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Have you missed the other parts?
Do you have the will to survive?
Virgil came at him from the right and Eddie stuck his pistol under his chin, then pulled the trigger. Drawn by the sound of gunshots, his neighbor in back staggered down the road towards him.
Throwing his gear into his pick-up, Eddie slipped behind the wheel and twisted the key in the ignition. The starter caught, then disengaged. The truck was a piece of junk he’d picked up after losing his good one, so it came with its own set of problems he’d been slowly working through. The starter being one of them. On his third try, the engine roared to life and he looked into his rearview mirror to see his neighbor directly behind his truck. Without hesitation he dropped the lever into reverse and stomped on the gas, sending the vehicle back and crushing his approaching neighbor under his rear end.
In the suburbs leading to town, the roads were deserted, and he made good time. Instead of driving through town, he used the bypass and skirted what he knew would be the areas most populated by those still alive and otherwise. Elm Street, where his grandson lived, came to a dead end at Industrial Boulevard and he pulled to the side of the road at the junction. Shutting off the motor, he was amazed at how quiet it had become. There were no other cars on the streets around him. Nor were there any other people. The town, for all intents and purposes, appeared deserted. But he knew looks could be deceiving.
Leaving his backpack in the truck, he walked down Elm Street with his shotgun over his shoulder. His head was on a swivel as he watched in every direction for the least movement. A dog barked to his left, reminding him of Brutus, and a heavy sadness washed through him.
The phone in his pocket rang and he pulled it out to look at the screen. It was his wife and his heart climbed into his throat as he pressed the button to accept her call. Placing the phone next to his ear, he listened.
“Are you all right, babe?”
A ragged breathing answered him, that and the steady sound of footsteps on pavement.
“Please,” he whispered, “please say something, anything, let me know you’re all right.”
The only response was that ragged breathing. He knew it was too much to expect an answer but he persisted. Sacrificing reason to hope. To accept anything less would be unbearable.
He hung up and stuffed the phone back into his pocket, suppressing the urge to just throw it away. For the time being everything still worked, but he knew in a short period of time it would all start breaking down. The lights would go out and he would become truly alone. He wasn’t looking forward to that moment. For even though when he worked in his woodshop everything beyond the walls vanished in his mind, he was still aware of his wife’s presence. She would be upstairs cooking or reading, or playing on her computer.
Reaching his grandson’s house, he gazed up at the two-story structure. Empty windows, devoid of life, gazed back at him. The front door stood open, inviting him to enter, and he didn’t hesitate to cross the threshold into the main room.
“Nathan,” he shouted into the empty room, “it’s Paw.”
Nothing stirred in the house.
Was he too late? The thought of anything bad happening to any of his grandchildren stoked that churning rage. They had not done anything to deserve what had befallen them.
Taking the steps two at a time, he raced to the second floor, his shotgun at the ready, as the shadowy corridor on the second floor came into view. There were three bedrooms and one bath. Two bedroom doors stood open, a third remained closed. After verifying that the other rooms were empty, he went to the closed door and pressed his ear against the dark surface. He thought he heard breathing on the other side, or maybe it was just his imagination trying to stave off the inevitable.
Turning the knob, he pushed into the room.
“Nathan,” he whispered. From the other side of the bed, pushed against the far wall, came the sound of movement.
“Is that you, Nathan?”
No answer. The bed moved, legs scraping across the hardwood floor with a faint squeaking sound.
“Nathan?” Eddie said as he approached the bed, his shotgun at the ready.
Nathan jumped out at him, his eyes a mottled gray. Eddie instinctively brought up the muzzle of his shotgun and fired blindly. He backed out of the room as he jacked another shell into the chamber. Reaching the hall, he turned and fled.
On the stairs where the shadows were thickest, he encountered his granddaughter. The front of her shirt was covered with blood and she snarled viciously as she reached for him with thin arms, wanting him to pick her up as he’d done so many times before. He stuck the muzzle of the shotgun in her face and pulled the trigger. He raced down the stairs and crossed to the front door.
It was all over. Everything he held dear had been taken from him. First his job, then his dignity, and now the last two people in this world who loved him unconditionally. He was alone. As he reached the street, he realized how alone he really was.
Drawn by his gunshots, the undead filled the street, a shambling crowd of men, women, and children covered in blood. In various stages of undress, their bodies marked by an assortment of life-threatening wounds.
They had him cornered. Thinking fast, he fired at the rear of several vehicles parked along the street. Gas splashed onto the pavement from ruptured fuel tanks. He fired into the spreading pool with his pistol and was rewarded with a muffled whoosh as the gas ignited.
