Valley of Death, Zombie Trailer Park
by William Bebb
This novel is dedicated to all my friends and enemies who made me what I am today. With a special thanks to my ex-wife, who taught me the true meaning of horror.
This novel is a Hands on Productions & Publications, copyright 2010. All rights reserved. Any distribution of this novel without the expressed written permission of the author is illegal and subject to U.S. And International laws. This novel is purely a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents described are solely the result of the author's overactive imagination or are used fictitiously. Any similarities to actual real companies, products, events or people; living, dead, or undead is a coincidence.
Cover Design Artwork by Hadden Smith IV
Smashwords Edition, License Notes
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Table of Contents
Chapter 1 An Unusual Monday Morning
Chapter 4 Hopping Down the Bunny Trail
Chapter 6 The Power of Beer & Prayer
Chapter 7 Maria the Mechanic & Billy's Mission
Chapter 8 Charlie Farro & A Sign From God
Chapter 9 Stoned Zombies & Suicide Is Painful
Chapter 10 Night Moves & Caveat Emptor
Chapter 11 Tug of War & Skynyrd
Chapter 12 Captain Wyatt & Calvary Arrives
Chapter 13 Cha-ka Attack & ICE Left Cold
Chapter 14 A Dying Dog & Jeremiah's Exit
Chapter 15 Home Again & To The Dump
Chapter 17 Hell's Water Balloon
Chapter 18 Explanations & Summations
Closing Thoughts & Thanks.
A sneak peek of Zombies of All Hallows Evil.
CHAPTER 1
Unable to stop yawning Josey pulled his truck off Interstate 40 and drove north. Spitting out a piece of nicotine gum, he yawned again and looked at his steaming cup of coffee. The gum was better than nothing but he looked with true longing at the glove box as he drove in the early predawn darkness. Just gotta make it until noon, then I can have a real cigarette followed by some serious sleep. He thought.
The next stop would be only the fourth pick up of the morning and yet he already felt exhausted. He reached for the coffee and just as the cup reached his lips a jackrabbit, using that small animal logic that led millions of its predecessors to their untimely end, jumped out of the darkness into the dusty road. It stopped in the right lane of the road and sat on its hind legs, staring in mild curiosity as it was spotlighted by the trucks headlights. In mid sip, Josey noticed the movement and turned the steering wheel sharply in an attempt to not hit the small animal. As the truck began to swerve it jerked and shuddered, causing some of the coffee to spill onto his lap.
“Son of a bitch!” he yelped, as the coffee burned a tender area that no reasonable man would ever want scalded.
The jackrabbit noted the bright lights and heard the squeal of the giant tires as the big thing racing toward it began to turn. Its whiskers twitched and its brown eyes widened a bit further but otherwise it remained still. Its only thought was, Should I stay or leap? It didn't use reason or logic, it simply went with instinct.
Josey sucked through his clenched teeth as hot coffee soaked into his underwear like a sponge. The truck seemed destined to miss the long eared innocent bystander and he sighed in relief that he'd missed it. But the jackrabbit chose an extremely unfortunate moment to take instinct's tragic advice and leapt.
The sheer size and weight of the truck made the bump almost imperceptible but Josey knew he'd hit it. A wave of nausea and memories overcame him as he hit the brakes and pulled to the side of the deserted road.
He was standing at the bus stop, waiting to go to school, with his best friend and his dog, a puppy named Black Jack. They had been speculating about whether Sheila Cleveland was stuffing her bra or not when the bus started down the hill. Black Jack never walked them to the bus stop before and never would again, after that morning. The school bus was slowing to stop at the corner when Josey's friend yelled, “No! Black Jack, stop!”
The puppy ran out in front of the bus, which like a yellow living nightmare on wheels ran over Black Jack. Had it instantly killed the poor dog, Josey would no doubt have less disturbed memories about the accident, but it didn't. The weight and size of the tire crushed the dog flat in the middle, while the head howled and the rear of the dog bled on the pavement. The dog's mid section was flattened and deep tire tread marks were clearly visible in spite of the bloody fur. It hadn't even been his dog yet Josey couldn't help throwing up, as his friend ran home screaming.
The driver, obviously not hired for to his love of animals, shrugged as he opened the school bus door and said “Shit happens. Let's get going.”
The feeling never changed with age. A fluttering swirly sickness filled his stomach and his throat felt like it was tightening. Josey Antonio Stack was not the most tenderhearted man but he knew he had to go back to see that it was dead and not laying there suffering in the road. He reached for his crowbar and climbed out of the truck cab. The heavy four foot long rusty rod of metal felt moist from the condensation in the early morning air. He walked back gripping it tightly in both hands feeling his throat constricting even tighter.
The smell of the giant septic tank on the back of his truck wasn't as bad as it would be in a few hours, once the New Mexico sun began cooking its contents. The truck held a large silvery metal storage tank painted on both sides with a large cartoon skunk sniffing a bouquet of roses. Some people at the office referred to the giant septic tank draining trucks as 'honey wagons' but he never did. It was just a job. A job he didn't really mind doing usually and yet at times like this he wondered how his life ever came to this point.
Standing in the middle of nowhere, on a deserted road listening to the septic tank contents sloshing around from the sudden unexpected stop, Josey just sighed. He didn't bother holding his breath as he walked to the rear of the truck. Of course, he rarely noticed the aroma anyway. His sense of smell was so bad he usually had to tell by other people’s expressions when he needed a shower. It was just another perk of having driven a septic tank truck for the last three years.
