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| Version | User | Scope of changes |
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| Aug 9 2011, 1:32 AM EDT (current) | 3DayAsylum | 3 words deleted |
| Jan 14 2011, 8:49 PM EST | SasquatchJim | 1 word added |
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Hola, dudes. I realized that my story was getting too long for one page. So, I've split it into chapters. Enjoy.
Perhaps some introductions are in order. My name is Matt Harrigan. I live in Dalton, a small town in the Western part of Tennessee, and I'm basically your average high-school junior. I run track, and have decent grades (normally Bs, with a few As thrown in.) I love hunting and action movies. As I said, all of this is pretty average for a country kid. However, there are two things about me that aren't average. Well, actually, they're more like hobbies or obsessions, but you'll see.
First is guns. While many kids my age like guns, I love them. I shoot every weekend, and can often be found with my face buried in Guns and Ammo or Shotgun News. I research loads, ballistics, bullet weights, tactics, and anything else I can think of. My knowledge of firearms is nothing short of encyclopedic. Fortunately, my parents support this; we have a large gun cabinet, and my dad and I are almost impossible to find during hunting season. This helps a lot with my next obsession.
Basically, I can sum it up in one word: zombies. Yes, that's right; the same crap seen in a thousand horror films. I believe in them, and have spent a good portion of my time preparing for them. Actually, I've never told anyone this before; I figured it would label me as a "freak" or "whacko". I'm certainly not a freak or anything. I just like to be prepared. You see, I read an article on zombies a few years back. It said that several diseases throughout the world can cause zombie-like symptoms (slowed movement, violent tendencies, pain resistance; that sort of thing.) Further research confirmed this. In fact, it quickly appeared to me that zombies were a big threat to the world. It seemed to me that they were something I should prepare for. And, goddamn it, it seems like it was the right choice.
I started seeing the signs of an outbreak about two weeks before the 25th. Nothing major at first. Just one or two disappearances. Then, it began stacking. Every day, more and more reports showed up on the news. Not just in the US, either. There were reports from several countries. England, Russia, China, and others. Even in the beginning stages, I knew it wasn't the latest "Swan Flu" or some crap like that. It was too fast and too widespread. It wasn't until about a week before, however, that things began getting really serious. If you turned on the news, there was nothing but talk of this stuff. We talked about it in school. When my science teacher asked what we thought could be causing this, I kept silent; no use in raising a pointless alarm and embarrassing myself if this turned out to be BS. Either way, we had exams coming up, so not much time was given to it. It was only on the night of the 24th that I really got into it. While my parents and I were eating dinner, a video came on the news of one of the "infected." Until this time, no videos had actually been shown on TV. Sure enough, the figure onscreen look exactly like a standard movie zombie; a man, dressed in bloodstained jeans and a sweatshirt, shambling down the street, his thousand-yard stare seemingly taking nothing in. Sitting there at the dinner table, with a bit of spaghetti hanging from my mouth, I decided it was time to act.
Convincing my parents wasn't easy. They had no idea that I was so into this kind of thing. Although they normally trust me, they had trouble believing me (and I don't blame them.) It wasn't until I plugged in my laptop and played a clip from Dawn of the Dead that they began to believe me. I remember my Dad rapidly looking from the laptop screen to the TV, stroking his bushy beard. A few feet back, my mother's normally serene face was knitted in confusion in fear. Finally, I asked them point-blank.
"Mom, Dad. I'll ask y'all. You've seen zombie movies, haven't you? Even the cheesy 80s ones?" They looked at me and nodded, their faces grim.
"I'll ask you then." I continued. "That thing on TV is slow-moving, has a vacant stare, and is covered in blood. What the hell else could it be?! I know it may seem unbelievable, but this is really happening. So, we can either ignore it and die, or get our act together and prepare. What do you say?" My parents were silent for a moment. Then, a note of suspicion came across my father's face. Hopefully, he wasn't angry. My dad was a big man; you didn't want to make him mad.
"Matt, you've thought about this before, haven't you?"
"Yeah." I grinned sheepishly. Oddly enough, I wasn't scared. That feeling had passed a week before.
"So, do you have any plans or ideas to fight these things?" My mom asked.
"Son, you've never bull-sh*tted us too much. Whatever you say, we're with you." My dad added. "If this is real," he looked at the TV again, the pictured paused on the infected man. He gave a tiny nod, as if accepting the fact. "Then we should get to work. What can you tell us?" I grinned in delight. They were with me! They would help!
"Well, here's what I've been thinking..." I went on to speak for half an hour.
This brings me back to the 25th. After gazing out that window for a moment, I flipped on the news. Just as I thought: school was cancelled. New outbreaks were being reported everywhere, and the president was declaring a state of emergency.
"My fellow Americans." His booming voice rang. "We are not entirely sure what the problem is at this time. However, our best experts on working on it. I wish all of you the best of luck, and encourage you to move to designated safe zones. May God be with us." With that, the screen changed to shots of crowded traffic and looting. One picture in particular showed a Wal-Mart being ransacked. Crowds of people were massing around the exits. From the looks of it, there were more than a few infected in the crowd. Immediately, I felt a twinge of sadness; this was really happening. The world was coming to an end. After a moment, that feeling passed, and was replaced by contempt for the looters.
"Dumbasses." I muttered, watching them. They should have known that Wal-Mart would have been packed. Every Joe-Blow in the world thought Wal-Mart was the best place to go. I pitied them.
Getting up and ignoring the TV, I got dressed. I simply wore my normal clothes. That was another common mistake; people thought that if zombies were attacking, you should wear "armor." They didn't realize that it just made them slower and easier to eat. Therefore, I just wore jeans, a black T-shirt, and a blue ball cap. I checked myself in the mirror. And, of course, the lanky, blue-eyed teen that was me stared back. I smirked, then turned and headed downstairs.
My parents greeted me when I got to the end of the stairs.
"Mornin' son." My dad said.
"School's closed." My mom added. "It looks like they're taking this seriously."
"Yeah." I replied. "About damn time." I had briefed them on zombie combat last night, and they seemed to have listened. My dad was dressed as he normally did when we went hunting; jeans and a camouflage shirt. With his large size and beard, he looked like a classic movie survivalist. As I had instructed, his Remington 870 12 gauge was already slung over his shoulder. In addition, he had a Smith and Wesson Model 19 .357 revolver in its holster. Finally, a carpenter's hammer was wedged into his belt. Nobody was going to be going anywhere without weapons.
My mother was dressed similarly. Like my dad and I, she was wearing jeans and a T-shirt. Now, in regards to weapons, she isn't quite as proficient with guns as we were, yet she could still more than hold her own. Cradled in her arm was our Ruger Mini 14 .223 semi-automatic rifle, topped with an AimPoint red-dot sight. At her hip was a Ruger Mark III .22 handgun. She preferred the .22 for its light recoil and accuracy. It was odd. Looking at them, I couldn't help but laugh.
"You two look like Burt and Heather Gummer!" I laughed.
"Who?" My dad asked.
"Never mind. We've got work to do." I pulled out a list from my pocket, where I'd written down my plan the night before. I didn't want to forget anything. "Mom, go around and turn on the bathtubs. We're gonna need all the water we can get. Also, fill up all the containers you can find. Wait, you already called Grandma and Grandpa, right?" My grandparents lived a few miles down the road.
"Yep. They'll be here in the next few minutes. I told 'em to bring all the food, water, and guns they had."
"Good. Thanks. Well, then, after you finish with the water, please call anyone you can think of that you want to be over here. Anyone you want to stay with us. Got it?"
"Sure, son. No problem." My mom flashed a thumbs-up, then moved towards the bathroom. It's funny; I kinda liked the new thing of them listening to me. I turned to face my dad.
"Dad, get all the lumber and 2X4s that we have. Start boarding up the doors and windows that I've marked." The night before, I'd surveyed our house. It was a decent-sized, two-story country home, two bed, two bath, etc. More importantly, however, only the two exterior doors (one from the garage, and one out the front) and two windows were actually low enough for any zombies to reach. On these, I'd marked a line of black spray-paint. After that, we'd run to the store and bought a good supply of lumber and nails. They were sitting outside, leaning against a shed.
"Okay, Matt." My dad said. "Anything else?"
"Yeah. Go outside to the shed and grab anything you think will come in handy and bring it in the house. The less we have to go outside, the better. I'll help you board up the doors in a bit."
"Gotcha." Dad said. "What are you gonna be doing?"
"Just a few things." I replied. "I'll help ya in a bit. Good?" I held up my hand. My dad smirked and clamped his on top.
"Good." He replied. With that, we both separated and went about our tasks.
I could hear my mother turn on the bathtub as I walked into the living room. That was a good sign; it meant we'd have water. My first order of business, however, was a warning. It was still early; there was a chance that people hadn't heard the news yet. I pulled out my laptop, and logged on to the Internet.
The first thing to appear was, of course, the outbreak. A map of the world was shown, with red blotches all over it indicating infection. Eerily, I couldn't tell which was more prevalent; infected or non-infected. Ignoring it, I clicked on Facebook and brought up my home page. Several people had already reported contact. For example, my friend Anna Sherill had posted at 3 a.m. "Watching two guys on the front lawn. Waiting for the police to come." Poor Anna, I thought. She was a nice, smart girl, but she disliked guns and violence, and therefore wasn't totally prepared. Sighing, I thought that I wasn't going to see her again, just like most of my friends. Fortunately, though, I'd come to this realization earlier, and had dealt with it then.
I opened the document containing a form letter that I'd typed up last week. It read: "Guys, I know y'all are probably dealing with this like I am, but the sh*t has hit the fan, and we have an outbreak on our hands. I'm sure all of you have seen the infected. They are exactly what they look like: Zombies from an old monster movie. They don't move quickly, but the never stop. In order to kill them, you have to destroy the brain. Either shoot them in the head, or crush the skull somehow. DON'T USE FIRE. It won't work. Also, don't try to go Rambo and 'kick some zombie ass.' You'll likely die.
