Undead Ultra (Short Story): Foot Soldier Read online

  The answer looms up before him on the side of the road: a rusted chain-link fence surrounding a single-wide mobile home. The trailer is faded with bars over the doors and windows. The weeds grow all the way up to the sills. A car just outside the fence has been spray-painted with graffiti. A sheet of plywood covers the front windshield.

  Alvarez pours on a burst of speed and throws himself at the chain links. The metallic rattle brings up a frantic chorus of keens and growls from the zombies. They pick up speed, churning over the asphalt and barreling toward him.

  Alvarez vaults over the top, landing in the weeds. He spins around just as the zombies slam into the fence.

  “Take that, motherfuckers,” he whispers. He’s not brave enough to yell in their faces.

  Even at a whisper, they hear him. Lips peel back. Teeth are bared. Snarls and growls vibrate across his skin.

  He picks up a large stick lying in the grass and drags it across the links. The noise riles them up even more. One zombie—a truck driver, judging by the uneven tan on his arms—throws himself at the fence. He grips bloody hands around the metal links and rattles it with a howl.

  Shit. That may have worked a little too well.

  Alvarez backs away, leaving the zombies in their frenzy. He creeps around the sorry-looking trailer and sheds his boots and pants. He barely remembers to grab his gun and knife before slinking out the other side.

  Carefully, quietly, he climbs the fence on the other side, out of sight of the zombies. When he drops to the other side in his socks, he peers around and sees the undead still yanking and clawing at the fence.

  In nothing but his socks and boxer shorts, Alvarez tears off down the road, leaving the zombies behind him.

  Mile 9.2

  IT’S NOT UNTIL HE’S run a half mile in his socks and boxer shorts that Alvarez begins to come down from the mind-altering fear that possessed him. He evaluates his actions of the last thirty minutes.

  He’s in the middle of a zombie apocalypse. In his socks and boxers. His duffel bag and shovel are who knows where.

  The stretch of road he jogs down is deserted. There’s no sign of people, undead or otherwise. There aren’t any homes or other buildings in sight. The sun beats down on his bare chest and back.

  Without any zombies around, he’s able to think. He’s able to see.

  He sees himself back at Rod’s Roadhouse.

  Get inside, Alvarez. That’s an order!

  He sees himself running. Tearing away into the trees when his commanding officer has his back turned.

  He sees himself running from the rest stop.

  Running from the zombies at the chain-link fence.

  Running, running, running.

  Is that all he’s good for?

  You’re going to run yourself straight into a grave if you can’t get your shit together, he tells himself.

  Fear isn’t something he’s ever dealt with. Sure, he’s been scared at times throughout his life. He was scared the first time he saw his dad drunk and crying in the bathtub. He was scared the first time he beat up a kid for picking on his baby sister. He was even scared when he signed the papers and joined the army.

  Compared to the zombie apocalypse, those were little fears. They don’t begin to measure up to the fear that’s consumed him since the moment he first saw a person being eaten alive by other people.

  Dan. One of his army buddies. Two people had turned into zombies in a taproom in Arcata, the town where they had been sent to enforce martial law and contain the outbreak.

  Dan tried to intervene.

  Dan got himself eaten.

  When Alvarez tries to sleep at night, he still sees Dan’s eyes when the zombies bore him to the ground. He still hears the sound of teeth tearing into Dan’s flesh. He still sees the terror and pain in the other man’s eyes.

  The eyes of his friend. A friend he’d turned his back on when the terror struck.

  For someone who’s so damned good at running, he’d better pick up the pace. He’s going to bake out here if he doesn’t find water soon.

  Gritting his teeth, Alvarez resumes jogging.

  Mile 18.3

  ALVAREZ STARES AT THE cracked wooden sign that reads Moss Cove Rest Stop. It’s the first sign of civilization since the last rest stop. From the vantage point of the long driveway that leads to the dark wooden bathrooms of the rest stop, Alvarez sees cars.

  His salvation is down this driveway. Water. Food. Clothing. Shoes.

