Six: Small Town

A Chapter by Megan

Please read the note at the end.

I was sitting behind the wheel. I allowed myself the luxury of reclining the chair so I could relax, though the unconscious zombie just a few yards away kept me anxious. I had considered burned the zombie to keep it dead, but as we had discussed as a group, I only had so much lighter fluid, and it would be better used for bigger masses of zombies and for when we couldn’t cover ground as quickly. “Hurry up guys, let’s get this piece of junk moving!” I called over my shoulder.

“Well if you would help…” I heard Oliver call back.

“I told Jenna to stay back there for a reason. Christ….” Jackson retorted in a whisper he thought I couldn’t hear; his words were accompanied by the dull thump of a physical blow.

“Ow…”

I swung my legs over the seat and touched my feet to the ground, standing up. I walked around the car to where the others were looking through what we had and packing up the bags in the trunk. It was a small car. “I don’t see how you expect me to help,” I mumbled sleepily, glancing a few yards away to where Natasha was inspecting nearby foliage. “With how small the trunk is, I’ll just get in the way by trying to squeeze in. And please, Jackson, I’m not a little girl. I can take care of myself.”

Jackson stopped digging to look over at me for a few moments, analyzing me. He gave me a small confirmation nod but said nothing of it. “This person kept a lot of trash,” he told me, pointing to a pile of empty take out boxes, Styrofoam cups, plastic tea bottles, and wadded up napkins lying on the road.

“What a waste of space…” I murmured, nudging the pile with my foot thoughtfully.

Oliver made his own head visible, tossing a few more take out boxes into the pile. “What, the person, or the trash?” he asked, pulling a tea bottle label out of his dirty blonde hair. He habitually flicked his head - something I hadn’t realized he did until recently - to shift the bangs out of his eyes. He should get a haircut. If he couldn’t see properly, he would be at higher risk of dying.

“Both, I guess,” I mumbled. I could already see Jackson’s indignant remark bubbling up. “Now wait a sec; I know he was still a person, but if he’s not going to survive, then he doesn’t need to waste so many supplies. We could’ve used some of this stuff.”

Jackson looked irritated. I think he gave me that look a lot, actually. “Jen, I doubt he knew he was going to die. But please, allow me to apologize for the unfortunate man’s lack of respect for the living.”

I wasn’t sure if I was more amused by the sarcasm (because I was just that kind of person) or not. I opened my mouth to retort, but found myself empty-handed. I had a bad habit of finding sarcasm to be admirable. “Well played, Jackson. Unfortunately, I don’t think I have any affectionate nickname for you to match that.”

Deciding he was no longer part of the conversation, Oliver ducked back into the trunk, slotting his bag in. He stuck his hand out expectantly. I walked back to the car’s front where everyone’s bags were as I listened to Jackson.

“I think Jen is a cute nickname. Makes you seem less apathetic than you really are,” Jackson responded from the trunk of the car. I grabbed the rest of the bags, hurrying back to the trunk and handed each one to the teen individually. “Just don’t call me Jack,” the ex-soldier continued, “it sounds like a chain-smoking, gambling-addicted, old man’s name.”

I offered him a raised eyebrow. “Oh… Kay…” I didn’t agree at all, but nor did I argue.

He used his only available hand to help Oliver finish situating the bags. I looked over towards Natasha just in time to see her coming back. “I didn’t see anything… I was actually kind of hoping for a wild animal to kill. Y’know, for dinner, yeah? Not that I would’ve been able to catch it.”

“Don’t worry about it. We’ll have some beans tonight,” I replied as Natasha handed the sniper rifle she had been wielding back to Jackson. She had only brought a kitchen knife. It wasn’t much, but it was better than Oliver; he hadn’t brought anything. The only other weapons we had were my pocket knife, survival knife, and Jackson’s handgun and sniper. And not a lot of ammo.

“Hey, Jenna?” Oliver called, slamming the trunk shut. “How did you get that scar on your shoulder?”