In the pale predawn Josey saw the lump of fur just a few yards behind the truck. He swallowed hard and walked slowly closer. His hands shook as a part of his mind feared that it would leap up and bite him, giving him some nasty disease maybe even rabies. He held the cold crowbar in his hands but was ready to run back to the cab of his truck, should it attack. In the dim red glow of the taillights and the pale predawn it was hard for him to see the body very well.
He reached out to poke the furry lump with his crowbar before remembering the small flashlight in his coveralls pocket. Backing up a step he pulled it out and clicked it on. The white light shined on the cold black asphalt as a small bright red stream of blood flowed away from the furry lump.
But was it still alive? He wondered, aiming the light beam on a mass of pink intestines and fur. He felt his stomach bucking as his breakfast shot out his mouth. His whole body shuddered and shook as he vomited uncontrollably for several agonizing seconds. He turned off the flashlight while he continued to lose his breakfast. Some things, like vomiting, are best done in darkness. At least it's not as bad as throwing up drunk, he thought.
While briefly attending a university before adopting his current profession, Josey knew well the unpleasantness associated with throwing up while drunk. A Toga party hosted by the football boosters was the first and last time he'd ever gotten seriously drunk. He'd spent the afternoon at practice and by the time the coach let the team go the party had already started. Most of the guys went straight to the festivities but the smart ones ate something before they began drinking. Josey wasn't one of the smart ones.
Growing up in a strict Southern Baptist family he'd been denied an education in alcohol that most of his Methodist friends were privy to. A big time with alcohol when he had been growing up was found by drinking a mixture of cough syrup and ginger ale. It was a nasty excuse for a cocktail, but on the plus side he never minded being home sick with a cold when he was a kid.
Wearing a large, mostly white, bed sheet with a few stains the origins of which were best not considered Josey made up for a wasted childhood and tried a little bit of everything. The football boosters had set up tables, covered in everything alcoholic he could imagine and not a single cough syrup bottle was in sight. A large glass of white wine, followed by a few shots of tequila, vodka, scotch, and gin, plus several plastic cups of beer from a keg were the last things he remembered about that night.
Later, he realized drinking vast quantities of different types of alcohol on an empty stomach was not a particularly good idea. The next day, his friend Al showed him a video of his exploits from the night before that he had uploaded to the Internet. Josey didn't remember standing on a table shouting that he was Zeus but the video didn't lie. The color quality was quite impressive as it showed him projectile vomiting on various football booster businessmen who had also attended the toga party.
Leaning against the rear of the truck, he finished losing his breakfast and wiped his face with a handkerchief. He used the long crowbar to push the dead animal off to the side of the road and walked unsteadily back to the truck cab. Breathing hard, he replaced the crowbar and climbed back inside. After swishing the remaining coffee around in his mouth he spit it back in the cup and poured it out the window. He restarted the engine and drove away trying to think of something, anything, other than the last few minutes.
”I tried to miss it. I really did.” He mumbled, as he drove past a closed store and turned off the empty country highway onto a dirt road. The truck rumbled past an old wooden sign rotted with decades of neglect. It had partly fallen over and had the words Albuquerque Springs Trailer Park painted on it. The words were almost impossible to read at a casual glance.
In fact, it had taken Josey three attempts before he finally discovered that's where the trailer park road was the first time he came for a pickup.
After two miles, he downshifted and began the steep run into the canyon. Some people referred to it as a valley but to him it always seemed more like a miniature Grand Canyon. From on top of the valley the first rays of the sun had started to peek over the landscape. The sunlight reflected off the trailers below as he wondered how the place managed to stay in business at all. There was room around the valley for maybe a few hundred mobile homes and probably used to be before the new interstate made the old highway nearly deserted. He tried to remember, were there ten or eleven trailers with residents left? Eight or nine trailers were full of illegal immigrants. They came from everywhere. There were people living here from all over South and Central America and Mexico of course. They lived together and saved money to send home to their families. One of the more artistic residents had even made a large sign, painted red, white, and green, then placed it on top of the first trailer. The sign read, Welcome to NEW New Mexico.
Josey's throat tightened as he spotted another jackrabbit leaping across the steep road ahead and felt that deep heavy pain in his stomach again. Who else was still there? He wondered and reached for another piece of gum. He chewed at the bitter tasting gum wishing he could smoke, but knew it was dangerous in a truck carrying as much natural methane as his did. Glancing at the old tattered piece of paper someone had thoughtfully taped to the dashboard that had the words NO SMOKING he shot it the birdie finger and thought about who else still lived there.
There was some old guy who was probably retired. He'd seen him using a cane walking a poodle near a bright silver 1960's era trailer with an American flag on a pole out front. The old man had seemed nice enough as they exchanged waves.
And then there was Mrs. Remlap. He shuddered just thinking about her. She was old, mean, ugly, and just plain rude. She always had a snide comment or sarcastic backhanded compliment for him. He shuddered again remembering he had to see her this morning to pick up a payment for draining the park's septic tank.
Her house was hard to miss. It sat on the far side of the valley- an ancient two story, termite infested, haunted kind of a house. It always reminded him of that movie with the Bates Motel and some weird guy who dressed like his dead mom. The house was on the other side of the trailer park sitting on a little bluff. Thirty or forty years ago it may have seemed like a mansion, lording over its mobile home residents, but today as he stared at the old house it was at best depressing at worst kind of frightening.
