The Reaper Virus (32 page)

Through the barren trees I saw the back of a
house. I took a few steps towards the fence line and looked
intently. Past the house was an obvious cul-de-sac. Where there is
a cul-de-sac there’s got to be a neighborhood. I could only hope
that any neighborhoods bordering that closely to Hull Street would
have an outlet to it. The fence was high, but I thought I could
manage it. It was either I defy gravity and haul myself up another
vertical obstacle or deal with the darkly demonic corridor
ahead.

My ribs painfully protested the climb as I
scaled the fence. Fortunately, the wall was chain link instead of
coarse brick. The length of the fence rattled and rang as I toppled
over. Leaves cushioned my way down just enough to silence the
impact, thankfully, but internally everything was screaming. My
stomach growled and everything capable of feeling pain desired
recognition. The wave of energy from hitting the ground
reverberated through my injuries like a strobe light.

Compared to the gravel I’d spent the last day
on the leaves felt great. There weren’t any trees where I landed,
but beyond it lay a wall of naked intertwined thicket. The Kukri
treated each forested limb like that of the undead. Some branches
sliced and some splintered, but not all gave way. I vaulted through
with my vision locked on the grass, which was visible past the
woods. This lack of caution brought scraping bark around previously
tender areas and a thin pine branch grazed my forehead.

An agonizing second later I breached the tree
line. I stumbled to the ground onto dry grass. It was wonderful to
not feel gravel beneath me. The clearing was a tiny peninsula
shaped opening that I imagined looked like an arrowhead from above.
My target was the structure nestled under a spindly maple tree,
which was opposite to the maple where another bare maple stood
guard over a larger building.

Approaching an unfamiliar house made me
uneasy. I’d been spared from blind corners and potential hiding
spots for most of day. There was a sky-blue late nineties Chevy
sedan sitting at the apex of the building’s angled position. I
tiptoed around the car that only showed damage from years of
abandonment. The structure looked like a garage or workshop. From
my point of view it was as appealing as a toy store. Something in
there must be useful.

Something else caught my eye then. Before, I
couldn’t see it because of the angle of my approach, but now a
familiar headlight and bumper peeked past the house. The obscuring
structure had to be the residence. I stepped up a little farther to
confirm my suspicions. My dry lips quickly formed a smile thanks to
the sight of a black unmarked police cruiser.

1317 hours:

I forced myself to keep a cautious pace even though
on the inside I wanted to prance up to the Crown Victoria like I’d
won the lottery. I inched to the corner of the house and peeked
around it. There wasn’t anyone, alive or undead, around, but other
concerns were prevalent. When I saw the driver’s side door was wide
open, I hunched to a lower profile. Reaching the far bumper, I
looked to the side by the door. I saw five bodies total. Three were
piled over one another by the gas cap. Number four had its face to
the ground a foot further away. The last lay face down in the
opposite direction, but still close to the others. All of the
corpses had the stereotypically ragged appearance of reapers.

Patches of Richmond typical soil spotted the
brittle grass. The clearing was like a calico mix of clay-filled
dirt and color drained lawn. At that moment I happened to be
standing on one of the orange tinged clay regions. I bent down and
grabbed a few clumps. The ambient cooled globs crumbled slightly in
my nervous grip. I’d imagined tossing the clay at the corpses. Each
would startle from their prone dormancy and attack me. It would all
be another battle in my siege against the undead, but when I threw
the disintegrating chunks at the bodies they did nothing. Just to
be sure I threw a couple more. All of the corpses remained
lifeless.

My mind raced through hundreds of possible
outcomes. If the dead did get a rise out of my pelting I’d be able
to take them on without surprises. Approaching them in their
current state gave me flashbacks to the killing field on Cherry
Street. When I got around the other driver’s side of the bumper and
towards the opened door things became clearer.

There were shell casings all over the place.
Crimson-black blood of the infected inked the ground, but it was
the stain of human-shaded life that bothered me. It trailed from
the open door, past the fallen zombies and toward the rear yard
belonging to the neighboring property. I traced the drag marks as
far as I could see and never saw a body of origin. One of the
corpses was right in front of me. I jabbed it with the Kukri. It
was like poking a rock. These demons had been slain days ago.