I looked down at my shoulder where my sleeve had ridden up to reveal a thick pink line running just a couple inches over my shoulder. It was ugly and I hated it, but I smiled anyway. “That comes from a story involving so many sins and illegal acts, it’d probably make soldier boy over here faint.”

Jackson was positively flabbergasted. It was just a little cute. “I’ll have you know I’ve shared my fair share of sinful tales. Anyway, don’t stay up too late, kiddies. Can’t have you too sleepy to walk tomorrow.”

“Don’t worry, Jackson. It’s my shift for watch - I won’t keep you guys up too late. Are we ready to go yet? Oliver, what was in the trunk?” I asked, shivering in the chilly air. That was odd. It shouldn’t be cold in the middle of summer. Then again, this was Colorado. I’d never been here before.

Here Oliver shrugged and ran a hand through his unkempt hair. Another habit. “Not a lot, really. Just some empty water bottles, but Natasha said to get rid of them in case they were infected. Which is just as well I suppose. Don’t need to infect anyone. Whoever this guy was, he didn’t have any food. Wouldn’t have lasted much longer than he did.”

With that we seated ourselves in the car. Natasha and Oliver took the back seats and Jackson and I got in the front - I think it was a seniority thing that made us automatically let Jackson drive, and I think they just viewed me as a leader - very odd. I watched hopefully as Jackson put the key in the ignition, turning it. The old car sputtered and coughed a few times.

“F****r…” I mumbled automatically. “Excuse my French. I’ve got a sailor’s mouth.”

“I’ve noticed, actually,” replied Jackson, turning the key again. The same sound.

The third time Jackson tried, it started out with the same sound - then quickly developed into a low rumble. I grinned. I held back another cuss - this one in positive form - deciding I had cussed too recently.

“I’m almost afraid to hit the gas…” Jackson mumbled. “I don’t remember the last time I drove a car.”

“What’s it matter?” I ask. “We don’t have any driving rules here. Just hit the gas all the way and let’s get to the nearest-” I was cut off by my own yelp as Jackson hit the gas pedal - hard. It was hardly a second after I had been pushed into my seat by an unseen force before I bounced once as we drove over the zombie. The foot-high bounce into the air (which caused me to bump my head on the low ceiling) had me in chuckling. And then we were speeding down the highway.

I looked up to the rearview mirror to see the zombie carcass we left behind - trampled and smashed. But it would be back up again eventually. Then a thought occurred to me. Why hadn’t that zombie looked like the other one I saw? “Natasha? Do all zombies look alike?”

The scientist was looking at her belt buckle thoughtfully, though she seemed to decide she didn’t need it. “Vaguely, yes. Have you seen one before? Other than that last one I mean. That was a recent zombie, so he looked more human, I know. But over time they-”

“I know what they look like. You don’t have to describe the image to me…” My empty stomach gurgled unhappily at the nauseating image. “I won’t be forgetting what I saw anytime soon.”

“What does a developed zombie look like?” Jackson asked, eyes flickering over to me before settling on the road again. “I’ve never seen one.”

“You’ll be glad if you don’t. And you’ll know it when you see it too. Just the thought of that thing is making me feel queasy.” But maybe that was just my hunger getting to me.

“Maybe you’re sick,” Oliver suggested.

“Damn, I hope not.”

“…Is it what you were expecting?”

I looked over the car’s roof at Jackson. “Exactly what I expected,” I answered, turning my head to look around. It was a deserted small town. After driving for just a couple minutes, we had discovered that were travelling on Interstate 25, which basically ran right down the middle of Colorado. It crossed paths with another interstate, but this one ran east to west, so we turned onto it. This had brought us to this little town near the edge of Colorado. We were stopping now because we had about a quarter of a tank left and it would be getting dark soon. “So how should we do this?”

“What are we doing?” Oliver questioned as he climbed out of the car.

“Pillaging. How are we dividing the town up?” I asked.

