The plan was as follows: get across town, by any means necessary, to our friend Steven’s place. Steven’s house, on Westphal Avenue, was only a few blocks from (college name omitted), so it would be easy to judge the damage done by…well, whatever had caused this. Not to mention that Steven's dad was in the senate, so somebody was sure to be on their way to rescue him.
There were flaws in our plan, however. We soon learned that the zombies were not only gathering in numbers, but they all seemed to be drawn to our house. Maybe it was the lights and the sound of our voices. Maybe it was the smell of the fresh flesh that paced within, thinking of the fastest route to Steven’s…
“Okay, so if we take Braybury to Huron, we can—“
“No, no, that would take way too long. Besides, that puts us all the way down by the river.”
Behind Brad, the kitchen window nearly gave way as one of the zombies ram his forehead right into the glass. BANG.
“Exactly, maybe some kind of chemical was dumped or got into the water somehow—“
“That wouldn’t matter,” Greg chimed in.
“Why not?”
More hands against the glass, now. BANG. BANG.
“Our tap water doesn’t come from the river, Alan.”
“Alright, fine. We can take Braybury to Charleston and hang a left by the Pump ‘n’ Munch, cut behind the high school and go up Washburn. Any objections to that?”
Brad and Greg looked at Each other, then back at me.
“What about Maggie?”
Shit. I’d forgotten about her. Maybe we could put her in the basement…or upstairs and lock the door. No, they’d definitely be able to get into a locked bedroom. Hell, they nearly ate their way through the fencing around her kennel.
“Does she get motion sickness?” I asked Greg.
He shook his head.
After helping the overweight German Shepherd into the back of Greg’s (car type omitted) and putting a few more weapons/projectiles in with her, we headed back into the kitchen to make sure we weren’t forgetting anything important.
I rummaged through the fridge and cupboards for anything of nutritional value, to keep us moving. A few packages of dried fruit (high in carbs, for a nice boost of energy), a whole bunch of Greg’s homemade jerky (very lightweight and full of protein), some peanut butter, a few 20 oz bottles of water, and a large dark chocolate bar, compliments of my sweet tooth.
As I packed the food into my backpack, Brad walked around the first floor, snapping shots of the rampaging hoard with his digital camera. Every time the flash went off, the zombies became increasingly agitated. Brad laughed as he walked from the dining room to the kitchen.
“Smile, you sick fuckers,” he said as he took another shot out the window above the sink. He turned toward me, smiling. “You think I could sell these to the Enquirer for some cash when this is over?”
I looked up at him disapprovingly. As I looked back into my bag and Greg walked in from the hallway, my ears began to ring again. This time it actually hurt. I dropped the bag to the floor and put my hands to my ears while simultaneously, one of the zombies finally managed to shatter the window. Brad recoiled, holding his arms out in defense. A blood covered arm reached in, grabbing his left hand. I grabbed the counter to steady myself and pointed towards Brad. “Help Brad!” I said.
In what seemed like a second, Greg launched himself across the kitchen, forcing a butcher’s knife through the zombie’s hand. The guy shrieked and sunk back into the gyrating mass of un-dead monsters. As his screaming faded to the back of the yard, it wasn’t getting any quieter. Suddenly, the ringing stopped and I saw who had been screaming: it was Brad. He was holding his left hand in his right, blood racing down his arms.
“My…my…” he held out his left hand, sans thumb. “You cut off my thumb, man…” he said, obviously in mild shock. “You cut off my…thumb…”
Greg’s eyes widened. He looked from Brad’s hand to the counter, where his thumb lay next to a few spots of blood and his camera. “Oh my God, Brad, I’m so sorry. I was trying to get him off of you and—“
“You cut off my fucking thumb, Greg!”
“I’m sorry!”
The shock subsided and anger took over. He grabbed Greg around the neck as best he could with his good hand and began trying to punch him in the face with his bloody fist.
“Hey!” Greg protested, “Stop! I said I was sorry!”
“Brad, he didn’t mean to—“
Brad’s eyes had gone crazy. “He cut off my goddamn thumb!” he shrieked as he saw me coming towards them.
“Let him go, Brad,” I said, putting my arms around his waist and attempting to pry him off of Greg.
“Let me go, man!” Greg yelled, trying to shield his face from the bloody blows.
“My thumb! You fucker!” Brad continued to wail.
“Brad, let him go!” I yelled as I pulled harder.
Most people don’t believe me when I tell them that Brad lost his thumb by way of a butcher knife. They say, “It must’ve been one of the zombies, bit right into it,” or “Yeah right, you guys cut it off him while he was asleep and used it for bait, didn’t you?” I was also asked how we made it out of the house alive. The window had been broken, right? How is it that none of us had been bitten or eaten? After they broke the window, the zombies just stood back and watched us argue? Yeah right.
Believe me, the zombies kept trying to get in, but since there were so many trying to get in at once, they were unable to send in even one assassin. They kept slamming their limbs against the windows and doors but couldn’t gain any ground.
After we calmed Brad down, we took him to the garage and using the first aid kit from the back of Greg’s (car type omitted), bandaged up his left hand. The ride across town wasn’t very pleasant. Brad kept shooting backhanded comments at Greg.
My favorite was when we were coming up on the high school. We hadn’t seen a single living soul the entire ride when we finally saw a sign. Literally. Someone had made a sign with permanent markers and hung it in one of the second story classroom’s windows: HELP US! WE ARE NOT ZOMBIES.
“Alright, someone else is alive, after all.” Greg said from the back seat.
