May 18: Riley’s birthday. She was turning thirteen, a ceremonial number in many cultures. The number when a child became a young adult. She packed a small backpack taking with her a flashlight, matches, binoculars, ammo and beef jerky. She brought the .30-30 along, leaving the .38 hidden outside the cabin in a plastic bag under a rock.

The weather was becoming warmer as the wintry months passed, but for May it was still chilly. It rained almost every other day with eerie regularity. Thankfully, the sky showed no signs of precipitation, only the usual depressing gray of pollution.

Riley hiked the trail leading to Old Route 17 and crossed the bridge over the Beaver Kill River before arriving in town. She crouched, peering over a weed infested dirt mound. Using the binoculars, she surveyed Roscoe.

The town looked dead, lonely. Store windows were either broken or layered with dust and grime. The roofs of the buildings were falling apart, shingles missing. A fire had taken one building to the ground. Seeing no danger, which meant very little, Riley headed into town.

The way in was wide open, something Riley wasn’t used to having been living in the wilderness for so long. Anyone watching through a window would see her approaching; have a clear shot at her.

She kept close to the buildings, using them as cover. She moved slowly, cautiously, making sure to keep quiet. The only sound, besides gusts of wind whipping through the abandoned streets, came from an old weather beaten sign dangling from a storefront. It clanged recklessly against the siding like a damaged church bell. The wind was blowing Riley’s hair into her face. Annoyed she tied it back with a piece of string. If there ever was a ghost-town, Roscoe was it.

She entered a convenience store. The place had two dead bodies lying on the floor. The stench was horrendous, but she continued searching nonetheless. A brown button with an eagle engraved into it lay on the floor. It was her father’s. She picked it up, staring at it before placing it in her pocket. She remembered when he had left for town his jacket was in fine condition. Returning to the cabin, it had been torn and missing a button. He hadn’t said much of what happened to him, but she imagined that where she now stood was the place he received his death sentence. When she returned to the cabin, she would visit his grave and say a prayer.

She didn’t find anything else worth taking. The shelves were empty. Broken cardboard boxes and soda cans littered the floor. Old pieces of newspaper clung to the corners like they’d been plastered with glue. She left feeling a twinge of disappointment.

She passed the laundromat feeling no need to enter. The place was pitch black inside, the only windows were in the front and layered with debris.

A gas station had some old rusted tools, but nothing worth her trouble. Her day had been a big let down so far, except for the button, a “hello” from beyond the grave. She guessed the town had been visited by so many people that it simply had nothing left to offer.

An hour since entering town, she came upon the Roscoe Diner. Unlike the rest of the buildings, the diner only had one smashed out window. The others were caked with grime. Someone had written the sentence: THE WORLD IS FOR THE DEAD NOW on one of the panes of glass. How sad, she thought. She walked up the steps, pulled open the doors and went inside.

The interior was dismal with only a small amount of light penetrating through the one broken window. The air was stagnant, filled with a plethora of repugnant odors. Rot, mold, feces, and urine all assaulted Riley’s nostrils like evil unseen spirits. The counter, which had once been white littered with tiny gold specs, was covered in a sheet of dust as thick as dryer lint. The booths and tables were the same.

She stepped carefully, avoiding a few sets of skeletal remains. The dining area was a bust like the other buildings she’d entered. She headed for the double doors leading into the kitchen. She stopped before entering, looking around. She imagined people, families, truckers, and travelers, all enjoying themselves, laughing and eating civilly together. All were gone now. Would she ever see humanity like that again? So taken for granted it was. She pushed the doors open.

In the kitchen she found a few knives and a dirty pot. With a good scrubbing the pot would come clean. It would be useful for holding and boiling water. She left the kitchen, ready to leave the ghostly eatery. She cracked one of the front doors open, making sure the way was clear. Two zombies were walking down the middle of the street. Damn, she thought. She’d have to wait them out.

