Hell Breaks Loose: Episode 10 - The UNwelcoming Committee

Hell Breaks Loose : Episode 10 - The UNwelcoming Committee

Mitch watched the pair of beaming headlights veer along the country road, turning onto the farmhouse's drive, taking the turn at, what he guessed had to be, fifty miles an hour.  The bed of the truck fishtailed, sliding into the wooden, split-rail fencing that lined the left side of the gravel driveway.  The fence shattered from the speed and a few sections flopped to the ground.
  "Holy shit!" Mitch shouted.  He ran around the kitchen table, through the entry way, and threw open the front door.  He stood, staring through the top half of the screen door, squinting against the harsh light shining on him from the, now, stopped truck.
  A cloud of dust settled by its huge, manhole sized tires, and the driver's door opened.  Out stepped a scrawny, silhouetted man, pulling on something Mitch couldn't see.  The figure stood there, holding the outside handle of the door.  Mitch wasn't sure, but he'd be damned if the man wasn't staring at him.
  The man walked in front of the headlights, leaving the driver's door open, and there stood a balding man wearing aviator-style prescription glasses, sporting a poor comb over.
  "And who might you be?" the man asked, clipping the left bib of his overalls.
  Mitch licked his lips, sizing the man up, unsure if he should even answer that question at all.
  "Think I'd like to know who's asking before I say anything more," Mitch said, locking the latch to the screen door.
  The man shook his head and laughed.
  "It's been a while since I's seen a kid, even longer since I seen one with a tough pair like you," he said.  "This ain't your house, kid.  Where's Lyle?"
  "You deaf, or just dumb?  I ain't sayin' one more word 'till I get your name, stranger," Mitch said.
  "How's about I give you my name, once your lying, flat on your ass with one hell of a shiner on them narrow cheeks 'a yours?  We ain't got time for this you little shit!" the man said, walking back and turning the truck off, setting the house and front porch in a cold darkness.
  Mitch heard the man's steps, heard the gravel crunching under his boots as he walked up the drive, then saw the man again when he stepped into the light coming from inside the house, onto the front porch.
   "Now, I can't be sure, but there may or may NOT be a coupla' dozen of them dead fuckers following my scent out here.  The sooner I can get in and talk to Lyle, the better.  You can take my word on it, kid, you won't wanna' keep me out here much longer, and that's for damn sure," the man said, pulling a handkerchief from his front pocket and dabbing his dirtied face.  "You've got about five seconds before the lid on my temper'll be irreplaceable."
  "The shit is going on down there?" Lyle shouted from the top of the stairs.
  The man took a step forward, trying to get a view of the stairs through the screen door.
  "Lyle, that you ya' old buzzard!" the man shouted.
  Mitch stepped back from the door, giving Lyle room as he walked down the stairs.
  "Bill!" Lyle smiled.  He unlatched the screen door, grabbed the front of Bill's overalls, and pulled him in for a tight hug, patting Bill on his back.  "Bill frickin' Denningham, thought I'd never see your scrawny ass again!"
  "This is really nice'n'all, but I'd be so stinkin' grateful if we could move this inside!" Bill said, spinning Lyle around, pushing him inside.  He glared at Mitch as he passed.
  Mitch clenched his jaw and closed the door behind them then locked it tight.  He followed them through the kitchen and into the living room, where Bill flopped onto the couch and rested his elbows on his knees, running his hands over the few strands of hair on his head.  He massaged his temples while Lyle eased himself into an armchair, across from the couch.
  Mitch stood in the doorway, leaning against the frame with his arms crossed.
  "Jesus, Bill, I thought you was dead.  Two weeks, nothing, not a word!  What the hell happened out there?" Lyle asked, adjusting his pajama bottoms.
  "You ain't bit, are you?" Mitch asked, tilting up his nose, inquisitive.
  "Shit," Bill laughed.  He leaned back into the couch and swatted his knee.  "Bitten?  It ain't got nothing to do with a bite, turning into one of them."
  "If that was the case, you wouldn't be standing there, Mitch," Lyle said.
  Bill smiled, amused.
  "This ain't no disease, no fuckin' virus.  You ain't there when you turn," Bill said, palming the side of his head.  "No, sir-ee, you're long gone by then, DOA, toe-tagged, whatever.  There's something else happenin'."
  "It's gotta be a sickness of some kind.  Maybe I beat it, by sleeping or something?" Mitch said.
  "Can't be.  Reggie would have turned then, when he was bitten, and as I recall, he'd been bitten more than once," Lyle said.
  "No, you're not listenin'," Bill said, gesturing with his hands.  "You can't explain this shit with science, okay.  It don't work like that, not any more.  Whatever is going on...it's like something from the good book, ya' know?  Look here," he said, standing up and pacing beside the coffee table, separating him and Lyle.  "I went to the Walmart, that Sunday, lookin' for food for us, just like I's says I's going to.  That much went just as planned.  I got us some canned goods, the few that weren't picked over.  Could tell the place was sacked, prolly pretty early on too.  Weren't nothing good but some beans and some canned spinach, but something is better than nothin'.  I was comin' out when I seen it, on the side of the building.  I don't know how I missed it when I went it, but I sure as shit saw it on the way out.  Was one of them penta-thingies, the ones they use when doing that damned devil worship, ya' know, sacrificing virgins, raping goats, and all that gussy stuff.  Was the size of a tractor tire, it was.  Even had some words written inside.  No idea what they were, weren't English or any language I'd recognized."
  He walked to the window on the far wall and stared into the pitch black night, folding his hands behind his back.  He sighed and dropped his head, leaning it against the glass.
  "This is beyond us, Lyle.  This is it," Bill said.  He turned, fear in his eyes.  "What I seen, the past two weeks...things are never gonna' go back to the way they were.  It's not just the zombies, not anymore.  It's the people too."
  "I can vouch for that," Mitch said, raising his hand, thinking about the mad butcher, remembering the look in his eyes when he died.  A shiver ran up his spine and goosepimples speckled his arms.