"Believe it or not, I've been preparing for an outbreak for a while. If you need somewhere to stay, call me at 307-819-3462. I can provide food, water, and weapons. Though, if you do decide to come, bring anything you can of use. The more supplies we have, the longer was can last. However, keep in mind that if you come, be prepared to listen to me. Anyway, I wish the best of luck to all of you. Goodbye." With that, I logged off. No since waiting for a reply. If they called me, I'd give them my address. Until then, I had more pressing matters to attend to.
With a clank, I slid the key into the lock. I turned it, and the gun cabinet swung open, revealing our gun collection. The cabinet was custom-made by my father; wooden, with enough room for twenty long-guns. Actually, we had twenty-five, with some leaning in the corners. Of course, two spaces were empty, since my mom and dad had already chosen weapons. In addition, handguns were held in brackets on the doors. We had fewer of them; just five. But, it was still more than enough. Also, there were plastic boxes full of accessories sitting in a corner. Looking around, I racked my brain and tried to figure out the best choice. Actually, this had always been my favorite part of the whole zombie idea; choosing weapons. First, I picked up a Rossi Overlander double-barrel shotgun. I cracked it open, testing its heft. Then, I just couldn't resist.
"Alright you primitive screwheads, listen up!" I said to nobody in particular. It just seemed fitting for the moment. Grinning, I set it back down. Next, I tried the Weatherby Vanguard .308 bolt action rifle, topped with a Leupold 5X scope. It was a fairly heavy gun, with a highly-polished walnut stock. I looked down the scope. Of course, shooting freehand, the scope would waver significantly. Therefore, it wouldn't be too good for close quarters.
Finally, I chose what I thought was best. It was a Marlin 336 30-30 lever-action. I'd used it countless times on hunting trips, and it seemed like it would work. It had a short barrel, which made it easy to clear rooms with. Since it was lever-action, I didn't have to move my supporting hand to load it. Also, it had nice iron sights instead of a scope.
If it'll work on deer, it'll work on zombies. I thought to myself. I reached down into a box marked "slings," and dug one out. Deftly, I attached it to the gun. Next, I moved to the crates of ammo next to the cabinet. As I said, the night before, we'd gone on a last-minute shopping trip, including a stop at a gun store. Since we already had plenty of guns, we just bought ammo. .308, .45, 30-30, .22, and more. We had at least two hundred rounds of each caliber we owned. In addition, most of our guns fired common calibers, so finding more wouldn't be too much out of a problem. Anyway, I dug out a box of Federal .30-30 rounds, and loaded the rifle. The rest of the ammo I stuck in my pocket.
Now for a handgun, I thought, peering at the pistols perched on the brackets. After what my parents had taken, we had three handguns left: A Kimber 1911 .45 with a beavertail safety and attached flashlight, A Taurus PT92, which was basically a clone of the Beretta M92, and a Rossi .357 revolver. I picked up each one, remembering my experiences with each one.I immediately picked the 1911; I'd had it for a long as I could remember, and had even competed in a few youth matches with it. Also, despite what most people thought, most .45 loads did in fact equal the power created by the .357, so the revolver would be of no benefit. In addition, I didn't especially like the Taurus' 9mm round, so it was a no brainer really. I loaded a full magazine, ensuring that each bullet seated properly. I inserted it, cocked the hammer, then pushed the slide-lock into place. Now, all I had to do was flip one lever, and I'd be readyI reached into our box of holsters, and dug out a Blackhawk 1911 hip holster. I clipped it onto my belt, then slipped the gun inside. I grabbed a magazine pouch, put it on my belt, and dropped the 1911 mags into it. After doing so, I felt empowered. It felt like whatever zombies came, I could take them down. Again, feeling the drama of the moment, I couldn't help myself.
"Lock and load." I said in the most macho voice I had. It was then that I heard the gunshots.
It was just 2 shots, the thundering Bam! of my dad's Remington ringing in my ears. F*ck! I'd been so caught up in macho posturing, I hadn't gone to help him.
"Dad!" I screamed, sprinting through the house.
"Matt!" My mom yelled, sticking her head over the balcony.
"Stay here! Keep working! I'll go get him!" I reached the door, wrenched it open, then sprang outside.
"DAD!" I screamed. No reply. I raced around the side of the house to the shed. With a sigh of relief, I saw my dad, leaning against the shed. His eyes were wide, though, and he was clenching the shotgun with white-knuckled hands. I followed his eyes and saw, at the edge of the woods, two corpses sprawled out. They had obviously been infected. Blood covered their clothes, and one was missing an arm. This actually hit me pretty hard. Up until this point, the zombies had just been something on TV, something that may not come. Now, they were real. I could see them in person. In fact, one of them was still alive. His legs had been shattered by my dad's shotguns blasts, but he was still trying to crawl forward. I look in its eyes, seeing a milky mass that seemed to have no vision. The zombie was surprisingly intact; I could see a few slashes on its arms, but that was it. A black, thick bile was dripping out of its mouth, and I could smell it from here. I turned to my dad; the zombie could be ignored for a minute.
"Dad, are you okay?" He obviously hadn't been bitten; no zombies were close enough to him. Still, he looked shaken.
"Y-yeah." He said. He was breathing hard. "I took 'em down son. I did it. I killed them." He turned and coughed heavily, almost to the point of vomiting. He seemed on the verge of crying; this scared me more than anything.
"You did what you had to do." I said. Obviously, he still felt like they were people. "Dad, they aren't people anymore. They're just vessels for whatever the hell virus if possessing them. Just like I told you last night; don't think of them as people. They're zombies. You have to take them down before they take you down. Right?" My dad nodded, and wiped his chin. He was still shaken, but it looked as if he would be okay.
"What should we do?" He asked. He pointed to the side of the house; some of the lumber was already placed there. "I got some of the wood."
"Good. We'll start nailing up the windows in a minute. Although, we need to leave the front door un-barricaded. Some other people are coming. It's a tough door; it'll be alright. You with me?
"Yeah. I'll start carrying the stuff in. Can you deal with him?" He said, gesturing to the zombie still dragging itself across the yard. With every word, Dad seemed stronger; more to terms with what he had to do.
"Sure." I spun, and aimed my rifle. The zombie was only about 30 feet away; an easy shot. However, when I placed the front sight on his head, I wavered for some reason, and my shot went wide.
"Damn." I muttered. I reloaded and lined up again. I put the sight on the zombie's head. Exhaling slowly, I began to squeeze the trigger.
The zombie's head exploded.
It wasn't like in the movies, where it's just a nice, clean hole. No, the head turned into a pink mist of brain and bone that painted the grass around it. However, I was confused; I hadn't fired.
"Hey, Matt! Hey, Paul!" A deep, booming called, addressing me and my father. I spun, and saw my grandfather leaning out of his truck, a Pre-'64 Winchester Model 70 in his hands. I grinned.
"Welcome to the party, gramps."
My grandfather Sam Harrigan was, like my dad, a large man. A camo hunting vest covered his wide torso, and a boonie hat was placed on his bald head. He was sixty-eight years old, but acted as if he was twenty years younger. Whenever I saw him, he had a spring in his step and a jovial attitude. In fact, he seemed more full of energy than most adults. Smiling, he stepped down from the truck, slamming the door behind him. I spotted his prized possession, a vintage S&W Model 29 in .44 magnum at his hip. In the back of the truck were boxes of food, water, blankets, and other supplies that he'd grabbed from his house.
"How are you boys doing?" He asked, as he dug around in his pocket for a 30-06 shell. Finding one, he fed it into his rifle. "Damn, Matt. You missed your first shot."
"I know, I know." I said. "It was the first time I'd shot at one. How 'bout you?"
"There were a few of those a$sholes in front of my house. Smoked 'em, though. Nothing 168 grains of lead can't deal with."
"Hey," My dad said. He seemed to be doing much better. "Where's Mom?"
"Right here." I heard my grandmother's soft voice as she came around the side of the truck. She was very small (only about 5' 2", compared to my 6'3") and had wispy white hair on her head. Though she looked her age of sixty-seven, her mind was still sharp. "Y'all don't need to worry about me." Cradled in her arm was a Charles Daly 20 gauge double-barrel shotgun. While it didn't look like she had a pistol, I could see a hatchet wedged in her belt.
"Good to see you, Grandma." I said, smiling. "What d'you think of all this happening?
"I've seen worse." She replied. "I was around during the Nixon administration." We all chuckled.
"So, what's plan, Matt?" My grandpa asked. "Your ma said that you knew about these things beforehand."
"Kinda." I explained. "I've liked zombies and stuff for a while. Have y'all ever seen zombie movies?"
"Sure we have." My grandmother replied. "Our third date was to that black-and-white one in the farmhouse."
"Night of the Living Dead?" I offered.
"That's it."
"Well, cool. Grandma, Grandpa, please start unloading the supplies into the house. After that, Grandpa, can you help Dad and me barricade the windows."
"No problem."
"What kind of stuff do you have anyway?" My dad asked.
"Oh, just some canned food and a couple of cases of water. Some beer, too. Also, blankets, candles, gloves, a radio, and some other stuff."
"Great. " I said. "Oh, I forgot to ask; do you have ammo?"
"Yessir. A hundred rounds for the '06; well, 96 now. I had to use some. Forty 20 gauge buckshot shells, and 8 slugs. I've got a box of shells for my .44 too. That's fifty rounds."
"Awesome! Alright, enough jabbering, let's get to work." We all got to our tasks.
The zombie trundled randomly down the road, propelled by nothing but pure instinct. There were several bullet holes in its torso, but it paid them no mind. Blood dripped for it's mouth, and broken teeth showed through cracked lips. A pocketknife had been rammed into its leg, and was still sticking there.