She watched, never letting them out of her sight, as they entered and exited the same stores she’d visited, and in the same order. Their path was eerily familiar. Double damn. They were Trackers or Sniffers as some called them. Zombies able to track down brain matter with keen accuracy. Riley’s trepidation grew as the zombies drew nearer. They had a few stores to go before they reached the diner. She readied the rifle. Taking them out would be easy from her vantage point. Aiming, she readied her shot when movement from her left caught her attention. Taking her eye off the target, she saw three more walking dead. Another four were entering from Stewart Avenue. Within minutes the streets had become packed with zombies. Where the hell did they all come from? They moved around like birds without the ability to flock. The Sniffers were still in tandem, coming toward the diner.

Riley let the door close and sat back. She’d have to wait until the Sniffers entered the diner. Then take them out in the kitchen and hope the others wouldn’t hear.

Cracking the doors, she looked out, seeing a third Sniffer had joined the others. Riley let the door shut and made a beeline for the kitchen.

She ran to the farthest end, crouching behind a steel prep table. Dust particles flew around the room like soot. She’d wondered how long it had been since someone disturbed the place. It didn’t matter. If she made it out of the town alive she’d forever remember to dust the cabin at least once a week. She wanted to laugh, but nerves kept her silent.

Minutes later she heard them, their awful moaning as if they were sick and dying. She wished they would just die, once and for all and stay dead. The monsters’ dragging feet and moaning sounded almost musical. Like some new deranged techno-rock.

The double doors began to push open, revealing the first of the walking dead. Riley fired her weapon. Inside the white tiled room, with nowhere for the sound to travel, the gunshot was deafening. The zombie’s face caved in between the eyes as it crumpled to the floor.

The second zombie took a bullet to the temple. A perfect shot Riley was proud of. The third hadn’t come through yet, but she heard its moans. The doors burst open as if a powerful wind had blown in. The zombie dashed forward, running stiff-legged, but quickly. Riley fired, missing. White tiles shattered behind the monster. The thing was fast, knocking over a pot, sending it crashing to the floor. She fired again, hitting it in the chest hoping to slow it, but it kept coming fast. Its eyes were filled with hunger. It was difficult to get a steady bead, but she kept firing.

The zombie approached, its mouth chomping at the air, revealing rotten decaying teeth.

Patience, she thought, knowing she had to stay composed. Every shot counted and she’d already wasted three. Her arms began to shake, nerves getting the best of her. She took long, deep breaths, steadying her pulse as the zombie drew within a few feet. She could smell its rot. Insides turning to ice, she fired hitting the zombie in the forehead. Brain, skull and flesh exploded out the back of the zombie’s head. It dropped like a stone.

She waited, taking in long measured breaths. Her ears were ringing. Swirls of faint smoke seeped from the end of the rifle barrel, dissipating into the air. Had the zombies outside heard? Riley waited. When no other zombies showed she relaxed, her shoulder’s slumping. She left the kitchen.

From inside the dining area she heard yelling and gunfire. It sounded like a war zone outside. She ran to the door, peeking outside.

Men in camouflage and black fatigues roamed the streets firing machine guns at the zombies. They were all aiming for the heads. Suddenly the diner’s door was whipped open. A large man wearing black fatigues stared down at Riley. He pointed an M-16 at her head.

“Drop the weapon,” he demanded. She leaned the rifle against the checkout counter wall. “You infected?” he asked. “Bitten?”

“N . . . no,” she stuttered.

“Got one here,” the man yelled, waving another soldier over. “A young girl.” He bent down so their eyes met. “We’ll get you checked out, make sure you’re okay. Anyone else in there with you?”

“No. I’m alone and I wasn’t bitten I said.”

“Okay, sweetie,” the man said before marching off. He began plugging zombies as he went. A man with a Red Cross patch on his arm came to her. He had a machine gun, but it was slung over his shoulder.

