Another Zombie Apocalypse Tale: part 17

Three Weeks and Two Days Since the Apocalypse

Well, there we were. The four of us: A woman with a baseball bat and a vengeance to get her lover back, a woman with a metal garden rake and an attitude that could sear the skin from bones, a boy considered to be an obsolete long distance runner but with secret information damaging to the enemy, and a girl with a nickname that suited her lack of impulse control.

I looked down the blade of my machete, the sharp edge catching the moonlight with the matte brownish-red and black of dried gore, then up at the apartment complex converted into a fortress with wooden pallets and barbed wire barricades. High rise buildings loomed in the background, creating the effect of an impenetrable steel and concrete mountain; although the only building we needed to get into was the apartment complex. They’d be keeping Beckett, Elsie and Myra in there on the third floor. According to Mario it’s where they kept possible recruits, aka prisoners; the height was supposed to deter them from trying to escape.

Mario shuddered and hugged his arms close. It was not cold though; the air was warm and sticky. I put my hand on his shoulder.

“You don’t have to come along,” I whispered. “You brought us this far.”

“The plan sort of hinges on me, doesn’t it?”

“Not necessarily. I think the leader will be pissed off enough to see me, I don’t think you need to be an added distraction for them.”

Kimber sidled up to us. “She’s right. Hate to be blunt, but you’re freaked out. I don’t know what they did to you, but I think Camille can do this alone.”

“She shouldn’t have to,” Mario said, as another tremor ran through him so hard his teeth chattered

“With the way you’re shaking, they’re going to know somethings up,” Kimber said, her voice was even, kind and firm, reminding me of my dad in a way. He never raised his voice—never needed to. He had a way with tone and inflection that could put you at ease or make you quit your nonsense. Mario seemed relieved to be given an out.

I only let myself be disappointed for a second that he’s bailing. The guy was clearly traumatized, and doing this was going to be easier—not any less terrifying—on my own. I wouldn’t have to worry about Mario; I’d only have to worry about myself and hope that Marianne and Kimber were quick at getting the others out.

Kimber held a knife sheathed in a leather pouch to Mario. He took it and nodded with a mumbled thanks. He didn’t want to stay behind, but he needed to.

“We’ll be back,” I said, putting on my game face, channeling my anxious energy as if I were heading off to a track meet instead of my possible demise. I held my backpack over to him, noting the irony that he was the one who attacked me under the bridge, trying to get my backpack, and now I was freely handing it over to him.

“Bring Allen back too, if you find him,” Mario said, not offering up a smile. He clutched the knife and backpack as if they were a lifeline, and I was glad that he chose to stay behind—glad that Kimber convinced him to stay. He sunk back into the copse of trees, and I turned to Marianne and Kimber. The black woman nodded to me, Kimber wished me luck, and we went our separate ways.

As far as plans go, ours sucked, but unless we had a trained SWAT team to do this for us—which we did not—any plan we had was going to suck; and as of that moment, I didn’t care how much it sucked just as long as we were successful.

“Hey,” I yelled as I approached the door that I’d last seen Beckett, Myra, and Elsie go through, stepping over dead corpses as I went. “I want my friends back!” I slammed my fist against the door. Shock jolted down my arm. Gritting my teeth against the pain, I changed tactics, so I didn’t break my hand, and used the butt of the machete instead. The sound reverberated dully through the door. My pulse pounding in my ears was louder than the muted banging. That wasn’t going to be enough to get their attention. I needed something better, louder.

I scanned the area of decapitated bodies and dark, empty shadows. Across the street, warm, dim light penetrated through thin curtains of a grimy glass door of the balcony that the Grinning Man and Red Baseball Cap guy had been on, taunting me. Faint shadows milled about, here and there. Somebody was in there.

Unless I could pile enough bodies against the wall in order to reach the second floor balcony—time wise, that wasn’t an option—I was out of luck.

Wait a second.

I walked back the way I came and examined the makeshift javelin protruding from the dead corpse. It was the one that Allen had killed before I was separated from Beckett, Myra, and Elsie. I pulled on the javelin, and it came free with a sticky, sucking sound. A sound that two weeks ago may have induced a gagging, and potential vomiting, fit. But now, it was the soundtrack to my life. I should be disturbed, but alas, I had more important things to worry about.

The weapon was intact, and while I wasn’t great at throwing, I only needed it to go in the general direction and break the glass of the second floor balcony glass door where light was just strong enough the seep though, like a subtly marked target. A large target. I could hit it. God, I better hit it.

In my head, I went over the steps of throwing a javelin. I didn’t have as clear and as long of a path as I would in an training session, but I’d make do. I had to. As I positioned myself, facing the window, hesitation stilled me. Why was I doing this? I could leave. This was potentially way more dangerous than leaping across the fallen section of a bridge. I was literally taunting a pack of wild animals; wild predators.

Myra came to mind, small, broken, and just like me. She could be bitten and it didn’t turn her into a brain hungry monster. I thought of Allen and tears sprang to my eyes: he was alive! I hadn’t lost everyone that I knew. I thought of Beckett, trying so hard to make up for what he’d done to me. Elsie, Marianne, and Kimber I didn’t know them well, but they were fighting with me. Mario; I didn’t know him well either, but he was my teammate.

I didn’t have anything to lose, except my life, but one could argue that it was already over.

With a breath, I raised my chin, gaze locking onto the soft glow of the window. Another breath, and I raised the javelin near my head, adjusting my grip a couple of times as the spear wasn’t properly weighted—or so I told myself— and made sure to keep my fist relaxed. I would have about three steps to run before coming across a cluster of dead bodies on the ground, and that’s when I needed to throw the javelin.

Inhaling through my nose, I pushed up on the balls of my feet and I ran. Keeping my free arm relaxed, but flexing the arm carrying the javelin. One. Two. Three. I planted my left foot, keeping myself facing the target, and let the javelin fly. I stumbled over a body, but I caught myself before falling into the gore. A thunck of wood hitting wood made me drop to my knees, my heart dropping to the ground. I stared up at the javelin, protruding from the wood frame around the door.

I dropped to my knees and screamed. Frustration, fear, anger ripping from my throat and making my skin flush hot, and my arms shook down to the tips of my fingers. Hot tears streamed down my cheeks as my scream turned into a bubbling laugh. My sister and I would have laughed our asses off if this were a movie. The girl with minimal training in throwing a javelin thinks she can hit her target with a makeshift, poorly weighted weapon? Adorable.

It really wasn’t funny when it was you. Or, maybe it was. I was laughing; albeit I was sobbing as well. A combination of hysteria and defeat as I realized that everything was for nothing. It was the end of the world, the scum of the earth was taking over. The good hearted people were being killed off. And I was a horrible distraction, Marianne and Kimber—along with the others—were going to wind up dead, or worse. I thought of Mario’s wounds; the bruises on his wrists and neck. And I’d be here, laughing until the dead ate my brains or someone from The Brood finished me off.

“Ho-ly hell.” The Grinning Man spoke slow, drawing out his words with annoyance. His obnoxious voice carried over my blubbering.

I straightened up. My heart hammered like the bass drum of a heavy rock song; fast and hard. On a positive note, I was successful, but also on a terrifying note, I was successful.

He stood at the edge of the balcony, leaning forward on the railing, like a displeased lord or king about to exact judgement on the nuisance begging before him. His trench coat spread out around him as it passed his waist, and the light—unhindered now by the open door—illuminated from him from behind, casting a looming shadow toward me as he spoke, “You are annoying, aren’t you?”