For an empty trailer park it sure is full of junk, he thought, looking at piles of all kinds of things. There were shopping carts some full of bits of metal that had probably been salvaged, a stack of abandoned cinder blocks, bicycles, rusty barrels, an old Yugo car with a flame paint job running along its sides, and just plain trash scattered everywhere. There were more than a few abandoned trailers, rusting cars, or pieces of cars, and lots of broken appliances. In many ways the whole trailer park looked more like a junkyard than a place people actually lived.
He noticed the birds while driving the last switch back on the steep road leading into the valley. Never before had he seen so many. The closest trailers, the ones the illegals used, were surrounded by hundreds maybe thousands of the birds. There are some big ones too, he thought.
Slowing to enter the trailer park gate he saw two old cars nearly blocking the road ahead. He wondered briefly if someone had crashed them together. One was a dark green station wagon, the other a big cargo van and both were older cars with tequila bottles on the dashboard and scattered all around them. The van had part of a utility pole leaning on it's dented roof.
He stepped on the gas pedal when a man started to get out of the station wagon. Josey didn't want to talk to a drunk first thing in the morning or any other time of the day for that matter. The truck had gone a few hundred yards when he glanced in the rear view mirror and saw behind him several other men standing around the wrecked cars. I hope they don't want a ride into town.
After another minute, he pulled into the laundry buildings parking lot and flipped on the generator switch for the pumps. Climbing out, he reached for the thick smelly rubber hose and dragged it to the septic tank cap near the dilapidated building. The roof had fallen in from disrepair long ago and Josey only shook his head as he hooked up the hose connections.
Sheets of paper fluttered in the wind on his clipboard while he looked at them. According to the invoice it'd been three months since the last pickup. After double checking the connections between the hose and truck he flipped on the pump. He'd learned the extremely messy way the need to always double check septic tank hoses. After his probationary period was up, a few years ago, he had felt cocky and confident when it came to his job. Until the Vaughn incident, that is.
The Vaughn family had a custom built home, that was actually a mansion. It had cost almost a million dollars and everything about it screamed money. They had stables, horses, a pool, and almost twenty acres. The only thing they had gone cheap on was the septic tank system. It had backed up and they called for help. Josey was met by a valet who showed him a back road where his truck wouldn't be as noticeable by the wedding guests. As he climbed out of the truck, he heard music and laughter coming from the other side of a concrete wall which surrounded the pool. The Vaughn’s wedding reception was in full swing as Josey ran the hose to their septic tank plug. He heard someone giggle as he started to make the final connections and turned around.
It was a pair of blonde girls about nineteen years old. They were wearing bikinis that left very little to the imagination and Josey smiled at them. His heart almost stopped when they both smiled back. They asked if he wanted anything to eat, and of course he said yes. Before following them to the pool he flipped the pump switch on.
A minute later, he was filling a paper plate with food and dancing slightly to the music. Josey didn't immediately hear the screams that began growing in volume all around him. When he turned back to the pool, with a piece of fried chicken in his mouth, there was a spray of human bodily wastes splashing down from the sky. The dozens of guests, many in expensive clothing, were splattered with a foul smelly mixture of septic tank contents. It was a bad day.
A faulty hose coupler was responsible for the fiasco. Luckily for Josey the owner of the company already hated Jasper Vaughn, head of the Vaughn household, for a variety of previous business disagreements- If not, Josey certainly would have found himself unemployed. As it was he was only lightly reprimanded by the owner who had a hard time keeping a straight face during his lecture.
The chugging sound of the pumps made him feel strangely better as he closed his eyes and leaned against the big truck's storage tank. It was more than half full and the cool metal felt good on his back. He made a mental note to buy more nicotine gum and gasoline after he left the trailer park. Yawning hugely he thought about getting his lunch out of the truck, but decided to wait since his stomach was still queasy from the earlier rabbit experience. He checked his clipboard and saw he only had three more pickups to do. After that he could go home and sleep the day away. Josey had been draining tanks since a little after midnight that morning but didn’t mind since it was much cooler working at night than in the unrelenting heat of day. A few buzzing flies were attracted to the delicious aroma of the truck's contents and began congregating in greater numbers. He squinted and walked through the growing cloud of flies toward the roofless laundry building.
Looking through the doorway, he saw a big room about thirty by sixty feet. The walls were made of concrete blocks. A dark doorway going God only knew where was in the middle of the far wall. There were the old rusting remains of maybe two dozen washing machines and driers, an old candy machine, a broken TV, lots of roofing stuff, shingles, rotted boards with rusty nails poking out of them, and a few broken bottles.
What a nasty mess, he thought shaking his head. He imagined that years ago this was probably the safest place in the park if a tornado was coming. But where do people go today in a storm? Probably just hunker down and pray, he thought, looking up at the sky. It was a dark purple to the west and as he looked back toward the rising sun he saw a deep blue sky making its entrance. No tornadoes in sight, it's going to be a beautiful day, he thought.
Josey was still staring at the dark blue sky when he heard the truck pumps chugging sound change pitch- it was sucking dry. The swarm of flies was more than he'd ever seen before. He grumbled, “Damn, forgot to spray myself with bug spray. They're gonna eat me alive.”
Pinching his nose shut, having learned the hard way flies will go up your nose if you don't, he ran for the truck. The flies were everywhere, piloting into his eyes, hair, ears, nose, and mouth. It was disgusting and they bit too. Squinting, he walked through the cloud of flies until he found the pump switch and switched it off.