Throwing his gear into his pick-up, Eddie slipped behind the wheel and twisted the key in the ignition. The starter caught, then disengaged. The truck was a piece of junk he’d picked up after losing his good one, so it came with its own set of problems he’d been slowly working through. The starter being one of them. On his third try, the engine roared to life and he looked into his rearview mirror to see his neighbor directly behind his truck. Without hesitation he dropped the lever into reverse and stomped on the gas, sending the vehicle back and crushing his approaching neighbor under his rear end.
In the suburbs leading to town, the roads were deserted, and he made good time. Instead of driving through town, he used the bypass and skirted what he knew would be the areas most populated by those still alive and otherwise. Elm Street, where his grandson lived, came to a dead end at Industrial Boulevard and he pulled to the side of the road at the junction. Shutting off the motor, he was amazed at how quiet it had become. There were no other cars on the streets around him. Nor were there any other people. The town, for all intents and purposes, appeared deserted. But he knew looks could be deceiving.
Leaving his backpack in the truck, he walked down Elm Street with his shotgun over his shoulder. His head was on a swivel as he watched in every direction for the least movement. A dog barked to his left, reminding him of Brutus, and a heavy sadness washed through him.
The phone in his pocket rang and he pulled it out to look at the screen. It was his wife and his heart climbed into his throat as he pressed the button to accept her call. Placing the phone next to his ear, he listened.
“Are you all right, babe?”
A ragged breathing answered him, that and the steady sound of footsteps on pavement.
“Please,” he whispered, “please say something, anything, let me know you’re all right.”
The only response was that ragged breathing. He knew it was too much to expect an answer but he persisted. Sacrificing reason to hope. To accept anything less would be unbearable.
He hung up and stuffed the phone back into his pocket, suppressing the urge to just throw it away. For the time being everything still worked, but he knew in a short period of time it would all start breaking down. The lights would go out and he would become truly alone. He wasn’t looking forward to that moment. For even though when he worked in his woodshop everything beyond the walls vanished in his mind, he was still aware of his wife’s presence. She would be upstairs cooking or reading, or playing on her computer.
Reaching his grandson’s house, he gazed up at the two-story structure. Empty windows, devoid of life, gazed back at him. The front door stood open, inviting him to enter, and he didn’t hesitate to cross the threshold into the main room.
“Nathan,” he shouted into the empty room, “it’s Paw.”
Nothing stirred in the house.
Was he too late? The thought of anything bad happening to any of his grandchildren stoked that churning rage. They had not done anything to deserve what had befallen them.
Taking the steps two at a time, he raced to the second floor, his shotgun at the ready, as the shadowy corridor on the second floor came into view. There were three bedrooms and one bath. Two bedroom doors stood open, a third remained closed. After verifying that the other rooms were empty, he went to the closed door and pressed his ear against the dark surface. He thought he heard breathing on the other side, or maybe it was just his imagination trying to stave off the inevitable.
Turning the knob, he pushed into the room.
“Nathan,” he whispered. From the other side of the bed, pushed against the far wall, came the sound of movement.
“Is that you, Nathan?”
No answer. The bed moved, legs scraping across the hardwood floor with a faint squeaking sound.
“Nathan?” Eddie said as he approached the bed, his shotgun at the ready.
Nathan jumped out at him, his eyes a mottled gray. Eddie instinctively brought up the muzzle of his shotgun and fired blindly. He backed out of the room as he jacked another shell into the chamber. Reaching the hall, he turned and fled.
On the stairs where the shadows were thickest, he encountered his granddaughter. The front of her shirt was covered with blood and she snarled viciously as she reached for him with thin arms, wanting him to pick her up as he’d done so many times before. He stuck the muzzle of the shotgun in her face and pulled the trigger. He raced down the stairs and crossed to the front door.
It was all over. Everything he held dear had been taken from him. First his job, then his dignity, and now the last two people in this world who loved him unconditionally. He was alone. As he reached the street, he realized how alone he really was.
Drawn by his gunshots, the undead filled the street, a shambling crowd of men, women, and children covered in blood. In various stages of undress, their bodies marked by an assortment of life-threatening wounds.
They had him cornered. Thinking fast, he fired at the rear of several vehicles parked along the street. Gas splashed onto the pavement from ruptured fuel tanks. He fired into the spreading pool with his pistol and was rewarded with a muffled whoosh as the gas ignited.
To be continued!
Till Death Do We Part is just one of the stories in my collection 9 Dark Tales
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