“Any action,”
Zach asked. They hadn’t seen any zombies in several days, and the tension rose,
waiting for the next attack. They wouldn’t be lulled into carelessness again.
The guards shook their heads, keeping up their scanning patterns even as they
joked and drank with Zach. He kept things casual and friendly, but everyone
knew who was boss.
Zach’s dad was
the social outcast, the oddball, the crier in the wilderness warning of the
coming zombie apocalypse in the face of derision and disbelief. Zach grew up in
training, an endless series of martial arts, gun ranges, archery,
military-style summer camps. He hated every minute of it. Hated his father.
Until Abe, his first real friend, another regular in martial arts classes and
summer camp. Until the zombie virus.
No one knew.
They’d probably never know the truth. Was it a US Government plot? Was it a
foreign attack? It didn’t really matter. All that mattered was the skin-eating
bacteria modified into something far more aggressive and virulent. It swept
through the cities in a matter of weeks, decimating the population and leaving
two groups of survivors: humans and zombies.
Zach’s dad
emerged victorious, a leader in the new, dangerous world. Zach and Abe stepped
up with him in gathering humans and leading them to safety. The surviving
zombies were tough to kill, drawn to humans to spread their infection. The
humans clustered in defensible cities: islands, walls, bridges. Limited access
points to keep out zombies. And strangers. Everyone had to be checked and
rechecked for any sign of the zombie virus. Any visible wound had to be
approved clear by a medic, stained with iodine for clearance.
“Zach, this is
Medic Brewer. Can you come to the clinic?” Brewer’s voice sounded strained,
even over the radio. Zach waved goodbye to the guards and headed down the steps
as he replied, “On my way.”
The clinic door
was open. Zach hesitated outside and called on the radio, “Brewer, status?”
Her voice sounded
weary. “Secure. Come in to the back.”
Scanning the
empty lobby, Zach saw signs of struggle. Overturned chairs and a smear of blood
on the wall. Then he saw the dog. German Shepherds were sensitive to the zombie
virus, and the clinics used them for early detection. Brewer’s was trained to
whine rather than growl or bark, which seemed to avoid stimulating the early
aggression trigger of the zombie virus. Now it lay sprawled on the floor, neck
broken.
Zach crouched and pulled his flare pistol. Flares were the most
reliable way to kill a zombie. Or beheading, but it was really inconvenient to
carry a sword around. On high alert, he stepped past the dog and through the
double doors to the interior. He checked two empty exam rooms and continued
down the hall. Two more empty rooms. Brewer stood in the fifth, motionless
next to a bloody figure on the exam table. Zach recognized the man, even laying
on his stomach, face hidden. Abe.
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Dogs
in house
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Houdini, Buddy
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Time
writing:
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~1 hour, interrupted
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November
word count:
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25,434
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