It was no picnic to watch as human skin shifted underneath the movements of the fly larvae. Three days at the most, this had happened three days ago. Half a week ago, these people were concerned about their mortgages, car payments, whether Timmy or Tina needed braces, if their favorite baseball team was going to win a game. Just normal, everyday bullshit, the way life was meant to be.
“Fuck,” I said, dragging my hand over my face.
John was looking into the woods, fat tear drops cascading to the ground. “My wife isn’t here.”
“Let’s hope not,” I answered, although that wasn’t what he was thinking.
He meant she wasn’t ‘here’, wherever ‘here’ was. My initial answer still held more validity. We had zombies and these new howlers, this new world sucked. I grabbed John’s arm gently and turned him towards the olive drab of the military vehicles.
“I know you don’t want to head up there, but I’m not leaving you behind, and I need to see if I can salvage some ammo.”
John didn’t say anything, his cheery disposition wiped clean. He kept his head down and moved the Phrito box to his left shoulder as a barrier to the atrocities that lay on that side. We walked in stony silence towards the blockade. I received no measure of satisfaction when I found the machine gunner’s position had been overrun. He died with his finger on the trigger. The irony of it was that it looked like a child zombie had inflicted the death blow before being shot herself. A zombie girl had latched herself onto the man’s neck and had been tearing a chunk free when someone had come up behind her and spilled her brains over the side of the gunner’s face.
“Guy that shot the zombie shot the machine gunner, too. Dumbass. Although I guess he was already dead.” I pushed the girl out of the way. She fell wetly to the side. Shock was etched on the man’s features as he seemed to look pleadingly at me. “Karma’s a bitch,” I told him. “This is what I’m looking for,” I said triumphantly, bending down, picking up a metal ammunition box.
They were 5.56 which were perfect; the only problem was they were linked for machinegun fire. Simple enough remedy, it would just take some time. I was going to keep this box close and go look for something that was ready to use right from the can. I helped John and his Phrito’s up into the cab of the closest truck. I also stashed my ammo with him.
“You alright, pal?” I asked him. He hadn’t said much and, more surprisingly, he hadn’t eaten anything in a bit.
Instead of asking me who pal was, which would have been normal, he asked something much more serious. “Why’d they all have to die, man?”
I looked him in the eyes. “Don’t know, I really don’t. But me and you…we’re going to find a way out of this mess. And to be honest, John, I’m not sure that everything we’re seeing right now isn’t some sort of dream. Figments of our imagination or, more than likely, a drug-induced conjuring. Last thing I truly remember was your van and then being here.”
“This is a flashback?” John asked with pleading eyes.
I’d been in some shitty situations along the path of my life but never anything quite like this right now. I hope it wasn’t a flash forward, a portent of things to come. “Let’s just hope it’s only a vision of zombie-things-to-come if we don’t change it.”
And like the intuitive person he was, he answered, “This is the worst rendition of the Christmas Carol I’ve ever lived through.”
You know I wanted to ask him how many he had lived through, but I dropped it. Maybe tonight, if we found some place safe to hang out I’d bring it back up. Odds would be he wouldn’t remember this conversation, though. As it was, I didn’t like to be out of his view for too long because we’d have to go through the introduction process again.
There were spent magazines everywhere, which was actually pretty cool considering I had left a couple of mine behind in my haste to leave. I saw more than one soldier that had been shot by a civilian. Easy enough to tell from the exit wounds. M-16s didn’t generally travel all the way through a human body. Usually it got hung up somewhere inside, which caused more destruction that way, bouncing and ricocheting off of bones and internal organs. More than once, the Geneva Convention had wanted to ban the cartridge because of this ‘design flaw’. The Russian-made 7.62—a much larger and heavier round—was considered to be more humane as it would travel clean through just about any soldier, whether they had a flak jacket on or not.
Some of the soldiers had fist-sized holes in their backs; indicating high-powered hunting rifles. It didn’t look like a coordinated attack or an ambush. I just think it was scared people trying to get away from the blockade. Unfortunately, without much success. I don’t really know how long I’d been doing my survey of the destruction. Enough to know that men, women, children, civilians, military, howlers, and zombies had all met gruesome ends here.
The one and only blessing I found in regards to howlers was that it appeared that it did not necessarily need to be a head shot to take one down. I might have overlooked the female howler had she not had the signature sunburn I’d seen outside of the truck. She had on torn Capri pants, her ankles a blistered and angry red. Her forearms and hands were also the same tortured color. What stuck out was her long blond hair that glowed like golden wheat in the sunshine. It wasn’t the hair color; it was the lack of blood in it that I found interesting.
Was it a ruse? She was face down and I’d have to get close to turn her over. Son of a bitch.
The knowledge was worth the risk. Howlers were faster and smarter than zombies. If I didn’t need to be particularly concerned with putting a bullet in their skulls, then we were that much better off.
I made sure the safety was off, I had my finger resting lightly on the trigger guard. I licked my lips and, with my left foot, I hooked it under her thigh, lifted, and pushed her over. I looked at her face for any signs of life, some clue to her deception, a fluttering eyelid a twitch of her mouth. Nothing. Her face was frozen in fury, she was pissed off and left nothing to the imagination in that regards. She had a series of at least three bullets, traveling up from her navel and across her right breast. The bullets had torn her open, blood had cascaded from her. Flies swarmed to the wounds and enjoyed the banquet.
“Just great,” I said as got down on my haunches. I placed the muzzle of my barrel against her head. I moved my hand closer to her face. “This sucks.”
Everyone has watched enough horror flicks to realize this is when the dumbass gets bitten. We’re all sitting in our seats at the movie theater shoving popcorn in our maws, telling our significant others ‘we’d never do that, he’s a dumbass.’ Yup I was the dumbass, but at least this time the monster’s seemingly dead eyes didn’t fly open as it latched onto my hand, ripping my thumb off.
“Thank God for small miracles,” I said aloud after examining her entire face and head for any sign of trauma.
Nothing, not a scratch on her face except for some minor burning on the left side that must have been exposed as she was dying. When I was done looking at her, I stood. “Hey, God, I really appreciate the small miracle, but a big one would really be fucking appreciated!” I said to the heavens. That was pretty much going to get me sent to the disciplinary division of Heaven. I’d deal with that problem after this one.
Back to the task at hand and what was going to keep us alive. God was going to have to wait his (or her) turn. It seemed zombies, howlers, and even my wife Tracy had staked a claim at meting out some justice. I found a fair amount of dropped bullets and mags, and I hastily filled a couple to make sure I had adequate firepower in case something arose. I don’t know where the day went. I was just noticing that it was getting more difficult to see into the far back of the troop transports. The canvas coverings were hiding any treasure and the sun on its downward path was making it more difficult. I had enough ammo for a sustained battle, but nothing even remotely akin to finding a safe place from which to wage this battle. I was just looking into the back of my tenth (thirtieth?) troop transport truck when I heard the slow dying bleat of a truck horn on its last legs. Too many descriptors, dying implied last legs, oh well, hopefully this journal entry won’t be scooped up by an English professor (or basically anyone with a rudimentary hold on the language).