ZOMBIES!…The beginning of the END

BOOK 2

By: Christian Jensen

Chapter 5

In Mark’s absence

Dave didn’t know the phrase hopping mad was an accurate term when used to describe useless, self-righteous douche bags, but Charlie was currently proving just that. After being informed that he was going to be digging the new latrine Charlie began to complain, and those complaints got louder as his face got redder, and soon he was literally hopping up and down, red faced and furious.

“This is unacceptable.” Charlie pointed at Dave, his pale finger shaking as the anger coursed through him uncontrollably. “You’re no one. I don’t need to be taking orders from you. You’re not in charge of me. No one is in charge of me.” Beady brown eyes smoldered from their place deep within his forehead. Charlie was around six feet tall, built soft like a giant marshmallow. Years of working as a computer programmer made his size useless.

“Listen, Charlie.” Dave put his hands out, the anger that welled inside of him threatening to well over. “Mark is gone. He left with Brandon this morning on a scouting trip. When Mark is gone I am the one in charge of the group, and since your part of the group I expect you to contribute and do your part.”

“I don’t have to do anything.” Charlie stomped his foot into the decaying leaves like a stubborn child. “I don’t do manual labor. I can’t dig a hole.” His tone made it seem like Dave had asked him to dig the Grand Canyon, not a three-foot hole for everyone to shit in.

“Yes, you do.” Dave took a deep breath and counted, hoping to lose the urge to beat Charlie to death with the shovel. “We are a community here, and everyone in that community is required to do a fair share of the work. Since there is no need for computer programmers anymore, and since you have absolutely no other valuable skills, you need to do manual labor.”

“I won’t do it.” Charlie crossed his arms over his chest to show just how much he wasn’t going to do it. “You can’t make me.”

“Wanna bet?”

Dave crossed the space between them in a second, his eyes wild with hatred for Charlie. Ever since they found him huddled inside the back of an SUV the man had been worthless. He had eaten their food, hidden behind the others when Zombies attacked, and simply refused to contribute. Enough was enough.

Dave bent down and grabbed the shovel off the ground with both hands, his fingers squeezing the weathered wood so tightly his knuckles glowed white. Thin chords of muscle stood out in his forearm as he jabbed the shovel against Charlie’s arm.

“Owe!” Charlie whined, his voice too high for a man of his size.

“Listen to me, you worthless piece of shit.” Dave shoved the shovel forward again, striking Charlie in the chest with it and sending the heavier man backwards five feet. “You are going to dig a fucking hole, and you are going to do it now or I will beat you to death with this fucking shovel and leave your body for zombie chow.”

The stubborn look immediately left the tiny eyes and was replaced with outright fear. Without uttering another word Charlie turned to run, his dress shoes struggling for traction amongst the fallen leaves.

Before he had gone ten feet Charlie found himself on the ground, Dave’s arms wrapped around his knees. Before he could move Dave was scurrying up his body, strong fingers sinking into the soft flesh of the sniveling man.

“My family died out there. They’re all dead, and your worthless ass is still alive.” Dave was screaming, saliva and hatred spraying from his mouth. He reached both hands into Charlie’s shaggy hair, taking tight hold of it in powerful hands as he lifted the head and began to scream into Charlie’s ear. “They are dead, and you’re alive. They’re dead, and you’re alive! You should be dead. You should be the one who is dead, and my wife should be alive. My family should be alive, not you!” Dave shoved Charlie’s face into the ground using all his body weight and anger, and then lifted it as if he intended to rip it off the narrow shoulders. “You!” Slam “Should!” Slam “Be!” Slam “Dead!” Slam

Over and over again Dave brought Charlie’s head into the earth until gore, spit, and pieces of teeth and flesh covered the ground. Blood oozed out of Charlie’s ear, and his breathing was negated to a hoarse, shuddery whisper.

“Fuck.” Dave got to his feet and staggered backwards until his back hit one of the myriad trees making up the forest. He looked up into the cobalt blue sky, tears streaming from his eyes as he struggled to gather what remained of his composure. He was shaking, his hands wiping Charlie’s blood on the filthy front of his shirt. The stink of copper was heavy in the air.

“Ungh…” Charlie tried to get up, his movements awkward and shaky. Dave couldn’t tell if he had killed him or not, unsure if the movements were Charlie trying to get up as a man or a zombie. Not willing to find out Dave grabbed the shovel off the ground and kicked Charlie’s struggling body over onto his back.

His face was a nightmare of swollen, torn skin and gore, pieces of shattered teeth sticking to the blood and protruding from the shards of flesh that remained around his mouth. An engorged, purple tongue slithered out of the mouth assessing the damage as whistles of air groaned from the rapidly working throat. Charlie was trying to say something, or maybe he was trying to moan like all the other zombies.

