Authors: J.A. Crowley
Kate and I got up early to clean up our front yard and planting beds. I had a hoe and shovel to dig out thorns and weeds. Kate had a pitchfork and a steel rake to spread mulch.
The kids were in charge of bringing tables, chairs, coolers and the grill down and setting them up. Their energy, as usual, was expended about ten percent on work, fifty percent on negotiating, and forty percent on complaining. We knew they’d get their work done, eventually, so we just chuckled. We’d learned not to get sucked in by their schemes.
Around 11 a.m. we heard fire and police sirens. We were off the main road, so the sounds were faint. For some reason, we didn’t worry even, though there were quite a few sirens. We also heard what we thought were fireworks. Other than thinking it was a waste to use them during daylight, we ignored them. Lots of guys used up the rest of their fireworks on Labor Day. The sirens and fireworks kept going all of that day.
The party started at noon and most years the neighbors would bring their stuff down before the party. Everyone would bring awesome food to share, so we all looked forward to it.
This year, things were moving slow. Only a couple of neighbors brought their coolers down. Others had told us they didn’t feel well and were staying at home. We expected the rest pretty soon.
Just before noon, we finished working, cracked a beer, and fired up the grill. The only neighbors who had shown up were Dan Curren, a retired executive, and my folks, Paul and Alice, who lived next door. Dan was a big golfer and noted how he had been virtually alone that morning on the course. Two of his foursome had not shown up that day, but he’d shot his best round ever and hit an eagle on a tough par 5 with a 120 yard chip. He could yammer forever about that stuff so we kind of tuned out the distraction. That didn’t bother Dan a bit; he just swilled his Glenlivet and kept talking. He was actually a pretty good guy.
My folks had been listening to the news and were very concerned. Things were getting worse everywhere. Dad had called my siblings, Jimmy and Jenny, and told them to cancel their plans to attend the party and stay at home. We all still obeyed Dad, even though he was getting up there in age. An ex-Marine, he still had that “look” that you didn’t want pointed at you.
Dad had been picking up lots of strange fire and police calls on his scanner. Mom made him turn it off to get ready for the party. I noticed that Dad was carrying his .357 under his jacket. Mom thought Dad was a bit over the top sometimes but I always got a kick out of it. Once a Marine, always a Marine.
When we were kids, Dad and one of his friends brought us kids to dinner in Chinatown in Boston. Since we were in the big city, they were both carrying. He had a little .380 Walther that was easy to conceal. I guess they thought we were likely to get mugged or something. That was when Chinatown was right next to the Combat Zone, where drugs and hookers were prevalent, so maybe they were right. I always remembered that and I remember being surprised when I got my license to carry that the local police chief told me I could not, under any circumstances, carry into a bar or a restaurant. Maybe that wasn’t the case in the old days. Maybe Dad didn’t know. Maybe he didn’t care. In any event, we didn’t get attacked that time. I always thought about that whenever I went into Chinatown, though.
At around one, we heard some yelling and a gunshot that sounded pretty close. Dan walked up the street to check, but didn’t see anything. He saw movement in a couple houses up the street, but figured that people were getting ready to come down to the party.
We continued eating and the Snows showed up. They’d been watching CNN and told us that things were going crazy, even in New England. There were riots in Boston and Springfield, and a report that the Pittsfield police had actually fired on civilians looting a Wal-Mart.
I internalized my glee at Wal-Mart’s misfortune. Where do those Wal-Mart people come from, anyway? The ones you see in there from the lower branches of the human family tree? My own theory was that they were genetically engineered in China to consume mass quantities of Chinese-produced goods, Wal-Mart’s stock in trade. But where did they all live? How did they pay for their purchases? What was their purpose in life? Believe me—there aren’t many of them left now.
Also, there was a huge fire in Worcester and a massive traffic accident on the Mass Pike. Most disturbing were reports from Providence that an entire hospital had been “overrun” by flu patients. The National Guard shut down media coverage in Providence.
