The Reaper Virus (33 page)

For the third time in the last half hour I
was put in the “kid on Christmas” position. Eagerness nearly
overcame caution to throw open the door, but that little logical
voice in the back of my maddened head kept me level headed. Using
the key I retrieved from the utility belt I opened the padlock but
didn’t remove it from the latch. I found the trusty LED flashlight
and already had the Kukri out. Right before throwing open the door
I imagined there being a dozen undead inside at the ready. I could
see them, each with widened black eyes lunging from the darkness at
the new meal standing in an illuminated daylight frame. The
imaginative rants my mind kept indulging in had become frustrating.
However, imagination could be a nuisance during the zombie
apocalypse as much as it could serve to breed caution.

I used my elbow to nudge the door a few
times. Age prevented the opening from perfect closure long ago. The
entryway rattled from my prodding. I jumped back, expecting the
pounding of fists from the other side. My heart raced thinking I’d
just awakened a sleeping gang of evil. I froze and listened for
anything coming from inside. In the distance I heard more sporadic
gunfire. Honestly, I couldn’t tell if it was a new development or
not. I’d been so focused on what was directly in front of me that
background noises had been mostly ignored. At least there were
still people out there. Or the reapers had figured out how to use
guns.

Carefully I pulled the padlock off its loop
and dropped it to the grass. I gradually opened the door. The loud
creaking of rusty hinges unsettled any localized silence. I swept
the small space with the flashlight and confirmed it wasn’t
occupied. The divine intervention I’d sought quickly showed itself
in the form of two twenty-six inch wheels, a metal frame, padded
seat and rubber gripped handlebars.

Seeing the mountain bike filled me with so
much joy I could have cried. The black Cannondale bicycle was
identical to one many of our officers’ use when on bike duty. It’s
a solid ride with a wire rack over the back tire for equipment.
Aside from some signs of use in the form of mud on the frame, the
bike was perfect. I’d be able to store my pack and save my aching
vertebrae further stress. This was an absolute godsend.

I stopped my drooling to check out what else
was in here. There was a little lantern on the shelf behind a lawn
mower. After checking to see if it worked, I clicked off my LED
light and enjoyed the free arm. There was work to be done before I
could hit the road. I pulled the door shut using a rusty nail on
the back of it. It wasn’t safe there, but at least I was hidden and
it should give me enough of a chance to prep for the uncertainty
ahead.

The shelter of the shed was warmer than the
outside air. Aside from the second I sat in the Crown Victoria I’d
been exposed to the elements for over a day now. I enjoyed not
being outside for once. My new finds had left me feeling confident.
Not just confident – but wonderful. Being closer to home while
having both weapons and wheels could make any lone traveler battle
ready. I was willing to push aside the unending agony I’d been
experiencing. I smiled, knowing in a few hours I should be with my
reasons for still living.

* * *

1440 hours:

I took my time getting things ready, which
was in part due to both anxiety and caution. The road ahead was
largely unfamiliar and although I’d come through the area in a car
many times before I’d never made the journey on bike. Today I had
been lucky to encounter the undead as little as I had. Granted, any
contact with a zombie was unlucky, but the land I’d crossed had
been mostly sheltered thanks to the already secure railroad tracks.
I felt better facing whatever was next atop two wheels.

There were five bungee cords in the shed. Two
of them were frayed and unusable, so I used the other three to
tightly secure my pack to the bike’s wire storage shelf. I felt a
hundred pounds lighter once it was off. The Remington had to be
included in the straps but there just wasn’t any way I’d be able to
make it accessible. Hopefully the weapons I could have at arms’
reach would be enough to defend me.

I’m strongly right handed, so whatever my
primary weapon was would obviously be in my right hand. That caused
an internal debate about where I’d place my weapons for travel.
Having the Taurus was dangerously tempting. It would be so easy to
ride along, guns blazing. Realistically speaking though, I probably
wouldn’t hit a damn thing and I’d be ringing the dinner bell for
every infected person around. The Kukri had earned my loving
respect. I’d keep that as my primary weapon.

