Why We Can't Have Nice Things: Part 5

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Status: In Progress  |  Genre: Science Fiction  |  House: Booksie Classic
The zombies cometh!

Submitted: May 07, 2017

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Submitted: May 07, 2017

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Chapter 11

So, no shit there I was (see what I did there?) minding my own business. Trying to obliterate some targets with my badass sniper rifle while on the roof of the cabin, when out of nowhere this person walks into the recital of my scope. I know, right?!? What kind of douche nozzle would do such a thing? Well, I will tell you. The zombie kind of douche nozzle. “How could you possibly know it was a zombie from that distance?” You may ask. To that I would say, stop interrupting me, and I will tell you. This may sound trite and a bit cliché, but it had that zombie walk. You know the one. We have all seen zombie movies and TV shows. Given that you already know the walk to which I refer, I am not going to waste time describing it. Don’t get me wrong. I would not, in almost any circumstances, shoot someone in the head for merely looking as if that had chased the worm all the way down a bottle of tequila. The other thing that gave me the inkling that this may have been a zombie, was visible when it turned to face in my direction. Its eyes were the most ridiculous glowing neon pink color I have ever seen. I nearly lol’ed as the kids say. I would have done just that, but I also saw the super fucking creepy blood goatee it was sporting.

I lifted my head up to get out from behind the scope of the rifle to get a better look at what was coming our way. Much to my chagrin, the horrifying, and somewhat hilarious, zombie that I saw through my scope was one of, what looked to be about, 30. I had another one of those, it’s all fun and games until the reality of how fucked you are hits home, kind of moments. I thought we would have more time. I thought that our isolated location would act as a buffer between my family, and this shit storm. I was wrong. I climbed down the ladder, that we propped up against the roof for easy access, and as stealthily as I could, bolted into the cabin.

“I’ve got good news, and bad news.” I announced.

“You know my stance on this.” Charlie said, “Bad news first.”

“We always do it that way.” Sarah pointed out, “I think the good news going first, makes the eventual bad news a little better.”

Charlie, as it turned out, did not agree, “That doesn’t make any sense. The bad news looks worse than it would have, due to the disparity between it and the good news.”

Sarah thought on that for a second and replied. “Although there is some logic to that, I- “

“Fuck it. I lied. There is no good news, and the bad news is rather time sensitive, so let’s move on. There are zombies outside. I count about 30 of them. Jack, you’re with me on the roof. We will pick off as many as we can before they get here. Dad, you and Ty grab your shotguns, and as many slugs as you can, and post up by the door of the fence.”

“Kinda makes me wish we have figured out a way to secure the door to the fence rather than just propping it up against it.” Tyrone said.

“Yeah,” I said back, “It kinda does. For now, if they end up getting close enough for that to matter, just hold the door against them. Jack and I should still have room to pick them off as they get close. Charlie, I need you in here to act as a last line of defense. It shouldn’t come to that, but the door to the cabin will make a great choke point.”

Charlie thought on it for a moment, and slowly shook her head, “I don’t much like that idea.”

“I know honey, but your pistols don’t have enough range to hit from the roof, and we really do need a contingency plan to fall back on, if they get in the fence.”

“They are not getting past us.” Tyrone said coldly.

He had always had a protective streak in him, but now with a baby on the way... Is it strange to pity a zombie?

Charlie, satisfied that she was not being set aside, but rather had a legit role in the fight to come, nodded her agreement.

“Okay,” I concluded. Jack and I will start us off. Dad and Ty wait until you have good shots. No need to waste ammo. Oh, and this should go without saying given the enemy, but… headshots.”

Out we went. Jack and I climbed the ladder, and took our places on the roof. Tyrone, and my dad went to the center of the fence, and propped the door we had cut out in front of the gap from whence it came. We had placed a second ladder against the fence so one person could shoot over it, while the other held the door.

Jack, being the more experienced shooter took the lead. “Pick a target, and tell me which one it is, so we don’t waste time shooting the same one.”

As I sighted down the scope, I saw a group of about 5 entering the clearing about 40 yards in front of the fence. “I’ve got the guy in the Lakers jersey.”

“Okay good. I have the lady in the sparkly dress. You shoot first.”

I sighted in. Video games would tell you that you want to hold your breath when before firing at a distant target. Jack, however informed me that the best time to fire is the instant of time between inhale and exhale. Next time you breath, which should be soon, (one would hope) take note. There is a natural break between the two. Crazy, right?!?! One shot, one kill. A split second later Jack fired, then whispered, “Target down.” We each announced our next targets, and repeated. I announced my next target, and waited for Jack to confirm. He didn’t. I looked over, and saw face. He was pulled slightly back from his scope to get a better view of the field.

“I thought you said 30.” He said with little to no inflection.

“That’s about how many I saw before. Why? Ho-“ I stopped mid word as I looked out into the clearing, and saw closer to 100 pink-eyed drunkards shambling towards the safe harbor my family and I had set up for ourselves. They were at about 30 years and closing.

“Ty, Dad, fire away.” Jack shouted. “Joe, split the field in half. You take the left. I’ll take the right.”

