No Way Out - And Other Scary Short Stories, Page 4

  "What? What do you think it was?" she demanded.

  "It's obvious. That guy—err-thing—wasn't alive; it wasn't even all there. But it was taking a stroll down the street. It had to be a zombie."

  "I knew you spent too much time watching that sci-fi channel."

  "Okay, what's your explanation?" Now my hands were on my hips.

  "I don't know." She had a lock of hair between her lips. "Maybe a chemical burn? That could be why they evacuated the town."

  "Chemical burn? You can do better than that. That thing looked like part of it was still in the ground somewhere. Did you smell it? That wasn't barbecue I smelled—"

  "Nate. I swear sometimes you're disgusting on purpose." She stomped her foot.

  "Look, whatever it was, it's bad news. Let's go in, then figure out what to do."

  I forced a smile. Misty blew a few stray hairs out of her mouth and said, "Yeah. Better get in before it comes back for dessert."

  *

  I didn't feel much like eating, but we hadn't had a bite all day and Misty insisted. So I forced down some Coco Pebbles. I couldn't even finish the chocolaty sweet milk.

  "What now? Lock ourselves in?" Misty asked.

  "We could go out and kill it, one limping zombie. No problem. We get my dad's gun, then hunt it down." My fingers tapped on her old aluminum kitchen table.

  I was pretty relieved when she said, "Hunt it down? I don't think so. We don't know for sure it's even a zombie. We should cross the river to Greenburg. Keep going to Quincy if we have to." She drank a huge glass of milk in one long gulp, then wiped her mustache off with her sleeve.

  "Greenburg? Quincy? No way. Who knows how many zombies are there. Maybe none, but maybe hundreds. What if we get surrounded? We'd have no place to hide."

  "Okay, then we secure the house, and wait out your zombie invasion watching movies." Misty's eyes patrolled the front window. "Help has to arrive...soon."

  "I saw this movie where they waited out a zombie invasion in the mall. The mall has everything: food, guns, clothes."

  Misty picked up the phone, smacked the receiver a couple times, then listened, like she might bash a dial tone out of it. Her nails were covered with dirt and chipped pink polish.

  "There's no gun store in the mall. Besides, our mall's open air." That had to be the only time Misty ever turned down a trip to the mall.

  "So, the people in this movie, did they make it?" She twisted the phone cord around her finger. Misty had a corded phone. Her dad didn't buy fancy stuff like cordless phones, new cars, or two-ply toilet paper.

  "Don't remember. I think one of them got pregnant."

  "We don't have to worry about that."

  "The baby turned out to be some sort of monster."

  "Aren't they all?" Then she suddenly got excited, "Oh, I got it. We'll hide out in Walmart. It's perfect; they've got everything."

  Walmart was the pride of Indian Springs (like I said, it was a small town). We'd beat out every town in three counties for the honor of selling discount merchandise. My dad said it was the only reason Mayor Frank had gotten re-elected. Walmart wasn't a bad idea. Except for one thing, "There's too much glass in the front."

  "Oh yeah...Could we get some plywood, board up the windows?"

  "Might work, plus I bet it has one of those security gate things."

  "Then Walmart it is," she said, smiling with satisfaction.

  "Okay, but we'll stop by my house first to get the gun and some clothes." I stood up and my leg throbbed where the mayor had bitten me. I wanted to look at it. See if I was done for sure, but I was afraid of alarming Misty, so I decided not to look.

  "I should pack some stuff, too."

  As I looked out at the sun cowering behind the mountains, I tried not to think of how messed up this all was. "What's keeping you? We better get going," I hollered up the stairs.

  Misty's old backpack was bursting (literally in some places) at the seams.

  "Hope you got enough clothes," I said.

  "Yeah, should probably gotten more."

  "That wasn't what I meant. But you can pick out some at Walmart"

  "Walmart? For clothes? Don't think so." Misty looked at me as if I was crazy. "I wouldn't be caught dead in anything from Walmart."

  I hoped it wouldn't come to that.

  "We're going to need to find a ride. Something with a trunk," I said, looking out the window at the lonely streets.

  "Haven't we been over this? We don't know how to drive and my dad took the car."

