LEFT ALIVE (Zombie series Box Set): Books 1-6 of the Post-apocalyptic zombie action and adventure series (8 page)

The freeway. I have to get to the freeway. I put the house behind me. I know that in seconds, the Zombie will figure out how to get the door open and others will be lurking through the house. One of them will inevitably walk down the foyer to the open glass door, and I refuse to be there. I step off the patio and into the yard. The swimming pool is dried up, water stains spreading up the side like ghostly tendrils of grime and rust. Across the yard sits a dog house with a withered corpse of a dog whose pelt had been left worn over the rotten dog’s skeleton. It’s riddled with bullets and I can only assume whoever set up shop in the house during the Panic killed the dog to keep it quiet or out of some sort of twisted malice. I try not to look at it as I clamber onto the dog house and plant my hands on the fence.

The rooftops are clear of the Zombies. Luckily, the one in the house seems to be the only one to discover easier entrances higher up. I’m sure the others will soon catch on, but I’m clear for now. I scan the yard, looking for any signs of something that might lead to trouble. The neighboring lawn is covered in dried, crisp leaves that have browned and remained for who knows how long. A dozen bushes fill the yard that have now turned to brittle spears, waiting for me. I have no choice. I plant my hands on the top of the old fence and throw my weight over. I land as a plume of dust whirls up around my crouched body, my eyes looking toward the house, hoping there’s a gate or something blocking the view from the road. There is.

Rain and rot has turned the leaves to nothing but mushy, disgusting reminders of a world that has been plunged into perpetual autumn. Avoiding their pool, I cover the neighbor’s lawn in no time. I can hear something moving around inside the house and panic overtakes my senses. I don’t want it to see me. Whether it’s a survivor or a Zombie, I don’t want to have to deal with it. Conflict will only draw others to my location. I can’t have that sort of attention.

Rather than jump for the row of points at the fence’s top, I lunge upwards, opting instead for the top of the wooden post. All the fences are dry, neglected in light of the apocalypse. I feel the hard, rough wood stabbing my fingertips as I lift myself up with what strength I have regained from my night’s rest. I try not to look toward the street where the sun is beating down on the pale gray ash, illuminating the world so that all I see are black shadows lumbering about. Those blackened shadows are death hunting me. I center my gravity and lift my leg up and over the fence, landing in the neighboring yard. This house is nothing different.

The windows are boarded up as good as any other house that I’ve seen in the neighborhood. I can hear something shrieking in the street, which is followed by snarls and growls. When the source of the shrieks turn to screams, I picture one of the Zombies with its fingers jammed between the boards, stuck and trapped. Were they eating each other? I can hear them tearing at something and my stomach churns with sickening images. Crossing the yard, I accidentally snag my shirt on a dried bush, rattling the entire dead plant as I continue going. Cursing myself, I listen to the alarm being raised all around me. I knew what they’d be thinking out on the street.
Something moved. Something is out there. Food.

Clamoring atop the fence, I lean over, my arms shaking as I roll and drop into the next yard. I’m losing strength. I can’t keep doing this. The earth is hard as rock and every time I land, my ankles scream in agony. This yard is completely different and I am immediately on high alert. I don’t trust this place. I see tents everywhere—tents that have seen much better days. There is old dirt caked to them, water stains from rains saturated with acid, and everywhere are remnants of a fully inhabited camp. This was someone’s home. I walk past the first camp, hunkered down in a crouch, too scared that they might have taken to the house at the first sign of the Zombies. Had they known I was here? I draw my knife and part the opening of the first tent I come to.

There is a sleeping bag inside that has not seen an owner in a very long time. Empty cans sit abandoned next to wrappers of long-eaten food. I want to scavenge, but the majority of my mind is too preoccupied with getting the hell out of here to even think about that as an option. I have lost everything I had to that Zombie back in the house. I didn’t even have a bag now. A sleeping bag would be nice on the road. Eventually I was going to need to stop and to find more gear. All I have to my name is a knife, but maybe that’s all I need for now.

No, I’ll need more. What good is it to survive now, but die later?

