Monster in the Closet

Chris was frozen in fear in the darkness. He was too terrified of making a noise that would attract the dead Chico. The argument continued outside the trailer; keeping Chico aroused for food and he kept clawing at the doors.

Outside, Jenkins and Mole were arguing. Mole shook his finger in Jenkins’ face while Jenkins stared at the ground like he was a pouting kid in time out.

“To hell with you and your comic book crew, Jenkins! The only reason I’m even here is because I feel sorry for you fools. This isn’t Resident Evil or Dawn of the Dead. This is real, man! I’m an IT Security Specialist and you want to dictate to me on how I should run the cameras and radios?! No, don’t think so. You’ll need me before I ever need you and without me, you wouldn’t have the surveillance and radio systems because instead of getting an education, you and your ilk stayed in your bedrooms eating junk food, playing your video games and ja…”

*scrrraaaaaatch…*

Jenkins and Mole looked at the trailer together. “Jenkins, what the hell was that?”

“Mole, you don’t think that’s a zeke in there, do you, because Chris is the only one in there. I told him we were sleeping in the command trailer tonight. Did you notify everyone in the field?”

“You didn’t tell me to. Chico’s the only one out. He was waiting for that horde to back to sleep.”

“I didn’t tell you? Its protocol to get status updates on everyone in the field, Mole!”

“Jenkins, I made it clear that were not my boss, or commander, when I came in with you dolts and you could’ve just as easily have called him yourself. Never mind, just kill that zeke so I can go to sleep. I’m tired of fighting with you.”

The commander retrieved the crossbow from his back and opened the door. Chico fell out of the trailer and onto Jenkins knocking them both to the ground. Chico immediately crunched into Jenkins’ upper right arm. Blood spewed a pulsating spray by Chico’s gray pockmarked face. Chris darted to his feet and ran to the opening. Mole stood there in confusion of not knowing what to do. Chris grabbed his gun off of the bed and aimed it at Chico.

Mole saw Chris aiming his sights, “NO, STOP! What are you doing, you’ll alert another horde, you fool!”

Mole ran to the other trailer, threw the door open and yelled, “Get up somebody, Chico’s a zeke and he bit Jenkins! The rest of the crew jumped up. Watchtower grabbed his machete and bolted outside. He sliced twice into Chico’s skull and once in the back of his neck. Brain matter and chunky brown coagulated blood oozed on to the coughing commander. Watchtower got on his knees and rolled Chico’s twitching body off of Jenkins.

Watchtower knew what was going to become of his commander, “Sir, this ain’t good.”

Jenkins was in shock and could barely speak, “Waa-atch, you kn-know I’m gonna tur-turn. Y-you gotta ki-kill me.”

Jenkins started crying and rolled over onto his stomach so Watchtower could kill him without looking into his eyes. Watchtower looked at the bloody sobbing commander, “Man, I can’t do it.” Watchtower looked over, “Mole, I know you hate him and would love to kill him.”

“Well, I didn’t hate him that much, but okay.”

Mole took the machete from Watchtower and hit Jenkins’ but the force wasn’t enough to pierce the commander’s head. Jenkins’ screamed in agony and grabbed his head.

“What are you doin’, man?! Kill him, but don’t torture him, Mole!” Chris yelled.

“I can’t help it if he’s thick-headed, Crip, I mean, Chris.”

Chris glared at Mole and snatched the machete from his hand, “I’ll do it, Hole, I mean, Mole.”  Chris swung the machete and cracked Jenkins’ head open and cut off three fingers from Jenkins’ left hand.

Everyone stood there shocked and sad of losing their team member and their leader. Their sadness quickly turned to disgust at Mole as he was smirking at Jenkins’ body. Mole clutched his hips and looked at the crew, “Okay then. I’ll be assuming command of this little outfit. You boys can start by tossing these meat sacks over the retainer wall.”

