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.

Free at Last

Chris could hear a group of schoolgirls in his head mentally taunting him chanting, butterfingers, butterfingers, butterfingers as he held the door closed with his tender stump and his left leg while he scraped at the ground for the keys. He peered through the spaces between the boards on the inside of the door and could see the hungry mobs shambling closer.

His middle finger hooked the key ring and he snatched the keys off the ground.

“GOT ‘EM!”  

Chris’ hand was shaking uncontrollably as he looked through the boards and slid the keys across his palm hunting for the lobby door key. He could see the first dead heads were about five feet from the door and he started stabbing keys into the keyhole. The door budged. Chris leaned into the door trying to keep it shut. The door throbbed inconsistently as the bodies piled against it. The smell of rotting meat permeated through the door jamb.

It seemed like he had tried all the keys five times by now and frustrated him. He stuck the next key in the lock, twisted and *click!* He heard the angels singing just to him, “Hallelujah, hallelujah!”

He backed away from the door and turned to leave when he saw eight more standing motionless outside of the large canopied circle driveway. The Houston horizon between the buildings and smoke plumes were turning from black to a violet-lavender hue.

“Okay, good. Its morning-around five-thirty or six o’ clock. So, while I’m out and about, I drop by the store and pick up a watch. Ha-ha. Okay, Chris. We need to find a car or a truck; preferably one with keys in it. I’ve gotta get to Sarah. I’ve gotta get to the freeway!”   

Friends in Low Places Part 2

Chris found the cooler full of different meats and vegetables. The vegetables were ripe and soft, but not spoiled. He didn’t want to make a bunch of noise by clanging pots or the sizzling sound of meat on the grill and run the risk of alerting the mob waiting for his exit. He located a microwave oven and fashioned a B.L.T. He had never cooked bacon in a microwave.

“Bacon’s very stretchy, but still wonderful!” He thought about his buddy Nolen; who hated pork. Chris savored the unclean beauty.

He didn’t know when he’d eat again so he decided to make a picnic basket. He nuked three more B.L.T.’s, stretched-wrapped them and tried stuffing them in his pants’ pockets.

“Dammit! Sarah was so crazy about my bubble butt that the pockets of these pants are too small.” He got frustrated trying to tuck his shirt in his pants with one hand. He tucked the pink polo in his underwear and dropped the sandwiches down the collar of his shirt.

Chris sat on floor, leaning against the cooler door and, in his terms, meditated, and decided, “Belly full; time to boogie.” Chris got up, walked through the dining area and budged the cafeteria door. He discovered that the dead-heads had pushed the sofa against the closed door and needed to find an alternate exit. He looked at the other side of the wall and saw a doubled-door handicapped doorway with a big blue button on the wall. Chris approached the button and gently pressed it. The motor engaged and “zeeEeeEEEeeEee*clunk*

He widely-scanned the open doorway and rounded the other side of the lobby, he saw all of the dead-heads gathered around the sofa and cafeteria door standing motionless.

Chris scanned the environs amongst the zombies and saw the downed Security Officer’s body. He spotted a big key ring on his duty belt between their legs. He wasn’t armed with a weapon like the other officer. He just had a shiny-leather belt with a flashlight, keys, handcuffs and what looks like a first-aid kit. “I can’t make it out.”

Chris felt like he did with the desperation for the pistol. But there was more strategy involved: 20-30 concentrated legs, the utmost importance of being quiet, greater probability of being dinner and one key to escape: priceless.

He thought to himself, “the utmost importance of being quiet.”

Chris started having an epiphany. “They’re activated by sound?!” He started remembering:

-“Ma’am? Can you help me?” Her head jerked straight up at the sound of his voice. She turned around and fixed her milked-over bloodshot eyes at him.

-An eruption in the ambient noise from the 3^rd floor was noticed. “Errrrrrroooo…gaaaarrrrrrrrr” “Oh shit! They heard me!

-He started to slowly weave between them when his stomach grumbled again. The two people closest to him grunted loudly and locked eyes with Chris. The third person twitched like that guy from earlier. He had to get out of there now!

He felt empowered and reassured himself, “Holy Jeez! Silence is golden, huh?” He started analyzing what he just discovered. “Le-lemme get this straight. Noise wakes; or activates them? No, wonder they’re all standing around like statues.”

Chris regained focus on that key ring and headed for the Security Officer’s body. He scooted his sandwiches to his sides and went to the floor to go after the key; the key to his freedom.

He thought in his head, “That key has GOT to be on that ring!”

He started scooting across the floor. He was reminded of the wind-up army man that his dad talked about that buzzed across the floor with a rifle and frog legs. He closed in on the legs of a male zombie and got within four feet of the key ring. Chris got as close as he could to the calves of the zombie without touching him. He stretched his right arm out; leaning on his sore nub and his middle finger jingled the key ring. He could hear almost an electric jolt in the leg his ear was close to.

He shuddered in fright and started sweating because he was vulnerable now. He knew he was gonna be attacked and after all that effort and desperation for the gun; it would be in vain.