The pump fell silent. The buzzing swarm of flies and the sound of birds mixed together, making him feel momentarily confused and a little dizzy. Josey stumbled and ran back away from the truck to where the hose was still attached to the septic tank. He ran into someone and heard them fall with a thud. The flies had thinned out enough for him to catch his breath and open his eyes. Quickly gasping for air, he looked down at the man he had knocked over in his dash away from the flies.
The man was face down on the ground wearing a torn long sleeved dirty blue and white checkered shirt, dirty blue jeans, red bandana, a greasy baseball cap, but no shoes. He saw the man's feet were all scratched and covered in open cuts and lesions.
He must be drunk, he thought, reaching down to shake the man's shoulder. “Hey! You okay?”
The man moved slowly to his hands and knees and Josey reached down to help him up. Josey's hand was only inches away when the man seized it with frightening strength. He gasped when he saw the man's bloody fingers and his skin which looked grayish black and like it had been torn at by dogs. The fingernails dug into his hand, and even through the thick leather gloves he felt them stabbing his hand.
“Damn it! Knock that shit off and let go!“ He yelled, yanking his hand back, then he saw the man’s face.
Face? Well yes once it may have been a face, but now it looked a lot like what was left of the rabbit this morning minus the furry cuteness. He squealed, in a very unmanly fashion, and gagged at the same time as he fell back in shock. The now standing man started to walk toward him.
Josey would often say, usually at a bar, after a few drinks, “My momma raised a lot of Hell, but she never raised a coward who would turn tail and run from any man.” He kept backing away thinking about that phrase and decided he'd never use it again if he lived past the next few minutes. That boast sometimes ended a fight before it began or if the other guy made some suggestion about other things his momma used to do would set one off.
“Nope, never saying that again.” he muttered to himself and quickly turned to run. “Son of-!” he shouted, as he felt and heard his knee pop out of joint just like it had last month while playing basketball. He fell forward ungracefully onto the ground.
“Damn it!” he roared, in blind pain, face down on the dusty pavement. Flies buzzed and flew into his face making him gag. He exhaled hard through his nose, trying to evict the flies which had already started exploring his nostrils. In a normal situation he'd have taken the time to carefully pop the knee back in place, but under the circumstances he didn't have the luxury of time. The man was on his feet grunting and moving toward him. Rolling onto his back, Josey looked up as the man came closer. Clenching his teeth, he pulled the disjointed knee with his hands and felt it pop back into place.
Knowing that it might pop again, he pulled himself backward scooting across the dusty pavement on his butt toward the truck's cab as the man followed him. More flies began investigating his mouth and nose, and he gave up worrying about them. Yes, they were disgusting and unpleasant but there are only so many things a person can deal with at one time.
The man followed while he searched his mind for a better word. It may have been a man at one time, yet now it was what... a monster? Okay sure, a monster, but what kind is he? Josey thought frantically, backing toward the truck's cab unwilling to turn his back on him. The manlike thing that walked toward him seemed to be smiling, yet the large patches of missing skin on his face made it hard to be certain. He thought of those late night movies he watched when he was a kid and his parents thought he'd gone to sleep. A zombie? It couldn't be. A walking corpse was the stuff of nightmares and cheesy books not a Monday morning at an old trailer park in Albuquerque, New Mexico, yet here it is. Josey thought frantically, hoping it was all just a bad dream.
Josey gagged as he scooted back deeper into the swarm of flies. As they began flying in and around his mouth and nose in greater numbers, he felt this just had to be a nightmare. His vision was obscured as he coughed and felt more nauseous while scooting away from the approaching figure. Not being able to see, with the swarm of flies all around him, he reached up and felt for the truck's door handle. Gagging and spitting out flies, he painfully opened the door and pulled himself up into the truck cab. After slamming and locking the door shut, he trapped a good size cloud of ravenous flies inside with him.
He grabbed the can of bug spray and didn't pause a moment to consider the label's dire warning printed in big red letters of using only in 'a well ventilated area'. Instead, he quickly pressed the button spraying poison all over himself and the cab of the truck. Josey coughed on the fumes, as he wiped his face, and blew a few flies out of his nose into his handkerchief. He heard a tapping sound and saw the man standing outside. His fingers were sliding all over the door's window, leaving dirty blood trails on the glass.
“That's it!” he shouted, starting the truck and wrestling the transmission into first gear. Swearing, he glanced ahead and saw a group of men coming. He didn't take time to count, but there had to be at least twenty of them and they were within a few seconds of reaching the truck. As he got the transmission into gear, he yelled at the horde of zombies. “Adios! Mother Fuckers!”
The truck lurched forward and died so suddenly and completely, he almost started to cry. He thought maybe he had it in the wrong gear and looked down at the stick shift. It was in first gear as he tried to start the engine again.
“What the-?” he started to say, then slapped his forehead. “Damn hose is still hooked up to the septic tank! Fuck!” he shouted, turning the key again as the engine sputtered yet refused to start. It’s flooded, he thought frantically. “This is fucked up.” Josey said, never being known for understating the obvious, while continuing to turn the key with no success.
The men surrounded the truck cab, with some of them climbing on the hood. It's just like one of those stupid movies, he thought. He wouldn't look at their faces, as he felt his stomach churning, afraid he'd throw up again. What frightened him, almost as much as their appearance, were the sounds coming from the mangled group of former men- now apparently zombies. In the movies they're usually mute or moaning, but these guys were mostly making a weird grunting noise accompanied by the sound of fists and scratching fingers as they continued to beat on the truck.