Watchtower gnashed his teeth and grabbed Mole by the throat, “Yeah, let’s do that. Let’s throw a meat sack over the retainer wall.”

Mole gripped his hands around Watchtower’s tried to pull the clutching hand from his neck but he was too weak, his raspy voice uttered, “Wh-at…the fuck…are you do-ing?!”

“Just following orders, Commander!” Watchtower pushed Mole over the wall. Mole’s cranium sounded like a lemon hitting the kitchen floor when it slammed into Almeda Road.

Watchtower turned around, “Now that the trash has been taken out, let’s give Chico and Commander proper burials.”

Rest is Best

Against his better judgment, Chris agreed to stay while the HAZMAT team procured a vehicle and supplies for him. He sat down on one of the bunk beds and surveyed the trailer. Each bunk had its own personality. One bunk had pictures of Voltron and Transformers stapled to the wall, another had World of Warcraft and Guild Wars game box covers on the wall. But they all had something in common. 40-Year Old Virgin and Revenge of the Nerds came to Chris’ mind. There was a small desk with a dirty microwave, paper plates and a box of disposable eating utensils.

*knock*knock* “Chris, it’s Jenkins, I’m coming in.”

Jenkins entered the trailer and asked with a coy grin, “How are you enjoying your hotel accommodations? Chris chuckled, “Thank you very much. I’d like to hit the jacuzzi after my back and stump massage.” Chris pointed to his left shoulder.  They both laughed. “Listen, I have a couple of guys getting you a car; ammo and food for your trip back home, but I have a serious question.” The commander nervously rubbed his hands together and Chris waited attentively. “Are you certain your girl is at home? Is there a possibility that she left or was rescued or…”

Chris snapped, “Or, what? Became of one those things?! No, Commander, Sarah is fine and she’s at home waiting for me!”

“Hang on, now. I’m not trying to piss you off; I just wanted to make sure your trip wasn’t in vain. You don’t want to waste all that effort on an empty house if she’s in a shelter or with the military.”

“What military? Your little nerd herd is the only military I’ve seen.”

Jenkins snapped back, “Yes, you’re right. We are. And we’ve survived longer than any military out here because, as you call us, NERDS, we nerds happen to be well-versed in zombie survival. So, sir, please do not insult our integrity and the team because you grew up watching 90210 and Bruce Willis movies. As I stated, we will help you, but don’t piss me off.” Jenkins took a deep breath and relaxed his shoulders.

Chris pinched the bridge of his nose, “Yeah, I’m sorry, just stressed. Where is the military? Do they have a shelter?”

“FEMA and the National Guard were sheltering people at Ellington Field, Reliant Stadium and the Astrodome, but news came over the ham that with all the commotion and noise the zekes never went to sleep and eventually consumed the Reliant Stadium and Astrodome shelters. If Sarah escaped she might be at Ellington. Where do you live, Chris?”

Chris had a sullen look on his face, “Spring.”

Jenkins’ eyes widened, “Chris, if she’s at Ellington you’d have to cross Houston again and that’s too dangerous.”

“Can you contact them?” Chris asked.

“No. There's no contact number even though we can still use cell phones, and the military’s radio transmissions are encrypted. The only information we could gather was from ham radio operators and we haven’t heard from those guys in days. Mole was able to hack into the cell towers but all he can get is people screaming and desperate calls from family members and those have thinned out as well.”

Jenkins pulled out a map from behind the microwave; unrolled it on the bunk mattress and started pointing. The map was of the greater Houston area. There were arrows pointing to different areas in the city with scribbles of footnotes. “Not safe” pointed at downtown and “safer” made a big circle around the outside of Beltway 8 and the surrounding counties.  

Jenkins continued, “Okay. Mole hacked into Houston TranStar camera system so we know most of the freeways are congested with abandoned vehicles. The ham operators that live, or lived in the outer counties last reported that it was safer travel in those areas. If I were you, I’d be vigilant of drunk rednecks since most of the available law enforcement was dispatched into Harris County to assist Houston Police and the Guard so, you’ll need to stick to the outskirts of town and rural roads to avoid any possible contact with zekes that are awake. We have a clear route that we can escort you on from here to I-10.”

