"These are not your family, folks. They are not your neighbors. They are not your friends… not any longer."
The group all looked at one another once again; eyes scanning eyes in a vain attempt to gain understanding. The radio’s terrifying voices tumbled into the room like inebriated sailors.
"…the brain…
"These things must be eradicated as quickly as possible. There’s no time for sympathy or compassion. There is no time for religious services to honor them, no time for what one might call a dignified internment. There is only time enough for their destruction and their burning."
Finally, Betty had had enough and switched off the radio.
"As long as these things have access to a food source… in other words, us," the commentator said sadly, "they simply will not run out of food."
As the speaker went silent, one last sailor fell.
"If a day were to come that they did run out of things to eat, it would only mean that we were all dead and gone."
Silence enveloped the store and the only sounds audible were the soft tapping and guttural moaning coming from the front window.
"Well, that’s just fucking crazy," Monroe sputtered over his mouthful of microwaved burrito.
"It certainly is, Son…" Dillard said in a soft voice. "It certainly is."
The gathered group stood silently, each going over in his head what they’d just heard. The more each of them thought of it, it could only be that everything that was being broadcast on the radio was true. Given that Boyd and Jocelyn still stood leering in at them through the front window and more and more people who looked as bad as they did were now wandering the parking lot, it couldn’t be argued that something horrible was indeed happening. There were now at least a dozen of them outside, each with the same drawn appearance and the same sorts of splatters of red and black on their clothing.
As all of their eyes scanned the crowd outside, one by one, the locals were able to identify them. Fred Norwood, the mechanic at the Union 76 down the road was there, his face lacerated savagely. Nick Buford, who delivered the town’s newspapers in his little truck, wandered the parking lot aimlessly. From the looks of things, his Datsun had hit something very big and very hard because his arms appeared to be broken and his chest looked caved in. Jorge Velasquez, the short order cook over at the diner, was just standing out by the phone booth; his face and upper body a landscape of hot oil burns and feverish blisters. The list went on and on. One after another they picked out both long-time friend and casual acquaintance; each of them was smashed and injured beyond repair.
As more of the reanimated dead gathered in front of the glass, the group inside became even more concerned. All of this was like nothing they’d ever imagined and so they had no past experience from which to draw. This kind of thing just didn’t happen in this small town.
Hell, this kind of thing just didn’t happen.
Period.
"Are you sure that glass will hold them?’ Cody asked. "There’s getting to be quite a few of ’em out there."
Dillard nodded.
"That glass is pretty thick, Code," he reassured. He turned and spoke to Betty behind the counter. "Betty, you remember last summer when those kids shot at the front of the store with that huntin’ rifle?"
Betty nodded and assured everyone, "It’ll hold.
"Look," interrupted Monroe as he came up from the back, wiping his hands on a napkin. "I’d love to sit around and discuss old pals and how solid the construction is on this dilapidated shithole, but… quite frankly, I’m more concerned with how we’re going to get help and get the fuck out of here."
Even though it had been put rather rudely, everyone had to admit the fella had a point.
However, any further discussion of the topic was halted when the sound of whining tires was suddenly heard from the street and all eyes turned toward the front of the store. A large brown delivery truck came careening into the parking lot; its ass end fishtailing and weaving erratically. In the seconds between the time when the truck bounded over the curb on the street and when it hit the pavement and angled toward the gas pumps, it was pretty clear that there were several more of those people—like the ones outside—hanging off the sides of the vehicle. A couple more were holding onto the back gate. A pair of legs stuck out of the passenger window, kicking at the air. On the driver’s side, a large man was holding on for all he was worth, his head angled into the window and he seemed to be fighting with the driver.
"Jesus, he’s going to hit the pumps!" Cody cried out and took a small step backward.
"Oh, my God…" Irina said dumbstruck, but remained standing near the two front doors.
There was a moment when everyone agreed that impact was imminent, but at the last second the truck veered away and, back end sliding, skated around the small but potentially explosive island. Abruptly, relief turned to panic and, to everyone’s horror, the truck high-sided and headed straight at the building. Its speed never let up as it hit the curb stops out front and became airborne.