“You aint no good to anyone alive or dead, are you?” Dave walked over the body, straddling the wide gut and raising the shovel in both hands, the spade pointed at the open, bloody maw below. “If you see my family, give them a wide berth ass-hole.” He brought the head of the shovel down with all his might, striking Charlie in the bridge of his nose. The shovel slipped on the bloody skin and stuck in the bone of Charlie’s orbital socket. Both eyeballs bifurcated and oozed watery blood over his ruined cheeks like tears. Charlie shuddered once and lay still.

His aim was off. Dave had wanted to cut Charlie’s head in half, but had accidentally struck the brain through the eyes. Either way the piece of shit was dead.

Dave didn’t want to leave the body where the others could find it. He took a hold of one of the dress shoes and dragged the body as far as he could into the woods, covering it with leaves and branches. As an afterthought Dave Dropped his pants and squatted over Charlie’s face.

“You were too good to dig a latrine.” Dave grunted, evacuating his bowels noisily. “Let’s see if you’re too good to be a latrine.” He used a piece of Charlie’s blood stained shirt to wipe his ass and got up, admiring his handiwork. Charlie’s mouth was full, his face nearly covered. A small collection of flies was already buzzing about, feasting on the buffet. “Asshole.” Dave spit into the middle of his shit and headed back through the woods to dig the latrine himself.

Charlie struggled to breath. His nose was swollen closed, the bones so ruined his body couldn’t make any sense of them. His mouth was full of something pasty that blocked his throat, but luckily a small branch had lodged in his mouth during the assault, and that stick had acted like a bridge, keeping the pasty substance raised enough to allow some air into his lungs.

His body hurt so bad he couldn’t tell what was wrong with him, his brain sending mixed up signals that made no sense. Everything ached and throbbed, but what was the most disturbing was the lack of senses.

Charlie could still hear, but he couldn’t see, he couldn’t taste, and he couldn’t smell anything at all. When he touched his face he wasn’t sure how bad the damage was, all he knew was that pain exploded through his body to a degree Charlie never knew existed. Every movement sent a shockwave of high voltage hell through his entire body, so he chose to just lie there and wait for help. Someone would come sooner or later. They had to.

After an eternity alone out in the woods, thirsty and in excruciating pain, Charlie finally heard a sound. Footsteps. It was unmistakably footsteps, and they were headed right for him. Charlie was saved! Relief flooded his battered body, reigniting the pain that lit every nerve on fire. Unless, of course, the footsteps belonged to the dead.

Sudden panic filled him, making the impulses in his nerves double as they screamed out through his body and pain filled the universe. Charlie would have screamed if he was able, but instead only made a garbled, gasping sound.

The moans of the dead answered, sounding closer than he had thought.

As the first hand began to rip through the flesh on his stomach Charlie whimpered, thinking it would have been so much better to just dig that fucking latrine. As the number of hands increased and fingers tore through the flesh of his stomach and chest Charlie screamed noiselessly, the pain so much worse than what he had already been through. He couldn’t tell how many mouths were currently chewing on the muscles of his legs, or how many hands were digging through his organs. Finally something was wrenched from deep inside of him, and the lights inside his head faded, and all the pain went away.

Chapter 6

Six months ago…Parker, Stacy, and Jarrod

Snow was on the ground, a thin crust of ice covering it in a crystalline sheet reflecting the streetlights. Parker walked out of his house, the sounds of his son’s screeching fading in his alcohol fueled brain as the first drags of nicotine filled his lungs. The boy was acting up again, and this time the usual beating did nothing but make him more enraged. He had to hit the boy harder than usual, until Parker’s hand went numb and he was forced to close it into a tight fist. Then that useless bitch tried to console the boy, as if he did nothing to deserve the beating. She got what she deserved, and learned a lesson in the process.

Now the boy and his mother were cowering somewhere in the back bedroom, locked up in the dark and waiting to see what the rest of the night would be like.

Fuck ‘em. Parker didn’t have time for shit like that anymore. His role as corrections officer for the State of Delaware left him privy to certain information, and as of late that information wasn’t good. New protocols had been put into action, rules regarding the intake of prisons that may be infected with some new strain of virus, a plague that had already killed thousands in the southern states.

The reports coming out of North Carolina were insane; rioting, looting, acts of violence and roving gangs so bad local government had already called for federal assistance. There was talk about declaring martial law not only in the Carolina’s, but also down south through the west into Louisiana. The CDC had sent every police agency and prison binders filled with emergency protocol on how to deal with anyone perceived to be infected. Every new inmate was supposed to be quarantined for seventy-two hours before being admitted into general population, but of course this was impossible.

Yesterday, Parker had seen the first of the infected show up. He was working in booking, laughing and joking around with one of the cops that had brought in a suspect found wandering the streets covered in blood. He was a short man with stringy blonde hair, middle aged and pudgy. Upon admission his round face was covered with blood, his blue eyes covered with a milky film and sunken into the bones of his skull. Obvious injuries to his hands and neck wept small amounts of blood and a yellowish, viscous fluid that stank of rotting meat.