“Which way should I go?”

“Personally, I would recommend going through Jacinto City on Highway 90 to Crosby, then on Farm-to-Market road 2100 to Huffman and then on 1960 to Spring.”

“Do you have an extra map I can take with me?”

“Yes, I’ll give you this one with the route drawn on it once you leave us. Right now, get some sleep; you’ll need it. When you leave here you’ll be on your own and you’re gonna have to find safe houses to rest in. From what we’ve seen in the field and heard on the radio, it won’t be a happy jaunt on the scenic tour. Me and the boys will sleep in the command trailer. See you in the morning.”

Jenkins patted Chris on the shoulder and then exited the trailer. Chris lay down on the bunk and covered up with the blanket. His mind was swimming with thoughts of fear. “What if Sarah isn’t there? What If she’s at Ellington? What if they brought her to the stadium or the Dome?” Chris shook his head. “Okay ya boob, don’t start jumping to conclusions.”

He turned his lamp off and drifted off to sleep. A couple of hours later, one of the team members came in. Chris could hear him taking his boots off at the bunk on the other side of the trailer. His breathing was shallow and shivering. Chris thought that it was cold in there but not really cold enough to breath like that.

“Are you okay?”

“Wh-who’s that?” the team member asked.

“It’s Chris the Crip; the new visitor. What’s wrong? Catchin’ a cold or something?”

“Uh, yeah. It’s b-been cool out at n-night and I ain’t been takin’ my v-vitamins. I h-hope it ain’t the flu. Yeah, s-so I’m real-ly tired and spaced out.”

“What’s your name?” Chris asked.

“Ch-Che-eco.”

Chris turned the lamp on and turned over. Chico was sitting slouched on the bunk. He was shivering and clutching his abdomen.

“Chico? Well, it’s great to meet you, man. You and that Diverter thing was cool!”

Chico waved his hand back and forth. “I’ll tell y-you all about i-it in the morn-ing. I gotta g-get some sle-ep.”

“Okay man, good night.” Chico didn’t respond. Chris turned the lamp off and faded back into dreamland. Chris later awoke to arguing outside followed by a wheezed grunt sound inside the trailer. He heard the squeaking of the bed springs and then an off-rhythm clomping of footsteps toward the doors. The indiscernible arguing kept going and the grunting got more persistent; then he heard a clawing sound.

Chris started freaking out. He knew what he was hearing. Chico wasn’t sick with the flu. He’d been bitten and now he’s dead!      

 “Oh damn! How am I gonna get out of here!”

The Diverter

Chris and Commander Jenkins boarded the trailer that housed a surveillance camera system, laptop computers and a Ham/CB radio combo. The walls of the trailer were lined with big screen televisions. Each one displayed smaller screenshots of Houston’s freeways and city streets. Some pictures had motionless hordes on them. He could hear a hum from the reefers running that air conditioned the trailer.

 The commander introduced him to Mole. Mr. Mole was the techno-savvy member of the HAZMAT Team. Chris was impressed, ”Wow, Commander, you and Mole have one heck of a setup here.” The commander gave him a thankful nod and Mole didn’t even look up to acknowledge the compliment.

Commander Jenkins looked at Chris, “I can imagine you’re pretty tired. I’ll show you the barracks next door and you can get some rest there.”

Chris and the commander climbed up a short step ladder and crawled through the tunnel that linked the trailers together.  When they lowered into the next trailer, Chris’ weary eyes saw the inviting bunk beds. He felt it was much cooler in that trailer. Jenkins explained that they kept food nearly frozen behind the padded blue mats and the cooler air still makes its way into the sleeping quarters.

A crackle came over Jenkins’ two-way radio. “Boss, we got problems! The Zekes are still awake and they figured out how to get up here!”