I watched Jackson chew his lip thoughtfully until he found an answer. “I suppose we’ll partner up. I myself would prefer to go with Jenna, but we very well can’t put the only two people that have never fired a gun together. I’ll take Natasha to the residential area - I can see some houses on that nearby hill. Jen, you and Oliver scour the stores for some food - or other supplies, if you can get any.”

It felt weird knowing I was someone’s first choice. Getting separated in teams felt like getting picked for dodge ball all over again. Every time had been a blow to the ego for me. To know I was the preferred choice was odd - but not bad.

“Right. Let’s meet back up here as soon as possible. None of us really have watches, so I suppose ASAP is the best timing we can do.” I took my bag out of the trunk as Oliver grabbed his own, and I handed Oliver my handgun before leaving the car. I was, for the most part, guessing where to go. But it was still a small town, and there wasn’t much to see. After weaving our way around for a few minutes, passing several service-type businesses, a fishing store, and some studio or other, we managed to stumble across a more substantial area of business.

“Oliver, go check the stores down that side of the road, and I’ll take this side,” I instructed. Oliver nodded, moving Jackson’s pistol between hands nervously. I turned my back on him and checked my stores. I had a post office, a pizzeria, and a café. On the corner was a convenience store and gas station. I made a mental note to tell the others so we could get more gas for the car. If there was any left at the pump.

I knew the pizzeria and post office would be pointless, so I went to the café, not sure what to expect. Maybe they had some pastries. The windows, like most every business’, were shattered to bits. After finding out that it was unlocked, I chose to use the door. I hesitantly approached the shop, jumping at the sound of a bell when I pushed the door open. I sighed when I realized what it was, and then glanced around the store. The lights were out of course, so it was pretty dim, as the sun wasn’t shining at the right angle to light the room very well.

I suppose it basically looked like it was closed. No lights, no people. The chairs were even neatly placed on the table, ready for the floor to be cleaned. I approached a table, running two fingers over it. Just as I had guessed it would, dust had collected over my fingers. I approached the cash register, peering into the glass counter of treats. It all looked spoiled. But maybe if they had sealed up some food in the back room, I could scrounge for something.

A round, metal tin caught my eyes. It was sitting beside the cash register, all inconspicuous and such. I peered into the container, thinking for some reason that I should use what I saw. It took me a few moments of thought before an idea occurred to me, and I stuck the container in a pocket in my bag. This was just another incentive to stop by the convenience store.

I walked around the glass counter, subconsciously flicking the light switch at the doorway. Nothing happened of course. I automatically felt stupid, but flicked the switch back down anyway. It was basically a small kitchen, though it was also incredibly hard to see. Remembering something my dad had taught me, I closed my eyes for ten seconds before opening them again. It was marginally better.

I could have sworn there was a fridge in the corner, though it wasn’t humming like a working one. I also noticed a large oven, as well as a countertop full of saran-wrapped baked goods. They may have been a bit stale, but muffins were muffins - the same basic principle went with bagels and scones. I was almost desperate enough to grab moldy food. But I didn’t, instead quickly going over each morsel before stuffing it in my messenger bag. I hoped they weren’t too crumbly - that would make it a little difficult to eat. My bag still had some extra space when I had all of the decent muffins and bagels and scones put away. Mm… Scones… I was definitely eating one tonight with a can of beans.

I went through a quick inspection of the cupboards lining the walls, but found nothing more than containers of different sugars, flour, shortening, and other baking essentials. I was about to leave the building when I heard the most god-awful sound that always made the ends of my fingers tingle, sent my heart fluttering - in a bad way - and made my stomach churn uncomfortably.

It was the sound of someone scraping ice and it came from what I assumed to be a fridge. My eyes widened in surprise and I slowly approached the fridge, wondering what was inside. It could have been a zombie… or it could’ve been a person that would starve to death if I didn’t let them out. Or maybe I never thought it would be human - I don’t remember too well. All I recall is that I felt that I needed to open that fridge. But it was chained and locked shut.

I knock on the door. “Hello? … Is anyone in there?”

