Silence of the Apoc_Tales From The Zombie Apocalypse Page 13

  Mrs. Owen bit the boy’s shoulder and pulled a juicy, red chunk of meat away. He screamed. She chewed.

  “Let go of my son!” a thin woman shouted, running at Mrs. Owen.

  Mrs. Owen glanced at the noisy thing running for her, then took another bite of her squirming prey. Soon fingernails dug into her arm, fists pounded her flabby side and head, but it didn’t hurt much—just a dull ache of deadening nerves that would soon be silenced.

  Mrs. Owen dropped the motionless meal and turned her attention to the tall, skinny one trying to hurt her. She grabbed the bottom of its noisy hole with one hand and its top with her other and pulled in two directions.

  After the loud crack, the noise didn’t so much stop as it changed tone: instead of a high, shrill sound now it was a low, gurgling, warbling sound, and now delicious red juice shot up and poured out of the broken hole.

  The tall thing was still pounding and clawing at her, but she didn’t mind. Mrs. Owen put her face inside the hole and bit the flapping red thing with the purple line on one side.

  After a moment the meal stopped moving like the other one had and lay down beside it. Mrs. Owen wasn’t sure what this new food was, but she was sure she wanted more of it. More and more and more. However much more, she knew only one thing: it would never, ever be enough to satisfy the growing hunger inside her—that was the only pain she would know from that point on.

  In a moment, other meals burst forth from the trays up and down either side of the street. They pointed at her and made noises, and soon a tray came rolling up the street. It had lights that flashed and made high, whining noises like the skinny, second meal had made.

  The tray stopped and out stepped two more meals. Then behind that tray came yet another tray with flashing lights, and out stepped two more meals. It was like a buffet. A heavenly buffet that would never end.

  Mrs. Owen smiled as more and more meals came right to her.

  ***

  Deloris was on the phone when the elevator bell rang. The doors parted, and she glanced to see who it was. After recognizing the face from a previous encounter, her attention returned to the phone call.

  She waited until the man approached the desk. She motioned for him to wait with a single finger.

  “Just a moment,” she said to the person on the other end of the phone, then looked at the man in front of her. “Yes? May I help you?”

  Carrie was busy typing when she heard the bang.

  “What was that?” someone called out from behind a cubicle.

  Then came Deloris’ cry for mercy.

  Heads peeked up from behind cubicle walls.

  There was another gunshot, and Deloris’ crying stopped.

  “Somebody call 911!” a coworker yelled.

  Carrie didn’t doubt who the shooter was.

  Like terrified rats in a maze, employees scurried from cubicle to cubicle, climbed under their desks, and prayed—some out loud for fear of going unheard (by God), others silently for fear of being heard (by the shooter).

  Several employees ran down the narrow hall toward the elevators. As each tried to pass the other, their bodies jammed the hall, preventing those behind them from proceeding. A man pushed someone in front of him to dislodge the clogged lifeline, long enough to move past the blockage and create another.

  “Single file!” a woman yelled from behind.

  “Keep moving!” yelled a man.

  The crowd managed to break into a line at least two people wide. Those to the rear of the line saw a bright flash. There was a floor-shaking boom. Those in the front of the line were hidden behind a cloud of smoke. The rest of the line either turned aside into the kitchen or retreated to the office.

  Those in the office looked to the sprinkler system on the ceiling, which remained inactive. There was no fire nor enough smoke from the explosion to set the sprinklers off. The only thing coming from the ceiling were bits of tile and dust, that and at least one fluorescent lighting fixture cover, which came loose and hit a woman in the head, leaving her dazed and bloody.

  Her expression froze in a grimace. She reached for the rectangular plastic cover which was still hanging from the ceiling by one corner. She raised the end jabbing into her crown and slid it away from her head. When the cover had nothing to balance itself on it fell from the ceiling and landed on her desk, half of it suspended over the floor.

  She ran both hands through her thick, orange curly hair until she found the gash. She looked at her bloodied palms with the same unchanging expression.