  "I..." Bill said, finding it hard to tell his story.  He gulped and looked around the room, trying to find the strength to tell it.  "I seen a group, living, armed men and women, and even some teens; saw 'em take a baby from a woman begging for food, just crying for anything.  They took her baby, sliced its throat, and drank its blood, then they raped and killed the mom and dragged their bodies, threw them into their truck and drove away."
  "Dear God," Lyle said, covering his mouth with his hand.
  "I had to sit there, listening to a gargled, dying baby, listen to the cries of this woman while they took turns with her; helpless," Bill said, tears forming in his eyes.  He ran his hand along his chin, deep in thought, back in time.  He covered his face with his hands, cried, then wiped his eyes with the sleeve of his shirt.  "Where's Reggie?  I just...I need to talk to him."
  Lyle looked at the floor, beginning to choke up.  He shook his head 'no'.
  "Where's Reggie!?" Bill shouted, standing up.
  "These kids were in trouble, needed our help," Lyle said, pointing his thumb at Mitch.  "Reggie did what he felt he had to do."
  "What happened?" Bill asked, stern and quiet, squeezing his fists taut.
  "Zombies got 'em, Bill," Lyle said, soft.  "Weren't nothin' anyone coulda' done."
  "Well who the hell sent you out there for these kids," Bill shouted, pointing his finger like a knife at Mitch who stood, petrified.
  For the second time in this conversation, Mitch was reminded of someone, this time his mother.  We help others, by helping ourselves.  Goin' out there, that's a fools game, that's what she had said after all, before he'd left the house, the thing that started all of this, set it in motion.  There must have been some truth in that, Mitch thought.  She'd be alive if he hadn't left, but, Pheobe might have been dead.  Was it a good tradeoff?  Maybe, maybe not.  Time would have to let Mitch know.  Either way, what's done was done, can't change that.
  "I should kill you where you sit, Lyle, for doing something so fuckin' stupid!  Nothin' here belongs to them!  They ain't got no right to any of our stuff!" Bill screamed.
  "As I recall, ain't none of it yours neither, Bill," Lyle said, pushing himself onto his feet with a grunt.  "I hired your ass and the way I sees' it, I can fire your ass too."  He pulled a revolver out of his pocket and pointed it in between Bill's eyes then cocked back the hammer.  "You ain't got no more right to anything in this house than these little ones.  I can ask ya' to beg, but I won't do no such 'thang.  We's equals here.  Nothing more to it."
  Bill stared down the barrel, his breathing quickening, sweat dripping down his forehead and cheeks.
  "Get that thing out of my face," Bill whispered.  He stood as Lyle backed down, clicking the hammer back into place.  "Enjoy your stay," Bill said, walking past Mitch.
  "Girls in your bed," Lyle said.  "You can take Reggie's room."
  Bill stopped and turned, facing Mitch and Lyle.
  "Not sure if I was followed.  If you two wanna' wake up with all your limbs 'counted for, should prolly get someone up in the attic keeping watch," Bill said, turning and heading upstairs.  "Least that's what Reggie would have suggested," he hollered from the top of the stairs.
  Lyle walked around the coffee table, putting the revolver back into his pocket.
  "Knew this thing would come in handy for something.  Don't ever sleep without it anymore," he laughed.  He touched Mitch's shoulder.  "Hate to say it, but he's right.  Should prolly get-"
  "No worries, Mr. Lyle," Mitch said, cutting him off, knowing what he was going to ask.  "I got this."
  Lyle patted Mitch's shoulder and smiled.
  "There's a rifle up there already, scope attached.  There's some night vision binoculars up there too, should come in handy I'd say.  You need anything, spot anything, you make sure to holler like the dicken's, okay?"
  Mitch nodded and took a deep breath.
  Lyle turned Mitch around and walked him up the stairs, to the upstairs hallway.  They stopped, about halfway to the end of the hall, and Lyle reached up, grabbing hold of a string weighted with a quarter tied to the end.
  "Attics up this way," Lyle said, pulling it down.
  Mitch hopped in, grabbing the string from Lyle when he saw he was struggling with it.
  A built-in step ladder unfolded before them and Lyle patted Mitch on the shoulder one last time.
  "Like I said, anything, you holler, ya' hear?" Lyle said then yawned.
  "Yes, sir," Mitch said, climbing onto the lower rungs.  "Get some sleep."
  "You get tired, you'll let me know?"
  "I've been sleeping for two weeks.  If there's one thing I don't feel like doing, it's sleeping."
  Lyle snickered and walked down the hall to his bedroom, shuffling his feet.
  Mitch sighed when Lyle was in his room with the door closed, then started climbing up into the dusty attic.  It smelled like old clothes and stale oil.  The attic was dark and cramped with a low, steeple ceiling.  Mitch had to hunch over as he planned out each step to the other side, maneuvering around boxes and random stacks of old, coverless books, lamps without hoods, and piles of clothing.
  Mitch's eyes started stinging from the dust flickering in the air and when he closed them they burned worse and almost lost his balance, nearly falling through a section of insulation.  He caught himself on a rafter and finished making it to the window on the other side of the attic.  The rifle was exactly where Lyle said it would be, propped up beside the window sill, beside a pair of binoculars.
  Mitch picked it up and felt the gun's weight in his hands.  It was lighter than he expected.  He propped the butt of the gun against his shoulder and looked down the scope, out the half-open window, testing it.
  He hunkered down on his knees in front of the window, which was still low enough to perch the gun on for stability, and grabbed the binoculars.  He held them up to his eyes, scanning the front lawn of the farmhouse, admiring the dark greens and blacks of the night vision.  So, he sat, for hours and hours, watching the night.
  He saw a rabbit around midnight munching on what looked like a cabbage.  A few hours later, a pair of dear ran across the lawn to the road, disappearing into the field on the other side.
  It was around four in the morning when Mitch finally dozed off, without even realizing he was tired.  If he'd just managed to stay awake a few minutes longer, just a few, he'd of seen them coming; would have seen the packs, the burning red eyes.  He would have smelled the blood and the decay in the early morning breeze.  But, he didn't.  He didn't see or smell a thing, because he was off, dreaming about when his daddy taught him baseball.  If only...