I foresaw a problem removing it from the
scabbard while on the bike. To combat this, I removed my jacket for
the first time since Franklin Street. It was so incredibly dirty.
Bloodstains, both black and red, spotted it throughout. I shuddered
knowing that the blood donors could only be me, Phil and my undead
victims. There was a larger stain near the patch above my heart.
That blood probably belonged to Phil. It was darker, but still
quite human in origin. I guessed it got there hours after I stabbed
him. I had tucked the blade under my left armpit while gathering my
things. I’d bear a stain on my chest in honor of the man whose life
I was forced to take.

After some duct taping and slapdash rigging I
found my accessibility solution. I used what remained of the duct
tape to secure the Kukri, scabbard and all, directly to my back.
Once I slipped the jacket back on I was successfully able to reach
over my shoulder and grab the blade’s handle. Every tendon and
muscle in my arm resisted the movement. All discomfort aside, the
rigging allowed for better movement on the bike. I couldn’t even
fathom what I must have looked like to others right then.
Considering my appearance made me laugh. I probably looked like
some kind of duct tape ninja or deranged and gun-toting homeless
man. Lucky for me the zombies just saw me as a meal. I clipped the
pistol to my belt line. My left arm should be able to grab it with
a painful stretch. In the event I needed to use it I doubted I’d be
worried about the uncomfortable reaching.

The shed also yielded another fortunate find.
Beneath a corded circular saw was an old pair of cotton work
gloves. Ever since fleeing Headquarters I’d had my hands exposed.
The only times they were covered was when I put them in my pockets
so that they could regain feeling. With all that I had done since
then I was lucky I hadn’t contracted the R33PR virus through some
secondary contact.

Everything was set and I felt eager to go. I
took a second to stretch my legs. The journey had crippled me with
the dexterity of an old man, and although the bending exercises
hurt, I knew that they were necessary. I snacked on some of the
salvaged peanut butter crackers and sipped water. If my suspicions
were correct about the areas I’d be going through then I wouldn’t
have a chance to take a break. In fact, after I disembarked, the
next time I rested would be either in my bed or in my death.
Frankly, my body loathed existence so strongly right then that I
physically preferred the latter option.

I poked my head out of the shed to check the
area. There was one lone figure shuffling along by the end of the
cul-de-sac. It faced away from me, moving in an aimless stumble. I
kept my eye on it as I pulled out the bike. Out of respect for the
former owner of the property I closed the padlock and secured the
shed. After stealing the guy’s toys it just didn’t seem right to
leave his storage area wide open.

Before I knew it I was on the move again.
Passing the house belonging to the bike’s owner, I imagined what
goodies could be inside. It probably would have been smart to look
for more supplies, but I was growing antsy from staying in the same
place. I rode past and mentally acknowledged the house belonging to
the man that saved my life. If safety ever returned to the world
I’d go back there and pay him some proper respect.

1505 hours:

The street sign on the corner indicated I was on
Arizona Court and by taking a left on Arizona Drive I would
hopefully end up on Hull Street, past the connection with the
railroad tracks. The shambling sentry at the end of the cul-de-sac
hovered near the street’s center, so I watched the distance between
us lessen and knew it would be best to give him as wide of a berth
as possible.

I was probably a car length from him when the
tread ran over a flattened aluminum can. This thing had been run
over so many times by God knows how many cars that it contoured to
the road perfectly. My attention was split between the burning of
my body rejecting this exercise and of course to the zombie
standing in my way.

When the can crinkled loudly I cringed. The
sentry heard it too and swung his stance around to face the sound.
My eyes went wide and I started to reach for the Kukri. He swiveled
so eagerly that momentum carried him completely off an already
unsteady balance. Pavement met his rotting visage, launching the
knit hat he wore across my path. The dive towards me broadcasted a
wet crackling sound.

I almost fell off the bike just to avoid
making contact. An undead arm flopped in front of me like a speed
bump. There wasn’t any time to swerve so I charged over it. The
arm’s owner made no sounds to indicate he even noticed an injury. I
looked down and saw three fingers on the hand wiggle excitedly
while my tire crushed his attached arm. The thumb and pointer
finger were missing entirely.

