It is slow going. We have to crawl through the dried blood, going around would waste too many precious minutes. Sweat pops out on my forehead as I strain. My wrists are burning, and quickly becoming raw and bloody, and I feel a bit like giving up. The only thing that keeps me going is the idea of Billy Bob coming back in here after killing Ryan and laying his disgusting, hillbilly hands on me.
We reach the tool bench, both of us panting, hot, and sweaty. I take a millisecond to rest my cheek against the cool, dusty concrete floor. It takes us a good three minutes of trying to stand up before we finally make it. Megan and I survey the bench. We both spot the box-cutting knife with its dull blade laying in a pile of junk. Megan leans forward and uses her face to knock the knife to the floor, it falls with a deafening clatter. We struggle to get back down, rolling around until Megan is able to reach it. She slices at the plastic that holds us together and gets my hand. I cry out in objection, but she doesn’t have time to apologize, and I don’t really expect it anyway, not in our current situation. She doesn’t stop sawing and hacking. Soon, I can feel the ties starting to give, and that makes the cut hand worth it. I strain against the zip ties and give a ragged cry of joy when I feel them break apart.
When our hands are free, Megan does her own feet first and then mine. She bounces up like the energizer bunny before reaching down and giving me a helping hand up. She draws the gun from the waist band of her pants. Thankfully, Billy Bob hadn’t thought to frisk us—thank God. I guess looking like a pair of underage tween’s has finally worked to our advantage.
“Maybe over there?” I suggest, bringing my bloody hand up to point at a door that hopefully leads somewhere other than the route Billy Bob took.
Together we run over and listened intently. We don’t hear any moaning or groaning, so Megan aims her gun at the door. I quickly grow a pair and throw it open so Megan can shoot.
The smell hits us right away, and my mind starts screaming zombie. I am so sure we have screwed up and opened the door on a zombie. As the light filters in through the open doorway, the darkness becomes a little less dark, and I begin to notice the buzzing of flies. I let out a gasp when I see the crumpled body on the floor.
It’s a bathroom and in it is a woman’s body, a few years older than us, and she is in rough shape. Tears prick my eyes as I stare down at her mangled body. I feel for a pulse, but she’s just cold. I go cold too, I don’t want this to happen to us. We have to get out of here.
Tears are slipping down Megan’s cheeks, and she looks furious. We hear the pop of gunfire ring out from the parking lot. Megan’s face grows grimmer, if that’s even possible. Without another word, she marches out the same door that Billy Bob took.
“Megan,” I hiss, sure she is about to get herself shot, but she ignores me and keeps walking. When we emerge back into the gas station, we are momentarily blinded by the sun. Our eyes adjust quickly. We follow the sound of gunfire to find Billy Bob crouched behind a stack of tires, laughing like a mad man while he aims and shoots his rifle at Ryan and Abby.
Ryan and Abby have taken cover behind the Suburban and seem to be alright. Ryan is trying to return fire, though Billy Bob has pretty good cover.
Megan doesn’t even hesitate as she lifts her gun and aims. The gun lets out a horribly loud bang. Then the back of Billy Bob’s head explodes, spraying anything within five feet with little bits of bone chips and brains.
“Megan!” I cry out in horror. She has just killed a man in cold blood. I begin to hyperventilate not for the first time today.
“Did you not see what he did to that woman back there?” Megan snaps at me.
Reluctantly, I nod. How could I forget? I will never forget; the image is seared into my brain.
“That would have been us. Or if we had managed to escape, that would have been the next poor woman or kid that was unlucky enough to stop here. That guy was a rabid animal, and he needed to be put down.”
I nod numbly, my panic attack subsiding a little. She is right. I don’t think I would have been able to pull the trigger, but thank God she did.
Ryan comes running over, his weapon still drawn. “Holy shit!” he yells when he sees the dead guy. He looks at Megan like he doesn’t know what to say.
Megan ignores him and holsters her weapon while she walks over to the vehicle. I stare after her as she gets in the back seat and slams the door. I can feel Ryan’s eyes on me, questioning.