A couple weeks ago, I posted an excerpt from a short story I was doing for a contest.  Unfortunately, I did not win THIS particular contest, but I still loved this story, and wanted to share it in lieu of this week's episode of What About Now?  This weekend, my last in Illinois, is so packed full of things, I won't have a chance to fully commit to doing an interview with one of my characters.  So, here is something else for you to Enjoy!

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(picture credit "Exit Humanity")

For Naught

by Andrew Saxsma

      “Beware, thy brother, for when the world divides North and South, torn by color and creed, the devil shall choose a side.  May heaven have mercy on those poor souls, the ones who fall, and the ones who shall face him.”

      Willy dropped his cloth knapsack from his shoulder, flopping it down beside his bloodstained boots in a puff of dry, arid sand.  He huffed and puffed, chest hitching as he stared into the canyon ahead, lined by steep, golden cliffs towering, shadowing the small outpost just within the canyon’s mouth.  A hot breeze washed through Willy’s matted, greasy hair, kicking up a tuft of swirling desert sand.  He wiped his sweat-soaked face with the back of his hand, sliding the sleeve of his union uniform across his forehead.  He tried swallowing but without spit, his tongue could only click against the roof of his crusted mouth and chapped, sun-scorched lips.

      He stared at the shoddy collection of wooden-paneled homes and shops, shielding his eyes from the flaming sun in the sky, burning the ground around him, streaking waves of heat as far as the eye could manage.

      “The devil chose…” his cracked, waterless voice gasped, whispering to himself.  “He chose…he chose…”

      Willy’s head sunk to the side, mouth hanging like a deerskin in the sun, eyes still staring at the tiny outpost.  His eyes followed the split-post fence, funneling the dirt road into the center of town, to a sign with white painted lettering, ‘Diablo Canyon’. 

      He sneered, bearing his yellowing teeth and festering gums.  He slumped, scooping his knapsack by the strap, flung it over his shoulder, and balanced himself down a steep outcrop of sandy rocks, nearly face-planting into a tall, broad cactus.

      He made his way to the dirt road, cutting down the center of town, passing a rattlesnake that hissed then slithered away faster than you could shove gunpowder down the barrel of a musket.

      Willy eyeballed the hanging ‘Diablo Canyon’ sign as he walked underneath it, watched it creak back and forth in the hot breeze, knapsack bouncing against his back, clinking pots and cookware together.

      He scanned the empty windows of the buildings and homes, walking to the wooden porch of what looked like a general store.  He pressed his face against the front glass window, cupping his hands around his eyes to see inside.  A till sat on a counter, barring a shelf full of bags of grains and rice and horse feed, and bottles of whiskey.

      “Imma’ have me some ‘a that!” he said.

      He smiled then spotted a hand hanging out beyond the counter, on the floor, its owner hidden, soaking in a puddle of fresh blood. 

      Behind him, on the dirt road, he heard rustling.  In a blink, he pulled a Colt from a hidden holster and clicked back the hammer, spinning around on a dime.  He loosened his posture and eased the hammer back into place, staring at a tumbleweed bouncing further into town, flipping end over end.  He smirked, watching it roll along, and he spotted another body, feet poking out of an alley between a saloon and a stable; boots covered by the bottom of a bloodied dress.

      The more he looked around, the more he noticed the bodies, not quite hidden here and there, out just enough for someone to notice.  Limbs and faces around corners, puddles of blood flowing from underneath doors, and toward the town’s center, a pile of dead men, women, and children, stacked a foot or two off the sand and blood mixed ground.  The breeze licked up a cloud of sand, spewing it over the pile and Willy had to look away.

      “Oh, sweet, sweet, Willy,” a rather pleasant voice called from across the road.

      Willy looked, and there, in front of a tiny, one room church, stood a woman.  A bonnet hung over her the brow of her forehead, shadowing her face in darkness.  Dried blood stained the white cotton top of her gown.  Bloody handprints had traced lines around and over her chest.  The skirt of her dress swayed in the breeze, giving glimpses of her boots and bloody footprints they had left as she exited the church.

      “Look what you did,” she said, and Willy could almost hear her smiling.

      Willy, gun hanging at his side, quietly clicked back the hammer of the Colt.

      “Oh,” the woman said then giggled.  “Come on, Willy.  You should’ve learned by now, those don’t scare us.”

      Willy shifted his eyes, looking up and down the street without moving his head.

      “Think you’re gonna’ skedaddle again?  There’s nowhere to go this time, Willy,” she said.  She stepped off the church’s porch, boots crunching into the sand and stood, hands at her side, head hanging low, facing the ground.

