Deathly Contagious (6 page)

Easier said than done.

The herd of zombies emerged from the woods. I ducked behind an overturned car, holding my breath. They marched back toward the hospital, thankfully. I took off running, my boots hitting the pavement with too much noise for my liking. I ran down the street until I couldn’t stand the pain anymore, running past neat little houses and cute store fronts, abandoned and trashed by the undead. Reluctantly, I stopped and unlaced my boot.

“Great,” I muttered upon seeing my swollen ankle. There was nothing I could do for it so I laced my boot back up and limped off again. The scent of decay hit me and my blood instantly turned into ice. I looked around but didn’t see any zombies. I froze and held my breath; I didn’t hear any either.

“What the hell?” I asked myself, taking another step, following the sickening smell of death. Maybe I shouldn’t have cared. Maybe I should have let dead things lie.

But I knew it wasn’t right. I knew passing the house that reeked like an unplugged fridge full of meat would mean a surprise later. I pulled the bow off my shoulder and pulled and arrow back. I kicked the door open, the hinges squeaking in protest. The smell was so bad I gagged. Holding my breath, I took a tentative step in.

Light spilled in through the windows. Blood trailed in a very particular path on the hardwood floors. And it looked like more than one body had been dragged through this small house. I entered the living room, my eyes darting around like crazy and my heart beating a million miles an hour. Every breath that escaped my lungs seemed too loud. Never in my life had I wanted to blend in or be invisible. It would be so freaking practical to be that now.

The living room was set up like any living room should have been. Thick dust covered the magazines on the coffee table. A cup of purple juice had been knocked over, staining the light blue rug. I had to pull the collar of my black turtleneck over my nose. The smell got even more pungent as I neared the kitchen. And it was oblivious why.

About half a dozen bodies were haphazardly discarded on the floor. Tangled up with one another, their lifeless faces held back twisted horror. Terrified curiosity forced me to look at them longer than what was psychologically healthy. Images of festering, gapping mouths burned into my memory.

I snapped out of the nightmare reverie and forced myself to think logically. Ok, there was nothing logical about a pile of dead bodies in the kitchen.

“Dead,” I whispered. “All dead, but no bullet wounds.” At least none to the head. I walked around the disgusting pile and noticed the torn open abdomens with missing guts. “Stomachs,” I said to the bodies.

Something banged against a wall deep inside the house. I jumped. I positioned the arrow in the bow and left the kitchen, following the source of the noise. I went down a hall, which, of course, didn’t have any windows.

A scurrying came from behind a closed door. Not wanting to free my hands of my weapons, I kicked it. The door swung opened, revealing a healthy looking S1. He was tall, fit, and at one point kinda cute. He didn’t even have time to get up before the arrow cracked open his skull and pierced his brain, sending little bits of skin and bone splattering on the wall behind him. I hung the bow over my shoulder and yanked the arrow free, having to pull extra hard to get it out of his head.

This room smelled putrid too. The guy I had just killed had been feasting on a stomach. I kicked it out of his hand, nearly retching at the scent. Behind him was a pile of stomachs.

“What the fuck?” I asked nobody. They were neatly laid out and…sorted? No, crazies weren’t that smart. Along with human emotions, their intelligence was damaged by the virus. Covering my mouth and nose, I looked at what was in front of me. I thought the stomachs were divided by size or even species.

The one the crazy was eating leaked contents over the floor, smelling like a dead animal that was shoved up someone’s ass and then shit out. I took one last look; it appeared he had ripped it open and was eating whatever was inside. Ok, that was just gross, even for me.

I quickly got out of the house. A few stragglers meandered down the street. I pulled back an arrow and shot two S2’s. I retrieved my arrows, wiped off the goo, and trudged forward. After another mile of walking, I knew I needed to stop for the night. The last rays of light from the sun were almost gone and my ankle was killing me. I needed to rest it in case I needed to make a fast getaway, which was only inevitable.

I looked up and down the street I was on. Most of the store fronts had been broken, giving the impression that this town had been looted. Hunger drove me to limp inside a mini mart. Everything edible on the shelves was gone. Not giving up just yet, I took out my flashlight and made my way into the break room.

