Z14 (Zombie Rules) (11 page)

Julie frowned.
“Why not?” She asked.

             
“Remember, she told me about the other women in their group being used as sex slaves. Don’t think they won’t try to kidnap you two if they get a chance.”

             
Macie and Julie looked at each other. “Zach, there’s something I need to tell you.” Julie said. I looked at her and waited. “I’m late.” I stared at her questioningly. She scoffed when she realized I didn’t understand. “I think I’m pregnant Zach.” She waited expectantly for a reaction from me.

             
“Oh boy.” I responded.

             
Her mouth dropped open. “Oh boy? That’s the only thing you have to say?”

             
I tried to say something else, but it only came out as an unintelligible stammer. Julie went pale, ran into our bedroom and slammed the door. I looked over at Macie. She shook her head in mock disgust, pointed at me, and then pointed toward the bedroom. I took the hint.

             
I knocked quietly before entering. Julie was on the bed rubbing Curly’s belly, and he was grunting contentedly. I sat down beside them and was rewarded with two different responses. Curly wagged his tail. Julie pointedly ignored me.

             
“Please don’t doubt my love for you. You just took me by surprise.” I said.

             
“You don’t want me to be pregnant.” She said accusingly.

             
“No, it’s not that. I’m worried, that’s all.”

             
Julie scoffed and glared at me. “Worried? Is that all you have to say? I guess I’m wondering why you’re not saying, why Julie, we’re having a baby, that’s so wonderful!” I suddenly had a couple of itches here and there, I could not resist the urge to scratch.

             
“Julie, of course I’m happy. You caught me off guard. I’m still a little torn up by running over that woman, you know?” I held my hands out pleadingly. “I don’t know what else to say.”

             
“Zach, why would it bother you? You’re a cold-blooded killer. You’re not torn up by another notch on your holster, or your gun, or wherever the fuck you put your notches.” She got up and went back into the den. I watched her backside go through the door and hurriedly followed.

             
“What in the world made you say such a cruel thing?” I demanded angrily.

             
She pointed outside. “Remember when we were sitting right outside eating watermelon? We were laughing and having a good old time, and you and Fred just stood there watching. Now Fred is Fred, but you used to be right there laughing with us. You don’t laugh anymore Zach!” Julie was yelling and crying at the same time now. “You’re not happy here.” Her voice drifted off. I tried to touch her but she shrugged me off and walked into the kitchen.

             
I tried desperately to think up a response. To say something, anything, to make it better. I couldn’t. I was too angry. I walked outside. Looking at my watch, I made a decision. I still had plenty of daylight left. I grabbed some gear out of the barn and loaded it up in the back of my little truck. Macie came outside.

             
“What are you doing Zach?” She asked.

             
“I’m going for a ride. Maybe find a replacement for my truck.” I drove off while she was trying to say something.

             
It all happened in the blink of an eye.

             
Let me start from the beginning. After leaving my house in a huff, I rode around aimlessly. I eventually found myself driving through a nondescript blue collar neighborhood off of Tusculum Road.

             
When I pulled down a side street, I stopped thinking of everything else. I spotted my new love, a replacement truck for my little Ford Ranger. It was a four-door metallic green Ford F150, SVT Raptor edition, and it was beautiful. It was parked in the driveway of a tired looking brick home and stood out like a gem.

             
I parked in front of the house and checked it out. It had all the accessories, including four-wheel drive and a tow package. It was almost a shame that I was going to remove all of the exterior bling, strip it of brake lights and turn signals, dull the paint job, and put hardware cloth over the windows.

             
I found the keys on a hook immediately inside the front door of the house. Pocketing the keys, I cleared the house.

             
It smelled, like all of the houses with rotting corpses smelled, but I was used to it by now. Hell, I didn’t even gag anymore. There were two of them, lying on the den floor. When it was clear they were not zombies, I ceased inspecting them. I was beyond caring about their demise, and concentrated more on a superficial search of the house. I found nothing of consequence except for a can of pickled herring. I put it in my knapsack, went back outside, and transferred the rest of my gear from my old truck into my new truck.

             
After transferring the gas out of the Ranger, I stood there looking at it in silence for a few minutes. It was a present from my Grandmother on my fifteenth birthday, and it was the last thing I had which reminded me of her. My mind wandered as I recalled some fond memories of my childhood. All of those memories existed because of the love my Grandmother had for me. She was the one who developed my love of reading. At her encouragement, she listened with rapt attention as I read to her every night after supper. She was a good person, and I was eternally indebted to her. I turned to go, and that’s when it happened.

             
My first instinctive reaction was to grab my gun, but whoever had knocked me to the ground had their hand tightly gripped on it and was trying desperately to wrest it from me. We were in a tug-of-war for several seconds. We were face-to-face as we wrestled, and he was breathing heavily. His breath reeked, like he had not brushed his teeth in several days. I got a good look at his face. He wasn’t a zombie. But he was still filthy.

             
I fought as I held on to my sidearm tightly. If he got it away from me, I was certain I would be shot. We struggled on the ground for what seemed like a long time, but in fact was probably only a minute or two. His heavy breathing told me he was getting winded. He was older, and was probably stronger than me at one time, but I was the stronger one now.