“He deserved it,” is all I say before I follow Megan out to the Suburban. The reasonable part of me knows that we can still use stuff from the gas station, but the current sixteen-year-old, traumatized version won’t let me step foot back in that place.
Abby climbs into the passenger seat and none of us say a word. Ryan disappears into the store for ten minutes before coming out with a bag full of stuff, his face so grim that I know he must have found the woman in the bathroom.
“I found flashlights and batteries, and some other stuff,” is all he says when he slides into the driver’s seat and adjusts the position to fit his tall frame.
He passes the bag back to me, and I add it to our rapidly increasing pile of stuff. The gas cans are strapped to the roof with bungee cords. I’m glad they aren’t in the cab, the smell would have given me an instant migraine. The way today is going, I don’t need any help.
Ryan puts the vehicle into drive and pulls out far more smoothly than Megan has managed so far. Since I just saw her blow a guy’s head apart, I wisely keep the criticism about her driving to myself. Abby pulls the map out and shows Ryan the direction to take, and pretty soon, we are back on the main road.
None of us speak for a long time. Abby rummages around in the glove box and finds a mix cd. She pops it into the player, and soon we have music filling the cab. It’s nice to hear something so normal. I’m pretty sure the upbeat Pop isn’t Ryan’s usual jam, but he doesn’t complain, and it is way better than the static.
We skirt around towns, but we can’t miss seeing all the damage and destruction. We pass more zombies than people. The few remaining people we do see, passing by in other vehicles, look heartbroken and weary as they drive by with long, pale faces. Weirdly, seeing these people actually makes me feel worse.
I think a lot about Ryan as we drive. Up until earlier today, we had no idea how lucky we’d been to come across someone decent. Had Billy Bob stumbled across us earlier, without weapons, without someone like Ryan…we could have been dead right now—or worse, wishing we were dead. Not for the first time today, I thank God for Ryan’s appearance in our lives.
My thoughts turn to my parents next, and I pull out my phone from my pocket. There are no bars, but I still have half of my battery power left. I click my camera and flip through some photos of my parents and me on a Disneyland vacation a few months ago. A horrible pain begins in my chest as I look at our smiling faces, and I flip the hood up on my sweater and turn my face to the window as I begin to cry.
I’m not sure when I fell asleep, but I wake up to Megan shaking me gently.
“What’s going on?” I ask, my senses already on full alert.
“We need to find somewhere to stay for the night.”
I feel a shudder go through me at the idea of dealing with any more of this crap.
We are on some rural country road. Ryan signals and pulls into a driveway. The yard looks like it has been well maintained. He pulls up in front of the house and gets out of the vehicle, looking around for any sign of the undead.
We don’t get very far before the front door creaks open, and we are greeted with the business end of a shotgun.
“I don’t care what you want, but you better get gone.” An older man, with a terrified woman staring out at us over his shoulder, is standing in the doorway.
“Sir, we are just looking for a safe place to stay the night,” Ryan inquires politely, but his statement is met with the sound of the shotgun being pumped.
“We’ll be on our way then, we don’t want any trouble,” Ryan holds his hands up to show that he’s not reaching for a weapon while he gets in the car. I notice that, even though his demeanor is relaxed, he’s careful to keep an eye on the gun until we are out of its range.
“We’ll try the next one,” he says with determination and picks a driveway a few miles up the road.
My heart is pounding in my throat. After our experience with Billy Bob, I am so leery of live people. The yard is filled with old junker cars that are rusted out, some are up on blocks and others look like the tires have simply melted into the grass. I don’t like it.
“Maybe we shouldn’t stop here either,” Megan says, voicing my own concerns.
Ryan glances at his watch. “Alright, but we only have about another hour of daylight,” he warns.
We all nod in agreement; I don’t think any of us want to stay at this house.
The next farm is much less creepy and we pull in. It’s actually a log cabin with a beautiful wrap-around verandah. Ryan gets out and knocks on the door, but there isn’t any answer. After a full five minutes of waiting, we try the knob and find it locked.
“Great,” Abby mutters, but Ryan doesn’t seem very upset.
“Will you girls keep an eye out for zeds?” he instructs us.
We nod, turning around to look out at the yard.