      A cloud passed in front the blazing sun, blanketing the town in a brief, cool dimness, revealing dozens of reaching, dead, greedy hands, grabbing out from behind the woman, clawing at the humid air.  The sun edged out from behind the cloud, shaving away the hands, hiding them behind the light once again.

      Willy gritted his teeth, fighting back a tear and a shiver.  He gulped, hard, and tightened his hand around the colt.  Beads of sweat trickled down the back of his neck, fumbling down from his hair, gliding down his back and soaking into his undershirt and britches.

      “Your brothers in arms are waiting for you, Willy,” she said, and he could hear her smiling again.  “They missed ya’ back at Bull Run.  Word is, and I hate to believe rumors but, they’re saying you’re a deserter, that you’re yella’.”  She took a step forward, dress flowing.  “Ya’ know, before they died, your company, they all thought you were tougher than a sheet of iron crackers.  Oh yes, indeedy.  It’s true, Willy.  Now, though, I’m afraid you’d be hard pressed to get so much as a bluff your way.  Why, most of them, they want you to choke on an Arkansas toothpick, which I’m quite inclined to deliver.”

      She raised her head, catching a glint of sunlight across her face.  Her eyes bled, spilling rivers of blood down her cheeks, pupils cloudy, empty.  Her mouth stretched back, tearing the corners of her lips like rain-soaked parchment, ripping into a horrific, grisly smile.  Blood dribbled down her chin, dripping to the front of her gown like a leaky well spout.

      “Beware, thy brother, for when the world divides North and South, torn by color and creed…the devil shall choose a side,” she whispered aloud.  “I’m thinkin’ pappy made the right choice, don’t ya’?”

      Willy’s free hand trembled as he reached slowly into his knapsack, sifting through papers and jerky, feeling blindly for them.  He licked his lips, nervous, and blinked again and again, scared shitless as she took another step forward, smile ripping up into her cheeks now.  She gurgled laughter, the tear spreading clear to her ears, and Willy could see something wriggling inside her skull, something black, something laughing at him.

      Willy sighed, pulling out a pair of heel cast three ringers, made especially for his colt, dipped in iron and quick-cooled in holy water.

      The thing inside the woman shut up real quick and the torn skin-smile fused together in a flashing singe, leaving a lumpy, bloody scar from ear to ear as her lidless, empty eyes stared upon the bullets Willy rolled around in his hand, his other hand still clutching his colt like the reigns of a wild mare. 

      “Ah,” Willy said, “you recognize ‘em, huh?  I dug these out of one of your buddies’ skulls.”

      The woman’s lips peeled back, sliding over her rotten, moldy teeth, a look of disgust on her evil face.  Her right hand rose from her side, wind whipping her dress, fingers dangling like freshly woven yarn except for her pointer finger, aimed right at Willy.  Her lips moved, making no sound, and this made Willy’s eyes water with fright.

      Willy flipped open the chamber of his colt, popped in two bullets, hands shaking, dropping one round in between a pair of floorboards beneath his boots, then whipped it closed again and aimed right between her eyes, tongue sticking out the corner of his mouth.

      She laughed and brushed her hand through the air, swatting at nothing, and Willy felt a wall of air slam into his chest, launching him off his feet, punching him through the window of the general store behind him.  He fired a shot on accident as he covered his face, flying in a cloud of broken glass and splintered wood, right into the till counter.  His head slammed into it, cracking the counter's broadside, and he was sure he was blind for a minute, seeing only hot-white sparkles with a droning high-pitched hum in his ears.

      He rolled over onto his stomach, gun still in hand, glass falling from his greasy, bloody hair.  He groaned, grabbing his tight, throbbing rib as he sat up onto his knees, head pounding.  He screamed out as he stood and turned, looking through the broken window, glass shards dangling from the sill.  A sliver of blood trickled down his forehead, around the grooves his nose, following the curve of his lip to his bruised chin.  He slouched, holding his side.

      The woman took another step forward, laughing like a donkey, amused.

      “Join your brothers, Willy,” she laughed.  “You weren’t supposed to survive.”

      Willy reached into his satchel, pulling out a bottle wrapped in a dirty-stained cloth.  He ran to the window, unwrapping it, and held a bottle of clear liquid out, popping off the cork.  He used his thumb to cover the lip of the bottle and turned it over, sprinkling the water over the edges of the window as the woman began running across the street with a sickening speed.

      He leapt to the door, sliding across on his knees and poured the rest of the bottle over the edges of the door in a straight, complete line.  The woman slammed her hands into the sides of the door frame, catching herself before she could enter, stopping her momentum all at once.  Her dress swooshed between and around her legs, flowing through the doorway and a bright white flame bit at its tips, singeing the fabric.

      She leaned in as close as she could, kneeling in front of Willy who simply looked up into her empty eyes, and she hissed, flinging her tongue around her scarred lips like a dagger.

      “We will get you, Willy, and when we do, oh, how you'll cry,” she whispered, grinning and tilting her head to the side.  Her grin faded when she felt the cold barrel of the colt press against the underside of her chin.

      Willy smiled.

      “We’ll see the devil at Appomattox,” he whispered, pulling the trigger.  The bullet went clean, up through her skull, ripping the bonnet off her head with a pop!  The woman sniffed the air, smelling the coppery, hot smell of gunpowder, shocked.  A black, liquid-like mist slithered through the bullet hole in her throat and bubbled out the top of her blood-splattered crown, dissipating into the air like a fine fog.  Her surprised corpse tipped forward, through the doorway, igniting into a fierce, white flame as it passed the threshold, until only a cloud of ash and a pair of scorched, burn-severed legs were left, bobbing back and forth to a slow stop.