             
I punched him repeatedly with my left as we struggled. I hit him so many times my fist was starting to ache. His head was as hard as a rock, but I kept it up. I could hear him gasping for air and grunting with the pain of my repeated blows. He was getting tired and his strength was beginning to wane. With a tremendous grunt, I ripped his hand free of my gun and pushed him off of me. He tumbled back and his legs went akimbo. I hurriedly got to my feet and pulled out the Kimber.

             
He was large framed and burly looking, like a construction worker by day and a bouncer in a seedy bar at night.

             
I was about to give him a terminal case of lead poisoning, but hesitated when I saw a woman standing in the driveway next door, holding a small kid. She stared at me with dead eyes. Her plaid shirt was dirty and torn. The kid was runty, dirty, and looked downright weird, like maybe he had brain damage or something. It was obvious neither of them had seen a bar of soap in quite a while. She reminded me of the woman I had run over.

             
“You broke my nose.” I heard my assailant say. I looked down at him in contempt. He was sitting now and holding his bleeding nose.

             
“Why did you attack me?” I asked.

             
“You were trying to steal my truck.” He snarled and then blew a bloody snot wad out of his nostrils.

             
“Why are you lying?” I asked plainly.

             
“Are you calling me a liar, you fuck?” He demanded as he struggled to catch his breath.

             
“Yes, I am. The people who own this particular truck are inside their house, dead as shit. If you call me another disparaging name I’m going to shoot you in the kneecaps. You won’t be able to walk and sepsis will set in. You’ll die a slow lingering death. Choose your next words carefully. I’m not in a good mood today.”

             
He glared at me but said nothing. I looked over at the woman and child. They looked awful, dirty and malnourished. The kid looked no older than three or four. He was having these weird, intermittent muscle spasms and his eyes kept rolling back in his head.

             
“Who are you people?” I asked.

             
“He’s my husband and this is our child.” The woman said. The child suddenly burst out in laughter. Just as suddenly, he stopped and his face went blank, except for the spasms in his legs. It was extremely weird. I looked behind her. There six pathetic, but unfriendly looking men emerging from the back of a house across the street. They were about fifty feet away and steadily making their way toward me. And then it suddenly hit me. I had read about the symptoms the little boy was displaying.

             
“Kuru!” I gasped in disgust. The men continued closing the distance between us. They were armed with an assortment of machetes, bats, and knives. One of them had an old rusty shotgun. I didn’t like it. The one with the shotgun started to raise it and take aim, which sealed his fate. He started to say something, probably a threatening demand for me to drop my weapon, but before he could utter a word I shot him with the quickness instilled by the tutelage of Mister Frederick McCoy.

             
I knew at any second they were going bum rush me before I could shoot more than one or two. My survival instincts kicked in.

             
“Stop where you are!” I yelled. They froze and looked at each other.

             
“He’s just a fucking kid.” One of them growled, and in a silent agreement, they started to spread out. I quickly aimed center mass and shot another one. One of them started running toward me. I shot him, and then for good measure, put a bullet in the left knee of the one who attacked me. He howled in pain. The little kid burst out laughing again.

             
This time they listened and stopped. I walked over and grabbed the shotgun. It was a twelve gauge double barrel, very lethal in the right hands. I started inching my way toward my newly acquired truck.

             
“I’m right, aren’t I? You people are cannibals!” In spite of myself, I shuddered. I stared at the woman waiting for a response. She hung her head.

             
“Fucking disgusting is what it is.” I whispered. I continued aiming my gun at them, put the shotgun in the cab, and got in. They stared at me with lifeless, yet hungry expressions. They may as well have been zombies.

             
“Well boys,” I said as I waved my gun at their dead friends. “It looks like you’re going to eat good tonight.” They looked at their dead friends as if I’d just served up supper.

             
“
Bon Appetit
you sick fucks!” I snarled and squealed the tires as I backed out of the driveway. Unfortunately, I ran over a curb as I sped away.

             
The curb proved to be my undoing. I had driven less than a mile when I heard the telltale sounds of thump-thump-thump. I had at least one flat tire. I stopped my new truck and got out. My front right tire was completely fucked. Even the rim was FUBAR. A quick check revealed no spare. A look around at my surroundings revealed I was fucked more than just a flat tire.

             
Somehow, I had driven into a nest of zombies. Oh, they were rotten beyond belief. I had no idea how they were still on their feet. But, they saw me, and they were moving in for the kill. There were dozens of them and they were close. Too close.

             
I grabbed a canteen, the AR-15, and all of the ammo I could stuff in my pockets. And then, I did what came naturally to me. I ran.

             
I shot as I ran. There were far too many of them. I had to make every shot count. Head shots. Anything else was useless. I cleared a path and headed toward home. I mentally calculated the mileage while I attempted to stick to a steady pace. If I stuck to the roads it was going to be a fifteen mile trek. I ran for a mile before stopping, but only long enough to reload my magazine, then I started again. I was into my fourth or fifth mile when the sun disappeared beyond the horizon. By the time I reached six or seven, it was completely dark.

             
I was scared. I felt like I was living out one of my nightmares. I forced myself to breathe deep and clear my head.

I had put distance between the first group
I encountered, and thought I was in the clear, but then I caught a scent of the stinking bastards and surmised I’d apparently ran into another group. They were close and I couldn’t see more than a few feet in front of my face. I literally ran smack into one. Fortunately for me, I kept my balance while it fell to the ground. I stomped on his head a couple of times before putting distance between it and me.