  Ben stood within his cubicle and took a panoramic view of the office. He saw the back of Carrie’s head just over her cubicle doing the same, her hands gripping one of its partitioned walls. When their eyes met, he motioned for her to stay low.

  He stooped down and scoured his desk for anything resembling a weapon. The stapler? Not quite. In the ceramic Baylham & Zast coffee mug there was a pencil and pen—sure, they could do damage at close range, but to a shooter, they were far from threatening.

  Behind the writing utensils, a pair of bright orange-handled scissors stuck out. He gripped the handle and stuck his head out the cubicle’s entrance.

  The gunshots and screams were getting louder, closer.

  Carrie dialed 911 on her cell phone.

  “What city, please?” the operator asked.

  “Carrie,” said Alex.

  She looked up at the sneering man—his red, kinky hair spiked like a crazy clown wig.

  “Put the phone down,” he said, waving the pistol at her.

  “Just one moment, please,” the operator said.

  In a moment another operator answered. “What’s your emergency?” she asked.

  “Or don’t,” said Alex. “Not that they’ll get here in time. Go ahead, tell her.”

  “Why are you doing this?” Carrie asked.

  Alex was about to humor her with an answer when he noticed Carrie’s eyes focus to one side. He turned around to find Ben charging him with the pair of orange-handled scissors.

  “Not so fast, sport,” he said and lobbed the plastic pipe bomb in his other hand toward Ben and took cover in a cubicle.

  Carrie dropped to her knees and stuck her head under the desk when the explosion shook the floor. She heard things whizzing through the air and cracks and squeaks and grunts of pain from men and women in the room.

  Her cell phone sat atop her desk, the 911 call still active. “Stay on the line,” the operator said. “Don’t hang up. We’ll trace the call.”

  “It’s safe now,” said Alex. “At least for the next minute or so. Come out and see for yourself.”

  Carrie slowly rose to her feet. There was Ben, and the others, their bodies pierced with gray PVC and yellow bits of shrapnel. Ben sat slack-jawed, his eyes lost in some incomprehensible thought. He brushed limply at the pieces of shrapnel stuck in his chest as if they were crumbs from something he ate.

  He managed to remove one of the yellow pieces from his torn, bloodied shirt and held it up in front of his face, gazing at it as he tried to decipher the object and its name.

  “Human teeth,” said Alex proudly. “Infected human teeth. Purchased them off the Web. You know that plague everyone’s worried about coming here? Well, it’s here. I guess they can really start worrying.”

  The others, like Ben, stood still with the same lost look in their eyes. They, too, pawed at the dental shrapnel stuck in their faces, arms, torsos, legs. The color drained from their skin and changed slowly to an undead hue.

  Carrie took a step back. She bumped into the desk behind her and lost her footing, landing on her bottom right beside the monitor.

  “How could you do this?” she cried.

  Alex glanced at the edited copy of Gramma Collin’s dessert on Carrie’s monitor.

  “I just followed the recipe,” he said.

  “What recipe?” she asked.

  “You have your cookbook, I have mine.”

  “You’re a monster.”

  “No. I’m not a mons
ter. Your boyfriend is a monster. And so is he, and she, him, her,” he said, pointing at her infected co-workers. “But to show you how much I love you I’m going to give you a way out.”

  He replaced the pistol’s near-empty magazine with a full one and handed it to her, then looked intently at his wristwatch, calculating.

  “In about one minute their transformation will be complete. The virus will have hijacked all of their organs and rewired their brains, turning them into nearly unstoppable killing machines. Unstoppable, that is, save for a single clean shot to the brain—or several messy ones—to them, it doesn’t really matter. But aim carefully—you only have fifteen shots. And while you’re busy fighting them off, I’m going to make my way to the elevator.”

  Carrie looked at the semi-automatic pistol in her hand. She turned it side to side repeatedly.

  Alex slowly walked backward through the aisle toward the narrow hall, past Ben and the other infected co-workers. “If you manage to escape, you have my number. Call me sometime,” he said, holding his thumb and pinkie to his ear like a phone. “We’ll do lunch.”

