Those Lazy Sundays: A Novel of the Undead (5 page)

“Don’t move!” he ordered. “Not another step!”

Unheeding, Bob Anders took a few more stiff steps forward. The blood on his face was drying, but fresh saliva glistened and dripped from his teeth and lips.

“One more step and I
will
shoot! Mike said firmly.

Now all three of them were coming towards him. Hesitantly, he aimed his weapon center mass, and squeezed the trigger. The bullet struck Bob dead center in the chest, just to the right of his heart. He jerked backwards with the force of the bullet, which left a small hole that quickly overflowed with blood.

Mike pulled his gun back slightly, anticipating his target crumpling to the ground. Instead, incredulous, he watched the man recover his balance and begin his stiff shuffle forward again.

He squeezed the trigger twice more, both rounds hitting near the first, making a tight triangle of red holes in Bob Anders’s bloodstained white shirt. Again, Bob jerked backwards. Again he regained his balance and shook off the effects of the three metal objects that had just punctured his vital organs and shatter his chest cavity.

All three of the Anders were closing on him now, with Bob now nearly an arm’s length away. Mike retreated backwards, looking over his shoulder at his car and debating whether or not to jump inside and head for the police station to track down Jeff and Rita.

A pair of arms slipped around his waist and grabbed him in a bear hug. He twisted his torso, swinging his massive arm in a wide arc and simultaneously jumping to the side, tearing himself out of the grasp of yet another assailant.

His fist grazed the cheekbone of the new attacker, whom he recognized as Carl Letourneau, one of the town’s auto mechanics and resident drunks. Carl was dressed in his blue coveralls with his name stitched in yellow cursive lettering over the right breast pocket. Carl lunged at him, but the mechanic’s movement was slow and lethargic. Mike had encountered him plenty of times when he was wasted, but this was different somehow. It was slow, but not drunk slow.

Mike easily sidestepped the move, and still clutching his gun with one hand, slammed the mechanic onto the pavement face down, using none of the delicacy or softness he’d used with Mrs. Samuels. He followed up by planting the toe of his size-sixteen boot in the man’s ribs.

Before he could contemplate his next move, Bob Anders was on him, his children a few feet behind. The real estate broker grabbed Mike’s left forearm and, bearing his teeth, tried to bring the meaty wing to his mouth. Mike jerked his arm away, but not before Bob clamped down hard with his front teeth.

He yelled in pain and swung his right arm at Bob’s head, smashing the top of the pistol into his left temple. Bob Anders clamped down harder with his jaw a split-second before the hard metal of the gun caved in the side of his head, taking a piece of blue fabric and a large chunk of forearm with him to the ground. The fiery pain of his skin and flesh being torn from his body drew another scream from the cop, who immediately clutched his arm to his body.

The two children were now within striking distance. Mike took a deep breath and assessed the situation. He was in pain, but the wounds were mostly superficial. The assailants, all people he knew, were clearly dangerous, but so far hadn’t been armed.

Calmly, he stepped backwards. He didn’t notice the figure of Carl Letourneau, who had been struggling to get back to his feet since being tossed to the ground, and had just managed to push himself onto his knees, until it was too late. Mike fell head over heels over the former mechanic, smacking the back of his head on the cement, a scene that looked like it could have been taken straight from a Three Stooges skit.

He lay sprawled on his back in the street, his legs coming to rest directly under the gaze of the mechanic, his wounded arm leaving a splash of blood on the pavement. Carl, seeing a thick leg just a few short inches away, opened his mouth wide, his saliva making little dark drops on Mike’s blue slacks. He leaned forward ready to sink his teeth into the large calf muscle in front of him.

His brains landing on the pavement prevented him from indulging in an afternoon snack of his own. Mike stood up, his smoking pistol still in his hand, and spotted Jimmy Anders staggering toward him. Checking behind himself this time, he backpedaled, putting a few feet between him and the Anders children. His side and forearm hurt badly, and the pain in his head felt like someone was hammering at his brain with a chisel.

With the two children still approaching, Williamson clenched his teeth and steeled himself on what he was about to do. Calmly, he aimed at the forehead of young Ashley Anders. Staring into her large brown eyes, he saw emptiness; they contained none of the youthful energy or vigor of a young teenage girl, or even the basic consciousness and awareness of a person. They contained nothing at all.