      A gust of wind washed across the dirt road, whipping sand into the air in fierce slashes.  It flowed, snake-like, splitting and spreading over the corpses of the townsfolk like tentacles, wrapping around their arms and necks, flowing underneath their dead, bloated bodies.  They stretched, contorted, screaming to life, some rising to their feet, others crawling through the sand toward the general store, toward Willy.

      Willy watched, chewing on his lip, knowing he was out of bullets, as the dead folk closed in on the store, surrounding it, clawing out for him, wanting him.  He sighed, set the empty bottle of holy water on the till counter, reached underneath, and grabbed a bottle of whiskey and an empty glass.  He popped open the bottle, poured himself a shot and tossed it back with a biting hiss.  He hopped up, sitting on the bar, and topped off the shot glass again.  He raised his glass to the zombies, held at bay by the line of holy water in the doorway and window.  He held the glass raised, worried, for the first time in a long time, watching the water slowly drying up. 

      “We’ll see you at Appomattox,” he said, again, knocking back the whiskey.

THE END

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Peace!

Andrew S.

Hell Breaks Loose: Episode 8 "Home on the Range"

Hell Breaks Loose - Episode 8 - "Home on the Range"

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Mitch stared at his dead mother, smiling like a kid about to dig into a Big Mac.  She stood, bathed in creamy moonlight, holding a gas pump gun in her hand, still dressed in her nightgown though now it was quite a bit more bloodied and soaked with her own phlegm-colored fluids.  Her eyes sunk deep into her head, cheeks sagging from the bone.  The hair on her head was thinning, gone in patches.  She cocked back the nozzle and swatted it against the empty garbage can beside the pump, producing the clanging noise he’d heard.  She did it again, and again.

  Mitch looked over his shoulder at Phoebe who was still sound asleep, undisturbed.  He closed his eyes, clearing away the tears, and hoisted himself to his feet.

  His footsteps seemed louder, like they bounced off the walls at ten times the normal volume.  His hear beat pounded behind his eyes, blood running cold.  He walked around the counter and put his hand on the pushbar of one of the front doors.

  She slammed it into the garbage can faster, harder, then slowed again, like a fit of anger swept over her.

  Can they get angry?  Can they feel emotion?  Can SHE feel anything anymore?

  The door groaned as he pushed it open and stepped onto the sidewalk in front of the gas station.  The gun hung at his side, finger hovering over the trigger.

  His mother dropped the pump, mission accomplished.  A sickly, yellow and rotted smile peeled back over purple bloated gums.  A maggot slithered over her tongue and disappeared down her throat, leaving a clear trail of goop behind it.

  Mitch’s lips nervously pouted, uncontrollably so as his eyes teared up.  His arms and legs went stiff, joints hard as rock.  He stepped off the sidewalk, down onto the pavement, moonlight washing over his trembling frame.  He was face to face with the corpse of his mother.

  The truck was still parked in the same spot he’d left it, just off to his left now. 

  His mother wobbled back and forth, struggling to balance herself up with a dead equilibrium, but still her smile persisted, eyes glued to Mitch. 

  Mitch let out a deep breath and gritted his teeth, shaking his head in denial.

  “Get out of here,” Mitch said, to himself, knowing she wouldn't understand him.  “Go on.  Get!”

  A childish, yet evil coo shoved its way through his mother’s gritted smile.  Her lips shifted from a smile to a snarl as she took a few steps forward, sliding her hand over the top of the pump.  A stringy tendril of glistening spit flopped from her bloody maw, soaking into the collar of her nightgown.

 His mother took another fleshy footstep closer and Mitch took aim, raising the gun from his side, aiming right between her peepers.

  “Don’t!” he shrieked, spitting saliva, squeezing tears from his eyes.  “Don’t come any closer!” 

  Her smile widened, amused, and her head jerked at odd angles, shoulders bobbing along with it.  She took another step.

  “You’re stupid!  So fucking stupid!  Stop!  Not one more step!”

  She contorted her fingers into a fist, popping her knuckles like bubble wrap, then took yet another step.

  Mitch closed his eyes and squeezed the trigger.  The gunshot rang in his ears, deafening all other noise.

  The ground in front his mother’s foot burst into a plume of dust and pavement crumbs.  She stared down at it for a moment, then smiled and looked back at Mitch.

  “Why didn’t you listen to me!?  We wouldn’t be here!  We’d be home…together.  I wouldn’t have left.  All you had to do was fucking eat something!”

  Mitch rubbed away his tears with the back of his hand, finally understanding he couldn’t blame her for what he did.

  “Just go away, Mom!  I don’t wanna shoot you!  It shouldn’t be this way, but I did this.  I did this to you.  I can’t fix it.”

  Then it hit him, like a freight train hauling the maturity he didn’t have before.  Inside, Phoebe slept, and if she was hungry, he didn’t know why, but he would give her his food if it came down to that.  He would give her his water.  He didn’t know where it came from, whether it rubbed off on him from his mother, or it was an inherent human condition to care for a child, though it wasn’t yours, it was there.  He got it, like some great cosmic joke, by George he got it.  But when it was all stripped away, he still forgot to lock the backdoor, and now here he stood, face to face with his mom.  This was the great puzzle being put together, and Mitch still wasn’t ready to decide where he wanted to die.

  But still, his mother took another barefooted, feet-slapping step forward, reeling back to start into a run.