I was replied with the smothered sound of someone trying to talk. “Mmmph!” My jaw dropped when I decided it must be someone with their mouth taped shut - or vaguely alike. I look around for the key to the lock desperately before realizing I could just slide the chain off of the fridge.

Upon further inspection, I learned that the chain was rather rusty and old, and it looked as if it would fall apart at any second. Breaking it might be better - and easier. Instead of doing the logical thing and smacking the looped thread of rust with the hilt of my survival knife, I decided to do one of the stupidest things I have ever done. I punched it.

The metal broke away with a clatter, but my fingers... The pain would go away soon, I told myself. I bit back tears of pain, rubbing my eyes vigorously with the heel of my palm. I opened the door, actually expecting there to be a person - a living one - inside. I was an idiot.

I was irrationally surprised that a light didn’t shine when I opened the door. Instead, a five foot something zombie stumbled out, body bent at the oddest angles as its spine had adapted to the shape of the shelves of the fridge. I backed up slowly, unable to take my eyes off of it. In the dark, its eyes glowed green - probably the natural color of the infected’s irises. And they were looking at me. Something about the idea of such a monstrosity, such an evil thing, knowing I existed and viewing me as a target made my heart flutter again, and my stomach do a somersault.

I had just backed up past the ground-floor oven when another zombie groaned and managed to push itself out of the cooking mechanism. And a third zombie fell out of the upper oven, landing on the one before. They both quickly recovered and clambered to their feet before joining the fridge zombie in quickly shuffling in my direction. One was actually limping like zombies are portrayed to do, but the other two were gaining on me rather quickly.

Unlike the zombie I had a run-in with earlier that day, these ones did look like the first I had ever seen. Elongated limbs, pus-filled-looking scab on the head, decaying teeth - it was all there. It was only when their breath hit me (I almost hurled at the smell) did I realize I wasn’t doing anything but backing away.

I pulled out my knife, swinging it unprofessionally and wildly at the zombies. I managed to behead one, cut a deep enough gash in one’s side to topple it over, and de-arm another before I turned tail and fled the store, blocking the door as best as I could with a table on my way out. I was shuddering and shaking, as all I could think about was how slicing through their skin had been like cutting room-temperature butter.

When I was safely outside of the café, I found myself panting heavily and hugging the survival knife to my chest. Realizing there was some black mucky substance on the blade - which I assumed to be zombie blood - I held it at arm’s length. I wiped it on the cement steps leading to the café’s entrance before stepping away from the store. Didn’t need any zombies smashing their way through a glass door to get me.

“Oliver?” I called, though somewhat hesitantly and quietly. I was afraid there would be more zombies. I received no answer at first. Then there was a very loud screaming that sounded muffled by… A door? My curiosity was quenched when Oliver (apparently unable to wait for the automatic doors to slide open themselves) came crashing through the glass doors of a general store, yelling at the top of his lungs with a bungee cord wrapped around his waist and attached to a cart full of items trailing behind him.

Six zombies were staggering after him.

The shopping cart Oliver was hauling seemed to be slowing him down a great sum. “Oliver, what the hell are you doing?” I called loudly. “What happened to Jackson’s handgun?”

The teen took a sharp turn on the road, cart swinging behind him in a wide arc and nearly clipping me. There was a very loud crash behind me, causing me to jump. I didn’t need to hear the groaning or smell the rotting flesh to know what was behind me. I ran to catch up with Oliver, pulling him by his arm.

“Used the ammo,” Oliver finally huffed in response in between breaths. “Something fell… off a shelf… and I got scared… so I shot at… it… emptied the cartridge… Then I went to the… the… back of the store and, and…”

I sighed in agitation. “Yeah, yeah, I got it. Oliver- Oliver stop running!”

The teen did as told and halted, the cart still moving and slamming into his back. He cried out as he was toppled over. The zombies were nearing. I put my bag on the shopping cart full of… of everything. “Now listen carefully, Oliver. I want you to stuff our bags with as much of this as you can. Don’t worry about time; I’ll fend off the zombies. Take things out of the box before putting them in a bag. Boxes waste space; this will be easier. Now get to it!” With that said I turned my back on the teen and faced the zombies, holding up my knife threateningly. It looked really small compared to all the zombies.

