Tony's chapter

There is something calmly reassuring about the obnoxious “ka-chunk” noise as I chamber a shell in my Mossberg 500 shotgun. My Marine training kicks in as I focus, and I feel the sweet kiss of the synthetic stock on my cheek. There is nothing in the world but me and the fast one as he’s running right at me. As he gets closer, I feel sad, but only for a moment as I recognize him as the nice guy down the street that had the fuzzy dog. I guess he couldn’t hold out. My finger slides to the trigger. I let him get about ten feet away. The slow, steady squeeze of the trigger is instinct at this point, and the discharge of the round surprises me a little. I barely hear the shot, and though it comes as a surprise, the results do not. The body of my former neighbor falls at my feet though it is missing most of its head. That was sprayed across my lawn. Ah, home sweet home.

I went back inside my house, which was charming at one point. The inch and a half thick plywood bolted over all of the ground floor windows did nothing for its aesthetic value. If not for the stylish window treatments, all would seem almost normal. My wife, Karen, is making breakfast in the kitchen. She’s still in her sock-monkey pajamas, and I chuckle as I notice the grip of my .40 caliber Glock sticking out of her waistband. I guess things have changed more than I like to admit, and I feel a slight wave of embarrassment for thinking how hot it was that she was armed. She asks, “Did you get him?” I respond, “yeah, and he was a sloppy one.”

I hear the familiar sounds of Mickey Mouse Clubhouse emanating from my family room. My beautiful and energetic 3 ½ year old daughter is going through her morning routine, enjoying a bowl of Cocoa Puffs, and watching the antics of Mickey and his crew. We’d seen this one before and there would be no new episodes. The television had gone to static a few weeks back. We were living on our DVR’d programming and DVD collection. I plop down on the couch as Karen brings in some scrambled eggs, bacon, and a cup of coffee. She sits down in her chair and begins to eat. She casually says, “We need to go to the store, this is the last of the food.”

“Shit.” That’s all I can manage to say, as I devour my breakfast. Abby giggles and says, “Daddy said shit,” and starts singing an impromptu song using the word in very clever ways. I’m impressed until Karen scolds Abby and tells her it’s not a nice word. I catch a dirty look from my wife, reminding me of how little things have changed, except for the walking dead thing, of course.

I had been out of the house before since the world went to hell. I had raided Dunham’s and acquired all the 12 gauge buckshot and slug ammo they had, as well as every round of .40 cal and 7.62 x 54 for my old Russian service rifle. It is bolt action, heavy, and slow, but it packs a punch and is still pretty accurate for a WWII vintage. I had also raided the Sunoco up the street and had stockpiled gasoline and propane in case the power shut off. Luckily it hadn’t yet. I had 40 gallons of gas and a dozen propane tanks in the garage. What we didn’t have was food, and there was no good option for attaining any. The local Kroger is surrounded by subdivisions and apartments, which translates to lots of people, which means lots of shooting on my part. I wasn’t opposed to that, but there had to be a better option.

I stood up to get changed for my raid. I said to Karen, “I’ll be needing the Glock.” She handed it over, and I went to the basement to fetch the breach load shotgun from gun safe. I gave it to her along with a handful of shells, and went upstairs. I threw on jeans, a t-shirt, and a hoodie, along with my black combat boots, a holdover from the Corps. I strapped the Glock to my hip, threw the extra magazine into my pocket, and slung a messenger bag full of shells over my shoulder. I went back downstairs, grabbed the long-range radio that I had to steal since the cell towers stopped working. I tested it, and got the response I was looking for. Karen said, “Please be safe, and keep me posted on what’s happening.” I said that I would, kissed her goodbye, and told her I loved her. I kissed Abby, too. She said, “Where the shit are you going?” and giggled. Apparently “shit” was her new favorite word. I told her that Daddy was going to the store.

I walked out to the garage, and inspected the Magnum. It had a full tank of gas, and only minor cosmetic damage to the front, where I had run down a few of the slow ones on my last excursion. I set the Mossberg and the Mosin-Nagant Russian rifle on the floor of the passenger side. I opened the garage, and pulled the car out, watching as the garage door closed to make sure that no uninvited guests got inside.

Where was I going? Kroger was bad. Meijer was worse. Then I thought of Sam’s Club. It was not near a residential area, and nowhere near as busy as Meijer at any given time. I finally knew my destination. As I drove the two miles, I noticed several of the slow ones devouring a deer. I thought it was odd that these undead, with all the speed of a midget tri-athlete, could catch a deer. I should have been watching the road. The fast one had bolted out of the woods from the driver’s side, apparently drawn to the ruckus across the street. I hit him dead between the headlights at about 40 miles an hour. The Magnum unnaturally bent him sideways at the waist, driving his head into the hood with such force that it left a dent. Apparently, a skull cannot take that kind of abuse, as it caved in and splattered goo up my windshield. I hit the wipers.