  When he made it to the hall, he looked at his watch again. “Time’s up,” he said then turned around.

  The lost look in Ben’s eyes was replaced with one of absolute hunger—a ravenous, maddening hunger, unending and insatiable. And he only had eyes for Carrie.

  The others had the same look, and only for Carrie as well.

  She screamed.

  Alex stepped over a body and into the narrow hall when he heard the trigger click. He smiled at her helplessness, the kind of vulnerability that made her so attractive. He turned to tell her, “You have to turn the safety—”

  The gun fired.

  Smoke rose from the pistol’s barrel. Alex gazed down to find the source of a sudden stinging sensation. He found a bleeding hole in his abdomen. “The safety—” he repeated, then stumbled into the corner wall of the hallway.

  All the zombies, save the one formerly known as Ben, turned to see what the commotion was. They saw Alex slump down to the floor, his legs spread out and his back to the wall. They saw the irresistibly appetizing blood pour from his side, their official invitation to dine.

  “Why me, Carrie?” he asked sincerely. “I’m the only one who ever loved you.”

  As the crowd of undead onlookers approached, he heard a multitude of voices, all laughing, all calling out “Jackass! Jackass! Jackass!” all at once, just as he heard on the street corner earlier that day.

  “Stop it!” he yelled. “I’m not a jackass! I’m not! I’m not! I’m not!”

  The undead things slowly descended upon Alex until he was covered in a mass of bodies riddled with the infected teeth from his bombs. While they feasted on the screaming schizophrenic, Ben stepped closer and closer toward Carrie.

  With both hands on the grip, she adjusted the path of the gun for Ben’s head. She raised and lowered the gun repeatedly until she was certain it was dead-center his forehead.

  She cried as he grew closer.

  “You’re the only man who ever stood up for me,” she said. “The only man I’ve ever kissed, and that for the first time today.”

  Ben didn’t comprehend her words, or whatever the sounds were that the animal before him made.

  “You’re the man I want to live and die with,” she said and forced a quivering smile through her sobs.

  She lowered the gun to her side, then opening her hand, let it fall to the floor.

  Ben’s arms reached forward, as did hers.

  As they had embraced for a moment in life, they embraced in death.

  Three passionate kisses then.

  Three ravenous bites now.

  The two were joined in an unbreakable union. Unbreakable, save for a single clean shot to the brain—or several messy ones—to the undead lovers it wouldn’t really matter.

  5 Swords and Cups by Edward J. Charlonis

  He awoke inside a small country house. The sun was shining through the wood-covered windows. He could feel the heat of the day already creeping into the wooden floors. It was July 24th, and it was going to be a very hot day. He had slept with his back up to the front door. To his right was the living room. A comfortable cream-colored sectional couch sat before the sixty-inch flat screen television over the mantle. To his left was a dining room. Its furniture, a cherry-colored china cabinet and matching eight-person table and chairs were the room’s only occupants.

  He had secured the windows and back door the night before. There were none of “them” for at least a two-mile radius. He had seen to that last night. He stretched his arms over his head and groaned. If he were ten years younger, this would not have bothered him as much. His tailbone was numb yet ached at the same time. An empty glass sat next to him where he had left it the night before. Its contents (water) had been drunk hours ago.

  He stood on stiff legs, making sure to grab the object to his left. He gripped the black leather-covered scabbard, making sure not to drag it on the floor as he picked it up. He turned and cracked his back. He sighed as he rolled his neck to release the night’s tension. He walked over to the dining room window and peered between the boards, looking for any sign of his enemy. As he scanned the area, he took note of the sun’s position. Must be seven or eight in the morning. The only thing he saw outside was the beat-up taxi he had come here in, and the brand new Ford Escape parked next to it.

  The house sat on an open lawn. He had been there since the morning before. At least a thousand feet separated the structure from the wood line. It was perfect if you were trying to keep surprises from sneaking up on you. He had made sure to cover the windows and secure the house. The light was not a problem, as there had been no electricity for a week. He had scrounged some food that was left in the pantry for himself and his guest.