  Then Mitch saw them, hiding out in the ditch by the road.  The moonlight shimmered against the fluids on their faces, the blood sparkling in the white light.  He saw their blinking eyes, glossy and reflecting.  There were dozen’s of them, watching, observing, testing him.  The dead had set up a trap. 

  This was bait?  What the fuck? 

  The door behind Mitch whined, then slammed shut.

  Phoebe!  Oh God!

  Mitch peeked over his shoulder and there stood Phoebe, rubbing the sleep from her eyes and clutching her stuffed animal against her chest. 

  “Get back inside, Phoebe!  Now!” Mitch barked.

  He looked back at his mother, who was jumping into a sprint, her mouth and teeth ready to rip through flesh. 

  “Mom, no!” Mitch screamed.

  Mitch popped off a shot.  Phoebe covered her ears with her hands and screamed.

  The bullet whizzed through his mother’s cheek and erupted like a geyser through the back of her ear in a trail of red mist and stringy muscles, smashing into the gas pump behind her.

  She spun with the bullet and lost her footing, crashing into the pavement face first.  Her teeth snapped and skittered over the ground.  Rocks and gravel dug into the soggy skin of her face and gums. 

  A spark ignited, like a fiery flower blooming, jumping from the gas pump.

Mitch grabbed Phoebes arm and hoisted her up, opening the gas station’s door and leaping inside.

  A wall of heat scorched the back of Mitch’s shirt, ruffling through his hair like piping hot tornado winds, bursting with a heavy WHUMP!

  Then Mitch’s sight and hearing lapsed as the gas pump detonated in a black and orange fireball, blasting off the roof that covered all the pumps from downpours, rocking it forward and free of the struts that held it up, shaking the ground.

  The entire window display that made up the front of the gas station shattered inward, showering Mitch and Phoebe, who huddled into one another, with glass shard.

  The pillar of fire rose into the night, churning smoke and flame.

  Mitch shook free the glass covering both him and Phoebe and looked through the gaping windows.

  The ditch by the road lit up, like a flare burned above it.  There must have been fifty zombies hunkered in the trench, waiting to see how the whole thing played out, testing whatever defenses the gas station proved to have.

  His mother pushed herself onto her knees with her arms then leveled the flats of her feet to the pavement, rising and smiling, ready for the kill.  Blood ran down her chin, gums split open.

  The roof over the gas pumps crashed into the ground, squashing her into a wet pulp of rotted flesh and shattered bone.  The tin of the roof curled into itself, under its own weight, burying her from sight.  

  Mitch wanted to cry as he watched her crushed to death under the debris, but he knew she’d already been in a better place before that.  She’d died yesterday.  What she was now, it wasn’t his mother.  But, what was it.  What was inside of her?  What was smiling at him?

  He tightened his jaw, knowing it was for the best and fought back the pointless tears.

  Mitch stood up and pulled Phoebe to her feet.  

  "Don't open your eyes yet, Phoebe," Mitch warned.

  He swatted the glass from her hair and clothes, taking care around her eyes, then looked back to the ditch.

  "Okay, you can open 'em now."

  The dead were shambling their way up the divot, sprinting across the parking lot, fumbling and hopping over the debris from the explosion.  Flaming balls of shrapnel and chunks of metal showered the parking lot and pump area, slicing down zombies by the handful, only to be replaced by hungrier zombies scrambling down and out of the ditch. 

  Phoebe screamed and Mitch shoved her through the door into the backroom.  He turned and pulled off a few shots at the closest zombies.

  One took a bullet through the nose and slammed into the sidewalk, skidding across into the building.  Another bullet zipped through a zombie’s neck, throwing off his  rhythm, crashing him to the ground in a roll. 

  Mitch aimed at a female zombie climbing through the shards of the broken window and fired, blasting off the top of her head, spraying brain bits onto the zombie behind her. 

  When the gun clicked dry, he ran into the backroom and locked the deadbolt behind him.

  Got it this time.

  Phoebe cuddled in the fetal position by the enormous industrial sink, squeezing the bear tight, bulging out the stuffing inside.  Her eyes were glassy and she shivered like she’d just come in from a harshly cold January evening.  She squeezed the bear tighter and clenched her eyes shut, propelling tears down the rounds of her rosy cheeks.

  The fire in the pump area glowed through the window in the office, casting it into an intense and bouncing orange. 

  “I’m scared,” she whispered to her bear.  “Mitch?”

  Mitch leaned his back against the door, staring into the darkness of the ceiling, but not all together there.  His mind was still watching his mother, that sickening smile plastered to her decaying lips, and the zombies that watched and waited for the right time to attack. 

  What were they doing?  Was I baited?

  He bounced his head against the door, listening to the hinges rattle.  Any moment, the fists would punch, palms slap against it, wanting to get through.  There were still at least two dozen left, the ones who made it through the shower of flames and passed Mitch’s gunfire.

  There were enough of them to break down the door.  It was sturdy and thick, and the dead bolt was strong, but all it would take was time.

  He heard the flames roaring on the other side of the door, licking the crisp night air as it cackled.  Glass crunched under dozens of running dead feet.  Hungry grunts and sighs seeped through the cracks of the door.

  The door rumbled, shoving Mitch forward and spinning around.  He backed away, watching the door tremble in its frame under a barrage of fists and shoulder ramming.  The dead bolt rattled in sync with the thuds of attack. 

  Then Mitch saw it, the creamy moonlit outline of a roof hatch above a steel ladder bolted to the wall. 

  “Phoebe, stop crying.”

  She ignored him, continuing to sob quietly. 