From the corner of my eye, I see Ryan digging around in a flower pot, lifting the welcome mat, and moving various rocks scattered around the deck. He stops for a moment and scans the porch before heading over to a weathered-looking BBQ. “Yes!” he exclaims excitedly, and we turn to see him holding up a key. “Found the spare.” His excitement is infectious, and we all grin like idiots over our small victory.
“Keep your guard up,” Ryan warns.
Megan nods.
We send Abby back to the car to keep the motor running in case we need a quick getaway. She readily agrees, and I’m pretty sure she isn’t ready to face a zombie. Who would be?
The house is already dark enough that I don’t really want to go in.
Ryan runs back to the vehicle and pulls out one of the flashlights he took from the gas station. “Ready?” he asks.
I shake my head. I’m not, but I don’t really have a choice.
The beam of the flashlight cuts through the darkness, illuminating a path through the darkened house. The three of us move as one unit as we enter. The smell of something decaying hits us right away.
“Don’t fire your gun unless it’s a last resort, we don’t want to attract anything,” Ryan warns Megan.
From the corner of my eye, I can see him holstering his own nine millimetre in favor of a large, curved hunting knife that he’s been carrying on his belt since the gas station. The thought that he’s planning to stab something to death, even an ex-human to re-death, is disturbing to me. The house looks like it was well cared for when it had occupants. The walls are lined with family photographs, and it makes a lump form in my throat, so I look away. A thumping noise up ahead is a bitter reminder that, obviously, this house still has at least one occupant.
My steps falter, but Ryan’s never do. He moves cautiously towards the noise. I’m reminded of that commercial…maybe it was about firemen…they are running into danger when everyone else is running out. It is such an odd thought to pop into my head at this moment. I actually smirk, which feels totally creepy and out of place in this serious situation.
Ryan comes to a stop outside a closed door. The wood looks as if whatever is inside has been trying to get out for a while now.
“I think there’s only one,” Ryan speaks after listening intently for a full five minutes. His voice sounds like he’s using a megaphone to advertise our location. I want to climb underneath a blanket and hide.
Inside the room, the clawing and scratching gets worse. The zombie lets out a feral growl, and it makes my legs turn to jelly. I’ve never intentionally been this close to one before, not without running for my life, or trying to bash their head in.
“Can’t we just leave it in there?” I ask, not proud of the whine that has wormed its way into my voice.
But, of course, Ryan shakes his head.
“We can’t risk it getting out in the middle of the night and surprising us.”
His words make sense. Yet, I also have the biggest urge to stomp my foot like a toddler and shout “But, I don’t wanna!”
“We need to get comfortable handling these things,” he lectures.
I want to be mad at Ryan, but he makes perfect sense. Once again, I realize how lucky we were to find him. I shudder to think what would have happened to us.
I look at the large hunting knife clenched in his fist; Megan has her pistol drawn and held at the ready, just in case.
“What do you want me to do?” I ask.
Ryan sends me a small smile like he’s happy I’m on board.
“I’ll try and knock it back with the door, just be ready in case something happens or there’s more than one of them in there.”
I hold my golf club at the ready, though I really should find myself a better weapon since it took me about a hundred hits to put down the last zombie.
The door is the kind that swings back into the room, which gives us a bit of an advantage. Ryan signals to us, and Megan and I back up several steps. Ryan turns the knob and hits the door open as hard as he can. We hear a thump and a groan as the zombie gets knocked backwards. It was probably standing there licking the door knob when Ryan threw it open. Ryan does a quick scan of the room before running in. I follow on his heels and see the zombie scrabbling on its back, trying desperately to get up. The random thought that it reminds me a bit of a turtle flits through my brain before I push the inappropriate thought to the back of my mind.
Ryan plants his boot in the center of the zed’s chest and raises his knife, getting ready to swing down. He stops suddenly and looks at me. In the dim light that’s filtering in through the open window, I take an unconscious step back. It’s like we are connected through some sort of psychic link, and I already know what he’s going to say.
“Jane…”
My name has me lifting my eyes off the struggling corpse.
“You need the practice. This is the best scenario we can hope for to figure this out.” His attention is on the struggling zombie that he is managing to pin down with his heavy work boots, but he’s holding the enormous blade out to me.
