Zomblog Saga Box Set (Books 1-6) (7 page)

Preston and I ran along, only pausing for doorways and intersections. Apparently most of the zombies had wandered outside at the noise. It was almost unnerving to find so little resistance. Still, when we reached the waiting lobby in front of the prescription windows there were a few zombies to take care of.

After handling the immediate threats, I checked the door…just to be sure. It was locked, but you have to try or it looks pretty silly when you discover you bypassed the easy way by not checking something so simple. The window was some sort of reinforced glass. It took me ten or twelve swings to break it. Of course that was drawing attention as each blow echoed down the halls.

Preston and I climbed through and began raking bottles of pills and syrups into our packs. We tried to hurry, but already there was a throng of those things at the window. Luckily, we’d be exiting the door that opened into a hall on the side, away from the service windows.

Even taking less than a minute, we managed an impressive haul. I pulled my gun. Tom had said that on the way out, shooting would be a signal that the other group could hear. Plus, since we were leaving, it wouldn’t be a concern if it drew zombies inside.

Preston threw open the door.  I was ready for anything that might be on the other side. Sure enough, filling the door frame was one of them. Obviously a former patient, this thing had a few wires and tubes still sticking out of its arms. It had been an obscenely obese woman with short, bowl-cut black hair. The tattered remnants of her hospital gown was caked in dried gore and one entire pendulous breast was simply gone.

I fired, the bullet catching it in the center of the forehead. It toppled back, and Preston followed me through the door. To our right those things were giving up on trying to get through the service window and staggering into the corridor. To the left, we had an open escape route that led to a door.

We ran as the booming echo of more gunfire sounded. At first I thought it was Tom and Al, only, the single shots turned to the chatter of automatic weapons. Then, indecipherable shouting. Something was definitely not right. I reached the door ahead of Preston. Of course it was locked. The first shot didn’t help, but the second one did. Throwing open the door, I was at the back of a nurse’s station. On the other side of the counter, a couple of those things were turning our way. They were still distant enough that I could save my bullets.

We jumped up onto, and then over the counter and headed towards daylight. It was pretty dark here, with only ambient illumination from open rooms up and down this hall where sunlight was coming through blinds or curtains.

One of those things lurched out of a room and collided with me, knocking me into an abandoned cart of some sort. I heard my gun slide across the floor. As I was scrambling to my feet, Preston booted the thing in the side, sending it over and onto its back. By the time it regained its feet, I had my gun and we were gone. Through all of this, we kept hearing intermittent gun-fire.

We rounded the corner and an exit loomed like a glowing rectangle of salvation. We reached the doors and burst out onto a sunlit landing. A quick look revealed that we were on the opposite side of the hospital from where we had seen those cars arrive. From our vantage point there was a park with a huge pond. If we kept running straight out the door, to our left was the main street that, even from here where a lot of trees and bushes prevented a clear view, was crowded with hundreds of those things. To our right…the back lot…a high fence…and the way out of here.

Before we could decide what to do next, a late 70s model Camaro came fishtailing around the corner to our left. It was Tom! We ran for it as he skidded to a stop in front of us.

We got in and Tom was flooring it before the door was shut. He did a hard u-turn, sending both Preston and I slamming into the passenger side of the car in a big jumble.

“Al turned on us,” Tom snarled as he wove through abandoned cars and pursuing zombies.

As we skidded sideways onto Main Street, hordes of those things converged. It was impossible to avoid running them down. A parking lot held promise with those things more spread out than on this congested two-lane road.

I had questions, but I thought it best to let Tom drive without any distractions. We made it to the parking lot of the Fred Meyer. I suggested driving to the back side. My earlier experience with breaking into a grocery store came in handy.

Sure enough, there were a handful of shipping trucks lined up in back. We parked and, as the walking dead came in bunches, made it on top of the trailers. With no small effort we were onto the roof of the store.

Finally, Tom was able to relate what had happened. As he and Al were gathering supplies and breaking open the narcotics locker, a group of seven men charged into the room. They were there for the drugs, too. Just not for the same reason. There were some words, and apparently a few of the guys knew Al. One had even done some time with him in prison. (That got me to thinking about a certain friend for a moment). They had Tom outgunned and Al wasn’t very hesitant in his decision.

“He just turned on me, leveled his gun at my face and said that I needed to hand over my pack,” Tom’s voice was really shaky. (I think he wanted to believe the best of everybody. He is really a big softie.) “When somebody mentioned that they should just kill me, that was the only time Al argued. He said it wasn’t worth the time.  That I’d be stranded out here and couldn’t really do anything anyways.”

“That is when we heard your gunshots. Al told them about you guys, said he knows where to find you and that you guys would have more stuff. I heard them open fire as I was sneaking out the door we had come in. I figured you guys to be dead. So when I saw their cars, I just figured I’d take one and split. They left them running! I mean, not that there are too many folks out stealin’ cars. I had to take a couple of those things out, but it wasn’t that hard. I took off, driving away from where I thought they might catch a glimpse or get a shot. That’s when I found you guys. I just can’t believe it about Al though.”

Neither could I.

That was pretty much it. Now we’re up on this roof. We had hoped those things would go away. Looks like too many of them followed us here. As the numbers grow, the noise continues to keep drawing more.

A couple of hours ago, we saw the other cars race past. Al wouldn’t take them to our compound would he?

There is a brown metal door that will take us inside. Something is pounding on it from the other side. So much for the store being empty.

Tom has one more nine-round magazine (the others were in his pack). Preston and I have five magazines each. So, after dividing it up, we each came up with thirty-four rounds. Only Preston and I have our bats. Tom never said where his was and I didn’t want to ask.