The zombie stopped, having caught a whiff of prey. It slowly turned, a moan erupting from its throat.
A bullet crashed into its collar bone, spinning it around like a weather vane, but not killing it.
"Plenty to go around!" I yelled, chambering another round for the Vanguard. Quickly, I re-aimed and fired again. This time, my aim was true. The bullet caught the zombie in the temple, disintegrating the brain. The zombie fell and was still.
"Hail to the king, baby!" I shouted, laughing and working the bolt.
I was sitting on the roof of our house, holding the rifle. A stereo was next to me, blasting rock music. On top of it rested a glass of tea. It was about three o'clock in the afternoon, and we'd finished all of our major preparations. All of the windows and doors were barricaded (save the front door, which we'd reinforced with removable bars.) We had enough water and food to last for several months, and more than enough weapons and ammunition. After barricading, I helped everyone make "bug out bags;" packs containing things we'd need if we had to leave in a hurry. Food, water, a knife, a map, ammunition, a signal mirror, and more. I instructed everybody to keep them close at all times. Now, there wasn't really much to do but hunker down and relax. And, in fact, sniping zombies while listening to music and quoting zombie films was about as relaxing as I can think of. Chuckling, I looked around for more targets.
"You okay up there, Matt?" My mom asked from a nearby window. She was organizing all of our available food.
"Couldn't be better." I replied. And, in truth, given the circumstances, I couldn't be. There was nothing really big going on, besides the whole "end of the world" thing. I never had to worry about homework, grades, or anything else like that again.
According to the news, there was full-out war between the military and hordes of zombies. From what was shown on Youtube, big cities like New York and Washington were bloodbaths. It was like a fire. Up until now, everything had been relatively calm. Then, it seemed as if someone threw the proverbial grease on the fire, and the infection spread. More and more areas had become infected throughout the day, with that Internet map gradually growing more and more red. It looked as if all of this was going to last for a while. Like I said, though, it wasn't all bad. Some of my friends had even called and asked if they could come over with their families. Of course, I said yes, and gave them my address. Now, it was just a matter of waiting for them.
Anyway, I searched with the scope for any targets. Although three sides of my house were surrounded by heavy woods, the last one faced the road, and only had a few trees along the driveway. So far, I'd killed six zombies, and only used eight rounds of .308. I considered that to be pretty good.
"Hey Matt!" My grandfather yelled from the ground floor. "Catch!" He leaned out the window and tossed up a bag of beef jerky. I caught it, tore it open, and ate, just thinking about how much everything had changed. Oh well. You can't change the past, and all that crap.
All of a sudden, my phone rang. I picked it up and flicked it open.
"Hello?"
"Matt! It's Will, what's up?" My face brightened. It was my best friend, Will Campbell. He, like me, was really into zombie movies and stuff. However, unlike me, he hadn't really taken the threat seriously before, and he knew little about guns. Nevertheless, he had called me around nine that morning and said that he was coming.
"Not much. Sniping zombies."
"How many have you gotten?"
"Six."
"Nice job. Anyway, we'll be at your house in a second. You should be able to hear our car." Sure enough, I could hear a car approaching in the distance.
"Great! Do you have any supplies?"
"Yeah. Food, water, some hand weapons. My dad's got his duty guns." (Will's dad was a cop.)
"Cool. You got anything else good?"
"You'll like this: we brought the generator, and about 20 gallons of gas." That was good as well. The Campbell's had an electric generator they used when the power went out. Though our power hadn't gone off yet, the generator would come in handy when it did.
"Nice."
"Okay, we're just about to pull in. Do you see us?" As if on cue, a car appeared along the road. Blood was smeared on the front, as if they had run over something. I raised my rifle in greeting.
"I gotcha." I said into the phone. "Welcome to the jungle, man."
I left the Vanguard on the roof, picked up my Marlin, then climbed in through the window.
"The Campbells are here." I announced as I trotted down the hall.
“Great. The more the merrier.” My mom said from the kitchen. I had convinced them to use perishable goods first, so we were having steak for dinner.
“Hey, Matt!” My dad called from the living room, where he and my grandparents were watching a DVD of Diary of the Dead. I had told them it might help to brush up on zombie media. “You’re gonna check to make sure they’re not bitten, right?”
“O’course.” I replied. "Not doing so would be kinda dumb, wouldn't it? In fact, Dad, will you come out with me? Just in case..."
"Sure." He said, hopping up and shouldering his shotgun. With that, we turned and headed for the door.
"Hey, Matt! Howya doing, man?" Will yelled as he hopped out of the car. He was shorter than me, and rail thin. Also, he was wearing a leather jacket, which was sort of his trademark. That wasn't what I was looking at, though. He had no gun, but a pack was on his shoulder. Clenched in his hand was a coal-black machete. However, for no reason that I could fathom, he was wearing a hockey mask.
"Who the hell are you?" I asked, smirking. "Jason goddamn Vorhees?"
"Hey, I thought it would look cool." He sheathed his machete and began walking forward. His parents walked around the car. His dad, a wiry man with a balding head, was wearing a blue button-up shirt and gray pants. He was holding his police-issue carbine (a Smith and Wesson M&P 15) loosely in his hand, and there was blood on his pants. There was a Glock 22 in .40 S&W on his hip. Despite the blood on his pants, he seemed okay, and waved a greeting. His mother, holding a baseball bat, simply stood with her arms folded. I'd never really liked her; she seemed awfully stuck-up.
"Hold up!" I said sternly. "Before you come any closer, I need to know that you're not bitten."
"C'mon, man!" Will complained. "Look at us; we're all fine."
"I have to be sure." I replied. "Please, just roll up your sleeves and show that your arms and legs aren't bitten." The did so begrudgingly, and I could see no wounds. Also, their expressions didn't seemed pained or anything; by my best guess, they were fine.
"Okay, sorry about that."
"It's fine." Will's father, John, said. "I see what you mean. We have to be careful like that, too."
"Speaking of which, Mr. Campbell-"
"Aw, go ahead and call me John, Matt."
"Okay...John. How'd you get that blood on your pants?" John looked down at his pants, then looked back.
"One of them came at us while we were loading the car. I got him, though. He didn't bite me or anything. Look." He slapped at his pants. If he'd been bitten, that would've seriously hurt him.
"Okay. I'd suggest changing your pants, though. You never know exactly how the infection spreads."
"Gotcha."
"Well, come on in then, guys. I'll help you unload."
"Oh, Matt. One more thing. We run into someone down the road. They looked like they needed a place to go, so I told 'em your address. They'll be here in a minute. You don't mind, do you?"
"Of course not." I said. "Do I know them?"
"You could say that." He smirked. I could hear the "I know something you don't know" slyness in his voice.
"Who is it then?" I asked, even as a second car became visible, coming down the road. It was a beat-up Chevy Impala, with several large dents in the front.
"It's Sarah Parker."
I stood there, half in shock and half nervous. Sarah Parker was coming here. She had always been the girl I had a crush on, but I was too shy to say anything. Though I did speak with her occasionally, she didn't know how I felt.
As her car pulled in, I fumbled with what to say. Obviously, she trusted me to some degree if she'd agreed to come here. But, I didn't know if I should take that and run with it, or what.
The car pulled in and parked. I watched as Sarah got out of the car and just stood, a Browning A-5 shotgun slung on her shoulder.
Appearance-wise, she was the tall, athletic, blond bombshell that I assumed most schools had. However, unlike most girls with her looks, she didn't let it go to her head. She lacked the "I'm better than you" attitude that some had, and she always spoke kindly to everyone. She was on the tennis team, and I remembered watching her while I was at track practice. I could see that she was supremely fit, and obviously one of the best on the team. In addition, she was actually pretty smart (she made better grades than I did.) All in all, she was a wonderful girl, with no flaws that I could see. This is what made me so afraid to tell her how I felt. However, I tried my best to push that into the back of my mind.
"Hey, Matt." She said, smiling. "Would you mind if I stayed here for a while?"
"Uh, sure." I said, trying to keep from blushing. "Of course."
“Thanks!” She said. Introductions proceeded between all of us. We unloaded the Campbell’s and Sarah’s cars (Sarah’s actually didn’t have much; just some clothes and some shotguns shells.) After doing so, we went back into the house. During the day, we’d made brackets for 2X4s on either side of the door, so we slid those in.
“So, Sarah.” I said, flopping down on the couch and trying to sound casual. “How’s your day been going?”
"Oh, y'know. Just trying to survive. There were a bunch of these things outside my house, and two or three came in the window. That was a problem.” She chuckled, her face glowing. “I saw your post on Facebook. Did you really know about these before?”
“Sorta. It‘s difficult to explain. Anyway, I assume those dents on your car are from zombies.”
“Yeah. I ran over three trying to get here. They’re so slow, though! None of them really got close to me on the way out of the house.”
“I know, right. If all those idiots hadn’t panicked, this thing would’ve gone a lot better.” Inside, I was cheering. I was actually talking to her! The zombie apocalypse had done one thing right; it allowed me to talk with the girl of my dreams, with nobody else around to judge me. “So, anyway, where are your parents?”
Wrong move.
She glared at me, a bolt of rage crossing her normally beautiful features. I got the idea to back off; something had happened, and it was a touchy subject.
“Umm, never mind.” I said. In a moment, she returned to normal, and was all smiles. Mental note: Something happened to Sarah’s parents. Leave it alone.
“Hey, everyone.” My mom said. “Dinner.” All of us got up, walked into the kitchen, and filled up plates. Like I said, we wanted to use perishable food, and we knew that steak wouldn’t last too long. Therefore, we were having steak and fruit.
“Well...” My grandmother said before we started eating. “I think we should all say grace.”
“With all due respect, Mrs. H.” Will said. “The dead have risen. There’s not really too much to be thankful for.”
“You're still alive, ain’t you?” My grandmother said sharply. “We’ve got food and water, we’ve got weapons; we can probably survive this thing.”