He fired, and watched the body of the young girl collapse to the ground. He aimed at her older brother, and without pause, squeezed the trigger again.

With all of his attackers down, he took stock of the carnage. Carl the mechanic was lying on the ground, half of his head attached to his body, the other half splattered on the ground next to him. Bob Anders was face down on the cement near Carl, still also motionless, the side of his head caved in like the crunched fender of a car. He looked dead.

The Anders kids were both down too. He’d put a bullet in both of them.

 Walking back to his car, he saw Mrs. Samuels twitching on the ground. She was still on her stomach, unable to get to her feet with her hands restrained behind her. He knelt down, drawing a violent twitch and a frothy growl from his old teacher, and unlocked her handcuffs. He would have liked to have taken her to a hospital, but from the looks of things, he knew that probably wasn't realistic.

Mike looked down Main Street.  A half-dozen or more figures were mulling around the town square, all of walking with the same unmistakable shambling gait. He turned a full three-sixty, noting another person across the street near a Subway, three more further down Main Street near the library, and a few isolated ones staggering around the shops and buildings of downtown Allentown.

Mike Williamson got into his car, locked the door, and put his keys in the ignition. While pulling away, he took his cell phone out of his pocket, flipped it open, and dialed Jeff’s number. The phone rang several times and then kicked to voice mail.

Next, he went to the phonebook on his phone and searched down the list until he found the entry he was looking for. He pressed “Send,” and waited. As the digital ringing sound blared in his ear, he saw someone in an expensive-looking gray business suit staggering across the street. It was Harry Andrews. Mike ignored him, holding back his very real urge to cut across the street and turn the bastard into road kill.

“Mike,” the voice on the line said coldly.

"Hey. Something’s going on here,” Mike said, cutting directly to the point. “Are you nearby?”

“I’m at home. And yeah, I heard you all had some kind of food poisoning or something. Must be a big day there.”

“I don’t think it’s any kind of food poisoning, Brent,” Mike replied. “Can you get here?”

There was a long pause.

"Sure, fine. I'm not sure what you expect me to do, though. What happened to that skinny guy you had working for you?"

“He's missing. So is Rita. Brent, make sure you come armed. Got me?"

There was another pause.

"Armed? What the hell is going on there?"

"I don't know... But if you see anybody walking funny, kind of like they’ve got bad arthritis or seem like they’re all doped up, steer clear of them.”

“Uh okay, why? What're they going to do?”

Mike hesitated, thinking about how to respond.

“Well…” he began. “You remember that movie Alive?”

H
IS BROTHER WAS a lot of things, but insane wasn't one of them. At least, not unless something had changed in the past year. Even if Mike's mind did go, he wasn't the type of guy who would go insane. He was too boring for that. He'd probably just become catatonic, sit in a chair rocking in front of a window all day, drooling on himself and shitting his pants. But not go insane.

Yet, what he'd said over the phone sounded insane. Food poisoning or the flu were one thing. But mass murder and cannibalism in broad daylight? By people both of them had known for years, some since both of them were kids? One of the people he mentioned had been their schoolteacher, for God's sake. How was that even possible?

The call had been short. Brent had a lot of questions, but Mike hadn't been in the mood to answer them over the phone. He'd wanted him there in person. It was a surprise Mike had called him at all, but demanding that he drive to Allentown, armed no less, was the clincher. He would go if only because now his interest was peaked. Something was happening there, and he wanted to see with his own eyes what it was.

Maybe his brother would deputize him. He was looking forward to getting a little tin "don't fuck with me" badge like his brother had. Unlike his brother, he'd actually use it if he had to.

Brent had a nice pump-action shotgun in his shed that he would toss into his car with him. He downed the rest of his beer, pushed himself off of the couch, and grabbed the remote control, but paused in front of the TV before shutting it off. The camera was focused on the crowd instead of on the field. A brawl had broken out in the middle of the stands, and a half dozen security guards were trying to get it under control, some already bringing out their tasers to try to subdue people who weren't complying with their orders.

"Drunken jackasses," Brent muttered, and shut off the television.

After grabbing his shotgun from the shed, he put it on the passenger seat next to him along with a box of ammo. A shotgun in a BMW. If he got pulled over, he'd just claim that he was a high class redneck.

