Last time on Hell Breaks Loose - Mitch watched helplessly as his neighbor was ripped apart by a wild pack of the dead. Nearly out of food, his mother demanded he not leave the house in search of more. Mitch, knowing she was sacrificing her health in favor of his, drugged her, and sneaked out of the house anyway.
After getting to the local grocery store, and filling his bag full of food and supplies for him and his mother, he was knocked unconscious by a strange dark figure, awakening later, how long only God knows. A pudgy man, covered in fresh blood entered the room where Mitch was tied to a steel table, prepping him for something...for him to be served on a platter to the dead.
A group of zombies found their way into the IGA, attacking the butcher who was ready to serve Mitch up. Mitch escaped after a brief struggle with the butcher, who met his end at the hands of his own customers. Mitch, crying, ran home to find he'd forgotten to lock the backdoor after he'd left the home, leaving his mother in a drugged sleep up in her room...
Moving his way through the house, he found a familiar zombie, standing over the mutilated corpse of his mother. Mitch, sick with rage, fought the zombie, shoving it out the window, splatting it on the sidewalk below. It didn't take long for the horde to smell the spilt blood...for them to find their way into the house, for them to find their way up to the bedroom...with his mother's corpse crawling to him, Mitch has nowhere to run...and so we continue...
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Hell Breaks Loose - EP. 5 - "What Doesn't Kill You..."
A swarm of dead faces
appeared from within the upstairs hallway. Their eyes were empty, jaws drooping and spilling bloody saliva. They fumbled over each other like wriggling
maggots, trying to fit all at once through the narrow bedroom door.
His mother pulled at
Mitch’s pant leg, trying to scale him to get a piece of his neck to chew on.
Through the broken
window, birds chirped and down the street, Mitch spotted Mr. Rickerson’s pickup
at the end of the block. If he could get
to it, he could just drive and think about what’s next, but getting there was
only half the battle.
The zombies had the
hallway completely packed, more were shuffling up the stairs. Their footsteps bounced through the bedroom
door, mewling groans droned. He looked
at the window. It wasn’t that much of a
drop.
I’m gonna jump, he
thought. I can’t believe it, but I’m
gonna jump out the window!
An electrical wire
connected the house, directly above the window outside, to the power lines lining the street.
I can grab that,
but I’ll have to let go before I touch the ground or I’m fried chicken.
His mother was now
pulling herself up his shirt.
“I hope you can
forgive me someday. I love you more than
you’ll ever know,” he said, wrapping his hand around his grandmother’s hand
mirror on the dresser beside him.
He thought about the
silent promise he’d made in the ash-covered incinerator tube, the one that he’d
never leave her again and he realized he couldn’t keep it.
God dammit! I can’t keep it! I can’t help you! I have to help myself! I’m sorry…
Mitch smashed it into
the side of his mother’s head, snapping the handle off and jamming pieces of
the mirror into her skull. She let go of
his shirt and fell face first into the floor.
He booked it to the
window, feeling the hot, funky breath from the horde against his neck, tight on
his heels.
He fixed his foot
onto the window sill and leapt out in one smooth motion.
The wind whipped
through his hair as he grabbed the power line, which was squishier than he
thought it was going to be. It snapped
free from the house under his weight, which he was hoping for, and stole the
momentum which would have broken both his legs if he hit the ground dead
on.
He let go and free
fell four or five feet into a roll before his goose would’ve been cooked in an
electrical display of sparks and pops.
He finished the roll on his knees and turned his eyes upward.
Up in the bedroom
window, a group of zombies hunkered.
They started spilling over the edge of the window, landing in bushes and
on the sidewalk with blood splatters.
Mitch hoppled to his
feet and ran down the block, toward Rickerson’s pickup. The wind scratched and dried his throat as he
pushed his legs harder and harder. They
burned like battery acid pumped into his calves and ankles.
Behind, zombies
continued to flop to the ground from the bedroom window, swishing into hedges,
slamming into the yard. The first wave
that’d fallen rose to their feet and tore after Mitch, bearing their yellow and
bacterial teeth, screaming and howling with hunger.