I grab a bag next to me, a pink backpack with some sort of cartoon cat painted all over it with rainbows and clouds. Part of me wants to think of the girls, but I banish all thoughts of them, as if the creatures can feed on such fleeting temptations. I cross the yard to a larger, more promising tent, rounding the dried up swimming pool in the center of the camp. I look down into the white tub full of ash and dust that has drifted into the pit. It’s deep, maybe twenty feet. I notice the diving board. This is the kind of pool you own if your kid is on a diving team at school, expensive stuff. I think to stop and admire the pool a moment longer, but the door to the house bursts open, banging loudly against the wall.

Dropping down behind a sun-rotten, yellow tent, I listen to the wheezing, slouched creature walking flat-footed onto the patio. Its feet slap the wooden planks of the deck without any caution or care. Its labored, gurgling breaths drift across the yard, making my skin crawl. I grip my knife with determined fingers. I am going to kill it. I barely got a look at it, but I’m going to kill it. I know it. I can hear it walking across the dried landscape and my heart is thumping loudly. Before I step out to kill it, I hear it slip and a loud, wet smack.

I peek over the top of the tent and I see that the Zombie is completely gone. I glance around, half expecting it to dive through the tent and tackle me. I slowly step out from behind the tent, listening to the sound of a whimper. My eyes darting around the camp, I see nothing but still, quiet tents. Stepping into plain view, I check the only place I haven’t looked, the pool.

In the bottom of the pool, the twisted wreckage of the fallen Zombie writhes as its shattered body tried to make sense of its tumble. Blood is running down its head from a wide gash that runs across the creature’s face, tearing open its forehead and nose. One of its eyes has fallen out of a splintered socket. The creature twists in agony, sucking in staggered breaths as shards of bones rip out of its leathery skin. I look at it with no sympathy, no drop of mercy. This had been a human once. I stare at the obliterated teeth inside the broken, shifted jaw and ripped lips. This is not a walking corpse. It is a man who has lost his mind and given over to unspeakable depravities. I give the creature one last, disgusted look before turning away.

Fearing that others might be in the house, I drop over the next fence, landing on a pile of ash but losing my footing as my ankle rolls. I grit my teeth against the pain in my ankle as I collapse to the ground, shoots of dust curling around my body, choking me as I wheeze for breath. As the dust clears, I try to see what it is that took me down. My impact cleared the dust off of the object my foot slipped on and instantly I recoil out of fear and horror.

I don’t know why she’s naked, but she is. My eyes are possessed by some primordial urge to check and my eyes run the entire length of the woman’s body and there isn’t a stitch of clothing on her. She had a pretty face, or what was left of it. Cold brown eyes stare past me as I notice that her body had once been beautiful. She was a woman that any man would have cherished. But something got to her. Something wild and feral had torn at her soft skin after stripping her. Her right arm is completely gnawed down to the bloody bone. The stench is atrocious and I cover my mouth to keep from vomiting right there on her. All over her body, there are bite marks where things have taken mouthfuls of her skin and flesh. Part of her left cheek is gone, revealing the yellowing teeth beneath, the hygiene abandoned in the wake of the collapse. I look at the wounds with disturbed fascination. There is no way these things are human anymore. Not even in the most basic sense of the word.

I step back and feel something underneath the heel of my shoe. Looking down, I see that I’m standing on the fingers of yet another corpse. In my fall, I hadn’t even seen this one. I step away from both corpses, staring with acute awareness that I am very much in a bad place. The hand belongs to a man that’s staring wide-eyed at the dirt, a hole the size of a quarter in the front of his head, and the back and side of his head is missing. The man is wearing clothes, unlike the woman, and in his clenched jaws is something that looks like gray, rotten meat. Looking at the woman, I feel my stomach spinning and I feel very much like throwing up again. This man in clothes is nearly a skeleton and his whole persona looks identical to that of the Zombies. I stare at him for a moment, wondering how a man could think about eating the raw flesh of anything, especially that of an attractive young woman. I still can’t decipher why she is naked. Had they come upon her while she was bathing? Did they still have urges other than eating, and as such raped her while or before biting her flesh off? The disturbing images flood one after another and I shake them off. There is no time for my imagination. Not now. I focus on that around me once again.