He chuckled to himself and backed the BMW down his long driveway, still grinning. He eyed the gun as he pulled into the road. It was almost like he was going off to war again.  His smile faded at that thought. He'd stopped going to war for a reason. He'd already dodged fate twice. Giving it a third chance to catch up with him was exactly what he didn't want to do.

He shook his head, disgusted. He was going to Allentown, not Basra. Mike had gotten him all worked up over what was probably a few people who had guzzled a bit too much hard liquor at the cookout. Chances were, he wasn't even going to have to take his ammo out of his box.

It was just Allentown. Fate would have to catch up with him some other time.

A
NDY PUSHED THE van’s limits as hard as he could, taking curves so fast that it felt like the van was going to skid sideways off the road. After six or seven minutes, they passed a green sign that said “Allentown town limits” and “Population: 2,423” in small white lettering.

“Should be just a couple of minutes until we hit Main Street,” Andy said, receiving no response. They had been quiet since leaving the scene of the accident, everyone just watching the blur of scenery through the window, lost in their own thoughts.

The speed limit went from fifty-five to thirty as they approached the town itself, but Andy kept the van at a steady forty-five miles per hour. He figured if anyone stopped him, the mangled guy in the middle of the road a few miles back would be evidence enough to get him out of a ticket. He just hoped it wouldn’t lead to something more serious.

He was confident that he had a pretty good case. The man had just been standing in the road, around a sharp curve. Andy hadn’t even been speeding at the time, a rarity for him. He felt terrible for the guy, but shit – it wasn’t his fault. No way was it his fault. He just hoped that would matter in a town the size of Allentown, where everyone was probably everyone else’s brother or uncle, and the police may or may not be even halfway competent.

Coming into the town, they passed a few houses, though all they could see from the road were mailboxes and the beginnings of long dirt driveways that disappeared into the trees. They drove over a stone bridge that spanned a small brook, passed a small, unkempt cemetery, and emerged from Vermont’s ample forest into the modest downtown of Allentown.

Main Street was a small two lane road lined with oak trees and old-looking wooden buildings, most of which appeared to be houses. They passed a small white, one-story building that housed a hardware store, and a small convenience store which looked about the size of a bathroom stall, and was painted in an ugly rust-colored red. A sign on the outside of the store said “Sam’s Grocery.” At the end of the street was a small green with a white gazebo and a bronze statue of a Revolutionary War minuteman. The street circled around the town green, and split into a Y intersection, with a road running on both sides of a white church that stood at the head of the square. It was a postcard-perfect picture of small-town America.

Almost.

Andy drove slowly down Main Street. He noted at least ten people walking – staggering – around in a way that, on any other day, would have made him think that there was an early happy hour at a local bar.

“Jeez, are those ˗ ” Kyle began, and stopped abruptly, staring out the window.

“It’s the same as at the store,” Mary said in a barely audible voice, her mouth going dry.

Sarah opened her mouth to say something, but was cut off by Andy slamming on the brakes for the second time that day, jolting her forward in her seatbelt. She looked out the windshield to the front of the van and lost her breath.  Five bodies lay within a few feet of each other. Dark red stained the sidewalk near the heads of three of the corpses, accompanied with small red, rubbery globs.

Andy flashed back to a rough night of drinking a few months earlier that included cherry Jell-O shots. Jell-O shots that had come out the same way they’d come in. He remembered staring into the toilet bowl that had just been cradling his face, looking at the red globules, and thinking he might have actually thrown up part of his stomach.

He winced and looked at the other bodies.

The fifth corpse looked as if someone had used its head for batting practice.

Kyle strained to look out the windshield to see what Andy and Sarah were staring at. He stood up slightly in his seat, paused for a moment, and sat back down, gagging in disgust.

“Jesus…” he whispered.

“What? What is it?” Mary asked anxiously.

Andy and Sarah looked further down the road and saw a lump that resembled a slab of meat in a butcher’s shop. They realized what it was at the same time, and both groaned disgustedly.

“What is it?” Mary demanded loudly.

“Bodies,” Kyle said, grimacing. “At least four.”

“Six that I can see,” Andy corrected him, his voice shaking.