“It’s time to unleash hell!” I shouted

From down in front of the fence I heard Tyrone shout, “Seriously? You’re such a tool!”

“Eat me!” I shouted back. “That sounded badass.”

“And as we all know, you can only know something sounds badass when the person saying it insists that it is. That’s like a comedian telling you his jokes are funny.”

Will you boys shut up and shoot!” Our dad scolded. We did.

Shot after shot we fired. Shot after shot they fell. It sounds weird, but as we got into a rhythm, I stopped thinking of the people I was killing as people, and simply saw them as targets. I’ll assume it was some kind of defense my brain had cooked up to keep me functioning. I looked out from behind my scope once again, and saw that, though we had thinned their numbers quite a bit, they were getting closer.

A couple of the human-shaped terrors were approaching the door to the fence. As I sighted in on them, I realized my scope was giving me too much zoom to aim efficiently. Which was why I brought up my other favorite rifle when all this shit started. It was a simple .308 bolt action rifle with a 10-round clip. I didn’t bother with a scope. In the short time it took me to reach over and grab the rifle, chamber a round, and site in, the larger mass of the enemy had reached the fence. My dad and brother were taking turns, alternating between shooting and holding the door. Jack and I kept shooting.

We had further thinned their numbers, but there were still about 20 left. I put down another zombie. This one was in a yellow and black bikers outfit. When I say biker, I do not mean leather and chaps in a bumble bee motif. I mean he was a spandex-clad cyclist. Even amidst the chaos of the last several minutes, this struck me as odd. It was 20 degrees outside. I think that fact sufficiently justifies my confusion. Moving on. As the Lance Armstrong wannabe dropped (an impressive shot if I do say so myself. He was wearing a helmet) My dad cried out. I looked down to see him on the ground with is back to the door of the fence holding his knee. Tyrone must have noticed as well, as he leapt down from the ladder he was on, and held the door. I looked over at Jack, and said, “Keep shooting. I’ve got him.”

I moved over to our ladder, slid down it, and ran over to my dad.

“You ok?” I asked.

“I slipped in the snow, and twisted my knee.” He grunted through, what was clearly, intense pain.

“Come on. Let’s get you back to the house. We can take it from here.” I threw his arm around me, and we hobbled him back into the cabin. “Mom, Charlie!” I shouted once inside. “Take dad. His knee went out.” They took him, one arm over each shoulder. I ran back outside. As I turned the corner, I saw Tyrone struggling against the tide of zombies at the gate. The top half of the door had started to lean in over the top of Tyrone’s back like some kind of see-saw of doom. One of the zombies had managed to squeeze most of its body through, while another had its head and neck sticking through the gap. I did the first thing that came to mind. I charged. I threw my shoulder, back by my considerable weight and momentum, into the door beside Tyrone. The one that had its head sticking through, well… let’s say… was no longer a problem. The other was on the ground inside the fence, but minus one leg from the knee down.

“I’ve got the door. Get back up there and finish those things off.” I told Tyrone.

He looked over at me, and nodded. As he grabbed his shotgun, and ascended the ladder, he looked over and asked, “So do you want me to finish them off, or should I unleash some hell first?”

I gave him the most fervent one-fingered salute I could muster, and went back to holding the door. Some indeterminant amount of time passed, and at last, the pressure on the door began to lessen. I let loose a sigh of relief. As I did that, however, I felt a pulling at my feet. I looked down to see the one-legged zombie from before trying to pull my feet out from under me. Apparently, it had dragged itself over from where it had fallen, and was trying to pull me away from the door. So, I kicked it in the head. Undeterred, it continued pulling at my left foot. In the age-old tradition of those who have stepped in dog poop, I shook that foot all around hokey-pokey style trying to dislodge the it. Evidently it saw its opportunity and grabbed my right foot and succeeded in its task. I tried to roll over so I could stand back up, when I felt a painful pressure on my right calf muscle followed the report of a weapon firing. I spun back around to find Charlie standing about 10 feet away with one of her pistols pointed at my leg, or more specifically the zombie attached to it.

Silence fell over our little battlefield. Jack broke it by shouting, “That’s the last of them.” He and Tyrone dismounted, and went back into the cabin to check on dad. Charlie helped me to my feet and we followed.

She stopped me as we were about to enter the cabin, and asked, “He get you?”

“Naw,” I replied casually. “Turns out it’s pretty tough to bite through cowboy boots (My shoe of choice) He got close though. Nice shot by the way.” She nodded, and turned to go back into the cabin. I stopped her, and said, “Hey… thanks. I think you saved my life.”

She leaned in, kissed me, and said, “I figured I should keep you around for a bit longer.” She gave me that crooked smile than I have grown to love so much, and entered the cabin. I realized I had left my dad’s gun where he fell, and went to retrieve it. As I climbed the step at the door to the cabin, I felt a twinge of pain in my calf. Lifting my pant leg, I looked down to see that he had, in fact, gotten me. The was a faint, but very much present, bite mark. A small trickle of blood confirmed, that the bite had broken the skin. “Well shit…” I thought, as I pulled my pant leg back down, and entered the cabin.


© Copyright 2017 Wally Birch. All rights reserved.

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