I take a tentative step forward, then stop. Killing the zombie to save Ryan was one thing; I’m not sure I could do it again.
“This is life and death, Jane,” Megan chimes in and I turn a glare on her—the traitor.
It has already been made abundantly clear that Megan has no problem killing anything.
“He’s already dead,” Megan encourages me.
Still, I stand there, numb, unable to make a decision.
“Every minute you waste thinking about this is a chance I could get bit standing here,” Ryan snaps and that spurs me into motion.
I reach for the blade with trembling fingers.
“Hold it so it’s comfortable for you,” Ryan instructs me as his warm fingers wrap around my icy ones. “You want to put the whole weight of your body into your swing, and aim for the head…the eye or somewhere that will be easy to hit, like the temple. You don’t have a lot of weight behind you, so you’ll have to go for the easier kills until I can teach you how to shoot.”
I close my eyes for a minute and swallow down some of my fear.
“Don’t shut your eyes!” Ryan yells at me, snapping me out of my mental preparations.
The zombie’s bloodied hands and broken, chipped fingernails make wet scratching noises as he claws helplessly at the linoleum floor. I tell my mind to go blank. Then, with Ryan’s words echoing in my head, I swing hard.
I’m aiming for his eye, but he moans and my aim gets thrown off. The knife embeds in his cheek, hitting bone as the blade loses its momentum. The zombie’s teeth snap dangerously close to my wrist, and pure adrenaline shoots through my body, giving me the strength to pull the knife from the zed’s tattered face.
I aim more carefully this time, and the knife hits true. The noise of stabbing a human eyeball is terrible, and my hand is coated in black, sludgy blood. I begin shaking—maybe I never stopped—as the zombie gives its own final shake and stops moving permanently.
I leave the knife in the zombie’s skull and turn to walk away. I’m sure I’m going to throw up again. As I huddle in the corner of the room, waiting for the familiar burn in my throat, it doesn’t come. I suck in deep, steadying breaths and oddly begin to feel my pulse hammer a little less.
Good God, am I actually getting used to this crap? Ryan pulls his knife from the corpse and uses a pillowcase he found in the bedroom to wipe the gore off.
Ryan gives me a nod and I respond with a sickly smile.
“Happy now?” I ask, and he frowns.
“I didn’t make you do that to be mean, Jane. Nothing about this situation makes me happy, but I want you to be able to survive.” Ryan looks pissed off at me.
I deflate even more, if that’s possible. I think about saying sorry, but he’s already moved away from me, and the snub hurts.
“Let’s clear the rest of the house,” he barks the orders and motions for Megan to follow him.
Neither of them wait to see if I follow, but of course I do. I’m too chicken to be alone.
We move through the house, silent as wraiths, following the beam of the flashlight. It’s pretty much pitch black now, and I’m kicking myself that we didn’t stop sooner. All of the rooms are clear upstairs, so we move back downstairs. Ryan points to a door we haven’t opened yet, and we all stand frozen outside listening. Ryan opens the door with his knife at the ready, and all three of us brace ourselves as the unmistakable smell of death hits us. We wait in the threshold while Ryan swings his light back and forth. It’s a garage with a car inside, but nothing runs out to attack us.
“Be careful,” Ryan whispers as he moves deeper into the room.
It feels like the beginning of every horror movie I have ever seen. I want to yell out, “Don’t go in the garage!” But Ryan and Megan already think I’m the weakest link, so I keep my mouth shut.
Ryan scans the room with his light, and it’s just bare walls and a few paint cans. Next, he gets down on his knees and does a sweep under the car.
Something catches my eye. I look inside the car and let out an involuntary squeak. There’s a body sitting in the driver’s seat.
Ryan swings around to look at me, and I point to the car. He shines the light inside, illuminating the corpse; this one appearing to be dead for real.
It’s an older woman. If I had to guess, I would say the man we just killed in the bedroom was her husband. Ryan shines the light back to the tailpipe, and there’s a green garden hose sticking out of it that loops back into the window.
“She killed herself.” Megan says, making me jump. Her voice sounds overly loud inside the small garage.
