LEFT ALIVE (Zombie series Box Set): Books 1-6 of the Post-apocalyptic zombie action and adventure series (18 page)

I grab his pack and take it back to where Denny dropped his own. I toss it next to Denny’s and backtrack all the way to where my pack is buried. I resurrect it from the ash and carry it back to where the other two packs are. Denny is screaming at the top of his lungs. Grabbing his underwear, I roll it up and stuff it in Denny’s mouth before kicking him hard in the kidney. My lungs are burning from the ash and the pain in my ribs as I begin sorting through the trash in their packs. There are bundles of cloth wrapped up around dried strips of meat that might pass as jerky. I know what the meat is and I instantly throw it out into the ash drifts. They have a few bottles of water, but most of the stuff they carry is meaningless. I take what I can, but I can’t say that I’m much better off from where I was half an hour ago in the supply department.

I empty out Cal’s bag and stock it with everything I have or decide to carry of value. I pick up the hacksaw once more, certain that if it came in handy this time, it’ll be useful again. As I start walking, I hear Denny grunting at me. I turn and look at him. He’s crying, big, fat crocodile tears. I have their machetes strapped to my leg and have switched out my old worn boots for Denny’s. He’s about one size too large, but I sliced one of Cal’s socks in half and stuffed the two halves down in the toes so that they feel as snug as possible. Before leaving, I pile all of the things I don’t need on top of Cal and squirt a little jet of lighter fluid onto the cloth and dead man. Pulling out Cal’s lighter, I catch one of Denny’s socks on fire and toss it onto him, watching the whoosh of flame consume the pile of clothes. My stomach twists at the smell of roasting meat.

“Good luck, Denny.” I head south, his muffled screams chasing after me.

On the sign for the First Church of God in Blanchester there is a tarp tied to it with red writing scrawled upon it, warning whoever is approaching the town that everyone is gone. It warns of marauders nearby. I assume that it is these marauders that are also the ones responsible for burning the First Church of God to the ground. The blackened corners are all that stick up out of the ground, along with two blackened teeth where the door frame was. I look at the sign and wonder if this isn’t the work of a community banding together to try and discourage those traveling to keep their distance. I stand at the entrance to the town, looking at the cluster of businesses and houses. This town is maybe five blocks long, nothing more than that. This is one of the few places worth stopping and looting.

My new goal is to head south from here until I reach the Ohio River. There isn’t much between me and my destination, but it’s enough to keep me safe and well out of the reach of marauders coming from Cincinnati. I try not to think about what happened in the forest back with Denny and Cal. There’s nothing I want to dwell on back there. I push the thoughts of Cal dying and Denny’s muffled screams from my mind as I take a few steps forward, entering the town to see what there is to salvage.

The town is entirely vacant, from what I can tell. I call out a few times, saying that I come in peace. “I’m just passing through,” I shout to the emptiness. “I don’t want any trouble. Please let me know if you’re inside any of the homes and I will not disturb you. If I hear nothing, I’m going to try to find some food. Do we understand one another?”

I listen for a response but there’s nothing but the quiet howl of the soft breeze in my ears. I let out a sharp whistle and wait for any sign of movement. I give whoever might be in the town five minutes to make up their mind. If they’re going to kill me, then they’ve got the warning they need. If they want to avoid me, I’ve given them their heads up. Now, I just want to look for something to eat. “Alright, if you are out there and too shy to answer, I won’t harm you if I find you. I’m not interested in harming anybody.”

I walk across the pothole-ravaged street underneath my feet as the rivulets of dust flow with the breeze. There is something scary about the silence in this town and I don’t rightly trust it. I walk to the first house and pull free my hammer. The house has a small porch with two rocking chairs and a tipped over table. The windows are boarded up with plywood, but they’re nailed poorly. It’s the look of someone who was following the Quarantine orders. They boarded up their house and headed for the airport. When I’ve finished, the board bangs loudly against the chair and smacks into the porch. I look south, down the street for any sign of movement. I figure that this would be the perfect time for someone to shoot me in the back if they were afraid of me.

It’s calm in the street, so I look to the window and spy inside the house. It isn’t as badly tossed as the houses closer to Cincinnati were, but they have certainly been searched. I smash the window and crawl in, grimacing against the raw pain in my ribs. I’m ready to be done with this pain in my chest and back. I want to breathe normally. I want to be fine again. I call out once more, thinking of Jason and his fiancée. I would never have killed him had he simply called out and told me to go away. But this house is silent. I click on my flashlight and set to work.