  “They’re gonna get in,” she said.  “They’re gonna kill us.”  She looked up at him.    

  “We're gonna' be fine.  They're not gonna' get us,” Mitch said, turning to face her.  “We’re goin up there!”  Mitch pointed at the roof hatch.

  The door went quiet, finally resting still.  They both paused and stared at it, expecting something big to burst in at any moment.  Nothing happened.  No more fists, no more kicking, prodding or ramming.  The grunts and sighs disappeared, leaving silence.    

  “Why did they stop?” Phoebe asked, almost afraid to make a sound.  It scared her that they had stopped.  It meant they were planning something else, something they couldn’t see.    

  “Looking for another way in I guess.  They’re smart, and I think they’re getting smarter everyday,” Mitch said, thinking about the window in the office, not five feet from where they were.  If they were looking for another way in, and Mitch was sure by now that they were, it wouldn’t take them long to find that window.  When they poured through, it would be over. 

  “Come on!” Mitch held out his hand.  “Stop crying, because you’re not dying.  I’m watching out for you.  I'm...” he stopped.  He looked at her tear-soaked face, those tiny eyes that aren't okay, not alone.  "I'm gonna' take care of you."

  Phoebe placed her tiny hand in Mitch’s and he pulled her to her feet with a grunt.

  "You're going first," Mitch said.

  “I’m not afraid of heights,” Phoebe said.  Mitch lifted her up by the waist, raising her higher up the ladder.  “Just wanted you to know that.  So don’t think I’m a little ‘fraidy cat.”

  “I don’t think you’re a ‘fraidy cat at all.  You’re a very brave little girl.”

  Phoebe climbed up the ladder to the roof hatch, feet clanging on the steel rungs, vibrating the ladder.  She reached up with one hand to push the latch up.  It moved a few inches then stopped, caught by a safety lock.

  “You’ll have to free the lock, then open it,” Mitch said from the base of the ladder.        “It should be right above the ladder, on the edge there.  You just twist it.”

  She looked around the edges of the hatch, locking her eyes just above her head.

  “I see it!”

  Phoebe played with the safety lock, struggling to turn it free.  Rust flakes fell into her eyes and mouth as she fought it, twisting with her thumb and forefinger with as much might as her tiny fingers would allow.  It slid with the unease of an old man into a hot bathtub. 

  Mitch watched, swiping his hand through the air at any stray flakes that fell past Phoebe.

  The glass of the window in the office drummed, a wet hand slapping then sliding against it.

  “Ugh, Phoebe?  Maybe you could go a little faster?”

  Shadows began blotting out the orange glow in the office, rising a deep darkness across the backroom. 

  “It’s not as easy as it looks.  This thing doesn’t wanna move!”

  She rose her foot, hooking her legs around the ladder rungs, freeing up her other hand.  With both sets of fingers, the latch gave faster, but still fought every step of the way.

  “Are you twisting it!?” Mitch yelped.  Frustration kept him edging from one heel to the next.  It was up to her.

  The grunts of the dead grew louder, echoing throughout the office, shadows flickering back and forth.  Then a fist exploded through the window, spraying glass across the office floor.  Dozens of grubby and mutilated hands followed, shoving their way through. 

  “Phoebe!  For Christ’s sake!” Mitch shouted, voice bouncing with fear of time that was running out, quickly.  “Twist!” 

  She’d been so focused on the latch, she hadn’t heard the window shatter.

  The latch clicked free of its safety bolt and Phoebe lost her balance.  As she fell backward, legs still hooked around the wrungs, she caught herself. 

  “Got it!” she shouted, catching her breath and hoisting herself upright.

  “Go!” Mitch barked, already starting to climb up.  “Climb, climb, climb!”

  Zombies spilled into the office, shredding their rotted flesh on the broken window, tripping their way over the sill.  They fumbled to their feet, using each other as leverage as more fell inside, mouths gaping and growling with drool.

  Phoebe opened the hatch, pushing it up and back, and scurried out onto the gravel roof.  She squatted on her hands and knees, peeking back down the ladder while Mitch scrambled his way up.

  “They’re coming, Mitch!” she shouted.  “Climb!”

  She watched as zombies tore from the office and latched onto Mitch’s legs.  One wearing a mechanic’s uniform sprinted into a leap, stomach landing on the shoulders and heads of other zombies, and wrapped his bony arms around Mitch’s lower back.

Mitch strained to keep his grip on the ladder under the weight of their pulling and the zombie on his back.  He felt the tendons in his neck bulging, ready to snap free the tension that was mounting, stiffening them.  The muscles in his arms stretched and burned.  Blood swelled in his fingers hooked around the steel wrungs, throbbing and whining for him to give up.  His ankles racked, thighs pulling from their sockets.

His pants slid down, constricting around his waist and his torso went hot.  The gun fell from his waistband, crashing into the upper lip of a zombie about to gnaw into the back of Mitch’s ankle.  The zombie disappeared below a mass of bloodied and rotted hands. 

  “Mitch!  No!” Phoebe cried.  It sounded almost like a warning, Mitch thought.

  He looked up at her silhouetted by moonlight, hair dangling down.  Her eyes scrunched in and she turned away.  She was seeing something he wasn’t.

  The zombie, wrapped around his lower back, sank its teeth into the soft tissue of his side, below the ribs.

  Mitch screamed out, arching back while one of his hands slipped, dropping him an inch lower, but it was more than enough for more zombies to get their hands on his legs. 