Jenkins responded, “Affirmative, Watchtower. Mole, contact Chico and get the Diverter up here.” Mole responded by yelling through the crawlspace from the other trailer, “Okay! You know, I’m right here and you’re not the Army. You don’t have to act like George Patton. Just act normal, you comic boo-” Jenkins interrupted, “I got it, Mole! Just do it!”

Indiscernible grumbling could be heard through the tunnel.

Chris was confused and asked, “Question, what is the Diverter? Some kinda persuasive gun?”

“No, the Diverter comes in the form of a 1964 Chevy Impala armed to the teeth with eight 15” speakers and eight-thousand watts of sound. We use it to distract or, divert the zombies from our location. Chico procured it from a zombie gang-banger and thanked him by putting him down. Now, let’s go outside and watch the show.”

Chris and Commander Jenkins exited the barracks trailer and saw the horde heading toward their location. They saw the Diverter speeding up 288 on an interceptor course to the horde. The car came to a stop and the loud bass booming began. The zombies all turned their heads simultaneously and began stammering for the Impala. Chico exited the freeway with the dead heads in tow. He lured them into a parking garage on Almeda Road, turned the music off and hid the car until they went to sleep.

He couldn’t believe it, “Impressive, Mr. Jenkins. I’d never think to use noise to bait them away. Will Chico be okay?”

“Oh, yeah. Chico’s pretty smart with handling the zombies. He’s frickin’ crazy too. The Diverter was his idea; damn good one if you ask me. So, tell me Chris. Have you entertained the idea of joining HAZMAT? I know you’d be an asset to the crew.”

Chris tucked his right hand in his pocket and looked at the ground. He looked up and said, “Umm, I really appreciate your offer to rest here and the offer on joining the team, but, I have my fiancé to get back to. You said earlier that you guys would help me. Commander, I would really like that help now.”

The Trekkie Convention

Chris maneuvered his way onto 288 North. He made his way around a few vehicles on the on ramp and stopped. There were a virtual sea of cars, trucks and vans that were reminiscent of the clogged Houston freeways during the Hurricane Rita evacuation. There were sparse dead heads standing motionless by the occasional vehicle.

“It’s on foot from here. Damn, I’ll have to get another vehicle.” Chris enjoyed the air conditioning while he ate his last soggy BLT sandwich.  Chris found an opened case of bottled water in the backseat of the truck he pinched the bottle between his thighs to twist the cap off and started guzzling the water down. He was always a fan of diet Dr. Pepper, but he wasn’t about to complain. He looked on the back floor boards and found a green duffle bag. He opened the bag and found two cans of Vienna sausages, a box of rifle bullets and a roll of toilet paper. He put six bottles of water in the duffle bag and exited the truck.

As he closed in on the smoky Houston skyline. The lines of the lines of the buildings became clear. Several buildings had windows shattered or busted out. It was the same scene like he saw in the Medical Center.

With the gate of his walk and his constant readjusting of the weighty duffle bag on his shoulder, the pistol fell out of his pants’ waistband and discharged a bullet when hit the pavement.

“Oh damn! Am I hit?! Am I hit?!” Chris’ right hand patted his body all over frantically hunting for a gunshot wound, but he was okay. Now his actual threat was shuffling toward him. Chris looked around him and saw several zombies coming at him from all directions. He picked up the pistol and took off like a rocket.

He chastised himself, “Oh, you’ve done it now, ya dumbass!” He started running along the sides and between the ends of the cars and the trucks to avoid the zombies. He started hearing not-so distant gun fire. He got scared, “Man, c’mon! Don’t tell me I have the dead wanting to eat me and the living wanting to shoot me!” He turned down an alleyway of five 18-wheelers. There was a zombie in a dirty, tattered business suit walking toward the front of the rigs. Evidently, the other gun fire attracted him. The echo of Chris’ slapping tennis shoes distracted the zombie and he turned toward him. He came to a halt, pulled the pistol from his waistband and shot at the zombie missing him. His shaking hand fired a second round that landed a bullet above the left eyebrow and the meat head went down.