Mitch hopped the split-rail
fence guarding Mr. Rickerson’s backyard and leapt over the turtle shell child pool
just beyond, heading for the backdoor which stood atop a stoop of chipped and
colorless concrete stairs. When
Rickerson came home with the kid’s pool two years ago, all the children in the
block were instantly attracted to it, spending their summer days playing in it,
though all the parents were wary of Rickerson, scared he might be a perv. Mitch didn’t care about any of that. He just wanted the truck.
He remembered every
morning before school, around 7 or 8, Mr. Rickerson would waddle from his front
door, thermos in one hand and his keys jingling in the other. Mitch knew there wasn’t a chance the keys
would be so conveniently placed in the folds of the driver’s side visor, that
luck is only written into film scripts.
Mr. Rickerson loved his pickup and Mitch wouldn’t be surprised if his
dead hands were still clutching those keys, if he wasn’t running around with
the dead.
The cries of the
horde drew closer as Mitch stomped his way up the concrete stoop. The screen door groaned while he yanked it open
and fumbled with the backdoor knob. It
was locked, like his backdoor should have been.
He pounded his
shoulder into the door, still gripping the bouncing knob, but it held strong.
Around the corner, in
a nook of the outside of the house, he’d seen a window low enough to hoist
himself through. Could be the only
way I’m getting in, he thought.
Mitch let the screen
door slam shut, shoulder throbbing in rhythm with his heartbeat, and scooped a
loose chunk of concrete from the stoop.
It was nice and cold, and if it wasn’t for the coarseness, he’d be
tempted to press it against the lump on the side of his head.
He fought to catch
his breath has he dropped off the side of the stoop and rounded the side of the
house to the darkened window, reflecting the gathering thunderheads in the sky. That’s when Mitch smelled it, not the rotting
or dry roadkill smell, but the fungal and oily aroma of coming rain.
That’s just what I
need, thunder and lightning, and to be soaking wet. Maybe it’ll throw off the scent of blood, if
that’s even how they hunt.
“Just what I fuckin
need,” he whispered to himself.
Mitch turned his head
away and punched through the window with the concrete chunk. He slid it around the edges of the window
frame, making sure there were no jagged shards left and pulled himself in
blindly.
With the rolling
clouds above blotting out the sun, there was little more than a creamy glow
with which to navigate about.
Mitch bounced off the
kitchen sink, face-first, spilling a pile of stacked and dirtied dishes to the
floor. They smashed to tiny ceramic
pieces around him while first his face then his legs slammed into the linoleum
floor. He lay for a moment on the floor,
letting his head recover. Then he picked
chewed chicken leg bones and decomposed lettuce from his shirt and pants. He stood up and swatted the tiny dish pieces
from his hair.
“Well this is just
cozy…”
Mr. Rickerson’s
kitchen was tiny. Lime green cabinets
followed the floral patterned wall as it curved, stopping alongside a doorway
that lead to the living room. A card
table, which looked like it had been used as a dining table, hugged the
opposite wall underneath a Felix the Cat clock, still ticking away, eyes and
tail bouncing back and forth. Tick,
tock, tick, tock. Other than that, the
house was silent, save the savage cries of the dead outside.
The swarm of zombies
vaulted over the split-rail fencing in Rickerson’s backyard, bumbling and
knocking each other to the ground and into the kiddy pool. The quicker ones cleared it with ease,
splitting into two groups. One headed
for the backdoor while the others fought to fit through the kitchen window,
pulling and prodding, each wanting to be the first one in.
Mitch sifted through
empty food cans on the kitchen counter, slapping them away, searching for the
pickup’s keys. Bloodied and grubby hands
slapped against the inside of the kitchen window, catching Mitch’s
attention. Decomposing faces bobbed up and
down just outside. Mitch scooped up a
butcher knife from its wooden holder and sliced through eyes and noses,
splitting lips and foreheads.
The backdoor jumped
in its hinges as the zombies rammed it again and again. Mitch paused to hear their nails scraping
against it then resumed stabbing hungry mouths.
The blade sunk into a pudgy zombie’s cheek, down to the hilt, scraping
its cheek bone. When it stumbled
backward, it jarred the knife from Mitch’s hand, nearly pulling him up and out
with it.
Mitch staggered back,
catching himself on the card table, jerking it in place.
The card table!
He lifted the table
and shoved the dead faces in the window back, slicing off a set of fingers that
were caught between it and the window sill.