“Fair enough.” Will said, shrugging. After this, we all bowed heads in listened to my grandmother say grace. After a chorus of "amens," we began to eat. As I brought the for to my mouth, I again pondered how different everything was. In one day, I'd gone from a normal high-school junior to the de-facto leader of zombie-apocalypse survivors. To think that just a few days ago I'd still be worried about school. Oh well.
Just as I put the bite into my mouth, I caught something out of the corner of my eye. Our living room was in the front of the house, offering a good view of the yard. The house itself was built on with a 3 foot crawl space, meaning that the house was basically 3 feet above the ground. When you factor in the height of the windows off the floor, it was unlikely that zombies could come in. Still, it allowed a very good view.
And, out of that view, I could see a group of zombies trudging through the yard.
I spat out my food and jumped up.
"Goddamn it!" I yelled. What was with all these movie-style coincidences? I made a mental note to have a guard posted at all times from now on.
"What's wrong, Matt?!" My mother asked. As I picked up my rifle, I pointed out the window. Everyone turned, and surprised expressions blossomed across their faces. All of them reached for their guns (except for Will, who clutched his machete.)
"Awright, this is what we need to do!" I said to everyone, checking the magazine on my 1911 to make sure it was full. "Dad, John; y'all are with me. We'll go outside and take the brunt of them." They nodded, and checked their weapons. "Grandpa, mom; you two go upstairs and provide cover fire for us. Don't shoot too close." I saw my grandfather rack the bolt on his Winchester, then head upstairs, my mother on his heels. I continued: "Grandma, I'm gonna need you to cover the door. There shouldn't be too many of them there, but just in case one or two come up; introduce them to Charles Daly. Got it?" She nodded. "Finally, um... Sarah, how good are you with that shotgun?"
"I'm...alright. Not too good." She admitted, feeding a shell into her gun.
"Okay, then. Good enough. Sarah, Will, cover the windows we've barricaded. Again, we'll take on the main group; y'all might just have a few stragglers. Good?" They said affirmations, then went off to cover the windows. Mrs. Campbell...uh..." I tried to think of something she could do. "Spot targets for my mom and grandfather, okay?" After saying this, I watched everyone move, still amazed that they were actually listening to me. Various clacks and racks were heard from people checking their weapons, and someone was whistling. I shook my head; not time to think about this now. Sliding the 1911 into my holster, a walked towards the door.
We took our positions at the door. I'd go out first, and cover the middle. John would come out next, covering the right. Finally, Dad would come out, covering the left. Grandma would stay in the doorway, keeping watch.
"You guys ready?" I asked.
"Yeah." John said.
"Locked and loaded." Dad added.
"I got y'all covered." My grandmother said softly.
"Grandpa, Mom, Mrs. Campbell. Y'all ready?" I shouted.
"We got those bastards covered." My grandfather yelled. "Looks to be about 30 of them."
"Will? Sarah?"
"We're good!" Will yelled.
"Alright, then." I said. "On the count of three." I clenched the rifle in my right hand, and reached out to touch the doorknob with my left. "One...two...three!" I yanked open the door, and entered the melee.
It was funny. I expected some sort of dramatic, military-style shootout, with us only a few feet away from the zombies. In contrast, when I stepped out of the door, the closest zombies were still about 30 yards away from the door. Nevertheless, we filed out and took up firing positions on the porch.
"We good to go?" I shouted from the middle. The zombies seemed to take notice of me particularly. Instead of merely shuffling towards the house, they turned towards me. My grandfather was right; it looked to be about thirty.
"Yeah!" John and Dad both shouted. Luckily, some of the zombies towards each of them. Another weird thing happened; again, caught up in the drama of the moment, I shouted a movie-style line.
"Then let's get this party started!" I line up my first shot, and fired. My aim was good. The zombie, who I vaguely recognized as someone who lived a few miles from the house, fell like a sack of potatoes, with brain matter staining his comrades.
"One down!" I shouted, then moved on to my next target. I heard blasts echoing from my sides; the thunderous boom from Dad's 870, and the crisper, lighter .223 shots from John's carbine. In addition, from up above me, I heard shots ring out, signifying that my mother and grandfather had us covered. Apparently, none of us faltered; we'd, in total, fired five shots in the first volley, and five zombies were down. I realized that we may have had a chance.
The fight became a little more hectic after that, with each of creating separate little battles. Though we were still standing together, each of us were picking different targets. I tried my best to follow a steady rhythm. Fire...load...fire...load... and so on. I became lost in this little rhythm, until I heard a sound that was both very loud and very quiet. Click!
Damn it! I'd forgotten to keep track of ammo. The gun only held seven rounds, and I'd used them all like an idiot.
"I'm out!" I yelled, already digging bullets out of my pocket.
"Me too!" Dad said, slamming shells into his shotgun.
"Well, damn! I can't cover both of you!" John yelled. "I'm down to twenty." I swore again. There wasn't time to reload the gun now. I was screwing up so much! The closest zombies were about twenty yards away. Cursing, I slung the rifle over my shoulder and drew the 1911. I began to line up a shot, only to have the zombie fall from a shot from above. Sighing, I lined up again, and tried to keep steady. Then, I realized that shooting offhand wouldn't work, so I dropped to one knee. Aiming carefully, I fired. The heavy .45 slug tore into the zombie's head, dropping it. I acquired another target, and fired. My first shot missed, but my second one was dead on.
"I'm out!" John yelled, swapping magazines. Dad, who'd finished reloading a few moments before, swiveled to cover him. Although, he was shooting across my field of fire.
"Dad, cover your side. I've got him!" My dad turned back to his original position. From the looks of it, we'd be okay. There were only around fifteen zombies left now. Bam! Fourteen, I mean. John, who was fully loaded, opened up on the remaining ones, firing haphazardly. Though one did go down, the rest merely had superficial wounds.
"What are you doing?!" I asked, not taking my eyes off the front sight of my handgun.
"There's only a few of them left!" He shouted back, still firing. It was odd; he'd seemed so calm until now.
"That doesn't mean you can waste ammo! We can use those bullets later!" John seemed to understand, and he began truly aiming again, and his fire rate slowed down. With the combined fire of all of us, there were only five zombies left now. I shot at one, and missed, the bullet hitting its shoulder. It fell, but began to get back up again. Two bullets put it down. Luckily, I'd been counting, and I knew that the magazine was empty. By the time I'd reloaded, however, the last ones had been killed. Suddenly, it was too quiet. So at odds with all the shooting from a moment ago.
"Everyone okay?" I asked, breathing slightly hard. Aside from the one zombie in the morning, and my sniping earlier, this was the first time we'd been in an all-out firefight against zombies. I'd had a lot of mistakes, but it looked as if we'd be alright.
"Yeah, I'm fine." My dad said. He was squinting for some reason; I'd have to watch him.
"I'm good too." John said, taking out the magazine of his carbine and peering into it.
"No problem." My grandmother said. I'd actually forgotten about her; she'd stood by the door like I'd said, watching the whole team. Also, come to think of it, I hadn't heard anything from Sarah or Will. I called in.
"Sarah! Will! You okay?"
"Yeah!" Will yelled.
"Nothing here!" Sarah yelled. That sounded good enough for me.
Suddenly, I heard another shot from my father's shotgun. I whirled around, holding up my pistol, to find a zombie, not 10 feet from me, lying on the ground with a pile of mush where its head should have been.
"Got him, Matt." Dad said, shucking the shotgun. "Apparently we just grazed him before." I nodded in thanks, my heart beating so hard I thought it would burst from my chest. So many mistakes! I thought to myself in anger. I had to do this right, or I'd die. Hastily, I reloaded my rifle; I wouldn't be caught with my pants down again.
"Alright, let's get inside." I said, turning. But, out of the corner of my eye, I spotted something. Turning back around, I walked over to the corpse of the zombie. I was pretty sure I knew who it was; it appeared to be a man that worked at a hardware store in town. I knew his face, but I couldn't remember his name. Anyway, what had caught my eye was a glint of metal at his hip. To my delight, after checking to make sure he was dead, I discovered a Browning Hi-Power 9mm pistol in a cross-draw holster. I removed my shirt, and wrapped my hand in it. I wiped off the gun and holster with my shirt to ensure there was no blood on it. After doing so, I removed the holster from the corpse's belt.
"Jackpot." I said, removing the handgun and holding it up for the others to see. I checked the magazine; eight rounds of gleaming 9mm hollow points occupied the space. A search of the body revealed a half-full box of bullets. Grinning, I ensured the safety was on, wedged the pistol into my belt, and walked back towards the house.
It was fairly quiet for the rest of the night. My grandfather volunteered for first watch and we decided to go in three hour shifts. After he was done, it was John's turn, then Will's (although he couldn't shoot, he could give us a yell.) Also, I promised that Dad, John, and I would teach Will, Mrs. Campbell, and Sarah to shoot the next day (though Sarah only really needed help with a handgun.) After that, we pretty much just killed time; we watched some movies (as I said, the power still hadn't gone out,) played some videogames, and just talked for a while. It was funny; nobody seemed to be overly affected by all of the violence; we were all normal (except for Sarah's curious silence about her parents.)
As I got into bed that night, I again thought about how much had changed. It had felt like one of the longest days of my life. So much had happened today that I could hardly believe it. We had a fairly safe colony of survivors, and it looked like we'd be okay for a while. Though I did feel sadness for all of my friends and family that I probably wouldn't see again, I accepted this as fact. I knew I had to deal with it; no use being in denial. It was weird; all this time I'd been planning for a zombie apocalypse, and now I didn't know what to think. Obviously, I was sad for losing so much; yet, I was also kinda happy. It showed that I wasn't crazy; that my plan was actually worth something. As I went to sleep, I was able to feel a sense of pride; I was the unofficial leader. These people actually listened to me! While the outbreak was obviously bad, it could have been a lot worse.