I aimed to cut off heads, though when the zombies tried to block it I would end up taking their hands and arms off. Most of them even managed to dodge some blows. If they got too close, I would kick them away to make time. Once my foot went entirely through a zombie’s chest and got stuck. I flapped my foot and it fell off.

And apparently zombies were not as slow as movies portrayed them to be.

Among the flurry of rotting flesh and yellowed teeth, I spotted the zombie from the fridge, spine crooked and wiggly as ever. Suddenly feeling infuriated, I sent several harsh swipes his way, glad to see him fall over, oozing thick, black blood. Panting, I tugged at my knife, which was stuck in the zombie’s body. Or maybe my arms were feeling too heavy to lift it; at the moment, I couldn’t really tell. But it didn’t matter at the time because the only weapon I had left to defend myself against the remaining four zombies wouldn’t budge. I wiggled it and yanked it but received no positive reaction.

I froze in horror, my blood running cold, when a fleshy hand landed on my shoulder and uncomfortably hot breath swept over my neck. I squeezed my eyes shut, my mind racing to imagine, not every way to escape, but every way for my life to end. And then there was the penetrating sound of a gunshot, making my eyes widened in surprise. The hand fell away from my shoulder with a sickening splat and another gunshot rang out.

I instinctively ducked before there was another shot. I kept my eyes closed tightly, waiting. I needn’t have waited much longer, as it wasn’t long before a fourth shot rang out before silence ensued. I stood up, looking over my shoulder to where Oliver was cowering behind his shopping cart, eyes wide in terror. This had been his first time seeing them. Inside the mesh cart were four full bags, two of which I didn‘t recognize. Two were quickly checked off as mine and Oliver’s, but where had the other two come from? “Oliver? Where did you get-?”

“They were in the general store. I saw them and I thought, ‘you can never have too many bags!’” Oliver explained proudly, standing up and puffing out his chest as if he had been the one that had just taken down several zombies before nearly being killed. Or had that been him that had shot the four remaining zombies?

“Nice shooting with pistol, by the way,” I commented to find out.

Oliver looked confused. Of course he hadn’t done it - he had been cowering. “I didn’t do that… I’m not sure where the shots came from.”

“Oh,” I muttered, wondering who had taken the zombies out. A quick look around the area told me nobody was in the vicinity, bar me and Oliver. It didn‘t matter. I was alive and that was all I really cared about at the moment. “… Where’s Jackson’s gun?”

I turned to my knife, pulling at it again, this time from an angle, and snapping the blade in half. I muttered a curse, offering the broken metal a glare. I worked the rest of the blade out of the hilt, storing the handle in my bag. It had some little useful things inside it, like a compass, some Band-Aids, fishing line, and matches. Still, that knife had been a gift from my dad.

Oliver’s shoulders slumped and his eyes were downcast. “When the zombies found me, they scared me so much, I dropped it…”

I rolled my eyes. F*****g perfect. Trust a politician’s son to take care of a gun. That just wouldn‘t do. “Oh, great. You showed real courage there. Did you happen to wet your pants, too?” I asked cynically.

I could see Oliver’s face reddening from the rather rude comment. “No… But I do actually need to take a whiz…”

“Fine, whatever. Go piss, I’ll run back and find the gun. Be quick about it, I’m not sure how long those zombies will be down. And, Oliver?” I asked, looking over my shoulder to the teen after I grabbed two of the bags. He was already unzipping his fly. “Do me a solid and aim for the zombies. They deserve it.”

I was stuffing the two bags I had taken with me into the trunk, grabbing a granola bar from inside and tossing the wrapper on the ground. It was made of peanuts and had some kind of creamy icing on bottom. It was delicious. It wasn’t exactly filling, but it would make do.