Beyond the dead man are two more just like him. All three of them have bullet holes in their heads. I can’t help but notice that this is the work of a marksman. If I had a gun and there were three of these monsters nearby, they would be riddled with bullets, but these three were all perfectly ended. Three targets, three shots. This wasn’t even an execution. I look around, scanning the two-story houses all around, wondering who this marksman might be. Where was he? I can feel unseen eyes on me, watching me with suspicious interest.

I think about the tents as I stand here, letting seconds melt away, wondering if there’s a tiny red dot floating on my head, waiting for me to make the wrong move. Whoever was here with that rifle didn’t care about the woman. This mysterious gunman had let the woman be stripped and eaten by these creatures. What does that say about him? And what about the camp? Had he known about the camp? Had he been a part of it? I couldn’t help but picture those poor survivors in that camp each getting dragged off by gritty, horrendous monsters while that lone sniper watched in apathetic disinterest. Had he been here the last time these Zombies came through? I’m daydreaming again.

I pick myself up from the dark and terrible place that my fearful mind has plummeted and decide that it’s time to leave this place once and for all. Jumping up, I grab ahold of the last fence post and hurl my weight over the fence and land on my back in what once used to be lawn, but has since then turned into a dusty tangle of dead roots and pale brown earth. I’m near a sidewalk and as I look at it, I see an opening to the subdivision. There’s a whole stretch of abandoned road near me and I am filled with gratitude to be done with the whole jumping and rolling thing. I push myself up and look down the road leading into the subdivision, suspicious of any other Zombies that might be roaming around, hungrily waiting for me. I see nothing. They haven’t made it this far, but I have no doubt in my mind that they’ll be coming. They are a wall of unstoppable, shambling cannibals, of course they’ll keep moving through the neighborhood. My time is limited until they round the corner and see me. I’ve been lucky thus far and I decide not to test fortune today. Continuing toward the road, I head south at the first possible chance.

I’ve decided to avoid subdivisions. I’ve learned my lesson all too well and I don’t need to be told more than once. Not in this world. I pass several cars that have been burned by passersby. Another thing I notice is that several of the houses that I’m now passing are nothing but debris and blackened craters. Fires have consumed so much that I no longer believe that this is solely the work of marauders. There is a thought that creeps into my head. The gas lines. If someone had been smart enough, they might have shut down the gas lines, but out here, it’s unlikely someone had that foresight. I swallow hard as I look at the craters and smoking ruins of the houses. What if no one had burned those houses? What if the gas lines had just blown? I shudder at the thought and once more resolve to avoid houses and strange buildings. It’s better to just keep to my own business from now on.

To the south is farmland. I know this because the majority of America is connected by the stitched quilts of farmland. I take a few steps forward on the road, passing a tipped-over truck that has been burned to a crispy, crinkled husk, and wonder how much longer until I reach another town, another Zombie den, or another cannibal haven? How much longer until some roaming killer finds me and I’m dead meat? I can’t take that risk. I need to scavenge, but I need to head south, that’s what’s more important at the moment. I need to get to the girls.

I abandon the interstate, heading west for about half a mile, so long as I can keep power poles and signs in sight. I need to be able to keep safe, away from all the dangers I’ve already experienced. I need the safety of the wasteland. Though I’ll be alone, without the ability to scavenge from cars, I don’t suppose I’ll see that many anymore. This is the no-man’s-land where resources are more and more precious. Those in rural communities would have had first pick and would now be guarding their hoards like dragons. I am out of my element. I am in hostile territory with few resources at my disposal. I swallow and look back, feeling my heart sink. I’m going to stop doing that now. I can’t keep looking back.