“You alone?” he asked, before looking over his shoulder. He seemed impatient, in a hurry. He turned back around to look at Riley before surveying the interior of the diner. “Is anyone with you?”

“No. I’m by myself,” she told him.

The man shoved Riley inside. She fell backwards onto the floor, hitting her head. Bright lights, like fireworks, filled her vision before she heard the door close. She opened her eyes, looked up. The man was standing over her, a large hunting knife in his hand. “Don’t make a sound or I’ll cut that pretty little face of yours off.”

“What do you want?” Riley asked, the back of her head throbbing.

“Shut the hell up,” the man said. He grabbed her by the jacket collar and dragged her through the double doors and into the kitchen, stopping abruptly. “Holy shit! We got fresh zombie kills in here.” He snorted and cleared his throat, launching a phlegm-filled ball of spit onto the nearest corpse. “You do this?” he asked Riley. She remained silent, not answering. One second she thought she was getting rescued and the next was getting hauled off by a man with a knife. She was confused and terrified. He swatted her in the head, further irritating her bruise, causing dagger-like pain to shoot into her brain. “I asked you a question.”

“Ye . . . yeah,” she stuttered.

“You a tough little bugger, eh? Growing up in a world like this . . .” he shook his head as if he was sorry. “Guess it’ll make even the tiny ones dangerous.” He laughed, before tugging her deeper into the kitchen. He patted her down, finding a knife, tossing it away. “You can have that back when I’m done with you.” He told her to take off her backpack and she obeyed. “Now the jacket, but just the jacket.” She gingerly removed her coat, placing it on the metal countertop. “Now, lie down on the floor and don’t move.”

Riley lay down; the hard tiled floor softened by layers of dust. It filled her lungs as it flew through the air, disturbed from its slumber. The man, his smile widening into an evil grin, got down on his knees and lowered himself over her. His breath had the odor of cigar smoke and feces. “This won’t take long darling, but it may hurt a little. Riley heard him unzip his pants, then he grabbed hers and undid the top button. Fear seized her like a giant boa-constrictor. She was paralyzed, her body no longer hers, but someone else’s–a distant piece of flesh that she watched from across the room. The man looked eager. This had been what her father had warned her about–the evil men will try to do to her. Hurt her in the most vicious of ways. As quickly as she left her body she returned, having seen her chance to get away. The cooking pot the zombie had knocked to the floor lay to her right. She grabbed hold and with all her might, grunting, she brought the cast-iron pot up and smashed it into the side of the man’s head.

The man’s eyes went wide, then vacant. Blood dripped from the side of his head. He let out a sigh and fell lifelessly on top of her. Riley had the wind knocked out of her, dropping the pot, and found it difficult with the man’s weight on her to draw breath.

After struggling for some time, she managed to wiggle out from under him. Without hesitation, she grabbed her knife from where the man tossed it and held it to his neck above the carotid artery. She felt for a pulse. He had none. She’d killed him.

The man was a pig; a dreg of the new world. He deserved no better sentence than the one she’d given him. The zombies were only part of the world’s problem. It was men like the one that had attacked her that, like the undead, needed to be eradicated. Riley ground her teeth, cheek muscles flexing with anger. Was anyone in the world trustworthy? Her father had taught her to be vigilant and that meant trusting no one. She’d let her guard down, thinking she was safe because the army had come. Who even knew if they were the official United States Army? Maybe they were a band of rag-tag survivalists. She would never make that mistake again. She gathered her things–the gun by the door–and hid in one of the large cabinets until the army left the area. Tonight, when she was safe, she would cry.

The End

–

When David, a.k.a. MacabreZombie, isn’t writing horror, he can be found reading or watching it. He’s been published in a number of horror magazines and anthologies. He is currently working on a novel, but keeps getting ideas for short stories and has to write them. He lives in the NYC area with his girlfriend of eight years. He can reached at dbern77@hotmail.com