He propped it up, setting the bottom set of legs in the sink. If the zombies tried pushing it up, the top
of the table would hit the top of the outside of the window, if they tried
pushing it down, the bottom set of legs would catch in the rim of the sink. It would at least buy him some time,
hopefully enough to find the keys.
The smell of dirty laundry
slammed Mitch’s nostrils as he raced into the living room. A tube TV sat in the corner, next to a curio
cabinet filled with military figurines from each war era. World War I doughboys, World War II S.S.
officers, Vietcong. Mitch searched the
end table beside a pleather couch, tossing TV guides and Reader’s Digests
aside. He found loose double-A
batteries, but no keys.
He stood upright,
catching his breath and looking around the living room. A carpeted staircase lead up to the second
floor, dark and dust filled. He didn’t
want to go up there, but by the looks of it he’d have to since the keys were
nowhere to be found on the first floor.
If the zombies broke through though, he’d be trapped and have to leap
out another window, which was something he really didn’t want to do.
The card table in the
kitchen window skittered back and forth, knocking against the window and the
sink. The other zombie group was still
ramming the backdoor.
Mitch ran up the
stairs, figuring he was running out of time and burst through the first door he
reached.
A body slammed into
him, causing his foot to slide out too far and sending him flopping backward
into the door frame with a scream. The
body, wearing a tailored tux, swung back and forth, recoiling from the impact. Mitch looked up at the body, strumming his hand
through his hair and catching his breath.
Aw, Mr. Rickerson…
Mr. Rickerson’s body
swayed, hanging by a noose from a ceiling stud.
His weathered face was bloated, wrinkles filled with popped blood vessels. The color in his cheeks had just started to
turn blue. He hadn’t been dead for
long.
Mitch nudged
Rickerson’s dangling feet, knowing full-well that he was dead but just making
sure he wasn’t coming back. The rope
around his neck squeezed, stretching as it waved in tune with Rickerson’s
body. But there was another sound, a
joyous, wonderful sound. Key’s jingled,
bouncing off each other in Rickerson’s pocket.
Cold dead hands
indeed, Mitch thought, reaching into the front pocket of Rickerson’s slacks.
He dangled the keys
in front of his face for a moment, feeling a bit of relief until Rickerson
lurched at him, reaching out but restrained like a dog from a hanging
leash.
Mitch tripped
backward, through the doorway and into the upstairs hall, slamming his head
into the wall, nearly shitting his pants with fright. He nervously fixed his shirt and propped
himself up straight.
You got me old
man, you really got me a good one!
Rickerson thrashed
about, slicing his contorted arthritic hands wildly in the air, noose around
his neck scraping through his skin while his body bounced with the rope’s
tension.
The card table
ricocheted off the sink, smashing into the kitchen floor while Mitch leapt down
the stairs, two at a time.
He unlocked the front
door and ripped it open. Behind, dozens
of footsteps slapped the linoleum of the kitchen floor, shaking the figurines
in the curio cabinet. Hungry grunts
filled the empty halls of Rickerson’s home.
Mitch locked the
front door again and slammed it shut behind him. He took a few steps back, eyeing the door as
he backed down Rickerson’s front porch.
The door shook under the zombie’s pounding fists.
Just as sturdy as
the backdoor.
Content he had enough
time now to make it to the pickup, he sprinted across the front lawn to the
side of the road where it was parked, underneath a dying willow tree. Mitch wondered if the tree would reach out
and try to eat him as he unlocked the driver’s side door and hopped inside.
He had a moment to
himself now things had slightly slowed down, and that was more than enough for
the sadness to well within his gut, filling it up like a balloon full of
grief. He thought of his mother, lying
in her bed, fear gripping her eyes, dead, dead because he couldn’t remember to
lock a fucking door. Not only that, but
he drugged her. He made her helpless, an
easy meal.
Mitch rammed his
forehead into the steering wheel, gripped it taut and rammed into it again, and
again. The pain stretched across his
face, wrapping around behind his ears. That
wasn’t good enough. He deserved to be
dead, beside her. She was willing to
give him her food, to starve herself so he could live. He thought about getting out of the truck and
walking back into Rickerson’s house like a pig on a platter, apple in his mouth
and all, when a childish giggle escaped from the backseat.
"You're really
funny," an animated voice laughed.
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Tune in Next Sunday for Episode 6 - "Burden of this World"
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