Chris quietly unsnapped the silver snaps with a gentle *tick* He saw a woman across from the Security Officer’s body rock her head from the right shoulder to the left shoulder. He got the keys and balanced the ring on his middle and ring fingers while simultaneously drawing his arm back. His eyes were trained on the swaying keys-maybe 25 keys. No matter which one, they all were the key to his freedom. He backed out of the zombie’s legs and sat on his butt. He scrolled through the keys looking for a label like, Front Door, Lobby Entrance, something that would get him out of there. He quietly rose to his feet and approached the boarded lobby doors.

He snuck each key into the lock one tumbler at a time.

*click*clickclick*click*tink*          He twisted the key. “Nope.”

*tinkclink*tink*                                                “Not this one.”

*tink*tick*POP*                             

The key turned. He felt the lock turning and he looked back at the crowd as he twisted the key.

*POP*

Their heads jerked and they all turned toward him in unison.

He pulled the key out, pushed the door open and flew around it to the outside pushing it shut. Scared to death he dropped the keys.

Friends in Low Places Part 1

Chris stayed hunched under the desk for three and a half hours until the grunting and shuffling finally subsided and stopped. He decided to survey the area and find out what the dead heads were doing. He slowly stretched out his right arm from under the desk, wrapped his fingers around the edge of the tabletop and pulled himself out. Chris peeped over the desk and saw the people standing still again.

His stomach grumbled. “God, I’m getting freakin’ hungry. They probably fed me on liquefied pea soup and beef broth. No cheeseburgers or prime rib for our patient.”

Chris looked at the dead Security Officer on the floor next to him. Chris’ impulses for the sidearm started rising again. He reached toward the holster and jerked his arm back. “What if this dude wakes up? Well, gee, he hasn’t moved for three and half hours with a Happy Meal sitting right next to him. So, duh, stupid.”

Chris reached for the holster again and he started shaking; scared of what might happen. He quickly tapped the holster. The body didn’t move. Chris stared at the body, slowly unsnapped the thumb break, gripped the pistol, slid it out of the holster and scooted back under the desk pointing the shaking gun at the lifeless body.

It didn’t move.

He thought to himself, “Okay Chris, this dude looks officially dead.”

A gigantic sigh of relief and an inkling of proud accomplishment fell over him. He crept back out from under the desk and started surveying the lobby again. Chris started growing restless to escape this prison. He saw the double doors of the main entrance. The right door was completely covered by plywood. The left door had two-by-four boards screwed into the door frame horizontally about an inch apart from each other down the whole length of the door.

He decided to make it for the door. Holding the pistol in his only hand, he reached out to start traversing the debris-ridden floor on his knees and the silence was broken by the gun making a light clicking sound against the marble floor. He looked up in time to see a guy that was about 10 feet from the desk and saw his left hand quickly twitch. He froze. After several minutes of staring at the guy, he saw no more movement but, he was able to study the guy. There was a very, very slight movement to his body. He thought it was kind of like when you try your damndest to remain perfectly still, but your heartbeat still moves your stomach or your nerves still move your hands when try to show off with how still you can be. Maybe the guy was trying to balance himself.

Chris stood up, tucked the gun in his pants’ waistband and carefully placed each step; each one closer to his great escape and never lost his eye contact with these lifeless, catatonic people standing about the room. Chris got to the door and gently pushed.

The door was locked.

He screamed a few nasty expletives in his head and looked around the lobby. He spotted another dead Security Officer around the other side of the half-circled lobby.

Chris’ eyes started interpreting what he was seeing as they adjusted to the low light conditions. He saw a couch behind the body of the Security Officer and a door behind the couch with a sign to the left of the door that read, Cafeteria.

”Okay, food first, big escape later. Well, if I escape there might be a 24 hour McDonalds open somewhere, hehehe.”

Chris quietly walked approaching three people. He started to slowly weave between them when his stomach grumbled again. The two people closest to him grunted loudly and locked eyes with Chris. The third person twitched like that guy from earlier. He had to get out of there now!

Chris looked back at the “Cafeteria” sign and started running. The slapping of his shoes awoke the rest of the lobby crowd and they began converging on him. He jumped over the couch and hung the toes of his left foot on the back of the couch. “Oh daa..”  His head slammed against the stainless steel kick plate at the bottom of the door.

He saw, what looked like looking through watery eyes-it was Sarah. She moved in slow-motion; walking toward him. Everything around her was white. She wore a light blue gown. Her blonde hair flowed with the slow-motion wind as she neared him. She looked into his eyes and gently cupped her palms around his jaws…

“Baby? Baby. You gotta wake up now. Chris, baby, you’re in deep shit. Wake up, okay? Baby, please wake up! They’re getting closer and I have to go!”

“Sarah, baby?”

“ OH SHIT!”

He came to and saw the dead-headed people getting closer to his feet that were still draped over the couch’s back. With the dim amber ambient light, he couldn’t make out any physical features, just the silhouettes getting closer.  He scrambled to his feet and pulled the door handle. He jumped into the Cafeteria and pushed the door shut.  The moaning got louder and all he could make out through the small door window was arms reaching for him and he heard a squeaking noise.

“Those dumbasses are pushing the couch toward the door!”

Chris started carefully exploring the cafeteria and he didn’t find anyone. But what he did find was FOOD.