“Hey, that’s good news,” Brad said from the front seat, turning his head back towards Greg. “Give me five—oh wait, I mean four.”
I tried my hardest not to laugh but as I put the (car type omitted) in park, I couldn’t help but chuckle a little bit under my breath.
After parking, we sat for a moment, surveying our surroundings. The last thing we needed was to get ambushed by a group of the dead bastards. The lot was empty, save for our (car type omitted), it’s silver matching that of the morning sky.
“Leave the doors open,” I said as I pushed mine open. “Makes for a faster getaway.”
Thunder rumbled in the distance as we pulled our weapons from the rear of the SUV. I had my bat, Brad had his two-by-four and two butcher’s knives and Greg had his four-foot steel shovel. Leaves and rocks crunched underfoot as we approached the front door of the school, spinning our tools nervously in clammy hands. A breeze traced our backs, the scent of rain not far off infiltrated my nostrils.
“Okay,” I said, “I’ll yank the door open, you guys go in, back-to-back, spinning in a full circle, slowly, to survey the scene.”
Brad and Greg stared at me, turned their eyes to one-another, than back at me.
“You want us to use Navy Seals signs, too?” Brad asked, holding up his bandaged hand. I shook my head, then nodded toward the red double-doors.
Counting backwards in my head and reaching ‘one,’ I pulled the doors open and was actually somewhat impressed by how fluid Brad and Greg moved into the hallway, spinning around slowly, not saying a word. Brad’s eyes didn’t even meet mine when he spun past my position outside. Greg came spinning clockwise towards me for the second time when he said: “All clear on the Western front, chief.”
I walked into the hallway, noting the eeriness of our footsteps reverberations off of the lockers, doors and shiny tiles.
“Where was the room with the sign?” I asked.
“Second floor, somewhere over that way,” Brad said, pointing up and behind me.
I spun around, spotting another set of double-doors, marked by Impact font that read: STAIRS.
“That’s convenient,” Greg commented.
Approaching the stairs, we ducked and spun simultaneously when we heard a woman’s scream come from upstairs. Greg’s eye caught mine. “Hurry,” he said, taking off for the stairs
Greg grabbed the left door, jerking it open, and sprinted up the stairs two at a time, his Hockey-toned legs leaving mine and Brad’s in the dust. We reached a landing, spun a 180, then headed up the rest of the stairs.
Greg slammed into the doors and bolting down the hallway toward the screaming. Brad and I reached the second floor and did our best to keep up. Greg turned left at the first junction, grabbed the second door on the left and ripped it open.
From what he’s told me, the three kids were looming over Amy Marsh, mouths ready to bite off far more than they could chew, when Greg slammed his shovel into the girl’s head and kicked the two boys into the desk, their bodies collapsing to the floor. He then proceeded to smack the metal into each of the zombie’s heads until they stopped moving.
By the time Brad and I reached B-202, Greg was helping Amy to her feet, blood spattered on the desks, walls and white-board. Amy, a very attractive young middle school teacher, had the body of a high school track star, brunette hair that, until just now, was always immaculately presented.
Leaning on opposite sides of the doorway, Brad and I tried to catch our breath while Greg filled Amy in on why we were headed across town. Every few seconds, we checked the hallway for movement.
“So your friend’s dad is in the senate and you’re heading to his place because you figure somebody will come to rescue him.”
“That’s the plan,” Greg said, staring out the window to the parking lot. He took the sign and spun it to face him.
“I’m in,” Amy said firmly.
“Woah woah, time out,” Brad said, walking into the room. “Who says you get to come with?”
“Excuse me?” Amy retaliated, “You were planning on leaving me here without so much as a weapon to fend for myself in a town that’s been overrun by reanimated bodies of the recently eaten?”
Brad stopped walking, hesitated, then pointed at her desk. “There’s a yard stick. And some compasses. Those are weapons.”
Amy’s eyes almost bugged out of her skull. “You’ve got to be kidding me!” she almost yelled. “Oh, how silly of me,” she said, mocking Brad, “I can swat them off with a yard stick. Guess I’ll be on my way.”
“Alright, look,” Brad said, becoming increasingly defensive, “You can come with as long as you pull your weight. We aren’t going to carry you.”
“Trust me,” Amy said, walking to a small closet in the corner of the room. She pulled out a long-handled broom, yanking the head off. She spun back towards us, the stick twirling through her hands like a ninja’s sword. She slammed it against the leg of the nearest desk, a tiny dent left in its wake.
“Woah,” I said under my breath.
“Who’s ‘we?’” Greg asked, holding up the sign from the window.
Leading the way down yet another hall, Amy told us about how she had fended off a fellow teacher who had tried to attack her.
“I was in the lounge, taking some aspirin for my migraine, when Andy Kent, one of the science teachers, burst into the room and tried to bite my arm off. I kneed him in the stomach, kicked him onto the counter and ran out of the room, shoving a mop between the shelves that are on both sides of the door.”
She turned back to us as we followed in silence.
“Hey, it worked, didn’t it?”
As we approached the door, Mr. Kent could be heard inside, knowing away at the door handle. Greg stepped up and kicked the door in, the heel of his shoe landing square on the brass handle. Andy was forced back into the wall, blood pouring from his mouth. We entered the room fast, shut the door and secured it with the mop.
“Hey, Andy,” Brad said, preparing a one-liner as Greg wound up with his shovel, “chew on this.”
The steel slammed into Andy’s skull, the blood vessels in his eyes popping. He moaned for a few seconds, then crumpled into the corner. | 