The cabinets in the kitchen have been thrown open and everything is missing that would be of value. I stare at the fridge with a putrid fear of what might come bubbling out of there if I open it. I leave it alone and search the pantry. There are a lot of empty boxes or opened products that have long rotted and evaporated into black stains. I notice that the back door is unlocked. I reach out and secure the deadbolt.

The rest of the houses are much the same. They’ve all been neatly searched but they’re missing the most important aspect of my purpose. There’s no food in any of them. The more I search, the more certain I am that there is someone living in this town. No doubt that they’re holed up in some sort of fortified position sitting on a hoard. I look through the thirteenth house one last time, my eyes running over the pictures of those who lived here before. Their faces haunt me, not because they’re gone, but because they’re in some sort of limbo. They’re out there drifting, neither dead, nor alive. They might have relocated, but no one knows now where they are. Are they dead, alive, or mindlessly roaming from town to town feeding on the flesh of the living? They are Schrodinger’s cats. I don’t know. I suppose it doesn’t matter.

I search house after house, until I come to businesses that are also boarded up with vacant parking lots. I look at the MacDonalds with plywood over the windows and doors. I read where someone has spray painted ‘Go Away!’ on one of the boards. I look to the northwest where the road stretches up toward Cincinnati. This is clearly the route of the marauders. I look to the south, wondering if I should keep searching. I know with all my heart that there is food here, and my stomach is getting worse and worse. I need to find something to eat soon, but someone has already gathered everything. There is nothing left for me.

I kind of hope that there’s a group of them. Maybe they’ve banded together, a small group of survivors who have decided that they need each other to survive. The idea gives me hope. It makes me feel alright about moving on. I make my way south. I don’t bother with any more of the houses as I go. I don’t even look at the wood used to board them up, to see which is more of a heavy duty grade. My eyes are focused to the south, towards Florida. My daughters are waiting for me and there is nothing more precious to me than them. I have water still, it’ll have to suffice.

I can’t wait to see them. Part of me feels as if the worst is truly over. I’ve reached my stride. I know how to live and operate in this world now. I know what I need to do to survive and keep my soul. I refuse to kill those I don’t have to and right now, I’m one step closer to helping those I can. I’m no fool. I’m not diving into any suicidal fights, but I will definitely help those who call out for me and there’s something I can do. I slowly walk toward the edge of town, giving it one last look to see if there’s anything of use.

Then I spot it.

The hoard.

My suspicions are validated once and for all by a split black bag full of cans. It’s resting in the center of an alley between two houses that are nestled close together. In the shade of the houses, the cans sit quietly, dust gathering around them as the wind playfully blows the shredded hole in the black bag. I stare wordlessly at the treasure trove that I’ve discovered here. I look at it with bewildered amazement that such a wondrous hoard is left. Why would someone abandon this and just keep moving? Was it marauders that drove them from this bag? Or was it Zombies roaming through the town on their way to Cincinnati? I take a step closer, looking around for any sign that there is life in the town. White, fluffy clouds drift by soundlessly in the almost blue heavens and I feel as if the sun shines a little brighter.

Dropping to my knee, I stare with silent, trembling delight at a new can of tuna, white albacore, resting on top of two cans of Spam, another can of ravioli, and even a few cans of tomatoes and corn and artichoke hearts. I spy a jar of olives and another of pickles and feel my hands shaking as I drop to my knee and stab my machete into the ground, using it to keep me balanced as I reach out with my left hand to collect the prized trove. As I grasp at the can of tuna it slowly tumbles from where it’s held, as if it’s full of nothing but air. As the can drops, it hits the ground and I feel nothing but excruciating pain in my arm. I never even saw the flash.

I scream at the top of my lungs as I feel a thousand jets of searing hot pain shooting up my arm, past my elbow and straight into my shoulder. There is nothing but gut-wrenching anguish bursting down into my fingers that immediately clench, contracting in numb, sizzling pain as my throat begins to burn from the scream. My eyes water and my heart begins hammering so fast it might shatter my ribs, but I don’t give a shit about that. All I feel is the pain as I look down, my lips quiver as my jaw clenches at the sight of the iron teeth sunken into the flesh of my forearm. I don’t know what I’m supposed to do. What do I do? In agonizing pain I reach out with my right arm, touching the crescent of the metallic jaw that has chomped through my arm.

A bear trap. I know it in an instant. One had hung on the wall in my father’s cabin. The pain is receding, but I know that this is nothing more than the adrenaline now coursing through my veins as the shock begins to move through my body. There is something seriously wrong. I wiggle my fingers, trying to make sure that I can still use them. I see my thumb and two of my fingers move, the other two are motionless. I’m afraid they’re dead. I wiggle them again, brushing my fingertips along the bar that holds the trigger. My knuckles are touching the bar, I can grab it. I reach out and wrap my index and ring finger around it. My pinkie and middle finger are all but useless. I shift my weight, pulling with my bicep and feeling the teeth biting into my skin, pulling against the already torn flesh as the blood begins to run down my arm. I’m going to bleed out if I don’t do something quick. I try to think. I can use my belt. I can use my belt to make a tourniquet. Quickly, I fumble for my belt, pulling on the slack and undoing the latch. Sliding the belt from my waist, I wrap it around my arm the best I can but I lose my grip and feel my vision blurring.