I held my breath when I opened the fridge. An unopened bottle of water sat on the bottom shelf. Someone’s yogurt parfait had molded over and dripped out onto it. Grimacing only slightly, I took it out and wrapped the bottle in a napkin. I found a can of chicken noodle soup along with a box of expired crackers in a cabinet covered with mouse droppings. Both the soup and the water were frozen.

Feeling the mini mart didn’t offer enough protection, I crossed the parking lot and stopped in front of a pet store. The glass windows and doors where still intact. I put my hands on the cold glass doors and pushed, forcing the automatic doors open. Leaving them ajar, I stepped inside.

The place seemed orderly, although I didn’t think it was surprising that no one had looted the pet store. As much as Americans loved their pets, I bet many were left behind and forgotten when the virus struck. Without making a sound, I moved to the back of the store.

A big S3 in a blue jacket slithered around the floor. He was so far gone he wasn’t worth an arrow. I picked up a can of dog food and chucked it at his head, which popped open like a rotten pumpkin. I stepped over the body, turned on my flashlight and took a look in the storage room. Besides the norm, it was empty.

This was as good of place as any to bunker down in for the night. I went back to the front of the store to close the doors. There was an office behind the registers and it had a steel door that seemed sturdy enough. I didn’t like the idea of locking myself in a room. As long as they quietly shuffled in, I could open the door to a zombie surprise party.

I grabbed a dog bed, a big metal bowl and a bag of small animal bedding. I heaved it all up onto a shelf then climbed up myself. I shoved bags of dog food onto the floor; they split open and kibble rolled out on impact. I sat on the bed and dumped the shavings into the bowl. I pulled a box of matches from my pocket and struck on, dropping it into the bowl.

It took a few attempts to get the fire going. I took the can of soup and placed it in the middle. Careful not to melt the plastic, I held the water over the flames. My appetizing dinner had only halfway thawed when the fire went out. Not wanting to waste anymore matches, I decided it was good enough.

“Goddammit,” I swore when I looked at the can of soup. I had no way of opening it. I was just about to throw it angrily on the ground when I had an idea. I wedged the can between two bags of food and pulled out my M9. Regretfully wasting a bullet, I pulled the trigger.

I shook the can before putting it to my lips. The warm broth spilled from the bullet hole and into my mouth. Careful not to swallow any metal fragments that might have fallen into the soup, I ate as much as I could, knowing that this could very well be all I get for a while. My ankle throbbed but I didn’t want to take my boot off in fear I wouldn’t be able to get it back on. I loosened the laces and leaned against the wall.

I was tired, physically and mentally. And I was pissed, so pissed that I had been left behind like a piece of garbage. I ripped open a bag of dog food and spent the next several hours throwing it into the aisle. I couldn’t stop shivering. I unbraided my hair, hoping I could gain a little bit of warmth from its length. I closed my eyes, wanting to fall asleep. My brain wouldn’t allow it; every little noise made me jump to alertness, my heart instantly racing in fear.

Sometime in the hazy purple dawn, I drifted into a restless sleep, waking only an hour or so later. I eased off the shelf, stretched and gathered up my things. My first order of business was finding a car. I only had two clips left for my Beretta plus the arrows. Finding more weapons was my second priority. Food and water was third, though, if I got a car and drove straight to the compound, going a day with no food or water wouldn’t kill me.

My ankle didn’t hurt as badly as before, but it still wasn’t as good as normal. Ignoring it, I set off into the parking lot. There were three cars still in it and they were all new. I couldn’t hot wire anything hybrid. Moving on, I went back into the street. I kept my hand poised over the bow, ready to send a black arrow flying into the face of anything that got in my way.

And that’s exactly what I did when a lone S2 came around a corner. He saw me, turned away and let out a high pitched yell before he dropped to the ground. I thought it was strange, the way he almost let out a call when he saw me. It didn’t matter anymore. I stepped on his puffy chest,—something snapped and popped under my weight— grabbed my arrow, and pulled. It slid free from his rotten brain with ease. I was shaking it clean when five zombies ran around the same corner. Mouths gleaming with fresh blood, they had full bellies and were wicked fast.