I pedaled intensely to get away. Panic had
again become my motivator. Sweat ran down my brow. I hadn’t exerted
myself much yet, but nerves were getting the best of me. Somehow I
thought the sentry zombie might be in pursuit, but when I turned on
the seat just enough to look back, I noticed that he was right
where I’d left him with his head looking up from the pavement, tar
drooling out of his shattered nose. The pool of infected muck
already reached as far as the tire-shredded strip on his
outstretched arm.

I’d be long gone by the time he got up. I
turned to focus on the street ahead and spotted another sign I’d
missed. Posted cattycorner to the Arizona Court/Drive street sign
was a diamond shaped cautionary “DEAD END” warning.

Irony sucks ass.

Trees bordered the street to the left of me.
I tried to see what was on the other side of the trees, but
couldn’t. They probably filled the area between the tracks and Hull
Street. To the right were more quaint ranch houses. One yard had a
hollowed out corpse strewn across a painted backdrop of burgundy.
Another had all its windows broken and front door splintered open.
The next house down was completely immaculate. Four yellow bagged
copies of the Sunday
Richmond Times
Dispatch
sat undisturbed at the driveway’s end.

Under normal circumstances I may have taken
time to observe the neighborhood and all its details, but instead
my eyes were locked ahead. I could see the road’s right angle a
couple of houses up. The axis of the bend was formed by a grass
embankment topped off with a traffic clogged street. The road
angled down from the slope of a bridge. Cars covered the incline,
but I couldn’t see any movement.

That had to be Hull Street. All this time I’d
assumed I would feel elation at the sight of my target street. But
I was troubled knowing it wouldn’t be as simple as turning onto
Hull. Hopefully the bend would lead to a better entrance to my path
home.

I scoured the traffic jam for threats. There
was definitely something in the area making noise, but I couldn’t
see it. Behind me though, I heard a bang. I swung around and saw an
old woman emerging from a faded red car port. She had puffy gray
hair that was matted at the front from blood. Her jaw hung open
unnaturally wide. Inside the vile grin was a swollen black tongue
lapping up and down like an excited geriatric dog. The woman saw me
and flailed her droopy arms. When her right arm dropped it banged
against the hood of the golden Buick that was mostly covered by the
awning.

My heart stopped. I knew what was coming. The
Buick’s lights flashed and its horn blared. “You bitch!” I yelled
back at the old zombie. She had moved past the car and was snared
on the mini white picket fence bordering her driveway. Her soiled
green nightgown caught a fence post. She flailed towards me like
the rabid animal she’d become. For a minute there I thought the
gown was tearing off. I know the only thing worse than a zombie
grandma is a naked zombie grandma. The ruckus behind me didn’t
matter anyway; I had a much larger problem brewing ahead.

Dead were already flooding in from the
bridge. I saw them pushing past the cars coming from the incline.
To make matters worse, they certainly saw me too. The car alarm and
indecent grandma pulled the hungry attention of every infected
beast my way. My only chance would be to pedal like hell towards
the horde. The leaders of the pack tumbled down the embankment.
Loss of balance prevented them from immediately regaining their
footing. The far corner had a concrete stairwell for pedestrians to
reach the road.

A bony looking woman in a fur coat and
nothing else hit the drop of the stairs full speed. Her forehead
clipped the metal railing and flipped her around to the steps. When
I pulled my momentary focus away from the fur coat zombie her neck
was snapped so far to the side that vertebrae protruded. The fur
coat bunched around her shoulders as the rest of her bare, mangled
body twitched violently like fresh road kill.

I couldn’t afford to dwell on individual
horrors. My legs pumped with adrenaline and burned with lactic
acid. I shifted my weight to the right and adjusted the handlebars
and took the turn at full speed, expecting to be tossed off and
offered to the reapers that were somersaulting down the hill.
Fortune favored the desperate though, and I forced out my held
breath and pushed on.