Mark Tufo - Alive in a Dead World

“Damn!” Gary yelled.

“Grenades! Please tell me grenades!” I said, almost jumping up and down like a schoolgirl that found out the captain of the football team liked her.

“Yeah. Joe Homeowner in suburbia North Carolina has a secret stash of grenades. Get a hold of yourself, Talbot,” BT said. “Is it grenades?” BT asked Gary softly.

“Rossi Circuit Judge .45/410 revolver rifle!” Gary said as he held it over his head.

“Zombies could have on Kevlar helmets, it wouldn’t stop that thing,” I said.

“Big gun?” BT asked.

“Shoulder-mounted cannon,” Gary finished. “Only twenty rounds though.”

“Those bullets are probably a couple of bucks each, not something you go plinking with,” I said.

“No name 12 gauge and a snub nose .38, decent amount of rounds for each,” Gary said as he pulled stuff from the safe and around it. BT was shuffling it to the larger room. I grabbed a small duffel bag full of clothes and baby toys that was perched on top of the dresser. I spilled the contents onto the bed, careful not to spend too much time thinking about what the things were or who they belonged to. The pacifier, though, almost dropped me to my knees. I went back to the growing pile of bullets and gun-cleaning supplies and began to stuff them into the bag.

“Cats!” Paul said a little louder than I think he intended to.

“Is that some sort of new expletive?” BT asked him when Paul didn’t elaborate.

“No,” Paul answered, looking at BT questioningly. “There were cats running by.”

“Running?” I asked. Paul nodded.

“How many?”

“Ten, twelve maybe.”

“Let’s get this shit and be gone.”

“Not that I want to stay in here any longer than needed, but what’s the rush now?” BT asked me.

“Unless Mouser King just opened up around the corner, something has them spooked,” I said, grabbing the handles of the duffel bag and standing up.

“I hate it when you’re right,” Paul said. “Couple of speeders headed this way.”

“Well, it’s a good bet there’s a bunch of their slower brethren behind them and I am not getting stuck in here as my final stand. I hate this house,” I added.

“I’m outta here,” Gary said, pushing past BT.

“Don’t let me get in your way,” BT told him.

Gary was already at the foot of the stairs and not turning to respond.

I shrugged my shoulders and followed my brother.

The two speeders had blown completely past the house in pursuit of the cats. The twenty shufflers following had just shambled onto our street and seemed to redouble their efforts with quarry in sight.

The zombies were within thirty yards by the time we were all packed and ready to go. Not close enough for any immediate danger, but how close does one really want to get with one’s waking nightmare?

“Hey G, let me see that rifle,” BT said as he stepped back out of the car. He carefully placed five shells in the rifle’s cylinder.

“BT, make sure it’s tight against your shoulder,” I told him right before I covered my ears.

BT slightly rocked on his heels as he fired a round. Doesn’t sound like much, but it was the first gun I had seen that could even do something as much as that to the big man.

“OOOOOH WEEEEE!” he shouted. “It took three of them down!”

We all looked through the back windshield. Two were completely out for the count and the third one’s legs were still moving, but it was only doing circles in the pavement as its head was on the ground in an ever expanding pool of its own jellified blood.

BT was still celebrating when I tugged on his arm that he might want to get back in the car with us so we could go.

I had a flash of panic in my gut, wondering if anyone had deemed it necessary to check and see if the car actually started.

Paul turned the key in the ignition, a slow churning whirring sound quickly became the rapid tick of a dying starter and then it caught. The engine roared to life just as the first of the zombies banged into the rear bumper.

“That was close,” Paul said, looking in the rearview mirror at me and the zombies outside.

“Um, dude, it’s still close; we haven’t left yet,” I told him.

“Right,” he said as he placed the car in drive.

“How did he end up in the driver’s seat?” BT asked as he watched the zombies retreat.

The speeders up ahead turned when they heard us coming. They started running full speed towards us, the smaller cats completely forgotten.

“Run them over!” BT yelled.

“Don’t!” I yelled trying to match him in volume. “There’s a chance they could stop this car,” I said, thinking of Tracy’s long defunct Jeep Liberty.

“Bullshit!” BT said.

“Okay, how about crash through the windshield? You want one of those things in your lap? Just think where its mouth might end up,” I told him.

“Stay away from the zombies!” BT begged.

“Easier said than done, guys. The road is only so big and they’re fanning out,” Paul said as he slowed the car down.

“Do your best,” I told him as I braced for impact.

“Anyone want to switch seats?” Gary asked from up front.

Hitting at least one of the zombies in front looked to be a foregone conclusion. Gary grabbed the bag I had taken from the house and placed it in his lap. Not a one of us thought it wasn’t a wise move.

Paul wrenched the wheel quickly to the left and the car shuddered as the lead zombie smashed into the side view mirror. The zombie’s tongue left a saliva string down the entire length of Gary’s and my windows. I swear I could see the mega germs swimming in that toxic stew now eating through the glass. (Flair for the dramatic? Sure, I’m not above it.)

The car flung back to the right, but it was either too much or too little of an adjustment. I couldn’t tell because I was still transfixed on the zombie spit inches from my face. That was, of course, until the side of my head slammed up against Gary’s headrest. The impact, I think, brought the rear tires of the small car off the ground for a fraction of a second. My head was ringing from the smack. I was shaking the cobwebs away, but I didn’t think I was doing such a good job when I looked out the windshield. A zombie was halfway up the hood, his outstretched hands latched onto the windshield wipers, and he was trying to pull himself up.

“Get off!” Paul screamed at it.

Gary was frantically hitting buttons on the console. The static-laced radio shot through the speakers, the sound not a welcome addition to the pain blossoming in my head. At some point, Gary turned on the hazard lights, which was actually fitting, and then he found what he had been searching for. The windshield wipers began to sweep back and forth, the added strain of a one hundred and eighty pound zombie snapping them off in its hands. The zombie looked to me to be surprised as it slid back down the hood and thumped under the bottom of the car. The radio was still blaring, the blinkers were still clacking and now the twisted metal from the broken windshield wipers was etching a groove through the windshield. I turned, the first zombie was already up and running, while the one that had perched on our hood looked like its legs were crushed. He was out of the race and the third had already turned and was still entirely too close for comfort.

“Nice driving, Paulie,” I said in all seriousness.

His knuckles glowed a brilliant white where they made contact with the steering wheel.

“You alright, buddy?” I asked him.

“Yeah, why wouldn’t I be?” he answered a few octaves higher than normal.

“Gary, you think maybe you could take care of the radio and the wipers?” I asked him.

“Sure thing,” Gary answered. If I hadn’t known better, I would have sworn they had both found some helium, and had just moments before, been sucking some down. Gary was nearly as high pitched as Paul. But after some initial fumbling, he was still able to shut down the radio and the wipers. Curiously, his hand had hovered over the hazard button and he decided to leave them on. I could deal with the minor clacking, my headache and the possible concussion that I figured was going to ruin my entire day had already faded into obscurity. I could at least thank Tomas for that.