moving toward him in a drunken manner and Eric knew that he had been bitten. A quick look around the place showed seven people outside, all turned toward him. All growling and screaming.
"Boys what happened?" Eric said quietly. He had never experience so much sadness in his life. His parents and best friends were all dead, or at least as good as dead. The front yard to Troy's place was big, but the walking diseased would be there in a few minutes. Eric knew that if he left to go back to his place the diseased would just follow him, so he grabbed the rifle and got out of the truck. He moved to the other side of the truck bed and rested his rifle on the side of it. He turned his optics on and sighted down on his friend Troy. A moment passed, Eric looked into the face of his friend and knew that it wasn't him. He pulled the trigger. Six other shots rang out and Eric climbed into the truck of his bed and hung his head.
Eric had been wrong when he said all of his family was gone. After returning to his house, he remembered. He pulled into the backyard that resembled more of a shed convention than anything else, and quickly moved to the back. He heard them. Eric started running and slid to a stop in front of a large cage that had a cement bottom. Inside, yelping and crowding to Eric were three beagles. Spotted brown and white, they all looked the same, but Eric knew each of them intimately. He had raised them from pups and they were still there. He opened the cage and all three of them rushed to him, jumping on his legs. They sniffed and yelped as Eric scratched and petted all of them. They were a relief to him. A soothing balm in what had become the worst day of his life. But what now? Macon.