K. T. Swartz Page 7

She backed up to the far end of the store, shifted gears. And let the truck go. It roared across the blacktop. Hit the first zombie head on. Then slid to a halt on a mound of slick bodies. Tires spun in soft flesh. She flinched with the fists pounding the glass. She shoved the truck into all-wheel drive. Spinning wheels dug into wet and rotting skin; the spray off her tires painted the zombies behind her, but the tires finally caught on knobby spines. The vehicle lurched forward, fish-tailing but finally moving. The remaining three were unperturbed with the carnage all around them. As persistent as ever, they came on.

  She let them stumble their way free of the bodies before tapping the accelerator. They looked nowhere else but at her. They might as well have been pins at a bowling alley. Their bodies slammed into the grill. She hit two; one crumpled over his road-kill friends; the second flew back, arching over the organic speed bumps. When the zombie smashed skull first into the pavement, her body slid a few feet, leaving a thick trail of skin, blood, and bone behind. The last zombie pawed at the window. She pulled out her gun, slammed the driver’s side door into him. He stumbled back, limping badly. She climbed out, let him stand before putting a bullet through his skull.

  She looked to the ruined doorway. Shadows moved within. She climbed into the truck, backed down the aisle so her headlights shone into the store. A small army of undead dragged themselves through the darkness. She was going to need another plan and quickly. To continue using the truck would only waste gas and damage it further. Her hands on the steering wheel, she looked around the parking lot. It was nothing but vehicles and wide open space. A few scrawny trees grew in the islands in front of each aisle. A loose collection of outdoor furniture lined the front of the store. There were buggies, vending machines, and a metal structure around the small garden center.

  She stared. A cage of propane tanks sat locked against the outside wall. She backed down the aisle as the horde shambled closer. Zombies followed like baby ducklings as she pulled ahead and spun the truck around. The truck shot toward the tanks. Rubber squealed when it stopped. She jumped out. Her crowbar bent and twisted the metal propane cage. Moans reached her ears. Without looking back, she dove into the truck, slammed the door. In the rearview mirror, some of her fanatical followers reached the truck bed.

  She floored it, turned sharply down another aisle. They followed, cloudy eyes rushing after her. Her foot tapped the brake, let them catch up. Then led them on another cat-and-mouse game around the parking lot, until she pulled up beside the propane tanks. Dragged one from the cage, loaded it in the truck. Just to be on the safe side, she grabbed another one. Hopped behind the wheel.

  She lengthened the distance between her and the zombies as she headed for the back lot, away from the other cars and anything else inflammable. She parked and set the propane tank on the blacktop. The first of the zombies shambled from between the vehicles. If she judged the distance of the explosion right she could expect shrapnel up to thirty to fifty feet. The only gun she had was her 9mm, with a range of sixty to seventy feet. Not much of a cushion in case the explosion radius was greater, but it was all she had.

  She climbed out of the truck and unscrewed the silencer; tossed it in the passenger seat. Both hands on the gun, she sighted the propane tank. Took a deep breath; held it. And let it out slow. She rested her finger on the trigger. Maybe her mind was playing tricks on her, but the horde seemed to have grown. They pulled at each other, trying to get ahead, but their rotting bodies and unsteady feet only had them stumbling and jerking awkwardly into each other. A few stragglers came behind, but the majority rushed her as fast as their decayed muscles could move.

  And they began to close the gap between them and the propane tank. Their moans mingled, crashed together, to roll over her. She didn’t move, kept her eyes on the tank. The first few undead stepped into the invisible kill zone. At thirty feet to the tank, they looked nowhere else but at her, lost in the mob mentality that urged them forward. At twenty feet, she took a deep breath, steadied her aim. At ten, their dragging, heavy steps reached her ears.

