“But we’ll go stir crazy,” he said out loud. “We need to get outside, sooner or later.”
Woody gave Terry a look, as if to say, “Surely you jest, master. I’ve grown quite accustomed to you letting me shit in the spare bedroom this last week and a half. I don’t need to go outside to pee anymore.”
“Don’t give me that look,” Terry scolded.
“Eventually, we’ll run out of food. And beer.”
Woody’s ears perked up and he tilted his head. His master had now mentioned two of his favorite things—outside and food. He flipped his tail cautiously. Terry rubbed the stubble on his face. “Wonder if we can make a break for it?”
Holding the beer in one hand and picking up his old .30-30 rifle with the other, Terry crept to the window. He edged open the blinds with his beer hand, and peeked through a crack in the plywood that he’d nailed over the windows. The moon was full, and he could see clearly. His lawn looked like a scene from Alfred Hitchcock’s The Birds. Hundreds of zombies, mostly seagulls and crows, perched on the treetops and phone wires and scurried across the grass, waiting patiently for Woody and Terry. The stench from their rotting carcasses wasn’t bad—the ocean breeze blowing in from the Pacific swept it inland toward the majestic redwoods. The smell from Terry’s own kitchen was worse.
At least there were no human zombies. Not yet. Undead humans would have been a problem. They had opposable thumbs that could open doors or wield tools to smash them down (if their thumbs hadn’t rotted away). All the windows had been boarded over, but human zombies could make quick work of that.
Terry eyed his truck, an F-250 Ford diesel. It was covered with undead animals. If he and Woody ran outside, could they make it to the truck? He wondered how many birds he could bring down with the rifle. He hadn’t fired it in thirty years—and wasn’t even sure if it still worked.
Woody trotted over to him, nails clicking on the floor.
Terry sat the rifle aside, then bent down and petted him. He could carry Woody, he supposed. But he couldn’t work the lever on the rifle and fire it at the same time if he were carrying the dog. Terry drained the beer, crumpled the can, and belched. “I think we’re screwed.”
Woody flipped his tail in agreement.
Terry started to turn away from the peephole, and that was when night turned to day. Hot, white light burned his eyes. The brightness was dazzling. A second later, there was an explosion. The house shook. His bookshelves crashed to the floor and pictures fell from the wall.
“What the fuck?”
Yelping, Woody dashed for the bathtub.
“Woody! Come back here right—”
Another explosion cut him off. Clods of dirt and grass flew into the air. Terry heard the sod splattering onto the roof. His front yard was now pockmarked with craters. Squawking, the undead birds took flight.
“Holy shit.”
Woody reappeared, creeping up behind his master and looking sheepish.
Terry heard a new sound, the deep rumbling of a motor. Moments later, an armored halftrack clanked down the street, followed by another and another. Then came Jeeps and Humvees and a tank. Soldiers dressed in what looked like radiation suits sprayed arcs of fire from the flamethrowers on their backs. The bull seal charged them and a second later; a burst from an M-16 dropped the creature in its tracks.
“It’s the army, Woody! We’re saved!”
Without thinking, Terry ran to the front door and unlocked it. Still clutching the rifle, he flung the door open. Barking, Woody dashed between his legs and ran outside.
“Woody, wait!”
The soldiers swiveled towards them.
Terry dropped the rifle and held up his hands.
“Don’t shoot. We’re not dead! Don’t—”
The rest of his pleas were drowned out by thunder. Woody yelped once, and then collapsed. He did not move. The ground around him was red.
“Woody!” Terry ran to him.
“Stop where you are,” a voice boomed through a bullhorn. “Keep your hands up.”
Terry collapsed to his knees in front of his dog, hands in the air, tears streaming down his face. Woody was no longer recognizable—especially his head.
Two soldiers cautiously approached him, their rifles un-slung and pointed at Terry.
“Say something,” one of them ordered. “We need to see if you’re one of them.”
Still staring at Woody, Terry cried, “Why?”
“He’s alive,” a soldier shouted. “Get a medic over here to look him over.”
The other soldier knelt beside Terry. He reached out and grasped the grieving man’s shoulder.
“Hey buddy, you okay?”
Terry stared up at him with red-rimmed eyes.
“My dog…you shot my dog, you fuckers!”
The firing stopped and somebody shouted out that the area was clear.
“Sorry about that.” The first soldier shook a cigarette out of its pack and fumbled for his lighter. “He charged us, man. Thought he was a zombie. But cheer up. You’re rescued.”
Terry coughed. “Rescued?”
“Yep,” the soldier said. “General Dunbar himself should be along in a minute, if you want to thank him.”
“Thank him?” Terry stumbled to his feet.
“Sure, man. He’s leading the fight, you know?
Making things safe again.”
The second soldier nodded. “He’s in charge now. Everybody else is gone, or in hiding—or dead. General Dunbar is the man. He’s going around, kicking ass and taking names.”
The other took a drag off his cigarette and pointed at Terry’s rifle, lying in the dirt. “You know how to use that thing? If so, we could use you.”
Terry stooped and picked it up. He worked the lever.
“Use it? Yeah, I know how to use it.”
He pulled the trigger. The first soldier’s crotch turned red. Screaming, the man slumped to the ground, cigarette still dangling from his mouth.
“Thank you, you son of a bitch! Thanks for rescuing us…”
Terry thanked several more of them before they finally gunned him down. His body fell next to Woody’s. The troops made sure neither of them would get back up again.
The armored column rolled on. When it had departed from sight, the zombie birds returned to feast on what remained of their bodies.
THE SUMMONING
The Rising
Day Twelve
Land O’ Lakes, Florida
By noon, the rain had ended and the mercury skyrocketed again. The streets and sidewalks steamed in the heat. Outside the store, right along the main highway, a family of four cooked inside of their stalled vehicle. That slow, agonizing death was preferable to getting out of the car. The street was eerily quiet. Even the zombies seemed to have moved on, other than the dead birds which perched on the car, daring the family to open their doors or roll down a window.
The family died in the shadow of Camelot Books. The building had once been an old GTE switching station, but Tony and Kim turned it into a bookstore. The walls were sixteen inches thick, and built to withstand hurricane force winds. A glass atrium, now blocked off with plywood and empty bookshelves, stood at the front of the store. Next door was an old United Methodist church.
The family’s reanimated corpses got out of the car and surveyed the street. Eventually, they moved on in search of prey.
Camelot Books’ thick walls prevented the zombies from hearing the screams coming from inside the store.
Before they opened the store, Tony had once owned a gun shop. He knew how to defend himself. But defense was an impossible thing when you were handcuffed to a desk leg. Kim was cuffed to the other side. The minister from next door was duct taped to a chair. Other people, mostly store customers and parishioners from next door, were bound upright to bookshelves.