“Shit!” The white smoke slowly starting to come from under the hood was not what I wanted to see. I continue driving to Sam’s club, knowing that the radiator had been damaged. The temperature gauge isn’t climbing fast, and the trip is short, so I think I just dodged a bullet. I pull into the parking lot, and drive slowly around the perimeter. There are only a few dozen cars in the lot. A couple of the slow ones are wandering through the lot. I put the Magnum in park, grab the Russian Bear, and quickly put them both down from just over a hundred yards. I drive to the door, jump out, and throw the rifle sling over my shoulder, and grab the Mossberg. I try the doors, and am thrilled that they are locked. I notice a van parked in a handicapped space near the entrance. The back doors are open, so I walk over to have a peek, looking over the sight on the shotgun the entire time. The blood smear down the entire length of the van tells me that whoever was trying to flee in it didn't make it. I notice the keys on the floorboard of the driver’s side, and the plan of attack comes to me in one fell swoop. I radio Karen, and let her know I’m alive.

The thunderous crash was louder than I had expected. The glass and brick rained down on the van as it plowed through the entrance. I finally stopped about 50 feet into the store. I hurried back out through the hole in the wall, and took up a position behind the Magnum with the shotgun. If there were any of the fast ones inside, they heard the commotion, and would be coming any second. Four of them came through the hole at the same time. I thought it was funny that each was still wearing his or her blue vest adorned with friendly buttons. The first two went down with two blasts from the Mossberg. The others closed on me much faster than I had anticipated. I was able to keep the Magnum between us. It was duck duck goose, except with dead people chasing and live ammunition. It only took a few more seconds to end their miserable existence and reload.

Driving the Magnum inside of Sam’s club is a surreal experience. Even with the windows up, I can smell the stench of rotting flesh, and rotten produce. It looks like canned goods are all we get from here on out. I drive over to the canned goods, kill the car, jump out, and listen. There’s a shuffling in the next aisle. I crouch down under the racks and see one of the slow ones wandering aimlessly. Her name tag says, “Helen.” It’s obvious to me that she has no idea I’m there. She shuffles past and I climb out behind her. She never sees it coming. One well-placed butt stroke to her left temple crumples her, and ends her misery. “Goodnight, Helen,” I whisper. I listen again and hear nothing.

The Magnum holds a lot of stuff with the back seats down. I quietly fill the car with canned fruit and veggies, spam, jerky, trail mix, nuts, cereal, and whatever else I think will keep. I toss in two cases of Marlboro Lights for good measure. Fresh produce is no option, with the exception of a few bags of apples that still look edible. There’s a crashing noise behind me that sounds like it’s coming from the bakery. I close up the car, and decide to get a higher vantage point, and see what I’m dealing with. I sling the Mossberg, grab the Russian bear, and climb the rack nearest the car.

I take up watch from the top of the rack with my back to a pallet of canned green beans, and fire up a Marlboro Light. The smoke is calming. I take stock of the situation, and see a blue vested baker, wearing a blood soaked apron, standing near the bakery. I can also see two other slow ones on the other side of the store, near the light bulbs and dog food. One of them knocks a box of fluorescent bulbs to the ground, breaking them. I look back to the bakery, and notice that the elderly baker is already on the move. She has the agility and speed of a cat, hurdling ovens, carts, and other obstacles. Within seconds she is upon the slow ones. The carnage is indescribable. Limbs, flesh, and organs are torn away in a frenzy. I have to turn away. In doing so, about fifteen of the shotgun shells in my bag spill out, and bounce down the metal rack to the floor below.

CLANG CLANG CLANG

Fuck. I look to where the bloodbath had taken place across the store moments ago. There I can see the dismembered bodies of the slow movers, lying in what can only be described as a lake of blood. There is no sign of baker Granny. I wait, in silence, enjoying my cigarette and listening. I hear nothing, but I get a chill up my spine thinking about that creepy hag stalking me. They can’t climb, so I’m safe up here, but at some point I need to get home to my family.

With a bang, the teddy bear across the store explodes in a cloud of polyester stuffing. The blue smoke swirls out of the barrel of the Mosin. Within the blink of an eye, Granny baker is at the base of the rack I’m on, having been drawn in by my shot. I pull the bolt back, and slam it forward in one smooth motion. Granny baker is clawing at the rack, desperately attempting to will her limbs to climb. Fortunately for me, she lacks the coordination. I line up the shot knowing that I was freeing her soul. Boom. For a brief moment, I can clearly see the floor through the baseball sized hole in her face before she slumps over. Her soul would be able to escape through it. I climb down the rack, and get into the Magnum.

The drive home is thankfully uneventful. I radio Karen to let her know I’m on my way. The white smoke rising from the engine is far less menacing than it was, kind of guiding me home. I pull into the driveway, and over a body that Karen must have just shot. His leg was still twitching a little. In the rear view mirror, I can see that he’s no longer moving, after being rendered an undead speed bump. I pull the car into the garage, close the door, and compose myself. A few moments later, I walk in announcing, “Daddy’s home.”