Chapter 1: Awakening
I awoke at six a.m. on Friday, May 25th. Looking out my bedroom window, nothing seemed to be out of the ordinary. The sun was rising, casting a burning hue over the woods surrounding my house. There wasn't even a cloud in the sky. Funny, I expected that when sh*t this big happens, the world would be dreary. I was wrong. Perhaps some introductions are in order. My name is Matt Harrigan. I live in Dalton, a small town in the Western part of Tennessee, and I'm basically your average high-school junior. I run track, and have decent grades (normally Bs, with a few As thrown in.) I love hunting and action movies. As I said, all of this is pretty average for a country kid. However, there are two things about me that aren't average. Well, actually, they're more like hobbies or obsessions, but you'll see.
First is guns. While many kids my age like guns, I love them. I shoot every weekend, and can often be found with my face buried in Guns and Ammo or Shotgun News. I research loads, ballistics, bullet weights, tactics, and anything else I can think of. My knowledge of firearms is nothing short of encyclopedic. Fortunately, my parents support this; we have a large gun cabinet, and my dad and I are almost impossible to find during hunting season. This helps a lot with my next obsession.
Basically, I can sum it up in one word: zombies. Yes, that's right; the same crap seen in a thousand horror films. I believe in them, and have spent a good portion of my time preparing for them. Actually, I've never told anyone this before; I figured it would label me as a "freak" or "whacko". I'm certainly not a freak or anything. I just like to be prepared. You see, I read an article on zombies a few years back. It said that several diseases throughout the world can cause zombie-like symptoms (slowed movement, violent tendencies, pain resistance; that sort of thing.) Further research confirmed this. In fact, it quickly appeared to me that zombies were a big threat to the world. It seemed to me that they were something I should prepare for. And, goddamn it, it seems like it was the right choice.
I started seeing the signs of an outbreak about two weeks before the 25th. Nothing major at first. Just one or two disappearances. Then, it began stacking. Every day, more and more reports showed up on the news. Not just in the US, either. There were reports from several countries. England, Russia, China, and others. Even in the beginning stages, I knew it wasn't the latest "Swan Flu" or some crap like that. It was too fast and too widespread. It wasn't until about a week before, however, that things began getting really serious. If you turned on the news, there was nothing but talk of this stuff. We talked about it in school. When my science teacher asked what we thought could be causing this, I kept silent; no use in raising a pointless alarm and embarrassing myself if this turned out to be BS. Either way, we had exams coming up, so not much time was given to it. It was only on the night of the 24th that I really got into it. While my parents and I were eating dinner, a video came on the news of one of the "infected." Until this time, no videos had actually been shown on TV. Sure enough, the figure onscreen look exactly like a standard movie zombie; a man, dressed in bloodstained jeans and a sweatshirt, shambling down the street, his thousand-yard stare seemingly taking nothing in. Sitting there at the dinner table, with a bit of spaghetti hanging from my mouth, I decided it was time to act.
Convincing my parents wasn't easy. They had no idea that I was so into this kind of thing. Although they normally trust me, they had trouble believing me (and I don't blame them.) It wasn't until I plugged in my laptop and played a clip from Dawn of the Dead that they began to believe me. I remember my Dad rapidly looking from the laptop screen to the TV, stroking his bushy beard. A few feet back, my mother's normally serene face was knitted in confusion in fear. Finally, I asked them point-blank.
"Mom, Dad. I'll ask y'all. You've seen zombie movies, haven't you? Even the cheesy 80s ones?" They looked at me and nodded, their faces grim.
"I'll ask you then." I continued. "That thing on TV is slow-moving, has a vacant stare, and is covered in blood. What the hell else could it be?! I know it may seem unbelievable, but this is really happening. So, we can either ignore it and die, or get our act together and prepare. What do you say?" My parents were silent for a moment. Then, a note of suspicion came across my father's face. Hopefully, he wasn't angry. My dad was a big man; you didn't want to make him mad.
"Matt, you've thought about this before, haven't you?"
"Yeah." I grinned sheepishly. Oddly enough, I wasn't scared. That feeling had passed a week before.
"So, do you have any plans or ideas to fight these things?" My mom asked.
"Son, you've never bull-sh*tted us too much. Whatever you say, we're with you." My dad added. "If this is real," he looked at the TV again, the pictured paused on the infected man. He gave a tiny nod, as if accepting the fact. "Then we should get to work. What can you tell us?" I grinned in delight. They were with me! They would help!
"Well, here's what I've been thinking..." I went on to speak for half an hour.
This brings me back to the 25th. After gazing out that window for a moment, I flipped on the news. Just as I thought: school was cancelled. New outbreaks were being reported everywhere, and the president was declaring a state of emergency.
"My fellow Americans." His booming voice rang. "We are not entirely sure what the problem is at this time. However, our best experts on working on it. I wish all of you the best of luck, and encourage you to move to designated safe zones. May God be with us." With that, the screen changed to shots of crowded traffic and looting. One picture in particular showed a Wal-Mart being ransacked. Crowds of people were massing around the exits. From the looks of it, there were more than a few infected in the crowd. Immediately, I felt a twinge of sadness; this was really happening. The world was coming to an end. After a moment, that feeling passed, and was replaced by contempt for the looters.
"Dumbasses." I muttered, watching them. They should have known that Wal-Mart would have been packed. Every Joe-Blow in the world thought Wal-Mart was the best place to go. I pitied them.
Getting up and ignoring the TV, I got dressed. I simply wore my normal clothes. That was another common mistake; people thought that if zombies were attacking, you should wear "armor." They didn't realize that it just made them slower and easier to eat. Therefore, I just wore jeans, a black T-shirt, and a blue ball cap. I checked myself in the mirror. And, of course, the lanky, blue-eyed teen that was me stared back. I smirked, then turned and headed downstairs.
My parents greeted me when I got to the end of the stairs.
"Mornin' son." My dad said.
"School's closed." My mom added. "It looks like they're taking this seriously."
"Yeah." I replied. "About damn time." I had briefed them on zombie combat last night, and they seemed to have listened. My dad was dressed as he normally did when we went hunting; jeans and a camouflage shirt. With his large size and beard, he looked like a classic movie survivalist. As I had instructed, his Remington 870 12 gauge was already slung over his shoulder. In addition, he had a Smith and Wesson Model 19 .357 revolver in its holster. Finally, a carpenter's hammer was wedged into his belt. Nobody was going to be going anywhere without weapons.
My mother was dressed similarly. Like my dad and I, she was wearing jeans and a T-shirt. Now, in regards to weapons, she isn't quite as proficient with guns as we were, yet she could still more than hold her own. Cradled in her arm was our Ruger Mini 14 .223 semi-automatic rifle, topped with an AimPoint red-dot sight. At her hip was a Ruger Mark III .22 handgun. She preferred the .22 for its light recoil and accuracy. It was odd. Looking at them, I couldn't help but laugh.
"You two look like Burt and Heather Gummer!" I laughed.
"Who?" My dad asked.
"Never mind. We've got work to do." I pulled out a list from my pocket, where I'd written down my plan the night before. I didn't want to forget anything. "Mom, go around and turn on the bathtubs. We're gonna need all the water we can get. Also, fill up all the containers you can find. Wait, you already called Grandma and Grandpa, right?" My grandparents lived a few miles down the road.
"Yep. They'll be here in the next few minutes. I told 'em to bring all the food, water, and guns they had."
"Good. Thanks. Well, then, after you finish with the water, please call anyone you can think of that you want to be over here. Anyone you want to stay with us. Got it?"
"Sure, son. No problem." My mom flashed a thumbs-up, then moved towards the bathroom. It's funny; I kinda liked the new thing of them listening to me. I turned to face my dad.
"Dad, get all the lumber and 2X4s that we have. Start boarding up the doors and windows that I've marked." The night before, I'd surveyed our house. It was a decent-sized, two-story country home, two bed, two bath, etc. More importantly, however, only the two exterior doors (one from the garage, and one out the front) and two windows were actually low enough for any zombies to reach. On these, I'd marked a line of black spray-paint. After that, we'd run to the store and bought a good supply of lumber and nails. They were sitting outside, leaning against a shed.
"Okay, Matt." My dad said. "Anything else?"
"Yeah. Go outside to the shed and grab anything you think will come in handy and bring it in the house. The less we have to go outside, the better. I'll help you board up the doors in a bit."
"Gotcha." Dad said. "What are you gonna be doing?"
"Just a few things." I replied. "I'll help ya in a bit. Good?" I held up my hand. My dad smirked and clamped his on top.
"Good." He replied. With that, we both separated and went about our tasks.
I could hear my mother turn on the bathtub as I walked into the living room. That was a good sign; it meant we'd have water. My first order of business, however, was a warning. It was still early; there was a chance that people hadn't heard the news yet. I pulled out my laptop, and logged on to the Internet.
The first thing to appear was, of course, the outbreak. A map of the world was shown, with red blotches all over it indicating infection. Eerily, I couldn't tell which was more prevalent; infected or non-infected. Ignoring it, I clicked on Facebook and brought up my home page. Several people had already reported contact. For example, my friend Anna Sherill had posted at 3 a.m. "Watching two guys on the front lawn. Waiting for the police to come." Poor Anna, I thought. She was a nice, smart girl, but she disliked guns and violence, and therefore wasn't totally prepared. Sighing, I thought that I wasn't going to see her again, just like most of my friends. Fortunately, though, I'd come to this realization earlier, and had dealt with it then.
I opened the document containing a form letter that I'd typed up last week. It read: "Guys, I know y'all are probably dealing with this like I am, but the sh*t has hit the fan, and we have an outbreak on our hands. I'm sure all of you have seen the infected. They are exactly what they look like: Zombies from an old monster movie. They don't move quickly, but the never stop. In order to kill them, you have to destroy the brain. Either shoot them in the head, or crush the skull somehow. DON'T USE FIRE. It won't work. Also, don't try to go Rambo and 'kick some zombie ass.' You'll likely die.