Everything around me is completely void of life. There are no houses, no shops, no gas stations, and no signs of anything appearing on the horizon. Above me, the clouds have even abandoned me. My only companions left are what few stars manage to peek through the miles of tainted air above me. There is a great swirling cloud of them hanging over my head, infinite and dead, just like the planet I am drifting through space on. There is only the darkness on the horizon ahead and that gives me hope. My footsteps thud loudly upon the ground, sending small plumes of dust up my legs, coiling and rolling about them like snakes given life by my passing. I feel as if I am on the dark side of Earth. If there is even such a thing, I’m certain that I’ve found it. I look up at the sky and can’t help but wonder if I’m somehow in the great eyeball of some giant creature and that brown haze between us is nothing more than the closed eyelid. I think this because the whole world seems asleep.

Hunger is driving me to the border of delirium. Thirst is becoming more and more of a problem as I journey south with a girl’s backpack slung over my shoulder, praying that I hit Florida soon, but I know that I’m nowhere close yet. I do know that I’m deep into farm territory, the kind of Great Plains stuff the movies loved to portray in westerns. If it was hellish desolation back then, well, now I’m not sure what I’m supposed to call it. All I know is that this is nothing but horrid, wretched emptiness. With each step, I know that I’m one step closer to the end of this rolling expanse, but I can’t tell if I’m walking toward a greater oblivion or to the edge of sanctuary. I pray that I’m moving somewhere better.

Every structure that I’ve come across since fleeing into the great openness of America’s heart, has been burned down to nothing but cinders and ash. I don’t know who is doing this, but I wish they’d stop. The roads are home to packs of dangerous people who drive by on motorcycles or in trucks that send up thick trails of ash and dirt that I can see for miles. I avoid them the best I can in this flat blanket of a world. I’ve come accustomed to simply dropping onto my back and spreading out like a corpse before shoveling handfuls of dirt and ash on top of me. Thankfully, I have begun to look like part of the landscape. I am a walking patch of ash and dust that—at the sign of danger—can become part of the earth once more. I’ve seen several of these trails of dust lifting up into the air like a great arrow pointing at incoming danger. I’ve learned how to walk to create the least amount of dust to keep others from spotting me. As for my path, I’ve given up on worrying about it. Out here the ash and dust are deep. When I make a step forward, my feet sink all the way up past my ankles. Pull my foot free to take yet another step, and the ash pours back into my footprint so that only a small trail of dips in the ash remain. When there is a breeze, my trail is obliterated altogether.

Most of the ground is as hard as a rock. I walk across it as if it were a great slab of concrete that is burning my skin into a crispy, charred exterior. I barely make progress without taking sips out of what’s left of my dwindling supply of water. I gather what I can from those few places I find that have water, but they truly are few and far between. Cesspools of tainted water linger on the surface but the putrid smell is enough to make me stand strong. One drink from the runoff water is enough to kill me. The toxins from the miracle fertilizer are potent and what’s left of me will dwindle if they get inside of me. I remember seeing pictures of what the fertilizer did to cattle and chicken who ate feed from the miracle plants. I don’t need my insides liquefied.

My eyes burn from the sun and walking days without having a good rest. Sometimes I drop to my knees and pass out with my head pounding from dehydration. I barely keep moving except that I know that if I remain where I am, I will most certainly die. I have to keep moving. Moving gets me one step closer to the girls and the prospect of water. I take another step, traveling in the cool of the night, thankful for the cold.

I stick close to the freeway, but it’s given me little benefits. I’m surrounded by farm country that is dotted with small houses that have now been targets to migrant scavengers who make a habit of taking what they want before incinerating everything they don’t need. Every time I see a house or a barn, I’m quickly reminded that there are others, smarter than I, who have ransacked the place and driven off on their merry way. I envy those people. I continue to curse myself for having lost the Jeep. My life hangs by a thread because I had failed to observe the road.

I walked through the ruins of a town called Gert. Given the circumstances and the current status of everything around me, I wasn’t too surprised to see that the whole town had burned away to nothing but rattling, blackened bones of the buildings that had once clustered together amidst the sea of farms and pastures. I only know that it was named Gert by a blackened, metal sign that remained vigilant along the side of the interstate. I looked at the sign with apathetic disinterest before moving through the remnants of the town. I pass through blackened, sunburned cars that mock me from beyond the grave. After leaving the town, I walk through the night. There is nothing but walking. Walking and more walking. But my legs grow weary and they tremble from time to time.