Thanks to the opened door I got a look into
the back seat. Barred windows of the cage car made it difficult to
see everything, but I saw the treasure trove it contained. I
sidestepped over the pooled gore crushing spent shell casings into
the soil. I leaned onto the felt-covered seat and pressed against
the glass divider. The excitement once again made me forget about
my head injury. Pain surged from hitting the glass, but I paid it
no attention. It couldn’t even dampen my spirits from seeing the
dark duffle bags in the protected seats. Two large bags with the
glorious white letters spelling in bold: POLICE.

The officer that lived here must have tried
to get to his car when he was attacked, because everything was
packed and ready for him, but the dead took his chance away. My
eyes darted around the front compartment hoping to find a way in.
I’d never get to those bags if I couldn’t find the keys. The wide
leather duty belt on the front seat was hard to miss. It shined
back at me like a glossy ring from heaven. All its belt keepers
were there: handcuffs, latex gloves, O.C. Pepper spray, a radio
cradle, an empty gun holster and finally… KEYS!

I eagerly grabbed the belt and removed the
keys. The spare vehicle key stuck out from most of the rest.
Jumping out of the front seat, I kicked a corpse to the side for
better access. My hands shook with exhausted excitement. It took a
few tries, but soon I had the key turned and the door open. I
climbed into the cage compartment to tear through my prize.

The first and most precious item I came
across was an unopened bottle of spring water. I quickly guzzled
every drop. The bag was stuffed with personal items and clothing.
Every shirt looked too small. Their former owner was probably in
much better shape than I, but at the bottom of the bag was the most
wondrous find of all… a gun. It was silver with black grips and
centered in the grip was the spherical logo of Taurus. The five
inch barrel had “PT 1911” etched into the seamlessly smooth finish
and when I ejected the magazine and found it stocked fully with
nine nine millimeter rounds… well what a glorious find this was! My
Kukri had become an extension of my own body, but it was limited.
Having a weapon of last resort like this may be my ticket home.

I went through the second bag a bit slower.
Inside I found two more bottles of water. I opened my survival pack
and replaced the empty bottles with these. Under another layer of
pants was a six pack of peanut butter sandwich crackers. I devoured
one of the packs without a second thought. The rest went into my
bag. Then I found the hidden treasure. Beneath everything were
three spare magazines for the Taurus. Each had been packed to the
limit with nine rounds. First the airplane and now a gun, maybe I
would
get home. The resurgence of my
confidence level filled me with hope so strong I could almost feel
the embrace of Sarah and the kids.

Before long I emerged with my find and went
back to the front seat. I sat with the utility belt and pondered
what I should take. It would have been nice to just wear the damn
thing, but its former owner was seriously thinner than me. The
holster was the kind that could clip snuggly over the belt line.
With gentle caution I placed the Taurus 1911 in the perfectly
molded cradle. Both the handcuffs and the gloves would come with me
too. Having gloves made sense; I’d be able to use them for minor
warmth or to deal with the infected, and although I had no plans
for cuffing anyone I could not rule out all possibilities for their
use. The flashlight was missing from its holster and pepper spray
wouldn’t do a thing to zombies. Feeling pretty satisfied with my
prizes I left the shelter of the car.

I stood inside the cover of the door jamb.
All three extra magazines and the handcuff case were nestled
securely, yet accessibly in the front pocket of my pack. I split
the pair of latex gloves to have one in each pocket. This seemed
smarter in the event one of my arms was indisposed. That left me
with the keys. I fiddled through them, taking a moment to examine
each. Holding the vehicle key, I dreamt of how nice it would be to
drive home. In a car I could be home in twenty minutes. Then logic
voiced over my exhaustion again. “What if there are more road
blocks?” I grumbled aloud to myself. Every undead around would hear
me in a car.