  A small smile passed across his hard features, and a chuckle escaped his throat. To think of where he was just over a week ago and where he presently was made him think, God has a sense of humor sometimes.

  He walked back out into the main hallway. The stairs were to his right, and a hallway ran to its side down to the kitchen in the back of the house. He could see the light stealing into the large room. He thought for a moment to go upstairs and wake his guest, then thought better to let her sleep a while longer. Rest was in short supply these days. Not everyone had to be as disciplined as he was. He walked down the hall to the kitchen to see what he could prepare for breakfast.

  The kitchen’s walls were red. Its black marble countertops made the room seem even darker than it was. In one corner was a breakfast nook with a light-colored table and chairs. The kitchen smelled faintly of rotten meat, since the refrigerator had stopped working days ago. He had made sure to take the spoiled food out far away from the house so as not to attract any unwanted company. It became an unintended trap for his enemy. He had made many kills around the browned food.

  He had tried to avoid the personal effects of the home he had taken up residence in. It pained him to think of the fate that may have befallen the owners of the home. He could not help looking at the picture hanging on the opposite wall of the kitchen counter. It showed a family, a father and mother with three children, a girl and two boys, throwing leaves into the air. The smiles on their faces saddened him. How had it all come crashing down? Where would they all go from here? Was there any going back to life the way it was before?

  He laid his weapon on the counter and turned to see what was left in the cabinets. He found a box of Cheerios. No milk was available. He moved aside a can of chili to find a box of complete pancake mix. All that was required was water. He checked the stove. The electricity was out, but this was a gas stove. He only hoped it still had fuel. He rooted through the drawers until he found a box of matches. He turned the dial on the stove and struck the match. He held the flame to the burner, and with a short whoosh the burner came to life. He quickly turned the dial, shutting the stove back off. His guest would appreciate this.

  He took his weapon
up once more and went upstairs. The upstairs was arranged in a ring so that all the bedroom and bathroom doors faced the center of the second floor. He went upstairs and made a left. He opened the door into a pink room filled with everything that was cute and fluffy. Sheer purple curtains covered the windows and lace adorned the top of the window. Trolls with big wild hair and yellow pill-shaped creatures in blue overalls were everywhere; an enormous teddy bear took up on the whole corner of the room. In the bed, the covers tossed off of her small frame, was a little girl no older than nine.

  She wore a dirty dress that was once a bright white, blue, and red flower print. Her light brown hair was all over the bed and gave her the appearance of someone who had stuck their finger into an electrical outlet. She tossed over to face the wall with the window and let out a small groan. He felt bad waking her, but she had to eat, and he did not want to stay in this house much longer. The man crossed the room to the bed.

  “Sarah,” the man said, gently shaking her shoulder. “Wake up, Teacup. There is breakfast downstairs.”

  Sarah turned over once more, her hazel eyes half open. She rubbed the slumber from her eyelids and looked at the man before her.

  “Good morning, Teacup,” he said smiling.

  “Good morning, Mr. Wak,” Sarah said.

  Shintaro Wakayama looked back at his young charge, still smiling. His 45-year-old frame was draped in a filthy white dress shirt, his cufflinks were long gone, and his black pants were ripped in too many places to count. His hair was cut short and was once styled to give him a gentlemanly look. A week-old stubble beard finished off his hardened frame. He held the katana in his left hand.

  Sarah Lowe had a grand appetite for a nine-year-old. At first, Shintaro made half the box of pancake mix. Then he had to make the remaining half to sate the girl’s hunger and his own. He found butter in the fridge. After sniffing and tasting it, he put it out on the table next to a quarter of a bottle of maple syrup. Sarah declined water when she spotted a familiar red label and gulped down a glass of warm Coke. He allowed her to overindulge. Who knew when they would have a banquet like this again? Sitting here with her, in this kitchen, at this table, it almost felt normal. He thought of his own daughter, now a young woman, and wondered what she was doing at this moment.