Chris got around the 18-wheelers and looked over the retainer wall of 288 and saw a horde of zombies approaching the freeway. He also saw a group of people running toward 288 from the Eastex freeway interchange.  Chris looked around to hide. He didn’t see any zombies very close to him and he got in an unoccupied Lexus.

He sat motionless in the car as the group of guys hunted for him. There were eight of them. All dressed like Rambo and the Dallas Cowboys had a baby. They were donning bandanas, football padding, and had war paint on their cheekbones. He heard the fat guy say, “We gotta help them. Did you see any movement?” another guy responded, “No, they might be dinner. We better get back to Command before the horde figures out how to get up here.”

Chris questioned, “Help them? They didn’t come up here to shoot me?” He jumped out of the Lexus, “Hey! Over here!” He yelled. So thankful he made contact with civilization again; he was quickly chastised, “Lock it up, stupid! You’re the reason we maybe compromised! I’m Commander Jenkins, HAZMAT, now follow me.” The fat guy announced.  Chris gladly fell in line and he ran with the group back over to 59 South.

Chris thought to himself, “HAZMAT? These guys hardly fit the profile to be cleaning up spills with the way they’re dressed.”

They got to 59 and Almeda Road. And Chris saw two modified 18-wheeler trailers. One was a Tyson Chicken truck and the other said, “FISH” on the bottom left door. They were about five feet apart and had a square tunnel built almost at the top that joined the trailers. Both trailers had cameras mounted all around them. There was a guard at the doors of the trailer on the right. “Got ya a crip, Commander? Is he the attention hog?” the guard asked. The fat guy looked at the ground embarrassed and said, “We do not refer to crippled survivors as crips, understand?” The guard swallowed the lump in his throat and agreed, “Yes Sir.”

“I ain’t crippled you bastard!” Chris grunted and swung back his right fist to punch the guard. The duffle bag fell from his shoulder. The fat commander grabbed Chris by the shoulders and said, “Listen, we’ll help you, but you can’t fly off the handle like this. It’s been awhile since we’ve found a survivor, so, keep it together and we’ll assist in any way we can.” Chris took a deep shaky breath and asked, “Okay, you said you were HAZMAT? No offense, but you guys don’t really look like HAZMAT officials.”

 The fat commander stuck out his chest and proudly announced, “We’re the REAL HAZMAT. We’re the Houston Area Zombie Military Annihilation Troopers. And if you’d like to join our unit, I just might consider it; seeing you’ve lasted this long with one arm. C’mon in and I’ll show you around.”

Chris looked at the ground scratching his head and thought, “Oh jeez, I just found the Geek Squad.”

Charging the Bull

The Chevy was still running as Chris lay frozen; wedged between the center console cup holders with something jabbing him in his right hip on the passenger side floor board of the truck; his chest was buried into the passenger’s leather seat. He glared in horror at the monsters clawing at the windows. He continued to point his shaking pistol at the dead heads as the truck rocked from all directions. It reminded him of when he and Sarah tried to evacuate Houston during Hurricane Rita when they were on interstate 59 between New Caney and Marshall, Texas in bumper-to-bumper traffic when the hurricane hit that area. The winds were terrible. They rocked the stuff-loaded Camry in all directions. Sarah was scared to death and Chris, scared to death himself, hugged and reassured her throughout the storm.

The jabbing pain in his hip became unbearable and brought him back to reality. He reached his right arm behind him and felt a shift stick.  

Chris figured to himself, “If they don’t have enough cognitive thought to open a truck door, then I’ve got to be safe. I’d been dinner by now, huh?”