"Ooooh, shit…" Claire whispered from her position near the magazine racks.
The truck smashed into the door and instantly shattered all three of the large panes of glass. In a shower of glittering hailstones, the windows went from protective barrier to lethal shrapnel. It all happened far too fast for anyone to document, but the end result was the same. One second they were safe and sound behind the supposedly bullet proof windows and the next all hell had broken loose. The truck continued on through the glass and crashed into the first few rows of groceries. Irina Kovalenko, who thought fleetingly of how she’d only stopped in for a moment to use the bathroom, took the brunt of the truck’s front fender in the chest. The weight of the vehicle bore down on her and slapped her to the ground. Blood gushed up and out of her mouth and in the milliseconds that it took her to draw in a breath to scream, the bulk of the truck’s weight came down on her and crushed her head and chest into paste.
Cody, who had been standing to Irina’s right, was knocked back and into the Hostess display. Cellophane-wrapped baked goods exploded around him and he fell hard to the linoleum. Dazed, it took a moment for him to gather his wits and begin to climb to his feet. No sooner did he stand up then two of the people who had been hanging off the sides of the truck sprang up from where they’d landed and swarmed over him. The three of them went down and the boy’s blood curdling scream rang out. Blood spurted into the air and painted the image of Twinkie The Kid in a deep crimson.
Once the explosion of glass and metal settled, Betty (who, when she saw the truck jump the curb, ducked behind the counter) came up and into view. She looked at the demolition that was, seconds before, the front of her store and began crying. She was desperately trying to take it all in and therefore never noticed Boyd and Jocelyn climbing through the empty window frames. Before she even knew what was happening, they were on her and the three of them disappeared behind the counter. Her screams and the sound of tearing cloth echoed in the ensuing stillness.
Stanley Dillard saw all of this go down and instinctively knew that they were in a heap of hot shit. With the store front collapsed, their only source of protection was gone. Dillard, who by now had moved away from the demolition and toward the back of the store, turned to Monroe and Claire and pushed them both in the direction of the backroom.
"Run!" he bellowed.
Monroe looked around bewildered.
"Where to?" he shouted while looking around frantically. "There’s nothing back there!"
For a split second, Dillard glanced about and realized he was right.
"The room…" Claire said. Her previous humor gone, she now sounded extremely scared. "The one that lady was talking about."
"Right! That a girl!" Dillard nodded and shoved Monroe back again. "Go!"
With that, the three of them were off and running. Claire rounded the corner first and scurried toward the storage area of the store. It was basically a long hallway which ran along the length of the back of the building. Looking quickly to the left, she noticed the back access doors to the Beer and Bulk Soda refrigerators. To the right was a roll-up door which led presumably to the loading dock outside. Next to that, set in a sturdy metal frame, was a small room addition which looked recently built. The structure looked strong and heavily armored. Its walls were made of cement and thick metal rebar could be seen threaded through the concrete. On each side of it, stacks of soda cases and metal CO2 canisters stood like sentries. Thinking that must certainly be the Count Out Room, she ran off to open the door.
As Dillard and Monroe rounded the corner, they could both hear movement coming from behind them. Small racks of food and large displays were being knocked over and a chorus of low moaning could be heard. From the sounds of it, there were at least five or six of those things running up behind them, coming on fast. Monroe’s feet suddenly went out from underneath him, his designer shoes slipping on the slick concrete. He went down with a painful sound.
Dillard heard Monroe fall and slid to a stop. He looked back and saw the people coming up the aisle toward them. They were moving far faster than he’d thought possible, but he felt as if he still had time. It wasn’t like he could just leave the guy there to be killed by those things. He raced back and grabbed Monroe by the wrist and hoisted him to his feet.
"Go! I’m going to try to hold them off!" Dillard shouted.
Monroe needed no further urging and was off like a shot. He ran to where the small hall they were in met the long one at the back of the store. He whipped his head around, trying to decide which direction he should head next.
"Phillip!" he heard Claire shout to his right.
Monroe turned and saw her holding open a metal door. Frantically, she pointed inside. He smiled and started running.
"That’s my girl!" he said between frantic breaths.