A door slams.

“Well, well, well!” a voice calls across the street and I’m suddenly unsure as to how I’m supposed to feel about this voice. I can’t focus on it. I grab my belt and wrap it around my forearm. Pulling the belt tight, I cinch it, trying to cut off the blood supply to the wound. I get the belt around it and try my hardest to pull the slack tight, my fingers coated with my own blood. I don’t think it’s going to work. I can feel that it’s nearing the end. I give it one last tug and then slap myself across the cheek. I blink a few times and think. I need to pry the mouth open. I need to get the teeth out of my arm. Shit. There’s someone laughing. “Like a damn rat in a trap!” the voice says.

Something hits my hip, hard and I go down on both knees. I don’t even really feel the blow, just suffer from the repercussions of it. I feel him kick me in the kidney. “Stop it!” I shout at him.

“What you gonna do, boy?” the man laughs. I turn and look at him. The man is wearing a sleeveless flannel with a straw cowboy hat. There’s a cigarette between his lips and I look at the glow with nothing but unabated rage at the sight of it.
A cigarette? Are you serious?
This bastard takes my fucking arm and he’s too lazy to even put out his damn cigarette to finish me off. “You gonna do something, Hoss?” The man laughs and takes a drag from his smoke, blowing out a long plume of toxins. “No, you ain’t. You wandered into the wrong town, Mister. Hell, I even put up a sign to keep you dumbasses away, but you don’t read. Just like all them others. But you know what, son? This is my town.”

“Fine,” I wheeze, sweat dripping off my nose. “Your town.”

“That’s right, bitch,” he smiles, and reaches for his cigarette to take another drag, his eyes squinting as I can taste him relishing the sight of my agony.

With whatever strength I have left, I hurl the bear trap upwards, slamming it as hard as a freight train into the fool’s mouth. There’s a disgusting crack that sends the idiot sprawling backward on his ass. I can feel the warm spray of blood across my face and hear the clatter of his teeth against the side of the house. Huffing and puffing, I try to manage the fiery pain that is rampaging through my arm that is already starting to look pale. The man is propping himself up and his elbows and his legs are trembling. I stand over him, wincing and shivering, succumbing to shock. I look down on him as he reaches up and probes his obliterated mouth. The skin is completely ripped open and one of the sides of his jaw is hanging limp, attached only by strings of flesh. He’s feeling the top of his mouth with his fingers as he kicks and lets out a sort of pathetic whimpering squeal, tears running down his cheeks as he realizes what I’ve done to him. Blood pools under his face where teeth are scattered like the pearls of a broken necklace.

I take a step towards him and his eyes open wide. He’s screaming, unleashing a guttural shriek that sounds more like a pig that’s about to be butchered than a man about to die. I loom over him with the bear trap raised. I want to say something smart, something truly bloodcurdling to him before I end his miserable life. But there’s nothing left to say. I lift the bear trap up one last time as pinpricks of light erupt before my eyes and I swing it down with the last of my strength while the man shrieks in horror. The sound of a scream being cut short is a terrible thing, but I enjoy it at this moment. I enjoy it more than I know I should, but I’m about to die. I’m allowed a few morbid pleasures before the end.

The bear trap has turned his head into a shattered soup of bone, brain, blood, and muscle that looks nothing like I would expect a head to look like. There’s an eye rolling in a mass of twisted flesh near an ear and I feel like throwing up. I lean against the wall of the house, dragging the bloody, gore-soaked bear trap with me. I don’t have any strength left. He continues to twitch, but I can hardly watch. My legs give out from under me as I try to pull my machete free. I slip it between the teeth of the bear trap, trying to pry it open. The blade slips and what little progress I’ve made is lost. I grind my teeth together and let slip a roar of defeat and rage. This can’t be the end. This can’t be!

I try to picture Val and Lexi one last time, but to my horror, I can’t. I keep looking for their faces, but there’s nothing there. I can see them as children sitting in front of the Christmas tree when they’re just tiny little girls. They look at their presents with wonder and amazement before turning to smile at me. But they don’t have faces. I’m looking at blank slates. I feel tears rolling down my cheeks as I look for Tiffany in my mind. She’s gone. She’s nowhere to be seen.