"Believe it or not, I've been preparing for an outbreak for a while. If you need somewhere to stay, call me at 307-819-3462. I can provide food, water, and weapons. Though, if you do decide to come, bring anything you can of use. The more supplies we have, the longer was can last. However, keep in mind that if you come, be prepared to listen to me. Anyway, I wish the best of luck to all of you. Goodbye." With that, I logged off. No since waiting for a reply. If they called me, I'd give them my address. Until then, I had more pressing matters to attend to.
With a clank, I slid the key into the lock. I turned it, and the gun cabinet swung open, revealing our gun collection. The cabinet was custom-made by my father; wooden, with enough room for twenty long-guns. Actually, we had twenty-five, with some leaning in the corners. Of course, two spaces were empty, since my mom and dad had already chosen weapons. In addition, handguns were held in brackets on the doors. We had fewer of them; just five. But, it was still more than enough. Also, there were plastic boxes full of accessories sitting in a corner. Looking around, I racked my brain and tried to figure out the best choice. Actually, this had always been my favorite part of the whole zombie idea; choosing weapons. First, I picked up a Rossi Overlander double-barrel shotgun. I cracked it open, testing its heft. Then, I just couldn't resist.
"Alright you primitive screwheads, listen up!" I said to nobody in particular. It just seemed fitting for the moment. Grinning, I set it back down. Next, I tried the Weatherby Vanguard .308 bolt action rifle, topped with a Leupold 5X scope. It was a fairly heavy gun, with a highly-polished walnut stock. I looked down the scope. Of course, shooting freehand, the scope would waver significantly. Therefore, it wouldn't be too good for close quarters.
Finally, I chose what I thought was best. It was a Marlin 336 30-30 lever-action. I'd used it countless times on hunting trips, and it seemed like it would work. It had a short barrel, which made it easy to clear rooms with. Since it was lever-action, I didn't have to move my supporting hand to load it. Also, it had nice iron sights instead of a scope.
If it'll work on deer, it'll work on zombies. I thought to myself. I reached down into a box marked "slings," and dug one out. Deftly, I attached it to the gun. Next, I moved to the crates of ammo next to the cabinet. As I said, the night before, we'd gone on a last-minute shopping trip, including a stop at a gun store. Since we already had plenty of guns, we just bought ammo. .308, .45, 30-30, .22, and more. We had at least two hundred rounds of each caliber we owned. In addition, most of our guns fired common calibers, so finding more wouldn't be too much out of a problem. Anyway, I dug out a box of Federal .30-30 rounds, and loaded the rifle. The rest of the ammo I stuck in my pocket.
Now for a handgun, I thought, peering at the pistols perched on the brackets. After what my parents had taken, we had three handguns left: A Kimber 1911 .45 with a beavertail safety and attached flashlight, A Taurus PT92, which was basically a clone of the Beretta M92, and a Rossi .357 revolver. I picked up each one, remembering my experiences with each one.I immediately picked the 1911; I'd had it for a long as I could remember, and had even competed in a few youth matches with it. Also, despite what most people thought, most .45 loads did in fact equal the power created by the .357, so the revolver would be of no benefit. In addition, I didn't especially like the Taurus' 9mm round, so it was a no brainer really. I loaded a full magazine, ensuring that each bullet seated properly. I inserted it, cocked the hammer, then pushed the slide-lock into place. Now, all I had to do was flip one lever, and I'd be readyI reached into our box of holsters, and dug out a Blackhawk 1911 hip holster. I clipped it onto my belt, then slipped the gun inside. I grabbed a magazine pouch, put it on my belt, and dropped the 1911 mags into it. After doing so, I felt empowered. It felt like whatever zombies came, I could take them down. Again, feeling the drama of the moment, I couldn't help myself.
"Lock and load." I said in the most macho voice I had. It was then that I heard the gunshots.
It was just 2 shots, the thundering Bam! of my dad's Remington ringing in my ears. F*ck! I'd been so caught up in macho posturing, I hadn't gone to help him.
"Dad!" I screamed, sprinting through the house.
"Matt!" My mom yelled, sticking her head over the balcony.
"Stay here! Keep working! I'll go get him!" I reached the door, wrenched it open, then sprang outside.
"DAD!" I screamed. No reply. I raced around the side of the house to the shed. With a sigh of relief, I saw my dad, leaning against the shed. His eyes were wide, though, and he was clenching the shotgun with white-knuckled hands. I followed his eyes and saw, at the edge of the woods, two corpses sprawled out. They had obviously been infected. Blood covered their clothes, and one was missing an arm. This actually hit me pretty hard. Up until this point, the zombies had just been something on TV, something that may not come. Now, they were real. I could see them in person. In fact, one of them was still alive. His legs had been shattered by my dad's shotguns blasts, but he was still trying to crawl forward. I look in its eyes, seeing a milky mass that seemed to have no vision. The zombie was surprisingly intact; I could see a few slashes on its arms, but that was it. A black, thick bile was dripping out of its mouth, and I could smell it from here. I turned to my dad; the zombie could be ignored for a minute.
"Dad, are you okay?" He obviously hadn't been bitten; no zombies were close enough to him. Still, he looked shaken.
"Y-yeah." He said. He was breathing hard. "I took 'em down son. I did it. I killed them." He turned and coughed heavily, almost to the point of vomiting. He seemed on the verge of crying; this scared me more than anything.
"You did what you had to do." I said. Obviously, he still felt like they were people. "Dad, they aren't people anymore. They're just vessels for whatever the hell virus if possessing them. Just like I told you last night; don't think of them as people. They're zombies. You have to take them down before they take you down. Right?" My dad nodded, and wiped his chin. He was still shaken, but it looked as if he would be okay.
"What should we do?" He asked. He pointed to the side of the house; some of the lumber was already placed there. "I got some of the wood."
"Good. We'll start nailing up the windows in a minute. Although, we need to leave the front door un-barricaded. Some other people are coming. It's a tough door; it'll be alright. You with me?
"Yeah. I'll start carrying the stuff in. Can you deal with him?" He said, gesturing to the zombie still dragging itself across the yard. With every word, Dad seemed stronger; more to terms with what he had to do.
"Sure." I spun, and aimed my rifle. The zombie was only about 30 feet away; an easy shot. However, when I placed the front sight on his head, I wavered for some reason, and my shot went wide.
"Damn." I muttered. I reloaded and lined up again. I put the sight on the zombie's head. Exhaling slowly, I began to squeeze the trigger.
The zombie's head exploded.
It wasn't like in the movies, where it's just a nice, clean hole. No, the head turned into a pink mist of brain and bone that painted the grass around it. However, I was confused; I hadn't fired.
"Hey, Matt! Hey, Paul!" A deep, booming called, addressing me and my father. I spun, and saw my grandfather leaning out of his truck, a Pre-'64 Winchester Model 70 in his hands. I grinned.
"Welcome to the party, gramps."
My grandfather Sam Harrigan was, like my dad, a large man. A camo hunting vest covered his wide torso, and a boonie hat was placed on his bald head. He was sixty-eight years old, but acted as if he was twenty years younger. Whenever I saw him, he had a spring in his step and a jovial attitude. In fact, he seemed more full of energy than most adults. Smiling, he stepped down from the truck, slamming the door behind him. I spotted his prized possession, a vintage S&W Model 29 in .44 magnum at his hip. In the back of the truck were boxes of food, water, blankets, and other supplies that he'd grabbed from his house.
"How are you boys doing?" He asked, as he dug around in his pocket for a 30-06 shell. Finding one, he fed it into his rifle. "Damn, Matt. You missed your first shot."
"I know, I know." I said. "It was the first time I'd shot at one. How 'bout you?"
"There were a few of those a$sholes in front of my house. Smoked 'em, though. Nothing 168 grains of lead can't deal with."
"Hey," My dad said. He seemed to be doing much better. "Where's Mom?"
"Right here." I heard my grandmother's soft voice as she came around the side of the truck. She was very small (only about 5' 2", compared to my 6'3") and had wispy white hair on her head. Though she looked her age of sixty-seven, her mind was still sharp. "Y'all don't need to worry about me." Cradled in her arm was a Charles Daly 20 gauge double-barrel shotgun. While it didn't look like she had a pistol, I could see a hatchet wedged in her belt.
"Good to see you, Grandma." I said, smiling. "What d'you think of all this happening?
"I've seen worse." She replied. "I was around during the Nixon administration." We all chuckled.
"So, what's plan, Matt?" My grandpa asked. "Your ma said that you knew about these things beforehand."
"Kinda." I explained. "I've liked zombies and stuff for a while. Have y'all ever seen zombie movies?"
"Sure we have." My grandmother replied. "Our third date was to that black-and-white one in the farmhouse."
"Night of the Living Dead?" I offered.
"That's it."
"Well, cool. Grandma, Grandpa, please start unloading the supplies into the house. After that, Grandpa, can you help Dad and me barricade the windows."
"No problem."
"What kind of stuff do you have anyway?" My dad asked.
"Oh, just some canned food and a couple of cases of water. Some beer, too. Also, blankets, candles, gloves, a radio, and some other stuff."
"Great. " I said. "Oh, I forgot to ask; do you have ammo?"
"Yessir. A hundred rounds for the '06; well, 96 now. I had to use some. Forty 20 gauge buckshot shells, and 8 slugs. I've got a box of shells for my .44 too. That's fifty rounds."
"Awesome! Alright, enough jabbering, let's get to work." We all got to our tasks.
The zombie trundled randomly down the road, propelled by nothing but pure instinct. There were several bullet holes in its torso, but it paid them no mind. Blood dripped for it's mouth, and broken teeth showed through cracked lips. A pocketknife had been rammed into its leg, and was still sticking there.