  All he has to do is put on his big boy pants.

  His mouth feels like someone surgically removed his saliva glands. There isn’t a drop of moisture anywhere. His muscles are cramped. His stomach hurts.

  The sun sears across his shoulder blades and back. There is no question in his mind that he’ll have a wicked sunburn by tomorrow morning.

  His feet are shredded. Blood speckles the bottom of his socks, his flesh cut from the thousands of small rocks on the roadway.

  He doesn’t even let himself think too hard on the chafing between his thighs from the boxer shorts. There’s a reason runners wear the god-awful shorty-shorts or the skintight leggings: no chafing.

  Man up, asshole, he tells himself. Man up or die.

  His mind flashes back to Kate. If that lady could run 128 miles and kill zombies, so can he.

  He reaches for his gun, which is tucked into the waistband of his boxers. He thinks better of this and settles on the knife, which he’s carried in his hand ever since he ditched his pants.

  Silence. Silence is paramount. Even if it means he has to go in close for the kill. If there are any zombies out there in the woods lining either side of the road, gunshots will act as a beacon.

  Hand sweaty around the knife handle, Alvarez slinks in closer for a better look. His head swims from lack of water and food. His skin burns from sun exposure. His feet throb. Hell, his entire body throbs. He’s traveled over eighteen miles on foot. If someone had ever told him he’d go that far, he’d have laughed his ass off.

  At the moment, it’s not funny. At all. He needs to get himself some supplies before things get worse.

  He stops when he spots two zombies wandering aimlessly around the parking lot. Fear pushes his heart up into this throat. Terror makes his chest tight.

  Alvarez is prepared for it. It’s the same thing he’s experienced every minute since he watched Dan die in that taproom.

  You can’t keep going as you are, Alvarez tells himself. You gotta man up, or you gotta blow your brains out.

  He’s not ready to die. Despite everything, he doesn’t want to die.

  Which leaves him with one choice.

  He has to overcome his terror. He has to kill these two shambling zombies. He has to find some clothes, some water, some food. Some fucking shoes.

  It’s not the first time he’s tried to give himself a pep talk. Not the first time he’s tried to convince himself to attack this threat head-on.

  But it is the first time he’s been this desperate.

  Licking dry lips with an even drier tongue, Alvarez pads down the driveway in his holey, bloody socks. He adjusts and readjusts the grip on his knife.

  The zombies in the rest stop parking lot look like all the others. Bloody in various places. Grayish-tinged skin. White eyes.

  Alvarez decides to look at them as obstacles. If he can’t get past them, he’ll die.

  Twenty feet away from the first of them, he halts. Terror beats at him. All he wants to do is flee.

  Dan’s eyes swim before him. He failed Dan. When his friend went down, Alvarez froze. When the first zombie ripped a chunk of flesh out of Dan’s collarbone, Alvarez fled the chaos of the brewpub. He ran down the street, cell phone to his ear, calling for help.

  You can’t keep running, he thinks.

  He recalls Kate and her friend Frederico, the two of them running to Arcata. Running into the eye of the storm. Running to find Kate’s son.

  You can’t keep running away, Alvarez amends.

  Time to start
running toward something.

  If Kate and Frederico could run toward danger, so can he.

  Alvarez charges the rest of the way down the driveway, knife upraised. The pavement tears at his feet. He ignores the pain, narrowing his focus on the zombie in a Hawaiian shirt with the red trucker hat who walks in small, mindless circles. Alvarez opens his mouth, letting out a soundless yell. Instinct screams for him to turn around, to run the other way.

  Fuck instinct. Instinct hasn’t done shit for him.

  Instinct has just about gotten him killed.

  The only sounds he makes are the rasp of his breath and the crunch of gravel underfoot. It’s enough to draw the attention of the trucker hat zombie. The creature’s nostrils flare as it turns toward Alvarez. The front of his hat is printed with a picture of a golden retriever. It lets out a moan, hands stretching out in his direction.

  Alvarez runs straight into those outstretched arms. His knife punches through the monster’s nose and up into his brain. Viscous blood pours out, soaking Alvarez’s fist.