He grabbed the steering wheel and pulled himself back into the driver’s seat; he ignored the raspy, growling from the other side of the window and looked down at the label. “2WD, 4L and 4H?” He asked himself. The plate at the bottom of the shifter had a little rectangular picture of the four wheels and drive train of the truck. The rear wheels were bright orange but the two front wheels were a dark grey. Chris clenched the shifter knob and pulled back.  

He felt the transmission make a clunking sound and the two little front wheel lights on the plate were illuminated. Chris looked around the truck and lost count at several dozen. Most of the goons were concentrated around the bed and tailgate. “The noise from the exhaust is definitely attracting them.”

He wrapped his five fingers around the steering wheel, slid the truck into reverse and slowly pushed the gas pedal. He felt a resistance of the pushing bodies against the truck. He gave it more gas and saw the decayed grey people at the tailgate losing their footing and succumbing to the Detroit steel of the rear bumper as they fell backward. Chris pushed the pedal farther and the truck started traversing over a bumpy terrain of skulls and bones. He twisted the volume knob up on the static noise of the radio to drown out the popping and squishing sounds of the people as the weight of the truck crushed their skulls and abdomens. He could see instantaneous splashes of chunky brown blood bursts on the asphalt in the side-view mirrors as he rolled backward.

The herd was thinned out enough that Chris could shift into drive and he steered around the few zombies that were still advancing on him and continued on to highway 288.     

The Scenic Route

Five miles an hour was the average speed Chris could drive to maneuver around the burned hulls of vehicles, the slain bodies of people laying about the narrowed Holcombe Boulevard and not to mention, the dead or undead. There was a dead woman that looks like she was shot by a machine gun as the brown coagulated bloody bullet holes made a straight perforated line horizontally across her torso.

His clammy right hand tightly clenched the steering wheel and his eyes were fixed on a new Houston, Texas that was something out of a horror movie. He turned the radio on and pushed the Seek button so the stations would constantly roll in hopes of catching someone broadcasting an emergency message.

Chris was so taken aback and in awe at the devastation he was witnessing that he failed to notice the rumbling exhaust pipes were attracting a crowd that was trailing behind the truck.

He heard a bumping sound coming from the back of the truck and turned to see a group of about 35-40 dead heads reaching over the tailgate. They were men, women and a couple of kids. Two boys. One was older, or taller and huskier than the other.  Chris recollected the conversations between him and Sarah about having kids. Chris wanted a son that he could Xbox with and teach him fake wrestling moves; like body-slamming the kid on the bed. Sarah, of course, wanted a girl. A baby girl she could play house with and teach her how to french braid hair.

They talked about having kids, how bad the economy was, the rising crime rates and the rise of grocery and fuel prices. Chris and Sarah decided it was best to wait on having children until their college courses were done. Chris was trying to finish his training on selling Real Estate and Sarah was planning on becoming a Psychiatrist.   

Chris found himself feeling melancholy with the memories of talking to Sarah and hearing her sweet, tender voice. Her embrace; her goofy blonde moments. He yearned for that feeling again. To be with her again.

*BOOM!*

Chris was so lost in day dreaming about Sarah that he hit an overturned Ford dually. He wasn’t wearing his seatbelt and the impact threw him into the dashboard; honking the horn which dispatched more meaties in the area. At five miles an hour, the impact wasn’t enough to deploy the airbags and he was able to quickly get his wits about him.  He saw the trailing people scraping down the bed of the truck in the side view mirrors. He could see the gaps between the heads and shoulders of his attackers being filled with more people. He landed on his right side on the transmission hump and yanked the pistol from his waistband and frantically aimed it at every face he made eye contact with. Unfortunately, the eyes looking back at him were dried and withered.

The zombies crowded both sides of the truck and Chris looked up toward to the sunroof of the Chevy.

Gettin' Out of Dodge

Chris remembered that silence was his best friend as he stared at the eight rotting mannequins. There weren’t going to be any problems getting around them since the circle driveway is about 100 feet wide and four of them are close together.

