LAST STAND
They'd started gathering at the outer fence this morning,
wandering out of the forest to the farthest boundary of my
property. Nightfall had come and now there were hundreds of
them, each emitting that low growl of theirs. Did they
understand each other? It sure as shit seemed that way.
Their stench assaulted my nostrils even from where I
watched them on my second-floor terrace. A few learned the
hard way that touching the fence was a bad idea, thanks to
the generator charging the chain-link barrier.
Where the hell had they all come from? Were they drawn
to me, the last - so far as I knew, anyway - uninfected
human in the area? Maybe we were somehow connected by their
horrific, insatiable need to plunge their rotting teeth
into my living flesh?
Fuck that.
When the plague hit, I'd been like every other corporate
drone, having left behind my military career for the
private sector. I liked the relative stability, and the pay
was a hell of a lot better, too. I also liked not having to
move every few years. I was stuck in rush hour when the
first reports came over the radio, and I got home in time
to find Amy already infected. She'd been chewing through
our daughter's skull when I blew her head off with my
shotgun.
That was a year ago, and I still wake up screaming and
sweating, and that's on the nights I can sleep.
Idiots on the radio had said it was a plague from space,
or maybe some kind of terrorist attack. I don't remember
much, the weeks after I was forced to kill and bury my
family still a blur. I'd gone numb, letting long-dormant
instincts and training take over as I packed my truck and
left town. All around me, people were succumbing to
whatever had befallen us. I drove for days, getting gas
and food where I could. I left the city behind and tried to
disappear into the surrounding mountains, until I found
this house. The owner was infected, and one pistol shot to
the head later, the place was mine.
It took months to fortify the house as I stockpiled
supplies, erected the fences and laid out the mines and
other booby traps. Weapons and ammo were no problem,
thanks to the abandoned National Guard armory down the
mountain on the outskirts of town. Most of the town's
residents were already dead, and I'd been able to handle
the odd zombie shuffling about. For months I'd lived
alone and made improvements to my little castle, knowing
that sooner or later, a day like this would come.
Should've got me when you had the chance, you pricks.
I'm ready for you now.
Motion sensors I'd placed at 200 and 100-meter marks
around the house started going off just after sunset. How
many were coming? That question was answered when I
looked out from the second-floor terrace. There were
dozens, no, hundreds of them. Where the hell had they all
come from? Had they detected me somehow, or just found me
by blind luck? Not that it mattered.
My heart feeling like it might hammer right through the
wall of my chest, I ran across the terrace to my primary
setup. I'd been planning for a day like this, setting up
the fences and other surprises in the hopes of controlling
their advance. I was moving to the M-60 machinegun I'd
positioned on the terrace when enough of them hit the
fence to blow the circuit. The generator died and I
ignored the alarm coming from inside the house.
I turned to the wall behind me and hit the switches
controlling the perimeter of floods I'd set up outside the
fence. Hot white light bathed the forest and I could see
them, hordes of the undead stumbling with definite purpose
toward the house. So far, the maze of fencing I'd laid out
was doing its job, funneling the fuckers right where I
wanted them to go. I kept firing the M-60, cutting them
down like weeds along a sidewalk, waiting until enough of
them were in the kill zone.
Then I hit the hellboxes for the Claymores I'd set out
on both sides of the artificial alley I'd created.
Opposing rows of twenty daisy-chained mines detonated
simultaneously.
Baby go boom.
The explosions rattled the house and even my fillings as
thousands of steel balls cut through the confined space. At
less than ten meters the results were devastating, all but
vaporizing the zombies closest to the mines. The fences
were torn to shit, splattered with blood and bone along
with whatever remained of the bastards' skin and clothing.
Hundreds of them slaughtered in seconds, and still they
kept coming. There was no way I was going to get them all.
I blew the final line of Claymores I'd positioned in
front of the house, and they went off without a hitch. The
blast obliterated dozens of the damned zombies, and still
more followed after them. I mowed down wave after wave of
the fucking things, and more took their place.
So much for Remember the Alamo. Time to haul ass.
Running downstairs to the living room, I pulled aside
the throw rug to uncover the door I'd built into the floor.
Beneath the door was the tunnel I'd dug between the house
and the barn fifty yards away. My SUV was waiting there,
spacked to the gills with gas and supplies. Somewhere, I'd
find another sanctuary, even a temporary one.
The bastards were pounding on the walls, the front door
and the windows. They'd caught my scent now. There'd be no
stopping them.
Opening the trapdoor, I grabbed the remote detonator to
blow the explosives I'd rigged throughout the house. I
paused, catching sight of the crude calendar I'd been
drawing on the living room wall.
October 31st. Halloween. Tell me God doesn't have a
sense of humor.
I couldn't help the laugh escaping my lips even as glass
and wood broke behind me. Then the door buckled, snapping
under the weight of dozens of zombies pushing inward.
Dropping into the hole, I closed the trapdoor, running
several meters down the tunnel before my thumb hit the
detonator.
Trick or treat, mother fuckers.
-- END --