Dave Snow was a bit of a religious nut and a total right winger. They came from upstate New York and were driving out there to check on their family, since they couldn’t get through on the phone. Dave’s folks had the flu and Dave was pretty worried. They’d loaded up the car already but wanted to come down and check on the rest of us and give their regrets. Their news was alarming but Dave was always flying off the handle so we didn’t take him too seriously. In fact, we thought he was kind of goofy. We wished them luck, said our goodbyes, and watched them drive away.
The party was a bit odd. Usually, at least nine of the twelve families would show up. Only my family, Dave, and the Johnsons had shown up so far. Bill and Mary Johnson were older retired folks and we all kept an eye on them. They played cards with my parents sometimes. Their kids and grandkids lived in town and were around all the time and they’d brought their twin grandsons, Tyler and Cody, who were twelve. Mary was watching the kids for the weekend while their parents had some time to themselves.
Most of us had summer homes or vacation places, or families or friends who had them, but we usually made a point of being together for the Labor Day party. At least five or six other families had said they would attend, but none had shown up so far. Dad and Dan decided to go and check on them.
Dad gave me a look before he left as if to say that I was in charge while he was gone. I was kind of busy flipping sausages on the grill but I caught the look and gave Dad a nod. I had no way of knowing at the time that my nod was pretty much goodbye.
Five or ten minutes later, I heard yelling, followed by a shot, followed by three more shots. I went racing up to the end of the street and saw Dad. He was standing over Dan, who was covered in blood. A few yards away were three of the Dillons, who lived in the first house on our street. All of them were bleeding. Blood poured from Jasper Dillon’s mouth and Betty Dillon’s arms and chest were torn up and dripping. The worst was Paul; a large flap of skin from his neck had been torn off and I could actually see the inside of his neck and his spine. It was surreal.
Dad called over to me: “Jack, stay away. Something’s wrong with the Dillons. They bit me and Dave and I had to shoot them. All direct hits. No one went down. I’ll hold them off but call an ambulance and the police. Do it now!”
While Dad was talking, the Dillons continued to move toward him. I called out but it was too late. All three Dillons attacked at once, clawing, scratching, and biting, and Dad went down. I rushed over to help, but Dad pointed his .357 at me and said, “Jack, go take care of your family. Now. Do it.”
I had always listened to the old man for my entire life and it was a hard habit to break. He watched me while I ran back down the street, screaming to Kate and the kids to call 911. He only got off one more shot before the Dillons covered him. I could hear him screaming as I ran.
As I sprinted back to my house, almost a half mile away, I saw Ralph Dorfman at his front door. I yelled at him to call 911. He could see the carnage in the Dillon’s front yard. He didn’t move but simply stared blankly at me. Something looked wrong with him but I couldn’t really see his face. I had to get home to Kate and the kids and call 911 from the house. I didn’t have time to wait for Ralph, who was slow at the best of times.
When I came around the corner, I saw the rest of the Dorfmans and the Olneys. They were walking slowly in a group down the middle of the street. As I ran through and past them, I asked if anyone had a cell phone. Once again, they did not respond, but simply continued to move down the middle of the street. A couple of them sort of grabbed at me but I was focused on getting home so I kept sprinting. Nick Olney in particular looked terrible. Something was wrong with his eyes. In the panic of the moment, I just kept going. I guess I was in shock.
When I got back to the picnic area, I told Kate what had happened. She was in a foul mood, due to the PMS, but she listened carefully and told Sean, our youngest, to get back to the house and grab a cell phone.
I think Kate subconsciously remembered “Zombieland” and, as usual, figured out what had happened quicker than the rest of us. She was very calm. She told everyone to stay together. I was hyperventilating and starting to shut down. I told Mike to go with Sean and to come back with my .45 just in case. I told Bobbie to stay close to me. Mike and Sean sprinted down the driveway while the rest of us stood in stunned silence, watching the Olneys and the Dorfmans approach.
I told everyone what I’d seen at the Dillons. No one could believe it, except Kate. She grabbed the pitchfork and stood ready. Mike came back with the .45 and one magazine and Sean came back with the cell phone. No cell service, even though our cell service was normally perfect. We got a message to try again later when circuits were available.