  "Driving's easy, and I wasn't thinking of your station wagon—more like my dad's Fastback." My dad had a 1967 Shelby GT500 Fastback. Mint condition, in factory powder blue. He only took it out for car shows and the Indian Hills Fourth of July parade.

  "That's the first bright idea you've had."

  "What happened to the whole cutting me some slack thing?" We'd always given each other lip; it was sorta funny. But lately it'd been getting downright brutal.

  As she grabbed her backpack and headed out the door, Misty shot me her little half-smile that raised the dimple on just the right side of her mouth.

  I took the big axe and followed. I knew Misty couldn't resist taking the Fastback—no one could, even a girl.

  "Speaking of bright ideas, didn't Greg get an electric scooter last Christmas?" Greg was one of Misty's two older brothers.

  Misty's older brothers sucked. Not for Misty, they never picked on her; her dad wouldn't stand for it. But they delighted in torturing me. Fortunately, they weren't too bright, and over the years I'd gotten real good at avoiding them.

  "It's really a toy," she said. "But it should get us to your house."

  There wasn't much room on the scooter with all three of us: Misty, myself, and the huge axe. She let me steer and put her arms tight around my waist. That was the second time she'd hugged me that day, or our whole lives, depending on how you looked at it.

  It was only five blocks to my house, but we still managed to run into a little trouble.

  The zombie-type of trouble.

  "Let's turn back and take another street," Misty said as a trio of female zombies approached at the end of the block. They could have passed for three grandmothers out in their Sunday best, except their pastel and lace-fringed dresses were soaked in blood.

  I stopped the scooter. My first impulse was to dump the thing and run back to Misty's house. When I was six and afraid of the dark, my dad taught me this trick: Stand still and slowly count to ten; then things don't seem so scary.

  I stared at the zombies and silently counted to ten.

  "Nate, what are you waiting for? Free hard candy? Get out of here!"

  Okay, so it doesn't work with zombies, but I realized they moved slow—really slow. Heck, one of them was sporting a walker.

  "Nah, they're crawling. We can ride around them," I said, casually waving my hand at her.

  I didn't wait for a reply. Daylight was burning, and the elderly-undead seemed so slow I really thought we had nothing to worry about.

  As we rode past, they turned to follow. I still wasn't worried; they were way on the other side of the street.

  A half-second later, I felt a lurch. I flew over the handlebars. At the same time, Misty screamed.

  Now I was worried.

  I rolled completely over and landed on my feet. Nice move, except I lost the axe.

  I turned and saw one of the granny zombies had Misty by the backpack. I don't want to repeat what she screamed. Let's just say she wasn't eager for grandma to get close enough to give her a kiss.

  My axe lay in the street, almost right under them. In one move, I swooped down, retrieved it, and brought the blunt end up, smacking it in the chin.

  Crunch—something flew from its jaw.

  Misty broke loose. The zombie let out a high-pitched scream. I swung the axe back, about to take a whack at its head, when it turned back and bit down on my arm, making a wet, mushy sound.

  "Aah!" I cried and pulled my arm fre
e.

  Misty had already retreated several paces. I wanted to take another whack at it, but I realized I didn't even know if that would stop it. I mean, sure it does in the movies, but would it work for real? Could I even hit it hard enough? And what about her two bridge buddies, just a few feet away?

  The scooter was thrashed, so we ran.

  "Thanks, Nate."

  "What the heck happened?" I asked between breaths.

  "It jumped me."

  "It did what?"

  "It jumped—well, it was more of a lurch. It just dove at me as we rode past. Those things are strong—slow, but strong." Misty held a clump of hair; I could tell she was trying not to put it in her mouth.

  "I didn't think of that. We'll have to keep farther away in the future."

  "What are you saying? Do you think we'll see more of them?"

  "Your guess is as good as mine, but this morning we walked from one end of town to the other; the place was empty." I held the axe behind my back, hiding the arm that had been bitten, too afraid to look. "Now we've gone two blocks, three zombies. Speaking of which, they're still following. Let's take a detour. Make sure we lose them before we get to the house."

  We'd started down a side street towards the center of town, easily losing the little-old-zombies when I felt a burning sensation on my arm. "Ouch, that stings."