It is dark now. Tomorrow we will have to make some decisions.

The crowd is not dispersing. We heard gunshots off and on all night, but nothing seems to draw the crowd surrounding us away. We’ve decided that the only choice we have is to enter the store.

The store was a big mistake. Sure, we gained some supplies that we can really use if we get out of this mess, but, going in like we did…

Preston and I took up positions on either side of the door. Of course it was locked. Tom had his 9mm drawn and ready. I took a few swings at the door handle to little avail. There was no choice except to shoot the damn lock. The pounding had grown more intense now that whatever was waiting on the other side of the door was fully aware of our presence. Tom shot the lock and Preston pulled the door open.

That stench was overwhelming and Preston lost it. He starts heaving up his guts and falls over. The first zombie was on the ground where it fell and began trying to regain its feet. Only, seven more of those bastards come pouring out from behind the first one. Tom is shooting, and I am swinging my bat like crazy, doing very little good.
There are arms coming at me from three sides and all I can do is backpedal. By the time I have distance between me and them I see Tom on his back. If Tom is a big man, the zombie that has him pinned is gargantuan. This zombie is easily over 6’9”…300 plus pounds.

I have enough time to see that two are down for good, three are coming at me with hands clutching at air and mouths open…one is wearing what is left of her North Plains High School cheerleading outfit…one was a boy of about twelve and the other was a middle-aged man still wearing his cashier’s smock and a name-tag RON from the Fred Meyer store. Two more lunged at Preston who was trying to roll away and get to his feet. One looked like he used to be a mechanic and was wearing faded blue coveralls, the other was a twisted parody of a white-haired grandmother.

I drew my three towards the ledge. As much as I wanted to help Tom or Preston, I couldn’t do anything until I handled my own problems. Cheerleader was the quickest, and as she lunged at me, I ducked under her arms and shoved the barrel of the bat into her back. Over she went with a crunchy splat a second later. I reversed my momentum, bringing the bat around hard, swinging for the fences and catching the boy on the left side of his head with a solid shot that sounded with a muffled ‘thok’. He fell sideways, skidding on the gravel strewn roof. Ron was on me, his hand grabbing my left arm. Those things have an amazing grip. I jerked him towards me, turning as I did. Ron came around and fell right off the roof backwards…taking me with him…almost.

I hit the little lip and teetered forward. The only thing that saved me was dropping on my ass. Still, Ron is dangling; his grip on my arms is with both hands now as he has slid to my wrist. I look down into lifeless, black-shot eyes and he is snapping at me like a crazed dog. I can feel the click of his teeth just inches from my clenched fist. Taking the bat, I slammed it down. It took two good shots to the face. I’m pretty sure that it was reaching for the bat, and that is the only reason the damned zombie let go.

I turned just as Pee-Wee was reaching for me. Grabbing one flailing arm, and the waist of his pants, I chucked him over the side rather unceremoniously, but time was against my friends. I heard moans and snarls echoing in the dark doorway, and they were growing louder.

Preston was on his back now, crab-walking away and kicking at the two zombies seeking to get a grip on either leg. Tom was locked, arm-to-arm with the behemoth intent on trying to bite his face off. I decided that Tom was more vital.

Just that fast. It makes me just a little bit sick of myself that I’ve descended to such a base level so soon. I decided, someplace in my mind, that one man holds more value than another and was willing to put his life up as collateral.

I moved in behind the beast whose clicking, gnashing teeth could easily be heard above all the struggles. Lining up on the back of its head, I swung down like an executioner dropping his axe. The zombie barely seemed aware of my attack. Tom began screaming and as I brought the bat down again, my mind made an observation: I was forcing this thing’s snapping jaws in the exact opposite way Tom wanted!  Fortunately, the thing just stopped moving and collapsed like the giant bag of rotted meat that it was.

I had concerns about Tom, but no time to investigate. I turned to help Preston.  He had managed to get his gun free and was fumbling with the safety. He was still kicking his legs wildly.  The two zombies were like a pair of kittens with a squeaky toy. They batted and pawed at his legs with no concern of anything around them and no fear. Just a fascinated determination and surety that they would have their prize before long.

My swing broke open the head of Granny-Zombie as Preston finally managed to flick off his safety and drop Mechanic-Zombie. A hand on my shoulder caused me to jump. I spun around. By the time I was turning, my mind was already telling me it was probably only Tom.

It wasn’t.

A fat, Hispanic man was leaning in to take a bite out of my throat! The sound of a pistol echoed in my skull as the side of the creature’s head erupted in grayish-black gore. Tom shoved the body away, snapping his fingers in front of my eyes. He was talking, but all I heard were angry hornets in my skull. My mouth was full of the thick taste of rot and gunpowder.

Tom and Preston were running for the door now. I heard gunfire through a thick wall of cotton as they vanished into the dark entry. The strobe flash of their shooting was my only light as I entered the pitch-black stairwell. I hurried to catch them in the fits of blinding flashes and cacophonous bursts of 9mm fire in an enclosed space.

Somehow we reached another door, which, by the time I caught up, was open. A dull gray light gave me a look at our surroundings. A long corridor ran to our left and right. A good number of those things were coming from both directions. Eight or nine of them were sprawled at the base of the stairs we had just descended.  They wouldn’t be getting up ever again.

The store was open before us. Big windows someplace in the front allowed a little light, but it was still way too dark and shadowy. The smell of rotten food from the grocery department fought for recognition with the stink of the zombies that were visible only as shadows popping in and out of sight.

“This is a bad plan,” I remember whispering.

“We ain’t got no plan,” Tom snapped.

“I know where the garden department is,” Preston offered. “I used to shop here all the time.”