“The house is clear,” Ryan says, turning away dispassionately.
If I hadn’t seen his face at that exact moment, I would have thought none of this bothered him.
“Let’s go get Abby, cover the windows, and search for useable supplies,” he suggests.
We are surprisingly efficient as we move through the kitchen, pilfering canned goods to add to our slowly growing pile. Ryan and Abby tape black garbage bags over the windows to keep the light of the flashlights from getting out while Megan and I pull together a semi-decent dinner of salty spam on crackers with canned peaches. We eat in silence and wash it down with warm pop that we found in the fridge. Ryan finds a beer and pops the top, taking a long swallow. I stare at him from underneath my eyelashes, wondering if he is old enough to drink it legally—not that it matters anymore.
Upstairs, we tape more bags over the windows and settle into the master bedroom. There is a king-sized bed that we decide to share to keep warm. There are some candles next to the bed. Megan walks over and lights them up. In an instant, the room is illuminated in a soft glow. Abby sits on the bed while Ryan claim’s the chair. I go into the bathroom to wash my hands and face. I take one of the flashlights with me and stare at myself in the mirror. I look the same, but also completely different.
I wash my hands first and then my face, staring longingly at the large jet tub. I pull my toothbrush out of my bag and give my teeth a good, hard scrubbing. They were starting to feel fuzzy, and I am a little disgusted with myself. Next, I rub on half a tube of deodorant and comb the tangles and gore out of my hair. I find a small bone chip and cringe; the old Jane would have thrown up. I decide that cold water be damned, I am washing my hair.
There is shampoo sitting on the edge of the tub. I run some ice cold water, just enough to dip my head in. I nearly get brain freeze, but grit my teeth to get through it. I go to drain the water and I see that it’s stained pink, which makes me doubly glad that I forced myself to tough it out. I towel my hair semi-dry before throwing it up in a ponytail.
When I leave the bathroom, bag in hand, everyone glances up at me for a minute before going back to what they’d been doing. Abby bounces off the bed and claims the bathroom next, Ryan looks back down at the book he had been reading, and Megan goes back to rummaging through the closet.
I walk over to see what Megan’s up to.
“Find anything good?” I ask her.
She nods. “A few things, they aren’t really my style, but they’re clean and dry.” She’s surrounded by piles of stuff.
I pull a pair of jeans from a hanger. They are mom jeans, but they aren’t covered in guts like my own stylish designer pair.
“Mind if I take these?” I ask.
She nods her permission. “Sure. Take some of these socks too,” She instructs and hands me five clean pairs.
I smile as I tuck them into my backpack before ducking into the closet to shimmy out of my old jeans and put the new ones on. They are a little big, but they stay up alright. I stand for a minute, debating what to do with my old jeans before throwing them down on the ground and leaving them. There isn’t any electricity, and I doubt I would be able to get the zombie guts out of them anyway. I decide to wear these mom jeans until we get to the safety of the cabin, then I will risk wearing the last two pairs of good jeans in my backpack.
I lie down on the bed and stare at Ryan beneath my lashes until I pass out a few minutes later.
I am exhausted despite the trauma of the last three days, but mostly because of it. There were times when I thought I would never be able to sleep again, obviously, that would be physically impossible though. I’m asleep as soon as my head hits the pillow, and I send off a quick prayer that I will still be alive when I wake up in the morning.
I am running through a field filled with green grass. Suddenly, my Mom and Dad are running beside me. “Come on Janey.” My Dad calls out as he grabs my hand and pulls me along faster. I look behind us and see that there are zombies closing in. One putrid, rotting hand reaches out and snags in my hair. I collapse on the ground, screaming. I turn to my Dad to tell him to keep running, but then I’m not holding my Daddy’s hand anymore. The leering face of Billy Bob from the gas station hovers over top of me. I let out a scream of terror and try to back away from him, but I can feel his arms around me like twin steel bands. Panic takes over and I begin fighting.
“Jane…Jane!”
I open my eyes. I’m sweating bullets and sitting upright in bed, panting. I look over and see Ryan sitting beside me with his arm wrapped protectively around me, and I wonder if it wasn’t his arms I was feeling in my dream.