Dillard managed to grab several milk crates as well as some flats of soda which were stacked against the wall and dumped them into the aisle. It wouldn’t deter the quickly approaching crowd for long, but it should delay them long enough for him to catch up to Monroe and get inside the protection of the room. He took off running as the sound of people stumbling through the wreckage reached his ears.
He ran off and turned the corner in time to see Monroe and Claire reuniting at what could only be the Count Out Room’s door. Monroe was pushing Claire inside and he turned to grab the door’s handle.
Dillard sprinted toward them as fast as his legs would carry him. Behind him, he heard the sound of his pursuer’s feet begin to slap on the concrete. He knew he’d have to be quick or they’d catch him with the metal door open and they’d all be lost.
He ran as fast as he could, pumping his legs harder, and judged that he’d just make it.
Monroe saw Dillard coming toward him and then his focus shifted to the crowd moving rapidly behind him. There were almost a dozen of them now and they all seemed to be moving impossibly fast.
He’s not going to make it!
As Stanley Dillard got to within an arm’s length of the door, his eyes met Monroe’s. For a split second, he thought he saw Monroe silently urging him on. All of a sudden, Monroe’s expression changed and it seemed as if he’d just given up on the old man. It was as though he thought it would be too close and risking his and Claire’s lives was too much of a gamble.
As Dillard took his next—and final—step, he saw Monroe tug the door closed behind him. With a heartbreaking finality, the metal door slammed in its frame just as Dillard felt the first pair of hands latch onto his shoulders. Slamming into the door, more hands grabbed onto him and pulled him down toward the unforgiving ground.
Inside the small room, Monroe and Claire panted and held on to one another. Claire started crying and Monroe pulled her tighter. Over the sound of her sobbing, a frantic thumping and hysterical screaming from outside could be heard.
~ * ~
The next morning, Monroe and Claire awoke on the floor of the cramped Count Out Room. Once the noise from outside subsided, they’d cleared some space by pushing the chairs and assorted boxes out of the way and created a makeshift bed for themselves. The floor was freezing, so they’d spent most of the time with their arms wrapped around one another for warmth.
Lying there, Monroe repeatedly ran the scenario of what had happened to Dillard over in his mind and, as was his way, he’d even managed to convince himself that he’d done the only thing he could have by shutting the door on the man.
After all, if he hadn’t, they
all
would have died.
The only thing Monroe now found himself regretting was him not having had the foresight to grab some food before locking themselves in here. It had been a while since he’d eaten the microwaved burrito and his hunger was now something he couldn’t ignore. Claire was hungry as well. She’d been bitching about not having anything to eat since she’d woken up. Monroe wasn’t sure what she expected him to do, for chrissakes. It wasn’t like he could just unlock the door and go grab them some snacks.
The only choice they had was to wait.
So, that was what they did.
And as the hours passed, they’d done little else except lie there on the cold floor and bide their time. Hopefully, someone—the cops, the army,
someone
—would come along at some point and find them and rescue them. All they had to do was be patient. However, if too much time passed, there would be no recourse but for one of them to take the risk and go out into the store in search of rations. It’d be dangerous and, if there were still any of those things still around, that person might not make it back.
Somewhere in the back of his mind, Monroe was sure he could talk Claire into it.
And as the hours wore on, Monroe closed his eyes and he began to formulate his side of the argument.
The Mouse Print
The fading light of day came spilling in through the polarized windows of the high-rise office; rays of diffused illumination splashing across the lush carpeting in broad strokes. The slate-colored floor covering was deep, soft and very expensive. The fibers soaked up the light’s warmth like a sponge. The thick ply was not only a comfort to the feet that trod upon it, but it was also an eye-pleasing accent to the room’s deep brown mahogany walls. Near the floor-to-wall panes of glass at the far end sat a large, regal cherrywood desk. Regimented piles of paper were set in very ordered rows near a thin, white computer monitor that jutted up through a hole in the desktop. Behind the desk’s leather upholstered chair was a wall covered with framed 8x10" photos. In each, the same man grinned out excitedly from the frame with one arm around someone. Upon closer inspection, those someones were all political dignitaries, film stars, recording artists and fashion models.