I continue until the sun peeks over the bland, flat horizon, its light is at once unwelcoming. I see nothing but the vast expanse of hostile, cruel land. It is my thirst that compels me to divert my course and head east. It is in the east that I see three buildings clustered on the horizon, far away, but worth the walk. The fact that they may be looted and abandoned does not bother me. I’m desperate now. I need to find something. If anything, I need the shade. If there is no water or food in those buildings, then I will wait there, in the shade until I wither into nothing and die. I realize now that I truly may not make it to Florida. I hate myself for letting the thought slither into my mind, but it’s here now and it has taken root.

It took hours to reach the buildings. They’re not nearly as close as I had originally thought they were from my vantage point on the horizon. I walk my dusty path, taking each step desperately and eagerly. My breathing is now ragged, worn, and tired. I sound like cracked and dried bellows as I walk, sucking in breath and continuing onward. As I step into the shade of the first structure, I feel my heart sink at the sight of the burned ruins that were once a house. I feel broken and desperate as I watch the wind blow dust between me and the house that has been half burned. I can see light bursting through the windows from the inside, thanks to a roof that has collapsed upon ruined supports.

“No,” I utter, stepping toward the house. I try the front door, stumbling up the porch and walking past the smashed remnants of a rocking chair and table. I grip the handle and slam my weight against the door, praying for it to break, but there is nothing. The door is locked. I pass the shattered windows of the front of the house and make my way all the way to the back door which is also unsurprisingly locked. I begin to feel pressure in my eyes and realize that I’m crying. I didn’t even think it was possible to cry any longer.

Daring to risk it, I climb through one of the broken windows, trying desperately to avoid the jagged shards of glass that are ready to tear at my flesh. I know that with one cut, I will get an infection, and I will die. There are no more pharmacies, no more water sources, there is nothing for me to help myself with. I will be left stranded out here with a swollen gash and turn septic before dying. Thankfully, I make it into the house without much trouble.

The second story has collapsed in on the living room. The ceiling has pools of blackened circles that contain the footprints of the fire that had immolated the upstairs. I try making my way upstairs to survey the extent of the damage, but part of the wall has buckled inward on the second story and has filled the stairs with debris. I figure it’s for the best. Getting up there and trying to walk around was an undeniable death trap. I look at the empty, tossed house and wonder if there’s anything of value here. I use my knife to dig through much of the stuff I see. Pots, pans, junk. There’s nothing here that gives me much hope. I tear open the linen closet and see a bunch of musty, moth-eaten sheets and blankets from back when people had more than they could ever dream of needing. At the bottom, I find a thick, old wool blanket. It smells terrible, like stale cigarettes and musty basements all rolled into one.

I find a dead dog in the dining room where it must have been abandoned and starved before dying next to its food bowl. I hope that it suffocated in the smoke of the fire, rather than starved to death. If its owners picked up and fled the house without it, maybe asphyxiation is more merciful a death than starvation. I know I would have taken it. I’m too afraid to open the refrigerator. The last one I opened poured out a sea of molten rot the color of gray that no person ever wants to see. I dry heaved for an hour after that little incident. I decide to leave it be.

The cupboards are all open and empty. Someone had ransacked the place not long ago. There’s a bag of sugar spilled across the floor. It’s melted into a glassy pool that reflects the sunlight into my eyes. I pull open the utensil drawer and find a bottle opener that also has a can opener on the other side. It’s the kind of old metal opener that you find in thrift stores. People tossed these out ages ago in favor of electric can openers. I smile at the sight of it and hold onto it just in case. It was even better than the one I had in the Jeep. I pocket it and walk through the rest of the house.

Someone has pissed on the rug in the den and then taken a knife to the furniture, ripping out all the stuffing, as if they had been hiding their precious treasure in their cushions. The whole place stinks of urine and shit, so I abandon it as quickly as I discovered it. I poke around the house until I find the cupboard in their foyer where they kept their tools. Someone smart looted most of it. The only thing I find are a few feet of chain and then a reasonable bundle of rope. It’s cheap stuff, which is probably why they hid it away here. I sling it across my chest and decide that I’ve haunted this old crypt long enough and head for the back door. Unlocking the deadbolt, I open the door and step back out into the unwelcoming sunlight that’s waiting for me.