A loud scream, followed by several others, made Josey look around frantically. The passenger side window was hit by a large brick and cracked. The engine continued to sputter as he pumped the gas and shouted “Come on!”
The passenger side window shattered to tiny pieces as the brick wielder swung again. In seconds, a thin wiry man was crawling through the broken window. He was moving fast and screaming as he crawled toward Josey. If he had a gun he would've happily shot him, but since all he had was a can of bug spray he used that. Squirting him in the face, the poisonous spray coated the wiry man from his bloody eyes to his mouth. He looked confused for a second before tearing at his eye sockets while screaming. Digging and scratching at his eyes with his fingernails the wiry man howled louder as bright red blood began to flow down his cheeks.
Josey whacked him on the side of his head with the heavy metal toolbox, shouting “No! Get out! No!”
The wiry man stopped screaming and tearing at his eyes. He shook his head and started crawling forward again, sniffing loudly, as blood continued to pour out of his ruined eye sockets.
That was more than enough for Josey. He snatched his pack of nicotine gum and his toolbox before shoving open the driver side door with as hard a push as he could manage. Several of the apparent zombies fell over backward and into others. He climbed gingerly out, favoring his bad knee, and pulled his long crowbar from behind the driver’s seat. Using the crowbar as a cane, he limped shakily a few yards away and thought quickly about his extremely limited options. The Remlap house was much too far away, but what about the trailers? He glanced over his shoulder at the old man’s trailer and realized it was also too far- at least a quarter mile away and his knee was trembling and throbbing painfully as he stood there. As the men moved toward him a few started screeching loudly and were moving much faster than the rest, maybe somehow sensing his lack of escape.
Out of options, he was about to swing the crowbar at the nearest man when he remembered the laundry building. He limped backward and tried not to trip or hurt his knee worse than it already was. Josey was moving slowly, but thanks to merciful God most of them were slower.
The man he had sprayed, had gotten out of the truck and ran through the crowd of slower moving men knocking a few onto the ground as he came. Sniffing the air, he held the can of bug spray in one hand.
Josey leaned against the big metal tank on the back of the truck, and hit the fast moving blind man who was screaming in his face with the crowbar. The iron bar struck him on the side of his head. It wasn't much of a hit, but he dropped the can of bug spray and fell back into the crowd of pursuers. Multiple screams were coming from all directions and Josey limped faster.
Stepping through the doorway of the dilapidated building, he tried to avoid the nails and boards which almost blocked the entry entirely. After hobbling inside, he threw boards and various other bits of junk into the doorway and looked quickly around the room. He saw the long row of washers and dryers, and carefully made his way over to the old rusting machines. The dryers were much lighter than the washers, as he well knew from his last job delivering appliances for Loco Larry's retail outlet. He yanked and pulled on one of them, as he heard the boards and other debris in the doorway being pulled down. Grunting and yanking on the rusty machine, he felt it snag on the power cord. Glancing over his shoulder, he saw one of the men halfway in crawling through the debris and others pushing and trying to climb over him.
“Come on you big bastard.” he grunted. After he felt the cord rip from the wall, he heaved as hard as he could, sending the dryer flying through the air into the doorway. It landed with a terrific metallic crash on top of the man who had fallen and been crawling in. He seized the next dryer in line and pulled harder, feeling the cord again rip from the wall. Hefting the dryer as a smaller man might toss a bale of hay, he threw it with fairly good accuracy on top of the other one in the doorway. The door of the dryer sprang open and a collection of long ago abandoned panties and bras fell out.
Everyone thought being a big guy was a blessing, but Josey knew better. With the exception of being able to make a barricade out of rusty major appliances, during a rare zombie attack, being a big man sucked. Standing over six feet tall, he'd suffered back pains and even managed to throw it out completely a couple of times. Plus when you're tall, it's much farther when you fall down to the ground whether due to a bout of drinking or being surprised by a pack of apparent zombies in an old trailer park on a Monday morning. Finally there was Josey's most hated thing about being tall, short bastards who wanted to impress someone by getting in a fight to show how tough they were.
It was more annoying than anything else. Little guys coming up, bumping into you, trying to start a fight when all Josey wanted was a few minutes to enjoy a beer or hang out with some friends. He had always tried to follow the principle of live and let live yet when pushed too far he'd managed, throughout the years, to send several short guys with an inferiority complex to various medical facilities.
Of course, the dirty little secret is, it's always a winning scenario for the little guy who gets a big guy to fight him. If the little guy wins, it's always a David vs. Goliath victory. But even if he loses, the little guy still can come away saying the big guy wouldn't have won if they'd both been the same size.
Josey limped over to the doorway, spotting a man's head and groping arms under the bottom dryer. The men or zombies, Josey hadn't made up his mind yet, started pushing on the top dryer. It would soon slide off unless somehow braced in place. His knee still throbbed and shook unsteadily while he considered the much heavier washing machines. He was sure they’d never be able to move one of them. The only problem was if he tried to move them he could hurt himself worse, maybe even throw out his back. The idea of lying on his back, in a dilapidated building with no roof, surrounded by dozens of zombies convinced Josey not to try it. He leaned his crowbar against the dryers in the doorway and looked around the room.
The candy machines front glass had long ago been broken out, but its large six by three foot metal frame seemed fairly sturdy if not overly heavy. Climbing over boards and broken glass he pulled on the big machine. It was heavier than it looked and hard to maneuver, but he managed to push it over onto its side. He was pushing the rusty machine toward the doorway, when he heard a metallic crash as the top dryer fell back into the laundry room. With several feet left to reach the doorway, he saw a man already climbing over the bottom dryer with others pushing and starting to follow him inside.