  The zombie lets out a soft snarl. Then it collapses to the ground.

  Alvarez stares down at the crumpled form. His chest heaves, breath hot as it saws through his parched lips.

  Dead. The thing is dead. Really dead.

  And he had been the one to kill it.

  All the fear, all the running, and he’d killed it in less than five seconds. It hadn’t even been that hard.

  What had he been so afraid of?

  A soft hissing sound is his only warning. He turns just as the second zombie trots out from between two parked cars and launches at him.

  He hits the ground, his bare back scraping against the asphalt. Pain rips through him. He barely manages to slam both fists against the monster’s chest as it snaps at him. It lets up a howl, teeth snapping in frustration as Alvarez holds it at bay.

  In the wake of his shock and awe over killing the first zombie, he’d forgotten about the second one in the parking lot. This zombie is a woman, a burly woman who could easily pass as a man if she wanted to. The right side of her face has been scraped off, leaving nothing but dark raw flesh beneath.

  His knife is still in the face of the first zombie. His Beretta is wedged between his back and the pavement. The only thing between him and the monster are his hands.

  His hands.

  Not pausing to consider what he’s about to do, Alvarez jams one finger into the blind eye socket of the zombie. He shoves it as far as it will go, burying the finger all the way up to the knuckle.

  The zombie thrashes. Alvarez swirls his finger around the socket, hoping to damage some brain matter. The monster thrashes, its entire body convulsing.

  After what seems like an eternity, the zombie goes still, face impaled on his hand. With a grunt, Alvarez shoves the creature aside. It flops onto the asphalt beside him, the dark cavity of its ruined eye yawning up at the sky.

  Alvarez remains on his back, staring up at the sky and breathing heavily. He surveys his bloody finger, covered in blackish red gore. More blood and gore covers his hand and wrist from the first zombie.

  Staring at the blood, he grins to himself. He turns his head, giving himself a good view of the two zombies he’s just killed.

  “That wasn’t so bad,” he mutters to himself.

  Why had he been so afraid all this time? Yeah, it was gross. The monsters were disgusting. But killing them hadn’t been that bad.

  The situation reminds him of his first day at boot camp. He’d been so nervous about it. The entire concept intimidated him, knowing he would be subjected to physical and emotional pain and discomfort. In the weeks leading up to boot camp, he’d barely slept.

  Then, once he’d been in the thick of it, he realized none of it was as bad as he’d made it out to be in his head. Yes, he’d been physically and emotionally uncomfortable. He’d even been in pain more times than he could count. But he’d made it through. Looking back on it, he realized he’d made it all a lot worse in his own head.

  He gets to his feet and cleans his hand on the pants of the she-zombie. He surveys the two bodies. After long moments of consideration, he wrestles a Hawaiian button-down shirt off the first dead zombie. There’s a little bit of blood around the hem, but most of the monster’s wounds are on his legs. He also snags the bright red trucker hat and tugs it down over his own head, reveling in the relief it brings to his eyes.

  The she-man sports a pair of worn sneakers. They’d probably been light blue when they were new. Now they’re half spattered with blood and grime, but they’re a good fit.

  He still needs a pair of pants. The man zombie’s are too bloody and bitten. The she-man zombie wears sweatpants that are too large for him. He’ll have to find pants somewhere else.

  He surveys his new attire in the shiny reflection of a semi. Boxers, Hawaiian shirt, bright red hat with a photo of a golden retriever on the front, and a pair of bloody sneakers.

  “You could be the fashion diva of the apocalypse,” Alvarez tells his reflection.

  Satisfied with himself, he heads off in search of food and water. There has got to be a drinking fountain and vending machine around this place.

  Mile 25.3

  WHEN ALVAREZ ARRIVES in the small town of Willits, he feels like a new man. Confidence thunders through his bloodstream like a drug.

  He’s killed not one, not two, but five zombies. Five. He stumbled across a small cluster of them at a roadside gas station and put them down. His second round of kills had been neater than the first. He barely got any blood on himself.