There were distant sounds of gunfire and of men and women screaming. “I guess the sounds aren’t loud enough to trigger my friends here. Okay, I’m comin’ home, Sarah.”

Chris quietly walked through the large space between the goons and saw the devastation around him. Battered cars, a pickup truck and a news van were destroyed, an overturned Metro bus that had hit a fire hydrant. The hydrant shot water in the air like a geyser and rained down on the bus. Some of the buildings in and around the Medical Center had fires and smoke emanating from their busted-out windows. The sunlight showed all the plumes of smoke coming from several areas and revealed the dead-heads covering the streets. He knew this was his new world and knew he’d have to accept it and learn to adapt to it. He sloughed a couple tears and looked up at the street signs. 

“Holcombe and Fannin. Alright, I can go right on Holcombe and that’ll run into 288.”

He started down Holcombe Boulevard looking for a vehicle that wasn’t flipped, burned or wrecked and it seemed few and far between that he was going to find one.

About an hour later, Chris approached North MacGregor. There was a Toyota pickup truck sitting alone in the parking lot of a clinic. The driver’s window was busted out and screwdriver was stuck in the ignition. He thought this might get him in trouble as there were about 14 juicy Houstonians standing in the parking lot. “What if it doesn’t crank the first time and I wake these fools up? The window’s busted, so they could easily reach me.”  Chris declined on the attempt and continued through the intersection.

About a block down, he spotted a complex of two-story townhouses. “I know I can find a car there.” He thought. He walked down the concrete alleyway of grey and white townhomes and saw a garage door open on the third building down. He approached the garage and found a black Chevy Z71 truck and a black Prius. “Hey, those Prius’ are really quiet. I can sneak around in that!” He got closer. The driver’s door was open and inviting Chris to steal her. As he walked into the garage, there was a stench. He knew what that meant. Chris pulled the pistol out of his waistband. He looked around the truck and saw the open door going into the townhome. He looked between the Prius and the Chevy and saw a lady buckled in the passenger seat of the Prius and she looked deader than Elvis. That was enough persuasion for Chris to take the truck. He walked around the truck and pulled the handle and the truck was locked. “Aww, jeez. I gotta go in the house!”

He figured the husband wasn’t too far away and was probably patiently listening for a noise to wake him up. Chris entered the townhouse. The smell was present but not as bad as the garage. He walked through the kitchen. There was a wooden carving of the word KEYS with little gold hooks at the bottom of each letter by the doorway, but no keys. He walked into the dining area and no keys were on the table. Chris saw the downstairs bathroom door slightly ajar. He eased the door open with his foot and pointed the pistol at the door. No bad guys and no keys.

“I must be getting closer to him because the smell is getting worse.” Chris walked into the living room and found a note on the coffee table.

“If anyone finds this, my wife was sick and we tried going to the hospital and the Army made us come back home. She bit me in the car and I think I’m turning into one of those people so I’m going to kill myself. I can’t live without Tammy and I can’t turn into one of those things!

If my children are okay, they can have everything.”

“That’s sad and that’s the smell.” He headed upstairs and found the headless husband in the bedroom still clutching a 12-gauge shotgun. He was bloated and covered in flies and maggots. Chris spotted the Chevy keys on the nightstand by the man’s body. He tucked the pistol back into his waistband and pulled his collar over his nose. Chris grabbed the keys and went back to the garage.

He accidently pressed the lock button and the truck’s horn honked *BOMP!* The wife came alive in the Prius. She was reaching and clawing with both arms pointed at him. “Thank God she’s too stupid to figure out how to unbuckle the seat belt. Chris looked out of the garage and saw about six people converging on the garage. He pressed the unlock button and hopped in the truck. He started the engine and the exhaust pipes yelled a loud *WOB*WOB*WOB*WOB*

“Oh hell, this truck’s gonna be a rollin’ alarm clock. Beggars can’t be choosers, I guess.” He said. He rolled out of the garage hitting a zombie and turned onto Holcombe.