I make my way toward the second house not far away, maybe a quarter of a mile. Immediately, I know that I will find no better luck there. I notice the stickers on the windows. They are—or were—brand new. The exterior isn’t painted and like the other house, it’s missing most of its roof. It has collapsed inward and as I look up at the shingle-less roof, I notice that it looks as if rain damage caused this roof’s collapse. When I try the door it opens for me immediately, and I step over the threshold and smell the stale, familiar scent of a remodel. There’s drywall exposed, and even insulation in some parts. The uncarpeted floor has great discolored and wavy pools where water has collected since the Panic. I find the one complete room in the house, the dining room, and look at the stacks of furniture that had been crammed into the room, waiting for the long departed owners to decorate their new home. I look with sadness at the dusty sheets that have been stained by dripping water and dust. I remember when Tiffany and I moved into our first home. Memories surge over me and I break down to cry again, dropping under the pressure of it all and letting my knees hit the floor.

No, I have to keep it together. I wipe the tears from my eyes, refusing to go down that path. Picking myself up, I use the back of my hand to exorcise the demons from my mind and look at a small, faded doll sitting on one of the exposed, rotting dining room chairs. It’s been so long since I saw Detroit. I can’t remember how many days I’ve watched come and go with my nocturnal habits. Where are the girls now? Are they still in Florida? God, I wish I had my radio still. There is nothing left to keep me attached to the outside world, if there is one to even be attached to anymore. I am drifting. I feel as though the whole world has become a great, silent ocean and only a few islands remain. But I don’t know if that’s a good thing or a bad thing. Those islands are dangerous, hostile places, and I wonder what I’m going to do when I find the girls.

I don’t even bother climbing the stairs. I know I’ll find a collapsed roof and a bunch of nothing. This house has to be bitter and angry, a place of bad energy. It feels like a half aborted dream, left in the limbo of hell. Someone had desperately wanted this house, wanted to start a life here, and then the end came. The book wrapped up and the cover was closed. I step out the back door onto the half-finished porch. There’s nothing but bare beams that have warped in the open weather. I carefully navigate them until I move down the steps and stare with strange fascination at something I have not seen in a very long time.

Even when the world was still a sane, ‘civilized’ place, I hadn’t seen one of these. I approach it with a healthy amount of skepticism as my thumping head reminds me how desperate I am to see what lingers before me. I walk in a shuffle, my eyes squint against the glaring light of day. With each step, I think about when I saw this last. It was ages ago, when I would stay the night at my grandparents’ house as a child. I remember playing with my brother Jack outside, shooting bad guys with imaginary guns, laughing as their dogs would chase us, looking at us eagerly, hoping for some attention. I remember when we wore ourselves out, but didn’t want to go inside, we used to come to this relic of a bygone era. Now, as I look at it, I wonder if I’m hallucinating, or if it’s real.

My eyes dart to the third place to the east, maybe half a mile away, nothing more than a dot of color and a few dead trees to make it stand out. Am I wasting time? Should I continue onto the house? Questions swirl in my mind, plaguing me with doubt, until my fingers touch the rusty old pump’s handle. I hear myself gasp, truly not suspecting it to really be here. I don’t even hesitate. I grab the pump and my childhood memories take over. I pull up the slow, lethargic lever and push down, listening to the pump, hearing it slowly gurgle and begin to suck. I do it again, pulling up and pushing down. There’s a drip from the faucet and I smile through cracked lips. It’s working. I grab the lever and pull up one more time, my hand shaking with excitement. As I push down, the pump shoots a jet of white, unblemished water from the faucet and it splatters against the parched earth. At the end of it, I realize that the water isn’t brownish yellow. It’s not contaminated. My smile broadens as I drop to my knees and stick my head under the faucet. Pushing up with my right arm, I pull down once more.