“Give me a break.” he muttered, realizing they'd be in the room before he got to the entrance unless he dealt with them first. He hobbled over to the dryers and picked up the crowbar that had fallen. Turning back to the doorway, he saw the first man fall into the room as two more were climbing over the bottom dryer. The boards creaked and snapped, as he walked gingerly over them and swung the crowbar like a baseball bat. He aimed at the man that had already fallen into the room.
“Will you guys just drop dead!” he shouted, swinging the crowbar. It slammed into the man’s torso, making a sickening crunch and a juicy wet sound. The man flew backward and knocked one of the two men still on the dryer back through the doorway. The other fell into the laundry room and he recognized him as the one he'd sprayed in the truck, with the mangled eyes.
His sore knee started to spasm and he gasped in pain. Losing his balance, he fell toward the wall nearest the door. He dropped the crowbar and grabbed onto a board propped next to the wall, and felt a rusty six inch nail pierce his hand. He screamed and looked at his leather gloved hand as several men outside the building screamed in response.
“Shut the fuck up!” He yelled, back through the doorway. The bloody metal nail point poked out a couple of inches through the palm of his hand. As he stared at it, he no longer felt fear as much as a growing anger. Watching the blinded man stagger deeper into the room, apparently unable to tell where he was, Josey bit his lip and yanked his hand back off the nail. He felt it slide sickeningly back through his flesh. If all that happens to me today is Tetanus, I'll be the happiest septic tank drainer in the whole damn world, he thought absently. He was panting and about to reach for the fallen dryer when he felt something grasp his leg from behind. He fell with his back against the wall, barely avoiding the same nail protruding board. Looking down, he saw the man pinned under the dryer pulling on his right pant leg. The man couldn't stand, yet held firmly on to his pants and the crowbar was half under it.
“You won’t be happy until someone bashes in your damn head, will you?” He asked, grabbing the long board with the nail in it- careful not to stab himself again. Josey swung it at the man’s head. It hit with a loud cracking noise and his skull split open like a rotten soft boiled egg. A foul stench filled the air as his grayish green brains oozed out. He felt his stomach almost heave again as he saw the others had already started coming back in. Josey swung the board toward the entrance where the others were climbing in. It knocked them back through the doorway. He threw the board after them shouting, “Piss off! Go eat someone else! I saw some fat cripples in wheelchairs, down the road! Go get them!”
Grabbing onto the fallen dryer, he lifted it using his good leg as much as possible and crammed it tightly into the doorway. He wedged it in hard so it wouldn't slip off as easily this time. Taking a minute, he double checked the man who had made it in with his mangled eyes. He was on his back and making pitiful grunting noises several yards away, apparently having fallen over some debris and getting himself stuck. Ignoring him, Josey limped slowly back to the candy machine. As he reached out to grab it he noticed his right glove had begun dripping red splotches of blood and his hand felt numb. Swearing a long stream of colorful profanities he pushed the machine the last few feet, and propped it against the dryers in the doorway. Still not satisfied, he jammed boards against both the candy machine and the dryers.
After another few minutes of work on the barricade, he retrieved his crowbar and went over to the man tangled in the debris of the collapsed roof. He never imagined it possible to feel pity for a zombie. But as he stared down at the sightless man yelping and pulling fruitlessly at his bleeding leg, which was entangled in the rafters scattered on the floor, he couldn't help himself. He heard the men outside mostly grunting. Others continued to scream as they pounded at the barricade while he looked down at the closest one and studied him. Josey couldn't help being reminded of the rabbit he'd killed earlier. He continued to try and get loose of the boards while yelping almost like a pitiful animal caught in a trap. There was a thought itching at the back of his mind as he stared down, yet he couldn't make it clearer no matter how hard he thought. He sneaked over to the yelping zombie and raised the crowbar prepared to crush his head. Josey's shadow fell on his horribly mangled bleeding face and the man looked up at him unseeing, but staring nonetheless. The thought clarified as the crowbar smashed his head and blood flowed.
He wasn't a zombie, he was alive! He saw the tears that had been leaking from his ruined eye sockets down his cheeks as he pulled the crowbar out with a crackling of bones. He wiped the blood off on the dead man’s shirt and felt his stomach rumbling and his throat tightening. “I will not throw up.” he whispered.
Looking up at the flawless blue sky, he took several deep breaths then picked up his toolbox and sat down on a washing machine. From his toolbox he pulled out a small first aid kit and found the antibiotic cream and bandages. Having dealt with all kinds of septic tank related jobs, over the last three years, Josey knew well the importance of having a good first aid kit when in the field. Carefully removing his glove, he tried to ignore the sounds of the men scratching, grunting, screaming, and pushing on the barricade. After popping another piece of nicotine gum in his mouth, he bandaged his hand while trying to figure out what was going on. He remembered seeing a few of the men outside missing arms or huge strips of flesh from their bodies, yet they hadn't been bleeding. Are they alive? Are they dead? Are they somewhere in between? His mind swirled, but no matter what explanation he came up with he realized the why was far less important than the how. How was he going get out of here?
After wrapping the bandage tight, he leaned his head back against the wall and tried to think. He pulled his cell phone out of his khaki coverall's pocket and flipped it open. The little screen displayed the words No Signal. He flipped it shut and looked over the top of the walls of the ruined building, at the high hills on all sides of the valley, and wondered what now?