“Oh, God. Jenna, what is that on your face?” I heard Jackson calling from not too far away.

“Wait a sec… Where’s Oliver?” the scientist asked from the same distance.

“He said he was going to take whiz before he caught up,” I answered Natasha, using one of the car’s side mirrors to see what was on my face. Gross… It was some of that sticky goo. With a grimace I wiped it off of my face, flicking my sleeve in an attempt to rid my hand of it. “And I think it’s zombie blood. You said that won’t affect me, right Natasha?”

I looked up just in time to see Natasha shake her head. Good. Part of me had been slightly paranoid about that. “We had a run in with some zombies. But I got some baked goods at a café and Oliver got tons of s**t at the general store. Tonight… We eat like kings… on a budget.”

Jackson chuckled as he reached the car. “But… you’re alright? The zombies didn’t get you? Like bite you or anything?” He put his own bag in the car trunk, followed by Natasha. “We found a lot of water bottles by the way. And we filled our canteens and some empty water bottles at a lake, though… I’m not sure how clean the water was.”

“I don’t think anything bit me. Check me? And don’t lie if there are any marks.” I put my bags in the trunk and stood in front of Jackson, arms and legs in a spread eagle position. He seemed hesitant to check, but eventually approached me. He walked around me once, hands gliding over my limbs carefully as he looked for anything that would look like a bite or a scratch. My face grew hot when his fingers glided over my sides. “Hey Jackson… Those houses you went to were on a hill, right?” I asked without waiting for an answer. “Did you happen to see anybody with a gun?”

“I didn’t, but Natasha did.” The answer perplexed me for a moment - which apparently showed in my facial expression - so he elaborated. “Without a mirror, it is rather hard to see yourself, Jen. That was me.” Apparently done searching, Jackson took a step back, and I turned to face him. He gave me a nod to reassure me that I was clean.

I wanted to express my gratitude towards Jackson really badly at the moment, though I wasn’t sure how. A hug seemed appropriate, but the idea of doing that made me feel a touch nervous. However, I wasn’t given any time to do such a thing before the army man spoke again. “Ah, here comes Oliver.”

I turned around and, true to Jackson’s word, Oliver was hurrying towards us. “Took you long enough,” I commented. Hurry up. I want to catch some sleep in the car so I can stay awake tonight. And this isn’t exactly a safe place to spend the night.”

Each of us climbed into our own seats, Jackson starting the engine. I closed my eyes in contentment. The sickening image of a zombie infiltrated my mind and I couldn’t get it to leave. Still, I kept my eyes closed, praying that the images would leave.

And eventually they did. The gruesome pictures were soon replaced by that dream I had every single night since I had left California. The dream where I was on a boat and it was raining like mad and there was a man at the ship’s stern. And even though I was pretty sure he was, he kept saying he wasn’t crying. It was clearer than the last time, like always. And something occurred to me. That voice… It was vaguely familiar. But from where?

It hit me as I shot awake in my seat, gasping. I wasn’t sure why I was so out of breath, but I was. “You alright?” Jackson asked. But his voice didn’t register. I knew where that voice was from. It was the voice inside my head. The man on the ship’s stern sounded like the British voice in my head. Sidney was the first name that came to mind. Alright, the voice in my head and the man in my dream would, from now on, be referred to as Sidney.

Oddly enough, that felt like a mental accomplishment.

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© 2013 Megan

Author's Note

This is getting silly, guys. I checked my views an hour after I put in the last chapter, and there was already five of you. And that's not including the regular fifteen or so of you that I assume have been reading every chapter. For the love of god, PLEASE comment. I just want to know what you think. What do you like? What do you not like?

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Reviews

Trigorin

Well, you obviously know how to write, so I find it somewhat of a shame that you've chosen to write about zombies, of all things. I've only happened to read this one chapter, but there's honestly nothing new here that hasn't been done in a hundred generic zombie books already on the market. If this is your big dream and you've been working on this for years, sure, go ahead, keep writing, but honestly, I really think you could aim much higher.