  "What, what is it?"

  "I don't know. My arm, it burns. Aah, it really burns." I stopped and grabbed it. I couldn't help but look. It was bright red, but I didn't see any blood—only faint bite marks.

  "Nathan, it's turning red!"

  "Quick. Some water!" I started to panic. I looked around, but couldn't find any, not even a spigot.

  "You musta been bit. You're turning into a zombie!" Misty's eyes bulged as she stared at my arm.

  "Just get me something to put on it!" I yelled.

  "There's the Pizza Pit. I'll get some water." Misty ran off towards the shops down at the end of the street.

  It seriously burned now, like holding your arm under scalding water. Tears rolled down my cheeks. I fought the urge to scream. I wasn't a crier, but this sucked.

  Unable to wait for Misty, I used the only liquid I had: saliva. I didn't know what else to do; I just spit on my arm. It helped, so I kept doing it. A second later, I heard the crash of shattering glass.

  "Here's some water—Yuck!" Misty returned with a big glass. "What are you doing? That's disgusting."

  "Yeah, but it works. Pour that on my arm." The water took the rest of the burn away. It still stung—I mean really good—but no more burn. "Hey, did you break a window in the Pizza Pit?"

  "Yeah, I had to get in. The door was locked, so I grabbed a patio chair and viola! A glass of water."

  "Wow, you're my hero."

  "Shut up."

  "Hope they don't find out it was us. That's the only decent pizza in town." I smiled and added, "Seriously, thanks."

  "What did that to your arm?"

  "It must have been..." I thought for a moment. "The zombie. When I hit the zombie, it bit my arm."

  I looked down. I had the world's worst Indian burn. "Miss, did it touch you?"

  "No, only my backpack. But what about your arm—"

  "Your backpack." I quickly grabbed her and spun her around. This wasn't the time for kid-gloves. "Geez, better take it off. You've got zombie snot or something all over it."

  She dropped it like an outta style handbag.

  "Wow, that stuff is strong." Part of the material had already dissolved and it seemed to be spreading.

  Misty froze and looked me up and down, "Nate, you've been bit by a zombie. You are going to turn into one now."

  "No, no, I'm fine. It didn't really bite me. I mean, I think I knocked its dentures out. It kinda gummed me."

  "Nate, that stuff's toxic. You've been infected with zombie snot; it's only a matter of time now." She stared at me, deadly serious, and started stepping backward.

  Chapter 5 – Zombie Juice, Now with the Killing Power of Lemonade

  "No, it doesn't work that way. I've seen tons of zombie movies. You don't get zombified unless it breaks the skin," I said, thinking about how my leg still ached.

  "Movies, Nate, movies. These are real zombies. In the movies zombie snot doesn't burn you, does it?"

  "Listen, I'm fine. Let's just find a hose and wash that stuff off the axe."

  "Maybe I better hold the axe—just in case." Misty eyed me like any moment I might lean over and take a bite.

  "I'm not going to turn into a flipping zombie." I'd had it with her, I really had. It's not nice to tell someone they're going to turn into a zombie, not nice at all. "If you want the axe, take it. You can lug it around."

  With axe in hand, Misty seemed satisfied. She cleaned it, looked back to make sure we weren't being followed and said, "Let's get going."

  "Misty, did you notice the zombie's eyes? All pale and fogged over—like Mayor Frank? I think he might have been a zombie or maybe starting to turn into one."

  "Oh, good. That's a relief."

  "Good? What the heck do you mean, good?" I said, still irritated with her.

  "At least he wasn't trying to kiss me."

  "He was trying to bite your head off. Isn't that worse?"

  Misty just shrugged.

  *

  No one was ever here when I got home. Still, the house felt strange. As if it hadn't been lived in for years. It was the biggest house for blocks. Fake log siding and precisely placed boulders. Even I could tell it looked too perfect to fit in with the rest of the neighborhood.

  "Umm, Nate, did you see this?" Misty sat on the arm of one of the crushed velvet chairs in the living room. Shoe prints on the white carpet traced her path.

  "Hey, get out of there. You know better than that."

  "Your mom must be so worried." She walked over and handed me a copy of the Indian Springs Tribune.