  The fastest zombies passed the tank. Less than seventy feet to her now. Still plenty of time to run if she wanted. She could still hit up several smaller stores and not have to put herself in so much danger with stupid stunts like this, but she needed things she could only find here, and this was the only plan she could think of. It was stupid, and if it worked, the sound alone would draw every zombie within hearing range. Shrapnel could very well kill her; the truck could be damaged. She shook her head, not taking her eyes off the propane tank. No more time. No more doubt, as the slowest of the walking dead stepped into the blast radius. She pulled the trigger. Her bullet slammed into a zombie’s leg; he fell, blocking her view of the tank. Panic slid down her throat. She squeezed the trigger, emptied the clip–

  Fire rolled across the blacktop. The propane tank exploded in a brilliant mushroom cloud; ignited gas tore through the dozens of rotting bodies as if paper. Shrapnel bounced across the blacktop in front of her. An arm slammed into the hood, slid across it, and over the side. Burning chunks of goo splattered the parking lot. She tensed as the heat blew across her face. And as the cloud of fire clawed its way skyward, it left behind a forest of zombie candles. The stench of burning flesh rolled over her; crackling flames drowned out the zombies’ moans as the handful still standing stumbled their way toward her. She watched them melt, until the last remaining zombie stepped within range, only to have his knees buckle. He collapsed in a pile of burning rot.

  ‘I still can’t believe that worked. The explosion got them all. I stood at the edge of a blast zone over sixty feet in diameter, with metal shrapnel peppering the truck’s hood, and I’d actually briefly considered using the second tank for fear the first one wouldn’t be enough. It would have been overkill and quite possibly could have killed me. I don’t exactly condone using propane for large explosions just because of the noise and the large visual aspect. They’re not the best for hiding, but sometimes they’re necessary. Jeremy would have been proud.’

  • excerpt from August 30 entry

  She tossed the gun in the passenger seat and climbed in. Drove back to the glass doors to again let her headlights shine into the store. If her math was correct, she’d put down about forty or fifty zombies, but a store this size would have well over a hundred, maybe two. To keep up this game of chase would only chew up her day and in the process attract more zombies, thereby compounding her problem. While she certainly had the resources for maybe a dozen more explosions, such a waste of time and resources had to be avoided.

  Only two zombies emerged, drawn by the light, and she crushed their skulls with her crowbar, then drove around the side of the building, to All-Mart’s automotive center. She parked and climbed out, grabbing her gun and silencer. She peeked through the garage windows. Three dead mechanics and a customer stood like lifeless statues among the two cars suspended on racks above their heads. She crawled along the garage door to the customer entrance. Fingers lightly on the handle, she turned the knob. Grimaced at the click it made. She glanced through the window again. Only one took a shuffling step toward the door. But he stopped, his arms swinging. Foggy eyes stared at nothing.

  Shaking her head, she tightened her grip on her crowbar, twisted the knob until the door opened just a crack. It swung open with barely a sound. Crouched down, she slipped inside. Stopped. None of the zombies moved. Gritting her teeth, she eased the door closed until the lock touched the frame. Another soft click. She rose, both hands on her crowbar. The only zombie within range had a shock of white but grimy hair on his head. His glasses had sunk into the skin across his nose. The old zombie’s shoulders were slumped; his bowed legs twitched with the effort of holding him up. A walker lay on the floor.

  She lifted the crowbar over her head. He moaned on impact, his forehead compacting. Blood squirted from his nose, across her clothes. As his glasses toppled off his nose, she spun. Three zombies shuffled toward her. She stayed behind the railing separating the gara
ge from the customer area. Both zombies bumped into the bars, still reaching for her. She smashed both of them in the head, and it suddenly occurred to her that she was playing ‘pop the weasel’, but with zombies. A female in a pale blue mechanics’ uniform stumbled on the welcome mat, pawing at the air. May swung the crowbar like a golf club, caught the zombie under the jaw with the claw part. She jerked at her weapon when it stuck like a hook in a fish.

  The zombie’s jaw ripped from her face, hung by a joint. Her tongue slapped her neck, and still she reached for her. She backed up, her shoe catching on a dead mechanic’s leg. Behind her was the door into the lobby. She rammed the flat end of the crowbar through the zombie’s nasal cavity. Wrenched the curved end down and in. The sharp point popped against the back of the zombie’s skull, and the mechanic fell. She pulled her crowbar free, wiped it across her back and sleeves.

