Mark Tufo - Alive in a Dead World

“Bitch,” he said just as the zombie plowed through the opening and lunged straight for his head.

Brian fought for his life harder than Mrs. Deneaux could have imagined. More than once, she thought that Wamsley had gained the advantage and that she would have to shoot him, lest he came after her when he was done. The zombie had finally landed a knock-out punch when it bit the same cheek she had prophetically hit with the stick.

She left her hiding spot amidst the screams of Brian and the moans of the zombie as it ate its meal. “That was close,” she said, staying in a half crouch until she was far enough away that she felt comfortable rising up.

Mrs. Deneaux looked around; there were no other zombies in the vicinity. She felt no regret when she realized she could have just shot the one that ate Brian. In hindsight she could have, but the prudent path had been the one she had taken. By not firing a shot, she had preserved her own life while also not alerting any other zombies in the area to her whereabouts. And just because she could not see any, did not necessarily mean that there weren’t any around.

“I should have never killed that two-timing bastard of a husband,” Mrs. Deneaux said as she hefted Brian’s rifle onto her shoulder. “That wasn’t the first time he had cheated on me and it wouldn’t have been the last. If I had just ignored it like I had all the others, I could be on the Riviera. They would never have allowed the undead in there, much too exclusive.” She laughed at her own joke.

Mrs. Deneaux found herself walking down the center of the roadway. She knew this might not be the best approach, but she was above skulking around on other people’s lawns.

Chapter Sixteen

Paul took one more painkiller that night, not because he was in any abundance of pain, but primarily because if he were to awaken as a zombie, he would be pissed with himself for not having done so. Moonlight streamed through the kitchen window as Paul picked his drool-laced face off the table. The candles were close to burning out. Paul’s legs ached as he shook the plastic bottle, which he was still clutching.

“One lone pill to rule them all,” he coughed out as he popped the top and took the remaining tablet elixir. “Breakfast of champions,” he said as he downed his warm diet Sprite. “Yuck! That doesn’t taste nearly as good as it had earlier. So now what?” he said to the empty bottle. “I’ve got to get back to Brian and the other one.” Just thinking about her gave him a headache. The approaching light of day was not bringing with it the promise that all those motivational posters talked about. He was effectively hobbled, one of his friends was dying from infection and three others were missing. He had no means of transportation, and in reality, didn’t really know how to get to Ron’s. Sure, he’d been there before, but he wasn’t driving and they were always smoking or drinking while they were heading up there. It wasn’t like he could pick up a phone and call anyone. The more he thought about it, the more he couldn’t remember having ever been so alone.

He got up to look for some more pills or at least an accelerant, maybe some Jack or SoCo. He sat back down quickly. “Maybe I’ll just wait until this kicks in a little,” he said as his ankle seemed to be high on the pain priority list today. He was deeply immersed in his pity party when he heard shots. “Damn, that sounds like it’s right out front,” he said, shuffling away from the table to the window next to the front door.

“Deneaux?” Paul was having a tough time putting all the images in front of him into a cognitive state. There was Mrs. Deneaux, looking like a skinny, old, female Rambo, rifle slung over her shoulder, giant, oversized pistol in her hands, zombies running at her from up the street. Paul craned his neck, but the wood from the window pane prevented him from getting a better look. It took him much longer than it should have to realize that he should open the door to get a better look…and to help. His head was as fuzzy as a schoolgirl on her second beer.

Paul pulled the door open, loudly cursing at himself as he dragged the door over the top of his shot foot. “Motherfucker!” he screamed. A fresh stream of blood spewed out as the bandage and wet scab was neatly pulled off.

Mrs. Deneaux looked over quickly. Paul was standing in the doorway to the house immediately to her left. He was swearing about something, but she had no idea what and no time to figure it out. She started to make her way over towards him. “You need to cover me!” she shouted.

Paul looked up, red veins criss-crossing his eyes so much, it was almost a solid color. “What?” he asked, finally focusing, the anger and pain welled in his features.

“You need to shoot, shithead!” Deneaux yelled.

“Where’s my gun?” Paul asked, more to himself than to her, but she heard him.

Deneaux was certain if she wasn’t so pressed for time and bullets, she would have shot him dead for being so damn useless.

Paul scrambled around. His rifle was on the sofa. He didn’t remember putting it there, but he couldn’t pin it on anyone else moving it, so at some point he must have, although for the life of him, he couldn’t remember when.

He got back to the doorway. Deneaux was holding her own, but she had put her pistol away and was now using the rifle. Paul’s first shot knee-capped the closest zombie to her. Effective, but far from a kill shot.

It did, however, give Mrs. Deneaux the opening she needed. Paul noted that the old crone moved with some serious step when she needed to.

“Keep firing!” Mrs. D intoned. “You’re about as useless as a reformed alcoholic at a wine tasting.”

Paul started shooting again, but his mind could not race to catch up with her dig.

Mrs. Deneaux pushed past him. Zombies were racing across the lawn trying to get to her. “Shut the damn door!” she said, leaning up against the wall.

Paul was stoned, but not that far gone, and the door was closed before her words had completely finished.

“Haven’t had that much interest in these old bones in a long while,” Mrs. Deneaux said as she smiled, her tobacco-stained teeth shining dully.

Paul thought he heard one of her cheek muscles groan from the effort of the foreign maneuver. “Where’s Brian?”

Paul noted that she paused a half a beat too long before she answered, which was only a side to side shaking of her head.

“What happened to you?” she said, pointing down to his foot, which was now sautéing in a small stew of his own blood.

“Hunting accident,” he answered as he made sure the door was locked. Paul moved away from it as the first of the zombies made contact with the screen door beyond. He shuffled over to the couch and sat down.

Mrs. Deneaux sat in the closer chair. She kept peeking out the living room window until one of the zombies saw her and ran through a small bush to press his face up against the screen. She quickly pulled the shade down, plunging the room into an uncomfortable darkness.

“What happened to him?” Paul wanted clarification. When she answered that they had been ambushed by some zombies and he had gotten eaten defending her, he didn’t completely believe the story, but some part of him was relieved that he had not succumbed to the infection. Paul would have felt directly responsible for Brian’s demise if that had been the case. If he hadn’t shot himself, he might have been able to get some antibiotics.

What Paul wasn’t factoring into the equation was if he had not gotten hurt, he may have found some medicine and actually been back hours earlier to help defend their encampment. Every time his mind wandered into the realm of different possibilities, he kept reining it in so that it would not stray too far.