“We need to get out of here.” Sarah said somberly. “We need to go now.”

Before Andy could move, something thumped against the rear side window. Mary turned, her eyes went wide, and she screamed. A burley man in overalls, his face pale and missing one eye, stood next to the van, whipping his flabby arms against the glass, where now-terrified Mary was sitting.

“Andy, GO!” Kyle yelled.

There was another thump, this one on the other side of the van, and a third on the rear window. Andy glanced in the rear view mirror and saw a woman in a blue Northface Jacket and a ski hat behind the vehicle, her face pressed against the glass, her hands clawing and swiping at it. 

Andy hit the accelerator hard and the vehicle lurched forward. As the van began moving, the man in the overalls took one last, hard swing at the window, leaving a long crack down the middle of it. Mary unbuckled her seatbelt and slid into the middle seat. She clutched Kyle’s arm, and he clutched her arm back.

In an instant, they were moving. The van bounced, jostling its passengers like an amusement park ride, throwing them forward and then back into their seats again.

Andy gunned it, and the van flew down the street, zipping past Packard’s Jewelry store, rolling over the rack of ribs formerly known as Mrs. Dara Anders, and crushing the tiny body of Mrs. Samuels. Two people, a forty-something soccer-mom and what was probably her middle school-aged daughter, were walking diagonally down Main Street, as if on an afternoon stroll to the store. The mother had a gaping hole in her abdomen, and a long strand of bloody entrails dangled down her thigh, bouncing as she stumbled down the street. The young girl staggered just a few steps behind, a steak knife protruding from her ribs like a giant on/off switch, a bloody stump where her left arm used to be.

Andy instinctively swerved to avoid the two women, and in doing so, ran head on into a fat man wearing a pair of boxers and nothing else. The van jumped and shuddered as if it had hit a massive pot hole. Andy struggled to keep the vehicle under control and took his foot off the accelerator.

The van jumped a curb and rolled halfway onto the sidewalk. Andy cut hard right, and saw the town square directly in front of them. Seeing the open grass, he hit the accelerator again, sending the van over the brick perimeter of the green. He deftly maneuvered in between the statue and the gazebo, still leaning on the gas. The van chewed up the carefully manicured lawn and then exploded off the square, back onto the pavement, heading for the road running to the right of the church. Andy let off as he took the corner around the church, and saw open road ahead of him.

Much to the surprise of everyone else in the van, for the third time that day, he slammed on the brakes. Metal grated on metal, and Andy spun the wheel hard to right and the side of the van, striking a nearby vehicle. They came to a stop, and Andy put the gear shift to park. His friends looked around, confused. He looked out the window at the car beside them, noting that he would have to redo his parking job if he wanted to open his door.

“What’s going on Andy?” Sarah asked, a hint of anger in her voice. “I thought we were getting out of here.”

Andy pointed out the front of the van at the large sign posted over the door of the red brick building in front of them. ‘Allentown Police Department.’

“It’s why we came here in the first place, right?” he said. “Maybe at least we can get some goddamn help, you know? Find someone to tell us what the hell is going on.”

“Things have changed now,” came a reply from behind him. Kyle paused, and then started again. “Whatever all those… people have, I don’t want to catch it. The best thing we can do right now is go back and get Jack and Kate, stay in the van, and stay the hell away from those… people.”

“It can’t hurt to ask…” Andy began, but was cut off when Kyle began speaking again.

“We don’t know what’s going on. We don’t know what they have. For all we know, they breathe in our direction and we’re screwed.”

“He’s right Andy. We need to go,” Sarah told him, her voice taking on a much softer tone than Kyle’s. “Jack and Kate are out there with one of them. We need to get them and get out of here.”Andy sighed, frustrated.

“I just want to run and check. It will only take a second.”

He unlocked the door, pulled the handle and pushed. The door only moved a quarter of an inch before banging against the car next to them. Sarah chuckled despite the situation. Andy turned around, embarrassed.

“Alright then,” he said dejectedly.

He put his hand on the gear shift and threw it into reverse.

Without saying a word, he shifted it back to park, took his hands off the shifter and steering wheel, and raised them in the air beside his head. He and Sarah looked at each other worriedly before turning their attention back to the police station, and the shotgun that was pointed at their heads.