The Olneys and Dorfmans did not look good at all. They walked slowly and haltingly down the middle of the street. They looked like drunks stumbling up a set of stairs after a long night of drinking. In hindsight, they looked like movie zombies without the over the top makeup.
Nick’s eyes were leaking streams of black gore down his cheeks. The entire group was covered in blood and many of them had grievous wounds. Janet Dorfman clearly had a broken leg, since we could see her tibia through her pants. She kept coming. Jane Dorfman had what looked like a bullet hole in her shoulder. She kept coming, too.
Since I was armed, I went out in front of the group, pointed my .45 in the air, and fired a warning shot. I yelled at them to stop. They paid no attention and just kept coming.
I didn’t know what to do, so I retreated. My legs bumped against the front of a table and I lost my balance. I was stuck.
I knew that I had to shoot, but I still hesitated until Nick was almost on top of me. This kid used to be my paper boy. He’d been part of our lives for the past ten years. In fact, he was a really good paper boy. It boggled my mind that I’d have to shoot him. Everyone was crying and screaming. It was impossible to think.
The stuff running down from Nick’s eyes was more like black oil than blood. His eyes themselves were covered with a thin yellow film. I looked into his eyes and there was nothing in there at all, no way to tell if he were conscious or even alive.
He was also literally foaming at the mouth. Just as he grabbed me with his right hand, Kate screamed “shoot,” so I shot him twice in the chest with the .45. The shots blew him off of his feet and he flew back, knocking two others over as well.
I was shocked to see them all get right back up, including Nick. His entire chest was a bloody pulp but he stood. I have to admit that I puked all over myself when I saw the damage.
None of the zombies that had stayed up stopped what they were doing. They kept coming toward us. In fact, they altered their course a bit and all of them came towards me. They moved slowly, haltingly, but somehow covered a lot of ground, like they were moving in stop motion. They moaned as the mouths opened and closed.
Jane Dorfman had shambled over and gotten close to Sean. That was when Kate went off. “Away from my baby, bitch!” she hissed. Kate stabbed the pitchfork right into Jane’s eyes, which burst like rotten eggs and ran down her face. Jane dropped like a shot. The pitchfork stuck in Jane’s head, so Kate grabbed the hoe and swung it like a baseball bat at Lionel Olney, Nick’s father, who’d gotten almost within range of Sean. The edge of the hoe smashed through Lionel’s left temple, since Kate was a righty, and he went down as well.
I was the next object of Kate’s wrath. “Shoot them in the head, you idiot,” she barked. “That’s the only way you’ll get them down.” She was in rare form that day.
Picture yourself on a fishing trip in a small rowboat with two young kids. You’re hungover and it’s really hot. You’re sitting there, dripping flop sweat in the hot sun. The fish aren’t biting and the kids are fighting and squabbling. Some asshole (you) forgot to put beer in the cooler. You’ve already baited fifty hooks and untangled the kids’ lines a dozen times. You’ve tried to bribe them with other activities but they insist on catching fish. There are no f’ing fish in the lake. Finally, while you are untangling the mother of all knots for one kid, the other tries to “cast” and tangles his hook in your cheek, then starts yanking on it vigorously.
Now you know how Kate acts when she has PMS.
I had ten rounds left, because my gun was not strictly legal. I hate gun control nuts, since I'd prefer a world where a bunch of punks would simply get pistol whipped or shot if they mouthed off.
I missed with the first, blowing Janet Dorfman’s jawbone off. The next shot got her in the right eye and finished her. Phoebe Olney took two shots since the first missed completely before the second got her between the eyes. I got John Olney with one in the left temple. It looks easy in the movies, but try it in real life.
That left Chuck Olney, Marc Dorfman, and his girlfriend, whose name I didn’t know. Chuck was moving quickest so I took him first. Again, I missed, with my first shot tearing a furrow across the top of his head. I got him with the second shot, but the brand new .45 somehow jammed. I hadn’t had time to clean it or break it in, and my slide locked open on a “stove pipe” jam.