The Turning: A Tale of the Living Dead (6 page)

Behind them, the flames that
burned Jenny’s porch spread to the apartments next door, the top floor of the
complex catching fire in moments.  Through the moaning of the zombies and the
flaring of the shotgun, they heard screams of people in the building, holed up
like they’d been, either burning or having to escape, right into the arms of
the dead. 

Jenny blasted the chest of a
zombie on her right, shattering its clicking teeth and dead eyes, the shot
flinging the creature backwards.  It tumbled into two of its kind and sent them
sprawling to the ground.

They were halfway there, now, the
Food Bank achingly close yet so far away.  They were completely surrounded now,
the zombies pushing in from all sides, thick with decay and rot, stench and
fetid breath, kept a few feet back by the burning flames.  Jeff lit another
bomb and let it fly a few feet in front of him.  He was through with hitting
zombies with them and instead concentrated on clearing a path.  That meant they
had to run through the flames or jump them, but that was okay by him; better a
hot foot than having his guts ripped from his stomach.  He lit and fired three
more, the zombies jumping back from the sudden fire at their feet.  Jeff
grinned; even though the dead were closing in, just an arm’s length away now on
every side but straight ahead, they were almost to the Food Bank.  He reached
for another cocktail and his fingers found only an empty box.

“Shit!” he yelled. 

Jenny ran in front of Jeff and
really let go with the shotgun.  She’d been trying for  headshots to kill as
many as she could, but now she aimed low, cutting them down at their knees and
ankles, the scattergun doing what it was meant to do:  pepper as many targets
as possible.  Zombies fell off to their left and right and suddenly there was a
clear gap for them to sprint through.  Jeff and Jenny ran, pushing and shoving
through the last clog of zombies, until they were clear and free, if only for
an instant.

They dashed to the side of the
building where the window was.  Jenny reached it first and shattered the window
with the butt of the shotgun.  Even as she did so, Jeff grabbed the ruined
screen that covered the window and yanked it free.  He turned and threw it at
the advancing horde, now five feet away from them, shambling and reaching out
with greedy, dead fingers for their warm, living flesh.

Jenny used the muzzle of the
shotgun to clear away the broken glass at the bottom of the window as Jeff
dropped to one knee.  He cupped his hands and Jenny stepped into them.  He
pushed up as she jumped through the window and into the Food Bank.

A dead hand grabbed Jeff’s shirt
and pulled him back as he stood.  It was a construction worker; he still wore
his bright yellow helmet, orange reflector vest, a tool belt, and work boots. 
The clothing was thick with gobs of dried brown blood and bits of withered
human flesh.  Jeff shoved the creature but it wouldn't let go.  Behind it, the
dead, dozens of them, pressed forward, pushing the Construction Worker and Jeff
back against the side of the building.  

Jenny screamed, an avenging angel,
and fired the shotgun.  Construction Worker's head exploded in a shower of bone
and brains.  Jeff’s face was pelted with the tiny pieces and he nearly vomited
when the tongue of the worker slapped the side of his face and bounced off.  It
left a slimy trail, thick with black blood, as if it had licked his cheek.

Jeff spun and jumped for the
window as Jenny let out two more rounds to buy him time.  His hands caught the
edge and he got as far as his chest before his momentum ended.  Jenny, inside,
grabbed his hands and hauled him forward but even as she did, dead hands
grabbed his pants and shoes, pulling in the opposite direction.

“Shoot them!” Jeff screeched.

Jenny let go, grabbed the shotgun,
positioned herself beside Jeff’s struggling body, and fired twice more before
the gun clicked empty.  She looked down at him, stunned.

He was over halfway through now,
past his stomach and leaning down.  He kicked his legs like he was pedaling a
bike with a broken chain, and threw himself loose of their clutching fingers. 

Jeff spilled into the room, safe.

He looked up at Jenny and
laughed.  It was high-pitched and hysterical, the giggle of a survivor of an
impossible situation.  She laughed, too, as he reached for the gun and reloaded
it with the shells that were left in his pockets.  They both kept laughing, the
din of their mirth drowning out the moaning of the living dead outside, denied
their prize, pushing up against the side of the building, their hands
scrabbling along the bottom of the window.

