Joseph Talluto - White Flag of the Dead

Duncan nodded. “Ready for the next one?”

I waved him on and we went to the next house. This one was definitely occupied, although not by anyone living. The zombies had made a mess, stumbling around and knocking things over, drooling over things, and bumping into the furniture. They came out when we opened the door, and were easily dispatched as they tumbled to the ground.

I went in, and found a large cache of canned food and bottled water, and a good supply of batteries. I didn’t find any guns, but we did find the keys to a large pickup truck in the garage. Expecting the worst, I turned over the engine and was amazed when it coughed and came to life. I opened the garage door and surprised the hell out of everyone assembled out there. I pulled it out to the street and starting filling the back with the supplies. It was a huge truck, with a crew cab and full size bed. I grinned at Duncan and joked with him. “You need to come up with something pretty cool to top that.”

Duncan mumbled something about the luck of fools and we went to the next house, one of the other men driving the truck.

At the next house we got really lucky. Apparently the owner was a sort of survival nut, and there was a large supply of canned food, bottled water, water purification tablets, first aid kits, and emergency blankets. I idly wondered where the owner was, since he had enough to survive a long time. I got my answer when I went into the back bedroom. The owner was lying on his bed, pistol in his hand, and a large portion of his brains splattered on the wall. I figured he may have gotten infected and chosen not to be a zombie. Either that or the reality of the true end of the world was too much for him to handle.

I relieved him of his gun and stored it in my pack along with the other gun. Heading to the lower level, I bumped into Tommy, who was carrying a large bundle of military surplus rifles. Another man was carrying metal cans of ammo. Two other men had two handgun cases each, and another was carrying a box full of assorted ammunition.

“Guy had a regular gun room in the basement.” Tommy said, hoisting his load for a better grip. “We found a lot of useful stuff and a shitload of ammo.”

I nodded my head. “Good deal. The owner won’t want it anymore, and I’m sure he’d want us to have it.”

Tommy arched an eyebrow at me. “You find him?”

I nodded. “He’s upstairs in bed. His brains are on the wall. Must have been infected and ended it before he turned.”

It was Tommy’s turn to nod. “I’d probably do the same if I got nailed. Or hope someone would do it for me.”

“Yeah.” was all I said.

Tommy and crew hauled their load out to the truck and went back to get more. Duncan cleared out the kitchen and by the time we were done the truck was fairly loaded. I told the driver to head back and unload, but I had Duncan ride along and told him to store the guns until we could sort out what we had and make sure it was divided evenly. No one was to get anything until we got back. Duncan understood and hopped into the passenger side.

I watched the truck head back and looked toward the long line of houses. We had a lot of work to do, but I think we were going to be all right. At least for the time being.

A low moan on the wind was a poignant reminder that it was going to be a long fight. But we had gained a foothold, and were going to take it from there.

Six weeks later

I awoke to the sound of activity. It was roughly an hour before sunrise, looking at the sky outside my window. I could only see through the top six inches, the rest being reinforced by wood slats. But it was enough to let in a little light, and that was all I needed. I crawled out of bed and checked on Jake. He was still sleeping, tucked into a little ball with his butt in the air. I wondered for the hundredth time if that was comfortable, promising myself to try it sometime. But I covered him anyway, and got dressed, belting on my sidearm and field knife. Cleanup days were a bitch.

Essentially, the idea of a cleanup day was to remove all zombies killed the day or night before, burn the carcasses, and take out any that had been attracted by the noise of fighting. Thanks to my having to use a high-powered rifle, I figured there were lots of Z’s aimlessly wandering outside, bumping into each other and seeking a way in.

I went over to the window and climbed onto the small ledge that was part of the structure. Not being stupid, I very slowly raised my head to look outside. Zombies are attracted to movement, and if something in their vision suddenly moves, they will focus on the source. I didn’t worry about one trying to get in, but fifty could do some damage if they all focused on the same spot.

Peering over the boards I got a clear look at the outside grounds. There were about fifteen milling about the parking lot, and three or four strolling the grounds. Most of them were in pretty sorry shape, and one had somehow lost the use of its legs, dragging itself along the ground. There were some kids in the group, and I always felt bad for them, since they never really got a shot at life before it was taken from them. Two kids were dressed alike, making me wonder if they were brothers. I thought about Jake and swore once again he would never revive into the walking dead.

I was lost in my reverie when a zombie lurched into view, right in front of me. I had to resist the urge to step away, because again, the movement would have marked me. He was a young black man, his dark skin turning a deep grey with half of his scalp torn off. His left eye was missing and the other traveled around in lazy circles. His shirt was torn at the neck, and deep gashes, like claw marks, could be seen through the torn material. His right hand was clutching something, and what I thought was a stick at first was really a severed human finger. Lovely. I had to take all this in and remain motionless. If it was just me, I’d say to hell with it, and move, but I had Jake to worry about. So I got to watch Stinky shuffle on past. A small part of me wondered what had happened to me, how I managed to become so steeled at the sight of the living dead so close. I wasn’t always this casual. No, this wasn’t comfort, it was survival. If I let these walking corpses get to me, I’d be dead quickly, and my son right after. I guess that’s what made me so determined; I had something to live for and someone who needed me for their life.

When the danger had passed, I stepped off the ledge, making sure I moved slowly. This was one of the reasons why we put the newcomers and families on the second floor. They could leave their curtains open and look out all they wanted. Unless zombies learned how to fly, they didn’t have much to worry about. If zombies did learn to fly, we were all pretty much screwed, anyway. I was never any good at skeet.

Jakey was starting to stir, I was going to need to get out and get the clean up organized. Not really sure how I managed to become a kind of de facto leader of this little band of survivors, but since I used to be a school administrator, the leadership role wasn’t new.

I opened my door and literally bumped into Nathan Coles, one of our “trainers”. He was ex-National Guard, ex because his unit had been wiped out defending a last-stand position for the Governor of the state. On one of our raids, I had found him holed up in an attic, sick with flu and about a dozen zombies stumbling around the house wondering where the sneezing was coming from. Nate took in our newbies, taught them rudimentary judo and hold-breaking, and basic weapons use, from firearms to knives to improvised weapons. He was the one who taught me how to use the knife I had on my belt.

“Hey Nate! Good Morning!”

“Hey, John. How’s Jake?” Nate always asked about Jake. I think he may have lost his son in the Upheaval, but he never talked about it.