Snippet #1758673

The Canadian
Day Zero:
River’s Glenn

Call it survivor’s instinct. Call it the need to know he was covered. But for some reason, the man rushed right into the hotel lobby, past the receptionist who was in tears because of her recent breakup with her boyfriend, and into the lobby washroom. There, he filled up three water bottles, drinking from one thirstily and storing the other two in his large backpack. He glanced at himself in the mirror briefly, before removing a few layers and examining his bite mark.

It was small and round, a gift from one of those grey-faced zombie things. It had barely broken the skin through all the layers of flesh. When he had first received it, his blood had run cold, his mind racing, heart hammering. He had images flashing through his head of all the things he’d never done, all the people he’d never see again. The thought alone was maddening, that he’d be one of them, the people who he hit as hard as he can with his baseball bat at any given opportunity.

And then the hours turned to days. Days turned into three long weeks. Nothing more than a minor fever befell the man, and so he thought his danger was over. He figured himself immune, and he was glad for it.

Once he had a room in the hotel, he started a cold bath, unpacked his clothing, food, and weapons, and laid them all on the bed. He stripped down, standing in the middle of the room, enjoying the warm air not generated by his own heat. Eyes closed, he sighed deeply.

The wound throbbed slowly.

-----

Mark Santos
Day Six:
Uptown

The street Mark was on, now that he had his bearings, was a long one, ending near the Community College and beginning back at the small highway. It was more than an hour walk to the highway, across open road with zombies filling the streets. He had hit up most of the convenience stores around their area, and thus far had no real contact with survivors.

He’d have to go farther.

Holding the long roofing hammer tightly in his fist, he set off into the direction of the college. There was a convenience store along the way, he knew. Maybe even an apartment he could break into or something. He needed a container to bring the stuff he collected back in. The backpack could only get him so far, nowadays.

He wondered, briefly, what she would’ve been when she grew up if this nightmare hadn’t happened. As it was right now, she hadn’t said a peep – not in a good long time, anyways. He wondered if this event, this calamity, what-have-you – had ruined her voice forever, or if she’d get over it. She hadn’t looked at him the same since he had avoided her questions about her mother – his wife. Whatever was in the room that Rachel was conceived in. His deepest regret was that his last memory of her was of her snapping jaws and bloodshot eyes, clawing at him through the crack in the doorframe. He’d never erase the image of being a food source, and nothing more, to her.

He had walked a hundred meters – if that – when he heard it. A terrible ripping sound. Metal being folded in upon itself. He had barely time to move – not identifying the sound but knowing beyond a shadow of a doubt that it wasn’t good – couldn’t be good. He ran, hard across the asphalt and towards a small space between two buildings that contained a fire escape, facing the Community college that was one of River’s Glen’s prides. He had often been called here on late nights to break up some drunken brawl or other, and he’d always done it with rolled eyes.

How he wished he was on a call now.

The fire escape was already down, which immediately worried him. Someone had already been in this building, which meant, potentially, something was also there. He cautiously ascended to the second level, taking pains to peak into the window, catching a glimpse of the street as he did so.

And he was floored.

The street was teeming with the infected. Maybe teeming wasn’t the greatest word, but there were at least sixty – pushing eighty zombies that Mark could immediately see. With a sudden rush, he scanned the buildings for something – anything – that could have attracted that many-

On the roof, a loud thump sounded, and what looked like a figure stood up, stranded on the rooftop.

Shit.

He considered his options. On one hand, he had to get to her, had to get her out of there. The questions was how. How was he going to get her to where he stood without putting himself in danger?

Suddenly frantic, he leaped into the open window. The sight that beheld him was a headless corpse, leaning against the wall in what appeared to be some sort of office. He held in his gag and began searching the room, frantically. Nothing was here. Nothing that could help him, anyways.

Moving into the short hallway outside of the office, he found some kind of workshop. Inside of it was a fire extinguisher, two cans of propane, and several hammers of varying length and size. There was also pliers, a box of matches, something that looked like a fuse, and a welder’s mask.

What in the hell was this guy up to?

Ignoring the glaring evidence of a household bomb kit, Mark grabbed the welder’s mask and one of the propane cannisters. It seemed weighty enough, but he had no idea whether or not it was full. Was there a way to tell by weight? He hadn’t done enough barbecuing to actually find out, and decided now was a time for faith.

He carried the propane canister back towards the fire escape, and huffed and puffed until he was standing on the roof of the building. Another glance at the college confirmed that she was still there, still breathing. He probably only had a couple of chances at this. With a roar, he threw the canister over the edge, aiming for a pretty blue convertible parked on the street. It banged off of the asphalt and rolled until it hit its front tire. Drawing his firearm, Mark went to one knee, squinting.

He had been more than an okay shot – not good enough to hit a target between the eyes, but he sure wasn’t rusty. He hadn’t fired a single bullet from his gun, for fear of finding the zombie horde breathing down his neck, and had cleaned it two days ago. It should fire, he reasoned. He’ll line up the shot perfectly and it’ll fire. Nothing will go wrong.

He took a moment to breathe out, acknowledge how foolish this was, and then he took the shot.

The first round punctured the tire next to the convertible, but the second hit the propane tank, sending it up in a puff of flame. The flame set off the car alarm and shattered the window, the noise deafening in the small town. Immediately, a response happened, the swarm moving towards the noise. Mark was on the move, dropping to the asphalt and racing towards the college, stopping to dispatch an undead with his long hammer. As he ran, the welder’s mask firmly over his eyes, he kept his gaze towards the – woman, he saw now. A female.

“Let’s go!” he roared, hoping his voice would carry over the shrill alarm. He needed to get her out of there. The other survivor in this mess was so close, and one step closer to his goal being realized.a