  The sun sinks deeper into the western horizon. He needs to find a safe place to sleep for the night.

  That’s not the only thing he needs. More food and water are first on his list. Then, he needs a pair of pants. And some new socks.

  The insides of his thighs are raw from the chafing. He hasn’t even been running all that fast. Hell, in all honesty, he’s walked as much as he’s run. And even though his feet are in bona fide shoes, a clean pair of socks not riddled with holes and dirt and dried blood would be welcome.

  The sign on the outskirts of town proclaims a population of 4,875 people. This place is practically a metropolis in Northern California. He should be able to find everything he needs here. So long as he’s careful and doesn’t get himself killed.

  Alvarez focuses on a scattering of buildings on the northern end of town. He decides to try his luck. He’d rather wait until morning to venture into the town proper.

  He glances down at his Fitbit. It reads twenty-three point five miles. Damn. Twenty-five miles in one day. He was halfway to Ukiah. And he’d killed five zombies to boot. He feels like a goddamn rock star.

  He exits the highway, veering onto the off-ramp that leads into town and leaving behind the freeway. Farther south, the freeway is a complete mess. Even in the fading light, he sees cars and undead.

  He draws to a stop at the first house he sees. It’s a vintage two-story tucked away from the road and half concealed by trees. He may have missed it completely if not for the white picket fence surrounding the perimeter of the property.

  A half mile up the road is a storage unit facility. Behind him is a small rock quarry. The house is isolated, likely built before the other two structures.

  He decides to try the house. Hell, he doesn’t need much. So long as the place isn’t overrun with zombies, and so long as the original owners aren’t still alive, he can sleep there at the very least. If he’s lucky, there will be food and water for him. And pants.

  Drawing his knife, he exits the road and steals toward the house. The white front door doesn’t give any indication of what’s on the other side. He peeks through the front glass window. The tidy living room appears untouched.

  Alvarez taps softly on the glass with the handle of his knife. If there are any undead inside, the sound should draw them out. Give him an idea of exactly what he’ll be up against if he breaks inside.

  He jumps as something small and grayish smacks into t
he glass. At first, he thinks it’s the hand of a zombie. The gray mass hurls itself at the glass a second time. Something long trails from the thing. Is that a piece of intestine?

  A yowl goes up from the other side of the window.

  Alvarez reassembles what he’s looking at. He’d been so focused on drawing out any undead, that was all he’d seen at first. In reality, he’d drawn out a cat. A fuzzy, round, gray cat.

  The poor thing is desperate. Perched on the sill, it rises up onto its legs and scratches at the glass. It lets out another loud yowl.

  “Poor little guy,” Alvarez murmurs, deducing it must be safe inside. If there were zombies there, they would have eaten the gray puffball.

  Alvarez considers the front door, then rules it out as a point of entry. At least for now. With no windows in the door, he’d be going in blind.

  He moves around the house, walking on the spring green grass that hasn’t seen a lawn mower in a few weeks. Daffodils nod yellow blooms around the house’s baseboards. A few pink tulips push up beside them. The pretty flowers are oddly normal in a world gone sideways. Alvarez takes a moment to admire them. Absently, he wonders how long it will be before he sees something beautiful again.

  He finds a side door off the long driveway. There are no cars in the driveway, though black skid marks hint at vehicles that left in a hurry. The side door has a large window, giving him a peek inside at a hallway littered with toys.

  He slips his knife into the narrow slot between the door and the frame, pushing at the latch. It slides back, but the door doesn’t open when he yanks on the handle.

  That’s when he notices the dead bolt.

  Damn. Looks like he’s going to have to break in.

  He examines the flowerbed, searching the tulips and daffodils for a rock. That’s when he spots the rounded gray plastic tucked among the flowers.

  Alvarez grins, realizing what he’s found. He fishes up the fake plastic rock and turns it over. Sure enough, it’s a hide-a-key rock.

  A slide-away latch opens. A key plops into his hand. It fits perfectly into the door lock.