“Grandpa! Come look, there's a truck over there!” Shouted, a little boy. The old man opened his eyes instantly. Half awake, he climbed out of his recliner and used his cane to shuffle as fast as he could, over to the window. He stood behind the boy, patting him on the shoulder and ruffling his hair.
“So we've been rescued, have we?” He asked, reaching for his binoculars. Peering in the direction the boy pointed, he saw a large truck parked by the old laundry building. It was surrounded by a substantial crowd of undead. Most of them were beating and pressing on the entrance which seemed to be blocked by something. Whoever was in the truck must now be in the building or dead, the old man realized.
The living room of his trailer was mostly lit by sunlight shining through the windows and a few fruit and flower scented candles, his wife had bought years before. The aroma was bitter sweet as it reminded him of his lifelong love who had passed away fifteen years earlier. The candles always made him miss her when they were lit. Nonetheless, considering the foul stench that drifted through the open windows, he felt a few melancholy memories were worth the price of reducing or at least partially covering the foul stench of his putrescent neighbors.
In the murky light, the little boy's blue eyes looked sunken and exhausted as he watched his grandfather stare across the trailer park. The boy had been going to the kitchen to get another glass of water and to continue his, so far, fruitless search for the animal crackers his grandfather had hidden when he spotted the big truck that hadn't been there earlier. He looked at the old man leaning on his cane, shrunken by age until he was just barely a foot taller than him. He was the world’s greatest Grandpa in his slightly biased opinion. It wasn't often his mom would drive all the way from Las Cruces to let him stay with him for a few days sometimes even for a whole week.
Whenever she asked if he wanted to visit, he was always happy about the prospect. Sometimes his grandfather would tell him, cool gory stories about World War II and how people he actually knew died in a fascinating variety of ways. Like the time his Sergeant, 'a real limp noodle', whatever that meant, had been run over by a Nazi tank from the feet up. It had been sort of like watching toothpaste when you squeeze the tube, except it was the man’s mouth that first blood then internal organs squirted out of. Billy always remembered that description when he was about to brush his teeth. As he squeezed the toothpaste tube, he would make quiet screaming sounds and would always laugh when his mom asked him what was so funny about toothpaste. He loved the stories, but knew if she ever found out about them he'd probably never get to visit again. His mom was just weird that way.
“Does this mean we're going to get out of here now?” The boy asked looking up, his eyes filled with hope for the first time in three long days.
“I told you we would, didn't I, Billy Boy.” he said. Coughing softly, the old man lowered the binoculars and patted the boy’s hair with his bony warm fingers that smelled of some kind of muscle ache cream. The old man sat down, deep in thought, on one the kitchen chairs staring at the distant truck.
“Can we go get ice cream and cake for my birthday now? It's tomorrow you know. I'll be ten years old and mom will be coming back to get me, right grandpa?”
Colonel William Lester, retired, only nodded and smiled at his grandson as he considered the situation. We've got three bullets, a pack and a half of cigarettes, and almost no food left. Can we wait until someone notices the missing truck driver? Can we wait until Cheryl comes to get Billy? Dare we let her drive into this mess? Of course, if it hadn't been for her irrational and infuriating hatred of guns, he thought bitterly, I could have taken care of this nightmare myself before it had come to this point.
She had laid an ultimatum on him when Billy had been outside playing with his poodle Gretchen. His whole frail body shook in barely contained rage as he remembered her, hands on hips, looking down, lecturing him- her own father.
“Guns kill people! It’s bad enough you gave him that damn BB rifle last summer, but get this straight. I will not let him stay here unless you put your guns in the trunk of my car. Get your shotgun and the rifle then you two can have a nice visit, and I won't be constantly worried about him while I'm back home. You know how curious he is about guns, and you know it’s irresponsible to have him in a house full of dangerous weapons. How would you feel if he blew off his foot or God forbid, killed himself while playing? It's bad enough you have the guns at all dad, but I will not stand for you needlessly endangering my son. Now march in there and bring them out, all of them!”
What else could he do? He had marched in, cane in hand, and surrendered. He had fought three long grueling years, in the deserts of North Africa, The Beaches of Normandy, even survived The Battle of the Bulge, yet who finally made him surrender and give up his guns? His own bleeding heart, well meaning, idiot of a daughter.
He would do anything to protect Billy, but had he not remembered his old Colt .45 service pistol, buried in a steamer trunk in his closet, he knew they'd probably already be dead or undead by now. He shuddered and shook his head feeling exhausted and sleepy, but he didn't want to sleep anymore. His dreams had been nothing except nightmares since last Friday. They were always the same general scenario, with slight variations. Unlike his usual dreams, which he usually forgot before he got up to brush his teeth, these nightmares seem to have been branded in his waking thoughts. The nightmares were so real, vivid, horrible, and plausible that he could rarely spend an hour without the images replaying like daydreams- only they were more like day nightmares. He'd be thinking about nothing in particular when they would sneak in and hijack his conscious mind.
Billy would be playing and accidentally make a noise too loud, and they'd burst into his trailer. They'd push him aside and rip and tear at his young grandson. He'd be screaming, as they tore and bit him. And when they were done, Billy would be dead and yet not. He would come to his grandfather smiling. Then the boy, he loved more than anyone else in the world, would bite and tear his old body to shreds.
“Grandpa, I'm hungry. Can I have some breakfast?” Billy asked, having lost interest in staring at the truck glittering in the early morning sun.