Jeff looked around, still
laughing, still out of his mind.  The room they'd dropped into was a small
office.  There was a desk next to them and scattered files on the floor from
where they’d come through the window and knocked over a couple of shelves. 
Next to the desk and against the wall beside them were two tall, metal filing
cabinets.  On the other side of the door, seven feet from them, was a door.

A door whose knob turned suddenly
and burst open.

Jeff, armed with the shotgun,
didn’t hesitate.  Even as the man ran in, claw-hammer in hand, screaming, “Get
out!  Get out!” Jeff leveled the gun and fired, cutting the man in two.  His
torso flung to the left, landing on the top of the desk in an avalanche of
blood and guts as his legs kept running for two more feet and careened to the
right against the wall into a twitching pile of spasming muscles.

The man on the desk looked up, his
hair wild and his eyes wide, and spit up blood from his mouth.

“You killed me,” he said.  His
head lolled to the side and his life left his body.  Before Jeff had a chance
to react to what had happened, Jenny ripped the hammer from the dead man’s
hands and buried it deep into the side of the man’s skull.  He would not rise
from the dead.

Jeff's legs trembled and his
stomach churned.  He grabbed the side of the desk to steady himself when
another man appeared in the doorway.

“You killed Clint,” the man said. 
He was unkempt, his hair also wild, and he looked old.  The man wore a pair of
bib overalls and a checkered flannel shirt underneath.  He had a pistol in his
hand and it dangled at his side.  The man’s hands shook as if he were stricken
with palsy.  His dark eyes pierced Jeff’s.

“You killed Clint,” he said again.

“I’m sorry,” Jeff said.

“Fuck you,” the man said.  He
raised the gun.

Again, Jeff reacted instinctively,
his finger finding the trigger of the shotgun even as his arms raised it.  He
sighted and fired, blowing the old man’s head clean off his shoulders.  The
pellets shredded his neck and severed the head.  His body fell forward, dead,
as his head tumbled back and landed with a hollow thunk.  It rolled off into
the darkness. 

Gunsmoke filled the air, burning
Jeff’s nostrils.  He didn't move, the gun aimed at the doorway, his body
frozen.  Behind them, the dead clamored at the window.  Jenny put her hand
gently on Jeff’s shoulder. 

“Let’s get out there,” she said,
pointing to the open doorway.  Jeff nodded, numb, and followed. 

He should have been worried more
people were inside; more that could be readying an attack at any second.  But
he was too shocked by what had happened, and the adrenaline that had surged
through his body and pushed him this far suddenly left.  His knees buckled as
they walked into the darkness of the Food Bank and he threw himself to his
right and vomited.

Behind him, Jenny claimed the
pistol from the headless body.

Outside, the dead pressed at the
side of the building, their fingers clawing at the bottom of the window.  There
was no danger of them getting in unless they figured out how to climb, but even
if they did, Jeff figured, they didn’t have the strength to actually accomplish
the feat. 

Jenny reached his side, armed with
the gun, as he wiped the vomit flecks from the corner of his mouth and the
zombie blood from the side of his face.

Jeff stepped out into the main
part of the Food Bank, shotgun raised and ready for any more surprises.  None
came.  He was greeted with a wall of blackness, a darkness so deep and
bottomless it was like looking into a rich man's wallet.  He kept his ears open
for any sounds, any moans or movements that might betray another person lurking
in the dark.  He heard nothing.  Only the dead, ceaseless, outside.

Jenny felt along the wall behind
them next to the office door and found a light switch.  She warned him and flicked
it on.

The overhead lights glimmered and
revealed a long room that was half store and half kitchen/dining area.  There
were several tables arranged in front of Jeff with their chairs pushed in; a
long line of food service containers where hot and cold food stuffs were stored
to be dished out by servers; on the other side was the kitchen with a couple of
giant pizza stoves, a series of large refrigerators, and a sink and dishwashing
machine, along with a rack to hold all the plates and implements; and then
there was the store section behind him and to his left, a series of shelves
containing dozens of different kinds of canned goods.

There appeared to be no one else
in the building.

Jeff exhaled and relaxed for a
moment.