The zombie stopped, having caught a whiff of prey. It slowly turned, a moan erupting from its throat.
A bullet crashed into its collar bone, spinning it around like a weather vane, but not killing it.
"Plenty to go around!" I yelled, chambering another round for the Vanguard. Quickly, I re-aimed and fired again. This time, my aim was true. The bullet caught the zombie in the temple, disintegrating the brain. The zombie fell and was still.
"Hail to the king, baby!" I shouted, laughing and working the bolt.
I was sitting on the roof of our house, holding the rifle. A stereo was next to me, blasting rock music. On top of it rested a glass of tea. It was about three o'clock in the afternoon, and we'd finished all of our major preparations. All of the windows and doors were barricaded (save the front door, which we'd reinforced with removable bars.) We had enough water and food to last for several months, and more than enough weapons and ammunition. After barricading, I helped everyone make "bug out bags;" packs containing things we'd need if we had to leave in a hurry. Food, water, a knife, a map, ammunition, a signal mirror, and more. I instructed everybody to keep them close at all times. Now, there wasn't really much to do but hunker down and relax. And, in fact, sniping zombies while listening to music and quoting zombie films was about as relaxing as I can think of. Chuckling, I looked around for more targets.
"You okay up there, Matt?" My mom asked from a nearby window. She was organizing all of our available food.
"Couldn't be better." I replied. And, in truth, given the circumstances, I couldn't be. There was nothing really big going on, besides the whole "end of the world" thing. I never had to worry about homework, grades, or anything else like that again.
According to the news, there was full-out war between the military and hordes of zombies. From what was shown on Youtube, big cities like New York and Washington were bloodbaths. It was like a fire. Up until now, everything had been relatively calm. Then, it seemed as if someone threw the proverbial grease on the fire, and the infection spread. More and more areas had become infected throughout the day, with that Internet map gradually growing more and more red. It looked as if all of this was going to last for a while. Like I said, though, it wasn't all bad. Some of my friends had even called and asked if they could come over with their families. Of course, I said yes, and gave them my address. Now, it was just a matter of waiting for them.
Anyway, I searched with the scope for any targets. Although three sides of my house were surrounded by heavy woods, the last one faced the road, and only had a few trees along the driveway. So far, I'd killed six zombies, and only used eight rounds of .308. I considered that to be pretty good.
"Hey Matt!" My grandfather yelled from the ground floor. "Catch!" He leaned out the window and tossed up a bag of beef jerky. I caught it, tore it open, and ate, just thinking about how much everything had changed. Oh well. You can't change the past, and all that crap.
All of a sudden, my phone rang. I picked it up and flicked it open.
"Hello?"
"Matt! It's Will, what's up?" My face brightened. It was my best friend, Will Campbell. He, like me, was really into zombie movies and stuff. However, unlike me, he hadn't really taken the threat seriously before, and he knew little about guns. Nevertheless, he had called me around nine that morning and said that he was coming.
"Not much. Sniping zombies."
"How many have you gotten?"
"Six."
"Nice job. Anyway, we'll be at your house in a second. You should be able to hear our car." Sure enough, I could hear a car approaching in the distance.
"Great! Do you have any supplies?"
"Yeah. Food, water, some hand weapons. My dad's got his duty guns." (Will's dad was a cop.)
"Cool. You got anything else good?"
"You'll like this: we brought the generator, and about 20 gallons of gas." That was good as well. The Campbell's had an electric generator they used when the power went out. Though our power hadn't gone off yet, the generator would come in handy when it did.
"Nice."
"Okay, we're just about to pull in. Do you see us?" As if on cue, a car appeared along the road. Blood was smeared on the front, as if they had run over something. I raised my rifle in greeting.
"I gotcha." I said into the phone. "Welcome to the jungle, man."
I left the Vanguard on the roof, picked up my Marlin, then climbed in through the window.
"The Campbells are here." I announced as I trotted down the hall.
“Great. The more the merrier.” My mom said from the kitchen. I had convinced them to use perishable goods first, so we were having steak for dinner.
“Hey, Matt!” My dad called from the living room, where he and my grandparents were watching a DVD of Diary of the Dead. I had told them it might help to brush up on zombie media. “You’re gonna check to make sure they’re not bitten, right?”
“O’course.” I replied. "Not doing so would be kinda dumb, wouldn't it? In fact, Dad, will you come out with me? Just in case..."
"Sure." He said, hopping up and shouldering his shotgun. With that, we turned and headed for the door.
"Hey, Matt! Howya doing, man?" Will yelled as he hopped out of the car. He was shorter than me, and rail thin. Also, he was wearing a leather jacket, which was sort of his trademark. That wasn't what I was looking at, though. He had no gun, but a pack was on his shoulder. Clenched in his hand was a coal-black machete. However, for no reason that I could fathom, he was wearing a hockey mask.
"Who the hell are you?" I asked, smirking. "Jason goddamn Vorhees?"
"Hey, I thought it would look cool." He sheathed his machete and began walking forward. His parents walked around the car. His dad, a wiry man with a balding head, was wearing a blue button-up shirt and gray pants. He was holding his police-issue carbine (a Smith and Wesson M&P 15) loosely in his hand, and there was blood on his pants. There was a Glock 22 in .40 S&W on his hip. Despite the blood on his pants, he seemed okay, and waved a greeting. His mother, holding a baseball bat, simply stood with her arms folded. I'd never really liked her; she seemed awfully stuck-up.
"Hold up!" I said sternly. "Before you come any closer, I need to know that you're not bitten."
"C'mon, man!" Will complained. "Look at us; we're all fine."
"I have to be sure." I replied. "Please, just roll up your sleeves and show that your arms and legs aren't bitten." The did so begrudgingly, and I could see no wounds. Also, their expressions didn't seemed pained or anything; by my best guess, they were fine.
"Okay, sorry about that."
"It's fine." Will's father, John, said. "I see what you mean. We have to be careful like that, too."
"Speaking of which, Mr. Campbell-"
"Aw, go ahead and call me John, Matt."
"Okay...John. How'd you get that blood on your pants?" John looked down at his pants, then looked back.
"One of them came at us while we were loading the car. I got him, though. He didn't bite me or anything. Look." He slapped at his pants. If he'd been bitten, that would've seriously hurt him.
"Okay. I'd suggest changing your pants, though. You never know exactly how the infection spreads."
"Gotcha."
"Well, come on in then, guys. I'll help you unload."
"Oh, Matt. One more thing. We run into someone down the road. They looked like they needed a place to go, so I told 'em your address. They'll be here in a minute. You don't mind, do you?"
"Of course not." I said. "Do I know them?"
"You could say that." He smirked. I could hear the "I know something you don't know" slyness in his voice.
"Who is it then?" I asked, even as a second car became visible, coming down the road. It was a beat-up Chevy Impala, with several large dents in the front.
"It's Sarah Parker."
I stood there, half in shock and half nervous. Sarah Parker was coming here. She had always been the girl I had a crush on, but I was too shy to say anything. Though I did speak with her occasionally, she didn't know how I felt.
As her car pulled in, I fumbled with what to say. Obviously, she trusted me to some degree if she'd agreed to come here. But, I didn't know if I should take that and run with it, or what.
The car pulled in and parked. I watched as Sarah got out of the car and just stood, a Browning A-5 shotgun slung on her shoulder.
Appearance-wise, she was the tall, athletic, blond bombshell that I assumed most schools had. However, unlike most girls with her looks, she didn't let it go to her head. She lacked the "I'm better than you" attitude that some had, and she always spoke kindly to everyone. She was on the tennis team, and I remembered watching her while I was at track practice. I could see that she was supremely fit, and obviously one of the best on the team. In addition, she was actually pretty smart (she made better grades than I did.) All in all, she was a wonderful girl, with no flaws that I could see. This is what made me so afraid to tell her how I felt. However, I tried my best to push that into the back of my mind.
"Hey, Matt." She said, smiling. "Would you mind if I stayed here for a while?"
"Uh, sure." I said, trying to keep from blushing. "Of course."
“Thanks!” She said. Introductions proceeded between all of us. We unloaded the Campbell’s and Sarah’s cars (Sarah’s actually didn’t have much; just some clothes and some shotguns shells.) After doing so, we went back into the house. During the day, we’d made brackets for 2X4s on either side of the door, so we slid those in.
“So, Sarah.” I said, flopping down on the couch and trying to sound casual. “How’s your day been going?”
"Oh, y'know. Just trying to survive. There were a bunch of these things outside my house, and two or three came in the window. That was a problem.” She chuckled, her face glowing. “I saw your post on Facebook. Did you really know about these before?”
“Sorta. It‘s difficult to explain. Anyway, I assume those dents on your car are from zombies.”
“Yeah. I ran over three trying to get here. They’re so slow, though! None of them really got close to me on the way out of the house.”
“I know, right. If all those idiots hadn’t panicked, this thing would’ve gone a lot better.” Inside, I was cheering. I was actually talking to her! The zombie apocalypse had done one thing right; it allowed me to talk with the girl of my dreams, with nobody else around to judge me. “So, anyway, where are your parents?”
Wrong move.
She glared at me, a bolt of rage crossing her normally beautiful features. I got the idea to back off; something had happened, and it was a touchy subject.
“Umm, never mind.” I said. In a moment, she returned to normal, and was all smiles. Mental note: Something happened to Sarah’s parents. Leave it alone.
“Hey, everyone.” My mom said. “Dinner.” All of us got up, walked into the kitchen, and filled up plates. Like I said, we wanted to use perishable food, and we knew that steak wouldn’t last too long. Therefore, we were having steak and fruit.
“Well...” My grandmother said before we started eating. “I think we should all say grace.”
“With all due respect, Mrs. H.” Will said. “The dead have risen. There’s not really too much to be thankful for.”
“You're still alive, ain’t you?” My grandmother said sharply. “We’ve got food and water, we’ve got weapons; we can probably survive this thing.”
