“Barrett’s zombie horde,” she said.
“Yeah, that’s the only thing I can think of that might explain it. When you and I saw Mason he took off when he saw us. We outnumbered him two to one. Tamara’s parents attacked us, but maybe that was because they had us surrounded and it was only three to two. Slightly better odds. Tamara,” I shuddered, “attacked old man Simmons from behind and when we ran she didn’t come after us. Maybe they are intelligent and are working on some master plan of revenge against us or it’s just simple animal survival instincts.”
She nodded, thinking deeply. “Maybe they’re a pack animal.”
“Yeah, that could be it. They can’t move fast so they take the easy prey and then once their army is big enough they’ll pour over us like locusts.”
“That’s comforting, Dukey.” She smiled grimly. “I know Barrett’s car is out and your dad has your only car so we don’t have any vehicles available to us, but why don’t we just walk out of here? It’s noon and there’s people around. We might be okay.”
I shook my head. “I’ve been thinking about ways out of here and that’s pretty much the only option available to us. But it’s about 10 miles into town and we’re surrounded by woods. I’m half-afraid that if we do it we’ll be attacked. Maybe I’m crazy but it just feels like we’re being watched and I’m afraid that if we make ourselves vulnerable that they’ll come right after us.”
I looked at her and sighed. “Plus, I have to admit, I feel 100% responsible for what’s happened here. I killed Mason and started all this. All these deaths are on my hands and it’s my responsibility to stop it. If I run away I’m not sure I can live with myself. Tonight I’m going out zombie hunting one way or the other. I’d do it now if I didn’t feel like any one of those people out there would stop me. My hands are stained with all their blood and I need to stop this.”
I took my hand out of hers and put both my hands on her cheeks, making sure that she couldn’t look away from me while I said this. “But I want you and Barrett to try. Take the gun and walk out of here. You might not be attacked. Or go ask someone out there to drive you into town, they’ll take you, and then this will be over for you.”
She shook her head and reached up and grabbed my hands. “It’s as much our responsibility as it is yours, Dukey. If you’re staying than I’m staying and we’ll take care of this ourselves.” Tears glistened in her eyes as she finally broke my gaze. She pulled away from my grip and took my perch in front of the window.
“Go lay down, Dukey. You’ll need your strength tonight, too, if we’re going to do this.”
I didn’t say anything as I went back down the hallway to my room. I did stop and look back at her as I left, though, and saw her wiping the tears on her hands. I couldn’t help but feel doom hanging over us all as I lay down and felt myself sweeping along toward dreamland.
11.
The zombies shambled slowly through the forest. Wandering aimlessly through the night as they looked for food. They could sense the life-force, the heat, of their prey as they methodically hemmed it in. Their stumbling and awkward gait was oddly choreographed and in sync as they wove a pattern through the trees. They made no sound as they moved through the forest, almost gliding on the soft dirt.
The forest was full of them. By the hundreds and the thousands they roamed through the countryside. All the animals stopped and were still as the zombies passed within feet of them. Most rained hot urine down on the ground beneath them, unable to control their bladders as the undead shuffled past. The zombies ignored the wildlife, hunting and searching for stronger prey and tastier meat. They wanted to eat the life force, the very soul, of the men and women and children they hunted.
Only that could sustain them.
Some of them were relatively untouched by the death that filled them. These looked like normal men and women you’d see walking down any street. They’d have maybe a hunk of flesh missing here or a bite from teeth marks there or maybe even just a tiny scratch on their arm that they’d tried to hide from their friends.
Standing next to them were the horribly malformed or terribly mangled remnants of their friends. These were the ones with eyeballs dangling from their stalks and slapping on their cheeks with each stumbling step. Arms or legs missing. Great hunks of flesh chewed up and discarded. Gaping holes in their chests, arms or necks. Bone and gristle showing in the moonlight. Maybe they walked a little slower than the others – maybe they could only crawl – but still they kept moving. Always on the hunt, always on the prowl, always searching for new prey and trying to assuage their deep, burning hunger.
A hunger that was never fulfilled.
At the head of the pack was Mason Smith, zombie patriarch. His rotted flesh hung in tatters about his face and his head was still crooked at an awkward angle. He appeared to notice none of these things as he and his pack hunted on and on, looking for that one prey they could never quite catch.
Me.
I hunkered down in the branches of a large tree as the horde moved slowly below me. They’d been at the search for days and just kept crossing and re-crossing the forest. I’d climbed up here in an act of desperation, a last act of self-preservation, and had fully expected the horde to crowd around the bottom of the tree and try to get at me. They’d use their low moans to draw the others toward them and then there’d be thousands of the undead below me, reaching arms grasping for me and waiting for me to fall. The dead did not sleep or rest or tire. They’d just go on and on and on and wait for me to fall. I knew it was just a matter of time. I was already exhausted from the hunt and the days of no sleeping. I needed food and water and rest, not necessarily in that order.
When I’d climbed the tree I broke the lower hanging branches beneath me so that they could hopefully not climb up behind me. I’d seen them hunt and chase prey and agility was definitely not their strong suit. Their implacable will and unflagging hunger was what drove them on and it was frightful to watch them wait out their prey. Especially now that the prey was me.
I hung in the tree in a natural hollow created by the joining of several branches. I didn’t have to worry about falling as long as I didn’t allow myself to sleep. Occasionally I closed my eyes and would sleep for a minute or two before shaking myself awake. I couldn’t allow myself to have that luxury. I could sleep when I was dead.
Ha.
I only had four shells left for the shotgun that was strapped to my back. There was no longer any reason to shoot the zombies on sight. For every one you shot and killed four more would step forward and take its place. Barring a machine gun and unlimited bullets there was no way the horde could be stopped. The virus had spread and broke far beyond Litchville, Kentucky, and now encompassed most of the U.S., if not the world. And it was all my fault. No doubt about that.
The occasional familiar face broke out from the crowd below: my dad, whose presence was missed on the weekend of infection. Old man Simmons, who had proved to be one of the most unstoppable of the horde. I had shot him several times with the shotgun myself, and he’d still kept coming. Donny Marsters, the troublemaker from across the way. And my beloved friends, Barrett Inman and Fannie Mae Jennsen. They hung close to each other in their hunt for me. I was the food and the prey they wanted.