  Her flashlight beam illuminated the customer service lobby inside the store. No zombies. She stepped into the room, propped the door open behind her. Behind the desk were two sets of keys. She shoved the doorstop as far under the door as possible, until it was against the wall. With the car remotes in her hands, she pressed the alarms. With no carpet or curtains to dull the shrieking alarms, their screams crashed into the concrete walls, rebounded off them, and rattled through her brain. Headlights flashed on and off, filling the garage with sudden brilliant stabs of light, only to pitch the room into darkness again.

  She let them screech and wail at each other as she ducked into the craft department, checked each aisle before moving further in. She worked her way across the wall, stopping by the fabric-cutting table. The car alarms filled the entire store, their headlights like blinking eyes. She watched the aisles. And waited. From the darkness, shadows moved, but the alarms made any other sound impossible. She forced herself to remain in place as a short, hunched zombie stumbled toward her. Its head turned in every direction. She held her breath, watched its steps carry it closer, until it stopped again. The store employee passed within reach, its stench tickling her nose. She squeezed it shut, let the zombie move away.

  They were like flies drawn to honey – very slow flies that couldn’t fly – but they shuffled their way toward the open garage door. Her eyes followed each one, counted them. The number kept growing, reaching twenty, then twenty five. Her stomach sank as the number climbed into the forties. She slipped to the end of the aisle, looked to the massive crush of bodies choking the door. The room beyond should have been large enough to hold them all, but they stopped just shy of that goal. There were simply too many for her to handle if this didn’t work. She had to get them all in that room, or she’d have to abandon the building.

  Staying low, she crept across the aisle, back to the automotive lobby. With only the counter between them, she peeked over the edge just as the car alarms went off, pitching the garage and the lobby into darkness. She froze, patted her pockets for the remotes. Punched buttons until both cars began screaming and throwing light across the walls. The swarm shifted, their hands in the air, clawing at the car racks. The dam broke, finally bleeding into the garage. Only a few bumped and shuffled around the door, but again the flood slowed. She darted around the counter, screwing the silencer back on her gun. Fired at the one holding up the last two.

  The sound of him hitting the floor caught their attention. Their heads jerked around as if pulled by strings. And finally they moved for the door. So did a few in the garage. She fired two shots, dropped the zombies in the lobby. And ran for the door. Rotted fingers wrapped around the doorframe, tightened as the flood of zombies shifted back toward her. She slammed the crowbar into the zombie cashier’s skull, put her boot to his chest, and shoved him back in with the others. His thick body tripped up those behind him. They stumbled, didn’t have the capacity to catch themselves, nor could they move as dragging feet trampled them under. She kicked the doorjamb away, slammed the heavy metal door on somebody’s fingers. She swung her machete at the zombies reaching through the door.

  The sharp blade ate through rotting, thin skin. Flashing strobe lights illuminated great arcs of blood and muscle flying through the air. Their weakened, bloated bodies leaked fluid heavily, the stench of putrefying organs pulled her lips from her teeth, but the long weapon sliced off the fingers still gripping the door. She slammed it closed. Rammed the doorjamb under it and locked it. From the other side, fists and open palms beat the glass, but it held. She back-pedaled until her back thumped the counter. With a sigh that drained her strength, she sagged to the floor. Just listened to moans mix with screaming alarms. The smell of rotting flesh reached her nose. She rose slowly, peeked over the counter. But only the door and her clothes were painted in a bouquet of odors that were – unfortunately – too familiar.

  She stood, sheathed her machete. No more time to delay. She had supplies to acquire. For the first time, she actually looked around the store. The automotive department still had its rows of tires, with an assortment of radios and cd players above them. On the other side was the craft and fabric department. She righted a fallen buggy, pushed it past the bolts of fabric – only to stop and then back up. Winter was coming, and she would need heavier clothes. Thick winter wools and cotton, in particular.