Jenny slid up behind him and put
her hand on his shoulder.

“You’re a really good shot,” she
said.  He looked at her and she pointed to the shotgun.  He stared at it like
it was made of uranium and quickly handed it over to her.  She gazed at him,
puzzled.

“If you were so good with it, then
why didn’t you take it in the first place?” she said.

“I don’t want to talk about it,”
he said.  He felt his stomach turning.  It had been a long, long time since
he’d fired a gun.  The last time he had was the worst day of his life.  So he’d
avoided them since, never easy in their presence, but over time, he got used to
them being around again.  Still, they bothered him.  And the simple fact that
within seconds of firing one he was suddenly so proficient again scared the
living hell out of him.  He supposed he should be happy about it, because they
were safe and alive, but it still unnerved him. 

“Okay,” she said.  She let it
go.   

Jenny searched the area.  It was
just like it appeared outside, a big warehouse, probably half the size of a football
field.  At the back, to their left, was a door.  She pointed it out and he
followed as she walked across the big space, wary and alert.  Jenny opened the
door and they looked inside.

It was a loading and storage bay. 
At the far end was a set of double doors—shut and locked—and all about were
stacks of boxes of food stuffs.  They walked over to the door and peered out
the small, security glass windows.  Behind the building was a short driveway
with a large van parked near the doors.  Jeff looked at Jenny and the same
thought passed between them:  a way out.

They searched the room and,
satisfied no one was there, shut the door and went back into the main area. 
They looked around, ducking down any nooks and crannies, checking for any other
people or zombies.  They found no one.  They walked back to the small office
and stood outside it, listening to the dead outside.   

“We need to nail up something over
the window, just in case,” Jenny said. 

Jeff nodded.  His eyes found
Clint, the dead man with the hammer buried in the side of his skull, and the
headless body of the other man he’d shot. 

He’d killed two men.  He committed
murder.  They were dead because of him.  Those thoughts struck him like a
sledgehammer to his gut.  Wheezing, he collapsed to his knees, his legs unable
to support him, and fell to all fours.  He shook, quivering with fear and anger
and guilt.  Jenny dropped to his side and held his head.

“What’s wrong?” she said.

“I killed them,” he said.  “I
killed them.”

“It’s okay,” she said.  She
brushed his forehead with her hand.  “They were going to kill us.”
He quaked, spun, and vomited.  The spray hit the headless body, coating it
with chunks of half-digested hamburger and stomach juices.  It was hard to
believe that just an hour ago they were in her apartment, in their little
perfect paradise, safe and secure and living easy.  And now, it had all gone to
hell

The full weight of everything came
crashing on him, all the things he'd either pushed aside and tried to ignore or
simply couldn't deal with.  The end of the world, the death and resurrection of
millions, the fact that life would never be the same again, these realizations
were all so overwhelming. 

In those few moments, on the
floor, shivering like a frightened child, Jeff felt like he went just a little
bit insane.  Through it all, Jenny was there, holding him, keeping him from
going off the rails.

And when he was coming out of it,
when he was starting to get it together, he felt a tugging at the heel of his
shoe and turned and looked. 

Gnawing on the rubber of his shoe
was the head from the body of the second man he’d murdered.  Somehow, at some
point, his right tennis shoe had come unlaced and those laces had gotten
tangled in the hair of the bodiless head.  Jeff had been dragging it around
this whole time, without noticing.   

The jaw of the zombie worked open
and shut, its teeth scraping against the rubber, making a squeaking noise, like
a mouse.  Jeff rolled and fell on his ass, eyes wide and full of horror.  Jenny
turned, grabbed the hammer handle, and pulled the implement from Clint's dead
head.  She took it, turned it claw-side up, and buried it into the top of the
zombie head at Jeff’s feet.  A wet and ripe sound, like the carving of a
cantaloupe, squished from the head when she chunked the hammer into it.  The
head stopped moving as blood slowly trickled from the wound.  Jenny planted her
foot against the side of the head and pulled the hammer out.  She wiped it on
Clint's shirt and squatted down to untangle the hair from Jeff's shoelaces. 
Jeff just sat there, his mouth opening and shutting, no sound coming from
between his lips.