Timothy Long - Z-Risen - Outbreak

I ducked again as one of the creepers looked my way. Milky eyes brushed over my position as I hit the ground. Even at a mere twenty feet away, I still marveled at their ability to actually see or hear a damn thing. As the days rolled by and they rotted a little more, they had to slow down and lose some of their senses. At least, that was my logic. It’s one of those things you tell yourself over and over. It’s not that bad, it’s not so crazy out there. Things will get better in a few days, just wait it out. But that didn’t happen.

One thing that did grow was their hunger and, as that got stronger, so did their need to eat. Us.

I used to read zombie books and think Z’s would be about as scary as drunken senior citizens. These weren’t. They had started mad and gotten madder. The shufflers were the worst. When they changed, so did their disposition. Not content to wander around mindlessly, they were driven by a need to rise and attack, and they’d go psychotic whenever they spotted the living.

The slow ones weren’t so bad, but get twenty or thirty of those relentless fucking monsters on your case, and they’d run you right into the ground.

I scanned my entry point and crouched again, then brushed past another dying hedge. I rounded the corner near the dumpster and the pack came into view.

I slid next to the giant green monstrosity and plugged my nose with my fingertips. Foul, very foul. I stood and waved a hand in the air, hoping to hell Joel wasn’t currently getting swarmed. Then I stopped. What use was it? He wasn’t about to announce his hiding place.

“You ugly godless fucks come here often?” I lowered the wrench, letting all 8.4 pounds of the weapon become an extension of my arm.

The creeper that had fixed his milky gaze on me earlier turned his head on his creaking neck and drew back desiccated lips over rotted teeth. The others swiveled to take me in. A chill raced over my body at the thought of one of those assholes sinking their teeth into me.

One shot and the creeper’s head popped to the side, followed by his body. Brain matter splattered and blood sprayed. Two Z’s moved toward the noise, leaving three for me. Terrific.

“Hey assholes,” called Joel.

I risked a glance at my watch. The action had already occupied five seconds of the thirty we allotted any battle. If we couldn’t wrap things up in that time frame, we’d bug out.

I swung the wrench up and took the nearest right under the chin. I hit him so hard I thought his head was going to come off. Poor kid. Couldn’t have been more than fifteen when he turned. Dressed in shorts and a gaudy t-shirt, he wore only one knee pad. He did have pads on both elbows, though. Probably some skate punk that was now a dead punk.

The second Z closed in. I gave ground, lifted my size fourteen US Navy-issued boot, and kicked him in the groin. That didn’t put him down but it bought me a moment. As far as I knew, they didn’t have functioning nads, but a swift kick could still put them in their place.

Another pair of shots, but I had things to worry about other than Joel’s body-count.

I didn’t have time to beat these things to death, so I drew the M45 with my left hand, aimed just as I’d practiced a hundred times over the last couple of weeks, and shot one through the neck. It sounds cool but I was actually aiming for its forehead. I’d lowered the gun just a fraction at the last second.

The Z fell away, gurgling blood from its neck. I aimed and fired at the shuffler but it was already on the move. It’d been caressing the ground on all fours, doing that shuffle step that freaks me the fuck out. The man had long wisps of hair hanging from his scalp and, somehow, a pair of glasses perched on the remains of his face. His mouth was full of blood, drool, and something that looked a lot like human flesh.

I fired again. The bullet punched through his gut just before he smashed into me.

I hit the dumpster hard enough to knock my breath out and staggered to the side. He fell away but was on his feet in a flash. His eyes had the same milky white look but they somehow fixed on me. He howled a wordless scream of fury and launched himself. I swung the pipe but there wasn’t a lot of strength behind it. The glancing blow barely kept him from biting my arm.

I staggered back again and bullets whizzed through the air, taking the creepers out with extreme prejudice.

I fired again, but the shot went wide because I’d panicked. The shuffler didn’t cower, it didn’t hide, and it didn’t turn and run. It was completely unreasonable—and its only desire was to rip into my flesh.

I gave ground, fighting for breath, and when he attacked again, I punched him. I didn’t get a lot behind the strike but it was enough to knock the Z down. I lifted the gun, took a half breath, and blew his fucking brains all over the pavement.

Joel moved in on my position, Ray-Bans looking everywhere as he ran. He had the assault rifle across his chest, finger on the trigger guard. We didn’t stop to admire our handiwork. Instead, we moved out at a fast clip because we were well over our thirty seconds and that was bad news. Another half minute and we’d be overrun.

18:45 hours approximate

Location: Undead Central, San Diego, CA

We exited the block and ran into the parking lot of an apartment complex. Joel and I had dodged behind cars and concrete dividers at every opportunity. Our sprint had carried us nearly a hundred and fifty yards away from the dumpster and I, for one, had begun to feel it.

I panted, hunched next to a car; Joel did the same. He swept his ball cap off his black head and wiped sweat from his brow with his sleeve. San Diego might be a comfortable seventy degrees but running for your life has a tendency to make you sweat like a pig.

I pointed at my orange wristband and he gave me the finger. While we took a breather, I ejected the magazine from the M45 and filled the five rounds I’d emptied into Z’s. Joel took a moment to do the same with his AR. We waited and looked toward the area we’d just left, only to find that luck was on our side and we’d avoided a larger confrontation.

I eyed car interiors while Joel stayed on point. I actually found an old beat-up Ford that hadn’t been broken into and pressed the end of the wrench against the closed window. I looked around quickly, then pulled back and hit it just hard enough to break glass. It imploded with a soft pop and tinkle. I opened the door and felt around under the seat and came up with a small paper bag. The glove box had some mints and papers. I slid the items over my shoulder and into my Swiss Army backpack as I moved out.

“What’s in the bag?” Joel whispered.

“Not sure. It’s not very heavy; check it when we’re clear?”

“Sounds good.” He moved out in a semi-crouch, rifle stock pressed to his cheek.

We advanced on the apartment complex and came to a cross-street that had been a battlefield. Police cars overturned next to military vehicles. Blood splatters everywhere. Broken bodies, both civilian and military, lay on the pavement or over car hoods. Some hung out of broken windows, faces torn away or necks gnawed to the bone.

“Fuck me,” Joel said, and moved to a body. We did a quick check but only came up with a few stray rounds. Someone had stripped this place clean.

Joel eyed a map and then we were on the move again. A few minutes later, we had the condo in sight.

No Z’s in the immediate vicinity. Luck was on our side, for a change.

We dashed across what was once a very expensive plot of grass but was now a dry and yellowed bed of tinder. If a stray spark caught, this whole block would go up in flames.

We reached the stairway without challenge. At the top of the second flight, Joel advanced down a hallway on the outside of the building while I followed. Doors had already been ripped open and goods tossed on the balcony. Joel didn’t bother with the residences and kept moving with me right behind.