  Misty was probably as close to my mom as I was. When we were about six, Misty's mom died. After that, my mom kinda took over as a surrogate. Our families always hung out, anyway, barbecues, camping, stuff like that. So, Mom and Misty always spent (too much, if you ask me) time together.

  Right on the paper's front page, in bold with large black type: Two Local Teens Missing, Presumed Lost in Woods.

  "It says they were organizing search parties to look for us along the trails behind my house," Misty said.

  The article went on to talk about how upset our parents were. It even quoted my dad: "I'm praying for the safe return of my son. I can't eat. I can't sleep. I cried all night." Crying? My dad? He barely even laughs.

  For a second, I thought I might cry. "How could we have done this to our parents? What were we thinking?"

  "What if we never see them again? I've thought the same thing," Misty said.

  I held in the tears, but was blinking like I was making googly eyes at her. Misty's eyes didn't look dry, either. She ripped the paper out of my hands. "Come on. Let's get going. Grab some clothes. I'll get the gun."

  I dumped most of the camping stuff out of my backpack and almost stopped to look in the bathroom mirror. I was sure my hair looked rattier than ever, but with no one around, I didn't care.

  I grabbed a pair of shoes and finally took a look at my leg. My sock had protected me from the worst of it. It was red with deep teeth marks and a bit of the skin was even broken. I didn't want to think about what it might mean, so I quickly loaded some t-shirts, jeans, lots of socks, and...Oh no, underwear. "Why can't Mom stay home and do laundry like a normal mother?"

  "Do you ever actually listen to the stuff that comes out of your mouth?" Misty walked into my room. "Got some bad news. No gun. Your dad musta took it when they left."

  I wasn't paying much attention. Sure, the gun was important, but not as important as clean underwear. If you doubt my priorities, try wearing the same pair for more than a couple days.

  I frantically dug through my closet where I had a pile of old clothes I'd worn-out or outgro
wn.

  "What are you doing? You feeling okay? Is it the zombie snot?"

  "All my underwear are in the hamper, dirty. I can't find a single clean pair."

  "There'll be hundreds of pairs at Walmart. You can change 'em every hour if you want. Just don't ask me to do your laundry." She picked up a dirty shirt off the floor and threw it at me. "Get a bandage for that arm and let's go."

  *

  The leather seat cradled my body like a custom-fitted chair. "I can't believe I'm doing this. You know how much Dad loves this car." I had serious second thoughts about driving it around zombie-infested streets.

  "It's either this or we walk," Misty said.

  On the other hand, walking around zombie-infested streets sounded even worse.

  The engine kicked right over and started purring. There's just something about the deep bass of a big block engine, especially when you're behind the wheel.

  I'd never driven stick, or automatic for that matter. But I knew how, at least I thought I did.

  First, put it in reverse. Except, rather than sliding into reverse, the gears ground together, the sound worse than fingernails on a chalkboard.

  "Oops, forgot the clutch."

  "You sure you know how to drive this? We might be safer taking our chances with the zombies."

  "Ha ha, just give me a second."

  Misty put on her seatbelt. "Nate, safety first." I wasn't sure if she was making fun of me or just being cautious—probably both.

  Slowly, the car backed out of the driveway. I watched the garage door close and wondered if I'd ever set foot in my house again.

  I made it into first gear, but stalled going into second. "Not a word, Misty, not one word."

  She crinkled her nose and smiled. "Okay. But make a stop at Camping World. We should pick up a generator and some supplies. In case the power goes out."

  "Good idea, but we'll have to be fast. We've still gotta stop at the mall to stock up on food."

  "There's tons of food at Walmart."

  "Yeah, but it's all canned and processed stuff. There's real, fresh food at the mall. We'll raid the food court."

  "Nathan, you can't fool me. I know you just want to load up on cinnamon rolls. You're such a huge cinnamon roll pig."

  "Fine. Forget the mall," I said, a little worried about the possibility of cinnamon roll withdrawals.

  We rounded the corner. Alone in the middle of the street stood another zombie. This one wore an old style tuxedo, bow tie, even tails. It looked like a big chunk of its scalp was coming off; either that, or it was a seriously bad toupee.