Using the arrow as a spear, I drove it into the open mouth of the closest zombie. I kicked another in the chest; she staggered back, tripping over the curb. I knocked another to the ground before I curb stomped the S2 that reached for my feet. I pulled the M9 and shot two more in the head.

More zombies staggered out into the street. The herd hadn’t dispersed after all. They were all here, coming after me. There was no way I could take them all down. Not alone. I finished the clip, shoved a new one in and took the M9 in my left hand. I pulled my knife out with the other and set off to freedom, killing as many undead bastards as I could.

Two zombies tag teamed me. I spun around, my foot landing in the face of the shorter one while the knife sliced the other’s neck open. His head flopped back, sending him off balance. His arms were still held out in front of him and he blindly grabbed for me. I dropped and rolled out of the way just in time for him to fall, his skull bursting like a water balloon filled with rotten pea soup as it hit the pavement.

I fired a round into the nose of a young zombie, whose white dress was stained with pus and blood. They just kept coming, tripping over each other as they pushed their way to me. I jumped over a car, sliding over the hood and out of the reach of a fat S3. I plunged the knife into his forehead.

I slipped on ice as I sprinted down an alley behind the stretch of stores. I ran across a field and entered the woods again. I kept running until I was out of breath. I had outrun the zombies—for now. I stopped, doubling over as I panted. I pulled the water bottle out of my pocket, thankful all the running increased my body heat and further melted the ice. I drank what I could, recapped the bottle and pushed forward, sure I would come out on a road soon enough.

I was wrong. Hours later, I was still in the forest. Ice coated snowflakes burned my already frozen cheeks. I zipped my coat up as far as it would go. Shivering, I lifted my legs higher than necessary as I marched on, hoping to increase my blood flow and warmth into my cold limbs. I rubbed my arms, flinching in pain when I touched my wrist. I had forgotten about the slice on my wrist. I pushed my sleeve up; the skin around the cut was red and puffy, sure signs of an infection. I scooped up a handful of snow and put it on my aching skin. I wiggled my toes, desperately wanting to gain the feeling back in my feet. It didn’t help so I forced myself into a jog.

I quickly got out of breath and my heart hammered in my chest. I stopped, feeling suddenly weak and dizzy. I sank onto the cold ground, the hard snowflakes panging against my face.

Which felt hot.

Damn it.

This wasn’t happening. I didn’t have time for this. I pulled my sleeve back and looked at the cut. Yes, it was definitely infected.

“No,” I told myself. “You do not have blood poisoning.” If I did, I’d be dead in a day. I forced myself to my feet. I made it another half an hour before the nausea hit. Dragging my feet, I continued. There was no stopping now, not if I wanted to live.

My body broke out in uncontrollable shivers, which only worsened the horrible feeling in my stomach. The snowfall increased, decreasing my visibility. A crazy could easily sneak up on me, though even if I saw it a mile away, all I could do was shoot; I was in no condition to fight.

“Hah,” I said to myself. As if I could hold the pistol steady enough to get a good shot. I stopped to pee as the sun set, realizing that it was the first time I had to go to the bathroom all day. I knew that it was partially because I hadn’t had much to drink, still, I couldn’t help but worry my organs were shutting down due to the poisonous bacteria that floated in my blood.

I trudged forward, slipping and falling. The jolt sent my queasy stomach over the edge and I threw up what little food I had eaten. Unable to get up, I crawled forward. I don’t know how much time passed. My hands and knees had gone numb. I was so weak I could barely move.

When I saw the light ahead, I figured it was some sort of reverse mirage. Instead of seeking cool, refreshing relief from a hot desert, I wanted to be warm, warm and well. Somehow I managed to pull myself to my feet. In a stage of delirium, I fell several times as I emerged from the forest and plodded up the gravel driveway.

It had been plowed, I could tell since several security lights blared blindly bright lights. I felt like I was stumbling around wasted, except that I was fighting to stay conscious and alive with every breath. It was so hard to get my feet up the stairs. I remembered knocking on the door, thinking that I better pull it together or whoever was in the house might shoot me on sight, thinking I was a zombie.

I took a deep breath and widened my eyes, which desperately wanted to close. A young boy answered the door, holding a shotgun in his hands.