I rubbed the base of the car key with my
thumb. I was so, so tired, yet I knew I’d have to walk. That was
the only way they wouldn’t hear me coming. If only I had a bike… My
eyes went wide and excitement flooded over my despair. On the key
ring I saw a smaller golden key forged with the words “MASTERLOCK”.
My sight shot over to the adjacent shed. Hanging from the rusted
latch was a padlock. Now I turned optimistic. Jesus Christ almighty
I hope this dude had a bike too.

Out of habit I went to slam the door closed.
When it was inches from shutting and broadcasting my presence to
the area I shot out a hand and caught it. The painful pinch served
as a reminder to not get too comfortable or excited. I shifted the
keys to my left hand so that I could flex my throbbing fingertips.
When I swapped their place some shifted on the loop. Then something
else captured my interest. It was a tiny key, only an inch long and
shaped like the letter “L”, it had been hidden by the other full
sized keys.

I rose an eyebrow rose curiously, but
disturbing my permanent scowl sent a pinch out from the duct tape
bandage. The revelation of my treasure trove’s worth nearly caused
me to scream with joy. I set the holstered pistol on top of the
cruiser and hopped over a corpse. Standing at the trunk, my hands
shook anxiously. I fumbled getting the door key into the trunk’s
lock. It opened and I smiled down at the long plastic ballistic
lockbox.

“How could I have forgotten about the
shotgun?” I scolded myself giddily. A second later I had used the
little key and threw open the box. The black brush-finished
twelve-gauge Remington was as glorious a sight as Excalibur itself.
I carefully removed the short-barrel pistol-gripped shotgun from
the safety of its foam padded case. The loading port revealed a
full complement of shells behind the pump action fore-end. Ensuring
the safety was on, I nestled it alongside the crowbar of comparable
length in my pack. Lastly was the nylon Velcro pouch with some
extra ammo that secured nicely to one of the shoulder straps. If
this had been a full length twelve-gauge like the one I have at
home, then the arrangement wouldn’t have worked.

When I went back to the side of the cruiser
to retrieve the Taurus I caught a glimpse of my reflection. The
figure that looked back at me looked everything but confident. He
was filthy, looked like he hadn’t slept in a year and was treated
with field dressings worthy of a second-hand costume. Most absurdly
was how the frazzled reflection looked like Rambo after being
called back to combat after thirty years on a desk job. I chuckled
at myself. If you can’t laugh at yourself after the end of days
then you’re probably already undead.

The lottery of goods provided a direly needed
replenishment of confidence, but no level of self-confidence or
weaponry could change the several hours of walking left. The Crown
Victoria was the epitome of temptation. It would allow me
theoretically quick passage through the county’s worth of undead
between there and home. My brain played devil’s advocate with the
possibilities.

Recognition of this caused me to laugh. Funny
how the real devil, in a walk through hell, was my damn brain. The
rambling of a mad man aside, I know that the car could create more
problems than solutions.

I’d become so caught up in excitement that I
forgot to check the area. I instinctively pulled out the Kukri and
swung around anticipating an attack. Nothing was around me, but
there was movement nearby. Through the thicket of trees I could see
silhouettes shambling on the train tracks. The overpass hopping
group had caught up to where I’d stopped. Thankfully most were
still following the rails. I had enough concealment that I doubted
they could see me. Guns have an odd way of making a person forget
that safety is fleeting.

I returned my attention to the more pressing
issue of the padlocked shed. Using all necessary caution I stepped
over the two bodies between me and the other structure. I’d become
so accustomed to seeing infected corpses that the action of
tiptoeing over them hardly affected me. However, the sight of the
gore trail leading away from the cruiser did bother me. It bothered
me, because I know it belonged to a man who was a police officer.
This man also made his dying act – that of preparation – the action
that saves
my
ass.

The shed door looked weathered with age.
Solid double planks of wood composed the barn-styled doors. By
design there should have been two decorative planks crisscrossing
each side. One of the planks was missing entirely, leaving a clear
void where the paint was protected from the elements. The other was
still in place, but shoddily secured with mismatched screws.
Regardless of the dilapidated appearance I still found hope in the
shiny new latch sporting the padlock. If there wasn’t anything of
value inside, why would this man have put a new locking mechanism
on it?