  She skipped the floral patterns, the polka-dots, and checkered patterns for the bolts and thick, leather-like material. She pulled on it, stretched it. Shone her flashlight on it, but no light bled through. This stuff – whatever it was – would make good outer layers, so she took that and the thicker cotton bolts. Needles and thread went into the buggy, and she moved to the shoe department, picked up another pair of boots and athletic shoes. She restocked her clothing supply for the coming temperature drop. The paint department got a cursory glance, just long enough for her to clean it out of paint thinner. In the garden center, she added gallons of weed killer and liquid fertilizer to the cart before raiding the health and beauty aid for medical supplies and vitamins. Whatever powdered drink mixes and energy bars that weren’t expired, she took them too. She tore off the wrapper on one and chewed on it as she walked.

  The buggy stopped in front of the make-up aisle. It looked as if it hadn’t been touched. She popped the cap off a tube of red lipstick, twisted it so the color showed. She capped it, rolled it between her fingers. But shook her head, stuck it back on the shelf. She had no use for it, now that Jeremy was gone. She cleaned the store out of nail polish remover and moved on to the household cleaners, where a second buggy was required: bleach, bathroom and kitchen cleaners – powder and liquid. What little space was left was filled up when she stopped in the Hunting Supplies department. She smashed the glass cases in, took all the rifle cartridges and a couple hunting rifles. No 9mm ammo though. She was going to have to find a pawn shop or a gun shop somewhere or find another handgun. The idea wasn’t appealing, considering how familiar she was with this one.

  She dropped both buggies off at the garden center before grabbing a third for groceries and house wares. Only when it was full did she wheel it back to its overstuffed mates. Everything but her clothes went in the truck bed; the clothes she folded and stuck in the cabin. Once everything was loaded, she cleaned out the propane cage and headed for the automotive center. Outside the garage, she watched the zombies’ heads turn toward the sound of the engine. She sat behind the wheel for a moment, as they pawed as the glass, leaving black streaks behind. Those closest to the glass were smashed against it. Their skulls popped like squashed grapes, their brains and blood oozing down the glass. She climbed out of the truck to grab a propane tank.

  The handle squeaked as she opened the valve all the way. With her crowbar, she smashed in the glass from the door, and a forest of waving arms reached out for her. With both hands, she picked up the tank. Too heavy to throw, she swung it back and forth like a pendulum. And let it fly through the window. It smashed into a zombie, knocked a few back. Then thumped loudly on the concrete floor. A few unfortunate zombies tripped over the cylinder. She soaked a rag in lighter fluid and took out
a lighter. Climbed up on the hood to wait. The door shuddered but held against the press of bodies.

  With so many in the room, none could climb out of the window, though they tried. Even those with clear eyes clawed at the window frame, desperate to get to her but couldn’t. They pushed against their companions with one hand and grasped the air with the other. But their actions were futile. She waited a few more moments, until she caught a whiff of propane through the window. The soaked rag burst into flame, the fire sending a puff of smoke into the air. She tossed it through the window and ran. Dove into the truck as a cloud of fire rolled through the garage. Glass exploded from every window and forced a tremor through the concrete floor and up the truck’s tires. The garage and all its occupants caught fire and only fueled the flames’ hunger. Cracks rushed up the walls and across the ceiling.

  She put the truck in reverse and backed away as chunks of ceiling fell; fire belched clouds of smoke into the air. A second explosion rocked the garage. Its doors bulged outward; shrieked in agony with the shrapnel tearing holes through them. The concrete building collapsed as she slammed the accelerator into the floor. Pieces of concrete rained from the sky. Bounced across the blacktop. Burning chunks of flesh and bone splattered the hood. She turned on the windshield wipers and watched blood and cleaning solution swish from side to side as she drove out of the parking lot.

  She took 4 Street to the only two pawn shops she knew in Danville and was rewarded with 9mm ammo and an extra handgun. Outside the store, she stopped; let her gaze roam the empty street and nearby low-income houses. Several apartment complexes were down the road, closer to town, and the potential for being overwhelmed teased her. Before she wandered into a hornet’s nest, she tore open another granola bar and water. Considered her next move. While the firehouse and trailer made good homes for three seasons, neither was fit for winter. And while the generator would keep the trailer warm, running it for possibly five months before the temperature rose again was just asking for trouble.