It took two cops and three corrections officers to force the man into a cell. Once the door was locked he simply charged at the bars, screeching and moaning like an animal. Parker had listened to that noise for three hours straight before his shift ended, the sound of it still echoing through his mind until he was able to drown it with Vodka.

Today things had been a thousand times worse; ten more infected were brought into the prison, and another two dozen were found throughout the population. Whatever the disease was it spread like wild fire, and the staff was finding it nearly impossible to contain it.

On his way home after a mandatory sixteen-hour shift Parker had seen his first infected person out on the street.

Stopping for gas at the usual place he parked at the pump and headed in for his cigarettes, noting the number of the pump before walking towards the store. As he walked across the litter strewn parking lot he heard sirens calling from everywhere. It was like the world had gone insane while he was in the prison, plunging him into the mouth of madness. His plans on going home and getting drunk enough to pass out didn’t seem like such a good idea.

A sudden explosion came from a few blocks away, a plume of black, greasy smoke erupting into the sky over the tops of nearby buildings as another gas station erupted. Parker steadied himself as the ground shook, covering his ears and wincing at the bright fireball the rose into the night sky. He was still looking in the direction of the explosion as he approached the door, wondering what the hell had caused the gas station to go up. It had to be some kind of accident, a drunk driver slamming into the pumps or one of the gangs starting the rioting and looting a little early. Even though he was still technically on duty Parker chose to ignore it, the draw of alcohol too strong to be ignored at this point.

He wasn’t paying attention to where he was going, his outstretched hand looking for the glass door that would get him into the store. From where he was Parker could just make out the tops of the flames as they licked upward, the light washing the surrounding area in an eerie orange and red glow. When his fingers touched the glass Parker paused, waiting for the approach of sirens.

Something slammed into the door, making Parker jump and spin on his heels so quickly he slipped on the icy ramp, crashing his pudgy frame directly in front of the door. The weight of his body was preventing the door from opening outwards, which is the only thing that saved his miserable life.

One of the infected was inside the store, her body slamming into the glass with all the force she could muster. Blood covered her completely, from the long dark hair to her bare feet. Her shirt was soaked through and sticking to her body like a second skin, leaving bloody impressions on the glass as she slammed her body into it again and again, her face a mask of hungry anger that told Parker she wouldn’t stop until getting through that door.

Keeping both hands on the glass, Parker worked himself up into a sitting position, eventually working up to his feet and pressing his weight against the door. With each attack the woman was able to force the door open a little more. Parker was getting tired; apparently the infected woman was not. At one point she forced the doors open enough to slip her fingers into the cracks between the double doors, and when Parker pushed back and got them shut he could hear the bones cracking. This did nothing to dissuade his attacker. She worked at pulling her hand free, the bones cracking and splintering while the skin and muscle tore, eventually freeing her. All four digits remained in the door until she attacked again, popping the door slightly ajar, and the fingers fell to the ground at Parkers feet.

A sudden idea sparked through his mind; handcuffs. Parker pushed his shoulder into the door while reaching behind him and unbuttoning the case as he had done a millions times throughout his career. He slapped the cuffs to one of the handles, then the other. He backed tentatively away just as the woman crashed into the glass one more time. The doors held. Backing slowly away he kept one eye on the woman and the other on the handcuffs on the handle.

The paperwork used for reporting the use of handcuffs while heading too or from work, which technically meant all corrections officers were still on duty, was a R-799-RU. It was required anytime an officer uses his handcuffs and is unable to have them returned. Without filling out that form, and alerting the supervisor of your involvement in police matters, you cannot have another pair of handcuffs issued. Parker wasn’t worried about filling out that report, because he wasn’t planning on returning to the prison.

II

His heart pounded, cool sweat covering his pasty skin as Parker sat out on the porch, his skin cooling rapidly as he watched the lights reflecting off the remaining snow. He rubbed his aching hand, the effects of too much vodka making the streetlights blurry as they canted at odd angles, the light ebbing and flowing as he squinted, trying to focus on them rather than the fear that was growing in his heart. Parker knew he had to get away from the city, to head out and hide somewhere until the government could catch up with this thing and regain control.

He was finding it hard to breath; his chest constricted as he struggled with one simple question; bring his wife and son or leave them behind.

They would be a liability, slowing him down and using up his supplies if he brought them. Still, leaving them behind would mean certain death. There was no way they could survive without him. He considered the implications of that and found them completely acceptable. Snubbing out his cigarette, Parker headed back into the house. He would pack a bag and load his guns into the car and get the fuck away from the city. But first, he wanted to say goodbye to that meddling bitch.

III

Stacy wept. In the dark confines of their extra bedroom turned torture chamber she cradled her son, Marcus. Unlike her husband, Stacy hated herself for allowing this to go on. Tonight’s beating was extremely brutal, the blank look in her husbands eyes so much more frightening than usual. He looked dead inside, like something had snapped and sent him over the edge. She wasn’t sure if this had anything to do with the insane reports she kept seeing on the television, Parker never told her much of anything about work.