“Fair enough.” Will said, shrugging. After this, we all bowed heads in listened to my grandmother say grace. After a chorus of "amens," we began to eat. As I brought the for to my mouth, I again pondered how different everything was. In one day, I'd gone from a normal high-school junior to the de-facto leader of zombie-apocalypse survivors. To think that just a few days ago I'd still be worried about school. Oh well.
Just as I put the bite into my mouth, I caught something out of the corner of my eye. Our living room was in the front of the house, offering a good view of the yard. The house itself was built on with a 3 foot crawl space, meaning that the house was basically 3 feet above the ground. When you factor in the height of the windows off the floor, it was unlikely that zombies could come in. Still, it allowed a very good view.
And, out of that view, I could see a group of zombies trudging through the yard.
I spat out my food and jumped up.
"Goddamn it!" I yelled. What was with all these movie-style coincidences? I made a mental note to have a guard posted at all times from now on.
"What's wrong, Matt?!" My mother asked. As I picked up my rifle, I pointed out the window. Everyone turned, and surprised expressions blossomed across their faces. All of them reached for their guns (except for Will, who clutched his machete.)
"Awright, this is what we need to do!" I said to everyone, checking the magazine on my 1911 to make sure it was full. "Dad, John; y'all are with me. We'll go outside and take the brunt of them." They nodded, and checked their weapons. "Grandpa, mom; you two go upstairs and provide cover fire for us. Don't shoot too close." I saw my grandfather rack the bolt on his Winchester, then head upstairs, my mother on his heels. I continued: "Grandma, I'm gonna need you to cover the door. There shouldn't be too many of them there, but just in case one or two come up; introduce them to Charles Daly. Got it?" She nodded. "Finally, um... Sarah, how good are you with that shotgun?"
"I'm...alright. Not too good." She admitted, feeding a shell into her gun.
"Okay, then. Good enough. Sarah, Will, cover the windows we've barricaded. Again, we'll take on the main group; y'all might just have a few stragglers. Good?" They said affirmations, then went off to cover the windows. Mrs. Campbell...uh..." I tried to think of something she could do. "Spot targets for my mom and grandfather, okay?" After saying this, I watched everyone move, still amazed that they were actually listening to me. Various clacks and racks were heard from people checking their weapons, and someone was whistling. I shook my head; not time to think about this now. Sliding the 1911 into my holster, a walked towards the door.
We took our positions at the door. I'd go out first, and cover the middle. John would come out next, covering the right. Finally, Dad would come out, covering the left. Grandma would stay in the doorway, keeping watch.
"You guys ready?" I asked.
"Yeah." John said.
"Locked and loaded." Dad added.
"I got y'all covered." My grandmother said softly.
"Grandpa, Mom, Mrs. Campbell. Y'all ready?" I shouted.
"We got those bastards covered." My grandfather yelled. "Looks to be about 30 of them."
"Will? Sarah?"
"We're good!" Will yelled.
"Alright, then." I said. "On the count of three." I clenched the rifle in my right hand, and reached out to touch the doorknob with my left. "One...two...three!" I yanked open the door, and entered the melee.
It was funny. I expected some sort of dramatic, military-style shootout, with us only a few feet away from the zombies. In contrast, when I stepped out of the door, the closest zombies were still about 30 yards away from the door. Nevertheless, we filed out and took up firing positions on the porch.
"We good to go?" I shouted from the middle. The zombies seemed to take notice of me particularly. Instead of merely shuffling towards the house, they turned towards me. My grandfather was right; it looked to be about thirty.
"Yeah!" John and Dad both shouted. Luckily, some of the zombies towards each of them. Another weird thing happened; again, caught up in the drama of the moment, I shouted a movie-style line.
"Then let's get this party started!" I line up my first shot, and fired. My aim was good. The zombie, who I vaguely recognized as someone who lived a few miles from the house, fell like a sack of potatoes, with brain matter staining his comrades.
"One down!" I shouted, then moved on to my next target. I heard blasts echoing from my sides; the thunderous boom from Dad's 870, and the crisper, lighter .223 shots from John's carbine. In addition, from up above me, I heard shots ring out, signifying that my mother and grandfather had us covered. Apparently, none of us faltered; we'd, in total, fired five shots in the first volley, and five zombies were down. I realized that we may have had a chance.
The fight became a little more hectic after that, with each of creating separate little battles. Though we were still standing together, each of us were picking different targets. I tried my best to follow a steady rhythm. Fire...load...fire...load... and so on. I became lost in this little rhythm, until I heard a sound that was both very loud and very quiet. Click!
Damn it! I'd forgotten to keep track of ammo. The gun only held seven rounds, and I'd used them all like an idiot.
"I'm out!" I yelled, already digging bullets out of my pocket.
"Me too!" Dad said, slamming shells into his shotgun.
"Well, damn! I can't cover both of you!" John yelled. "I'm down to twenty." I swore again. There wasn't time to reload the gun now. I was screwing up so much! The closest zombies were about twenty yards away. Cursing, I slung the rifle over my shoulder and drew the 1911. I began to line up a shot, only to have the zombie fall from a shot from above. Sighing, I lined up again, and tried to keep steady. Then, I realized that shooting offhand wouldn't work, so I dropped to one knee. Aiming carefully, I fired. The heavy .45 slug tore into the zombie's head, dropping it. I acquired another target, and fired. My first shot missed, but my second one was dead on.
"I'm out!" John yelled, swapping magazines. Dad, who'd finished reloading a few moments before, swiveled to cover him. Although, he was shooting across my field of fire.
"Dad, cover your side. I've got him!" My dad turned back to his original position. From the looks of it, we'd be okay. There were only around fifteen zombies left now. Bam! Fourteen, I mean. John, who was fully loaded, opened up on the remaining ones, firing haphazardly. Though one did go down, the rest merely had superficial wounds.
"What are you doing?!" I asked, not taking my eyes off the front sight of my handgun.
"There's only a few of them left!" He shouted back, still firing. It was odd; he'd seemed so calm until now.
"That doesn't mean you can waste ammo! We can use those bullets later!" John seemed to understand, and he began truly aiming again, and his fire rate slowed down. With the combined fire of all of us, there were only five zombies left now. I shot at one, and missed, the bullet hitting its shoulder. It fell, but began to get back up again. Two bullets put it down. Luckily, I'd been counting, and I knew that the magazine was empty. By the time I'd reloaded, however, the last ones had been killed. Suddenly, it was too quiet. So at odds with all the shooting from a moment ago.
"Everyone okay?" I asked, breathing slightly hard. Aside from the one zombie in the morning, and my sniping earlier, this was the first time we'd been in an all-out firefight against zombies. I'd had a lot of mistakes, but it looked as if we'd be alright.
"Yeah, I'm fine." My dad said. He was squinting for some reason; I'd have to watch him.
"I'm good too." John said, taking out the magazine of his carbine and peering into it.
"No problem." My grandmother said. I'd actually forgotten about her; she'd stood by the door like I'd said, watching the whole team. Also, come to think of it, I hadn't heard anything from Sarah or Will. I called in.
"Sarah! Will! You okay?"
"Yeah!" Will yelled.
"Nothing here!" Sarah yelled. That sounded good enough for me.
Suddenly, I heard another shot from my father's shotgun. I whirled around, holding up my pistol, to find a zombie, not 10 feet from me, lying on the ground with a pile of mush where its head should have been.
"Got him, Matt." Dad said, shucking the shotgun. "Apparently we just grazed him before." I nodded in thanks, my heart beating so hard I thought it would burst from my chest. So many mistakes! I thought to myself in anger. I had to do this right, or I'd die. Hastily, I reloaded my rifle; I wouldn't be caught with my pants down again.
"Alright, let's get inside." I said, turning. But, out of the corner of my eye, I spotted something. Turning back around, I walked over to the corpse of the zombie. I was pretty sure I knew who it was; it appeared to be a man that worked at a hardware store in town. I knew his face, but I couldn't remember his name. Anyway, what had caught my eye was a glint of metal at his hip. To my delight, after checking to make sure he was dead, I discovered a Browning Hi-Power 9mm pistol in a cross-draw holster. I removed my shirt, and wrapped my hand in it. I wiped off the gun and holster with my shirt to ensure there was no blood on it. After doing so, I removed the holster from the corpse's belt.
"Jackpot." I said, removing the handgun and holding it up for the others to see. I checked the magazine; eight rounds of gleaming 9mm hollow points occupied the space. A search of the body revealed a half-full box of bullets. Grinning, I ensured the safety was on, wedged the pistol into my belt, and walked back towards the house.
It was fairly quiet for the rest of the night. My grandfather volunteered for first watch and we decided to go in three hour shifts. After he was done, it was John's turn, then Will's (although he couldn't shoot, he could give us a yell.) Also, I promised that Dad, John, and I would teach Will, Mrs. Campbell, and Sarah to shoot the next day (though Sarah only really needed help with a handgun.) After that, we pretty much just killed time; we watched some movies (as I said, the power still hadn't gone out,) played some videogames, and just talked for a while. It was funny; nobody seemed to be overly affected by all of the violence; we were all normal (except for Sarah's curious silence about her parents.)
As I got into bed that night, I again thought about how much had changed. It had felt like one of the longest days of my life. So much had happened today that I could hardly believe it. We had a fairly safe colony of survivors, and it looked like we'd be okay for a while. Though I did feel sadness for all of my friends and family that I probably wouldn't see again, I accepted this as fact. I knew I had to deal with it; no use being in denial. It was weird; all this time I'd been planning for a zombie apocalypse, and now I didn't know what to think. Obviously, I was sad for losing so much; yet, I was also kinda happy. It showed that I wasn't crazy; that my plan was actually worth something. As I went to sleep, I was able to feel a sense of pride; I was the unofficial leader. These people actually listened to me! While the outbreak was obviously bad, it could have been a lot worse.