He nodded, and went about getting them some oatmeal and a can of juice, while he continued thinking. Could it really have only been four days ago when all this started?
He remembered the memorial the neighbors had late Thursday night for Juan who had been killed while working at Beaumont Bio-Chemical Industries in town. From what little he learned from Maria, Juan died after being overcome by fumes and passing out inside one of the giant metal vats he was cleaning. Some technician apparently thought it was ready for use again and switched on the chemical mixing storage tanks that fed into the vat Juan was in.
No one was told what chemicals or other things he came into contact with, only that they should leave his body in the large black plastic trash bag. The company's security agents who responded had ordered all employees at the accident site to leave while they dealt with the 'situation'. The factory supervisor, a guy named Keck, paid the other illegal immigrant workers who also lived in the trailer park a thousand dollars to keep it quiet and get rid of the body without calling the cops. At least, that’s what Maria had told him.
He looked up toward Mrs. Remlap's house on the small hill about a mile and a half away, and hoped that she made it there safely. While young enough to have been his own granddaughter, he was still a man and like all men appreciated a beautiful girl when he saw one.
Maria was born in Texas and moved here with her younger brother Miguel. Blessed with the face of an angel, she had sparkling green eyes and long silky dark brown hair. She never told him her age, but he guessed she might be twenty one at most. Being a man, he'd thought about her many times yet never in a serious way. The fantasies were just an occasional pointless pleasant daydream.
She left last night an hour after nightfall. He remembered watching her run toward the distant house as their neighbors grunted, growled, and prowled in the darkness. She made him feel old and worthless when she left, yet he knew something had to be done and he couldn't do it. He bent over coughing, as the water boiled on the propane powered stove, and cursed himself for being so ancient and nearly helpless.
Watching the pan of water boil, he poured the dry oatmeal out of little paper packets into two plastic bowls. He slipped on the oven mitt that had a smiling cartoon devil imprinted with the words Hot enough for ya? Before pouring the water into the bowls. He stirred the oatmeal for a few seconds and remembered how terrified Maria had been when she came over, early last Friday morning, half dragging Miguel who was dazed and confused.
It took several minutes to get her to stop crying and speaking rapidly in Spanish. He knew enough to know something really bad had happened, but that was all. Eventually she calmed enough to try and explain, in English, what was going on.
Nearly everyone had gotten very drunk, Thursday evening. Juan's body was removed from the heavy black plastic bag as the men began to drink. They laid him outside on a picnic table which had been covered with a white sheet. She'd placed several votive candles burning all his body. A shallow grave had been started, earlier in the evening, but as more men started drinking it remained unfinished. She had prayed and talked with Juan's little brother, Chico for awhile, then sent him to bed early because the men began to get drunk and into fights. One of them had stopped at a liquor store on the way back and bought two cases of Tequila, “to send off Juan properly”, he had said smiling foolishly. She had gone to bed just after Chico, and stayed up late saying prayers for Juan's soul, before eventually falling asleep.
She awoke early Friday morning, to the sounds of screams and gunshots. After making sure her bedroom door was locked, she quickly dressed and peeked out of a window. Blood covered the white sheet on the empty picnic table, and her friends and neighbors were running in all directions. A few men used guns and knives on their neighbors. She saw an old man screaming and hacking at people with an old rusty blood stained machete. Next door, Chico came out of his trailer. He looked around bewildered as the men wrestled, fought, bit, ran, and screamed all around him. A small knot of men bit and clawed at each other like a pack of wild rabid dogs in a way Maria had once seen in the small town she used to live in when she was a young girl.
Chico's expression was first fear, when he saw the bloody chaos, but it changed to a look of pure wonder, as he ran through the groups of men who seemed to have all gone insane. She looked to where he was running and screamed. It was not possible, but Juan was longer resting on the table as any respectable corpse should do. Instead he was walking unsteadily, arms outstretched toward his little brother. She heard a shotgun blast and some pellets struck the window yet she could not look away as the brothers moved, through the madness, toward each other.
Juan was alive and yet, not really. She saw his eyes were vacant and his clothes were covered in blood. As he walked past her window she saw huge, ragged, bloody holes on his back where his shirt had been shredded by bullets exposing bits of bone and torn meat underneath.
“Oh God,” she had said between sobs, “Juan was dead, but he was still moving.”
Chico ran and embraced his big brother, hugging him tight, as he cried for joy. She stayed at window, unable to look away, as Juan bit into his little brother's neck and tore away a large strip of flesh. Chico screamed and pulled away as Juan chewed and swallowed his brother's flesh. Running for the old van, Chico weaved his way through several other men who were fighting, as blood began to soak his shirt. He got in, holding his bleeding neck with one hand, and managed to get it started. The tires spun in the dust as he drove erratically toward the exit.
Hoping she might catch him and get a ride out of the madness that had overtaken her neighbors, she ran to the back door. She heard the brakes squeal and several loud crashes of metal. The van sideswiped a car that was coming in from town and swerved into a wooden utility pole that ran alongside the road. The pole snapped and fell on the roof of the van, shattering the windshield and crushing part of it's roof.
Maria ran out the back door opposite where Juan or what was once Juan was, just as the electricity blinked out. Running toward the wrecked cars, she saw Juan and several others also heading in that direction. She saw they were all bloody, some just grunting and moving slowly, but several were running very fast- screaming or making loud snarling noises as they hurried toward the wreck. With a burst of speed, she ran and got there first.
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