Joseph Talluto - White Flag of the Dead

We stepped out of the car and checked weapons. I was carrying just my SIG and my trusty crowbar. I was getting low enough on ammo for the carbine that I was seriously considering a run back to my home to pick up the extra ammo I had left behind when Jake and I made a run for it. Sarah had her Ruger. 22 and a long steel bar with a right angle bent into it. The end had been pointed but not sharpened, the idea being to crush the skill but not to open it to keep the infection contained until it could be burned. Charlie had his Glock and his tomahawks, as well as his knife.

I walked up to the front and checked the windows. I didn’t see any movement, but that meant nothing. Charlie circled around back and when he came back reported nothing moving. I signaled to Sarah, who checked the front door and found it locked. That usually meant the people had left, but not always. Punching the glass panel next to the door with the end of my crowbar, I waited a minute to see if the noise had attracted any attention. One of our guys a while ago managed to get killed reaching in to open the door. A zombie grabbed his arm and had torn off huge chunks of meat before we could pull him out. He bled out screaming on the lawn.

No activity so I reached through and opened the door. Sarah went through first, her pistol sweeping the living room and stairs. Charlie glided past and headed down the hall towards the back, checking the rear family room and bathroom. I went upstairs, SIG at the ready. The upstairs was dark, and for the millionth time I wished I had bought a tactical light for my SIG. Oh well. I improvised with a small Maglite, and checked the bathroom at the top of the stairs. I didn’t hear anything, but that wasn’t a sign all was clear. The room at the back was empty, as was the small room at the front. The master bedroom door was closed, which was never a good sign. I kicked the door and heard a small shuffling sound. Contact. I waved down the stairs at Charlie who came up and crouched beside the door, tomahawk held to trip up anything that might come out of the door.

I nodded to Charlie and kicked the door in, the cheap hollowform door splintering around the handle. The door flew open and I got a quick look at the bedroom. It was indeed the master suite, and occupied. A single woman lay on the bed, her face grey and taut in the rigor of death. Her eyes were closed, and did not show any signs of violence. Her clothes were neat and tidy and her hands were folded across her chest. By the look of her, she had been dead for a long time. So what had made the noise?

I motioned to Charlie to check the closet while I covered him. He threw the door open and fell backwards as a dove flew out of its nest and into his face. His momentum carried him to the bed, where he fell onto the woman lying there. Jumping up like he had been stung, Charlie glared at me and said “Clear.”

I calmly holstered my SIG, propped my crowbar against the wall, and then proceeded to laugh like I had not laughed in a long time. By the time I had finished, I had tears running down my face and my stomach felt like it had been subjected to a thousand sit-ups. Charlie had begun to laugh as well, and when Sarah came up to see what the hell was going on, the two of us were bent over at the waist, laughing our fool heads off. She shook her head at us and went downstairs to wait outside.

We went back downstairs and met up with Sarah, who had gone through the downstairs looking for anything useful. She had some foodstuffs, but nothing else. I left the door open and we went to the next house.

We proceeded like this down the street, picking up supplies here and there, a couple of rifles and shotguns, and batteries and tools. We did find zombies, but the cold weather had slowed them down so much it was almost ridiculously easy to kill them. They could barely move, and it was no trouble to smash their skulls and end their existence. After a few of these, Charlie and I started to get creative. I speared one using my crowbar like a javelin, and Charlie spent five minutes practicing throwing his tomahawks at a teenager who was stiff in a corner. With several of them, we practiced with our knives, perfecting the best way to kill them with a knife. Charlie liked the temple entry, while I was a proponent of the top of the head thrust. We argued the point until Sarah told the two of us to shut up.

We reached the last house on the street, and went through our routine of checking the windows. I noticed a lot of furniture had been moved around, and the kitchen looked like there had been a fight of some sort. I could see a blood trail leading out of the kitchen. Something had happened here, and recently. I signaled to Sarah and she tried the door. Thankfully it was unlocked, and the three of us slid silently into the house. Immediately it was obvious there was trouble here, and we spread out to check the downstairs.

Finding nothing, we met back at the stairs. Sarah and Charlie shook their heads at me and I returned the favor. It was in that moment I heard a long scratching sound, and I glanced upstairs. Charlie heard the same thing and put away his tomahawks, drawing his Glock and holding it ready. Sarah placed her bar against the doorframe and pulled her gun as well. I looked down at the blood trail that led out of the kitchen and up the stairs. Whatever was making the scratching noise was upstairs.

I drew my SIG and slowly went upstairs, Charlie watching my back and aiming at the top of the stairs. My flashlight illuminated the darkened hallway and as I stepped higher I could see two forms in the hallway. One was the body of a man who was clearly dead and the source of the blood trail. He had been torn up pretty badly, and I could see blood splatter on the walls and red handprints where a struggle had taken place. The man had fought to get to the door at the end of the hallway, and died trying to protect what was in it. The zombie on top of him, his wife, I guessed, was slowly scratching at the door with both hands, her fingers worn to the bone. Her clothing was covered in blood and gore, and when I hit her with the light, she slowly turned her dead head towards me. I could see stringy bits of meat hanging from her bloody mouth, and dried blood covered her face. She had so thoroughly torn apart her husband that he had no chance to come back as a zombie. She slowly rose to her feet and took slow, painful steps towards me. Her thin arms raised and her lips curled back as she moved closer towards the light that illuminated her.

I didn’t waste time, I simply shot her in the head and dropped her next to her husband, the shot sounding unnaturally loud in the small hallway. I moved towards the door and stepped around the mess in the hall. I leaned against the door and listened carefully. I didn’t hear anything, so I tried the door and found it open. I pushed it in and found myself in a nursery. Oh, shit. I thought. Not again. I looked around and saw that the nursery was for a little girl, based on the pink animals and yellow duck stenciling on the walls. I approached the crib, expecting the worst. There was a small form curled up in the corner of the crib, and I couldn’t tell if she was dead, zombified, or other.

My heart was full of dread as I reached in and carefully turned her over. Her face was angelic as her head turned towards me. Her eyes were closed and she was dressed in one of those fleece sleeper blankets, and I guessed she was approximately three or four months old. I sighed and brought up my SIG, wondering again why God punished the little ones. I lined up her small head and stopped. For some reason, I couldn’t pull the trigger. Charlie came up to the door and saw me pointing my gun at the crib.

“What’s the matter?” he asked, holstering his Glock.

“Something doesn’t seem right.” I said, lowering my weapon.