Tim Meyer - Less Than Human

Ben crept into the hallway, mindfully sidestepping the broken door. Slowly, Rose followed him, taking baby steps. She walked like an infant learning how to put one foot in front of the other. Once Ben was through the doorway and on the porch, he immediately felt safer. But that feeling was soon erased when he heard more inhuman chatter behind him. He turned and saw Jackson Harlan, the three-hundred pound bus driver from across the street, stumbling into the middle of the road. He looked the same as Rose. Ben watched in horror as the residents of Densberry Avenue came out of hiding. Each of them moved similarly—slow and awkward, as if they had just exited the bar after last call. Some of them groaned, making unintelligible noises, and some of them said nothing. There were maybe a hundred of them flooding their yards, ungracefully making their way toward the street. Most of them were covered in blood. Their clothes were stained, so were their faces. And they were—

Heading his way.

Ben stood on the Yoland’s porch, watching a flock of zombies scuffle toward him.

The term “zombie” entered his brain the instant he saw them occupy Densberry Avenue. Ben suddenly remembered the brief conversation he had with Jake the day before the flu left him bedridden. High on bath salts, a man went crazy while riding the bus and started eating his fellow passengers. Bath salts my ass, Ben thought. He’d seen enough horror flicks in his time to know what a zombie was, and these people—they were fucking zombies.

He forgot about the news reports. The past week was hazy. He was barely awake for most of it, and the hours he spent conscious weren’t wasted on television; they were spent with his nose in a book or with a pen and paper, jotting down notes about the next Great American novel he always dreamed about writing, but always lacked the time and motivation.

The world went to shit last week and he missed every moment of it.

Just as he was wondering how much of the zombie apocalypse had been televised, a snarling sound caused him to spin around. Rose Yoland was there, maybe four feet from him, grunting and dragging her feet toward him. Saliva flew from her open mouth. Ben took a step backward to avoid contact with her and her bodily fluids. Unfortunately for Ben, he miscalculated where he was on the porch. When he placed his foot on the stairs, he lost his balance. He landed hard on the wooden steps, rolled across the walkway and onto the lawn. He felt air vacate his lungs. Moaning, he crawled away from Rose, who awkwardly began to descend the stairs. Her uncoordinated body caused her to lose balance, and she too tumbled. She landed an arm’s length away from Ben. Immediately, she crawled after him, snarling like a rabid dog.

Ben saw the sea of zombies heading in his direction. They had multiplied since the last time he glanced at the street. Just as he realized how fucked he was, Rose reached forward, grabbing his foot. He tried kicking free, but the dead woman’s grip was something unnatural. He kicked again, more furiously. His foot finally broke away from her clutches. His shoe came off, but it didn’t concern him. Scrambling to his feet, Ben got ready to run. He sprinted toward his backyard without looking back.

Zombies, holy-fucking-shit zombies, he thought, as he bounded the steps of his deck, holding his ribs, trying to regain his breath. Ben wasn’t a doctor—far, far from it—but he had experienced cracked ribs before.

He entered the back door, immediately locking it behind him.

Outside, the dead horde swarmed 19 Densberry Avenue.

Ben paced around his living room, grabbing the sides of his head, muttering the same three words over and over again: “Holy-fucking-shit.” Air slowly crawled back into his lungs and he was momentarily thankful. He was going to need a lot of it, especially if he planned on running from the throng of dead Red Riverians eagerly awaiting his exit.

He continued pacing in circles, his mind wandering in and out of negative thoughts. He wrestled with the realization that the world had virtually ended, that there would be no more electric or cable bills. No more credit card payments. No car loan payment. No mortgage. No lawyer fees. No child support?

Keep it together, he thought. You need to get out of this.

Ben grabbed his suitcase, ran to the cabinet where he kept some snacks. He only packed a few, hoping to stop somewhere on his way to Pittsburgh. He didn’t know how bad it was out there, but he was prepared to go a few days without food if he needed to. He might not have a choice. He headed to the front door. Scratching and moaning sounds stopped him from going anywhere near it. Fuck. They probably had the whole place surrounded. He heard pounding on the windows. It was only a matter of time before they would break in. He saw shadows moving behind the curtains. Lots of shadows.

The roof. It was his only chance. Ben raced down the hallway, locating the attic stairs. He unfolded them, climbed quickly, and ascended into darkness. He almost tried pulling the chain on the light, but then remembered there was no electricity. Dumbass, he thought to himself. He cursed himself for not bringing a flashlight, probably one of the most important things he could have packed in his survival trunk. He debated whether or not to run back down the stairs and grab one out of the junk drawer, but the sound of shattered glass quickly determined that going back was not an option—unless he wanted to end up the living dead’s breakfast.

The inarticulate vocalizations of the zombies quickly filled the living room. Ben reached for his Smart-Phone. Even though it was useless for making calls, it proved resourceful in other ways. He selected the flashlight application and the tiny light on the back of the phone illuminated the attic. You lucky bastard, he thought, as he ducked trusses, rolling over pink tufts of insulation. He continued until he got to the far end of the attic, where a fan blocked him from getting to the roof. It was roughly the size of a manhole cover, and Ben felt he could squeeze through it, if only the blades weren’t there.

Ben started removing the metal grate that covered the fan. To his surprise, it popped out easily. Trying to stay calm, he closed his eyes, blocking out the noises coming from the rooms below. Then he thought he heard lumber behind him creak. He quickly spun, shining the light toward the stairs. There was no one there. His heartbeat slowly resumed its normal rhythm.

He turned his attention back to the fan, which he tried removing. It was screwed in and there was no screwdriver handy. Ben started to debate whether or not he had met a dead end. He also wondered if the zombies knew how to climb stairs. If they couldn’t, maybe they’d eventually abandon the house and decide to look for food elsewhere.

Ben started kicking the fan blades, hoping to break, or at least bend two of them back far enough so he could slide through. There was another grate separating the fan from freedom, but it was made of old, rotted wood. It looked flimsy and easy to break. He continued kicking the fan blades. The metal was thin and cheap, curved with each stomp.

Noises. Close. Behind him.

He stopped kicking, rotating toward his point of entry. He saw the top of a head peeking out of the empty square in the attic floor.

“Shit,” Ben muttered, turning back to his only way out. After the two blades were completely bent back, he realized that in order for him to squeeze through, he was going to have to do a third. He didn’t waste any time. He kicked the third blade back, granting him passage to the roof. He lay down, slid himself underneath the fan. He started punching the wood grate, the only thing standing between him and fresh air. The wood cracked, splintering with each attack. In less than a minute, the grate popped off and Ben finally had unobstructed access to the roof.