  It felt like the worst blood squeezing, baseball sized, pinch that only grew bone grindingly worse.  He gritted his teeth, trying to subside the pain, or at least divert it, but even they felt like they were going shatter.  His soiled shirt mingled with the zombie’s teeth and the exposed sinewy muscle it clamped into.  The canines of the zombie’s jaw dug deeper, like knives carving out a plump thanksgiving turkey, slicing through muscle. 

  Mitch swung his elbow back, crushing the zombie’s nose.  It held strong like a dog on an intruder.  He slammed his elbow again, this time punching through one of the zombie’s eyes, spilling yellowy eye goop that stuck to his elbow like melted cake frosting.

  The zombie let go with a painful shriek that could crack glass.  It fell like a cement block, taking the crowd around Mitch’s feet with it as it slammed to the concrete floor. 

Mitch screamed again as he lifted his leg up a wrung.  The pain stiffened his leg and back, flickering like lightening bolts up his shoulders and neck.  His side burned, shirt clinging to the wound like a wet sock.  The breeze bursting through the broken office window lapped over the wound, tingling and cooling it, though it still felt like a burning coal.  He fought through the pulsing pain, through the rigidness that was strangling his joints.    

  “I got you!” Phoebe assured, grabbing handfuls of Mitch’s shirt to help pull him up. 

  Below, the zombies were already back on their feet, scaling the ladder with fierce agility. 

  Mitch lifted himself up and through the hatch, collapsing onto the gravel roof, face up.  His breathing was hard, rough, and he couldn’t get enough air.  His vision faded, stars sparkling in his peripherals.  Phoebe’s voice was muffled and he couldn’t make out what she was saying, something about the hatch.  All he knew was that his side was on fire, and not moving seemed to be the best relief. 

  “Phoebe…” Mitch said, drifting in and out.

  He rolled onto his side, grinding gravel beneath him, smearing dirt on his t-shirt.

Phoebe sat on the closed roof hatch, bouncing up and down while zombies underneath her tried shoving their way up.  Her mouth moved, but no sound came out, at least none that Mitch’s distant ears could perceive, then he realized he was going to pass out.

  “If you’re gonna pass out, Mitch, do it on this hatch!”  Phoebe screamed.

Mitch crawled over, laid on the hatch, and started surrendering to the cold that was crawling through his body.

  Phoebe paced back and forth beside him while the orange flames of the pumps continued their roaring behind her.  Smoke billowed into the air like black pillows, churning up into the night with an oily burning stench. 

  Another pump ignited, shaking the building’s foundations, and brightening the roof in a warm glow.  A wall of heat spread like a tidal wave while a fiery plume clawed at the sky. 

  Phoebe curled up next to Mitch as tiny crumbs of debris rained over them, like fiery hail. 

  Mitch’s eyes grew heavier, even as the zombies pounded the hatch beneath him.  He knew when they closed, there would be no waking him up, not this time.  He thought about death, being with his parents, up in the sky, and decided it wouldn’t be so bad.  Phoebe was safe, for the time being.  His dead body would ensure they wouldn’t get up onto the roof.  He felt warmth spilling from his side wound, a clammy wetness puddling around him. 

  As his final sleep raced through his limbs, begging him to close his eyes, a blaring horn pried them open.

  He looked over, no energy to speak of, and saw Phoebe staring at something out in the field behind the gas station, something shining an intense light, brighter and whiter than the raging fire of the pumps.

  Mitch lifted himself upright, flexing his abs to ease the pain of the chunk missing in his side.  He shivered, losing body heat and quite a bit of blood.  The world was blurry, sound distant like it was being whispered into his ear through a funnel. 

  Phoebe jumped up and down, waving her hands, screaming.

  The white light edged to the side of the building, coming free of the cornfield, rolling around to the side of the roof closest to Phoebe.

  “Phoebe, get away from there!”  Mitch shouted, but it came out a whisper. 

  The bouncing hatch below Mitch stopped and then he heard the sound accompanying the light.  It was the huff and puff of a diesel engine, chugging and belching exhaust.

  The light darted to the parking lot, illuminating dozens of sagging faces and their yellowing clothes.

  “You guys stay put!” a voice shouted over a loud speaker, coming from behind the spot light.

  Phoebe ran to Mitch, crunching gravel beneath her sneakers.

  “It’s a tractor, Mitch!  There’s two guys!” she said, shaking him, unaware that he was bleeding out.  “Mitch, what’s wrong?”  Her eyes wandered down his side to the dark red stain, now the size of a dinner plate and still growing.

  “Oh…”  She said, sitting back.  “Oh, no.”

  “It’s ok,” Mitch wheezed.  He grabbed her small hand and squeezed it tight.  “It doesn’t even hurt…” he said, trailing off.

  Gunshots echoed from the far side of the roof, and Mitch heard the bodies of the dead flopping onto the pavement. 

  Phoebe put both of her hands over the wound and shoved against it, and didn’t stop.  She squished in her face and grit her teeth, straining to keep her strength against the wound.

  Mitch screamed as pain spider webbed around his back, curling up the back of his head.

  “Why…” a cough tackled its way up Mitch’s throat.  “Why are you doing that?”

  “Saw it on TV.”

  Mitch slammed his head into the hatch, diverting the pain.

  "If I turn into one of those things..." Mitch said, gulping a wad of blood and spit.

  Phoebe lifted his head and looked into his pained eyes.

  "You're not turnin' into one of them, I won't let you," she said, squishing in her lip.

  She looked over her shoulder at the light, at the men.

  “They’ve got guns,”  Phoebe said.  “We’re gonna be ok.  You’re gonna be ok.”

  Mitch couldn't heard Phoebe saying any more, he was already settling into the darkness.  He’d passed out.