Shelter From the Dead.

by Keith Adam Luethke.

Chapter 1.

"If anyone told you that the bad guys lose at the end of the world, they'd be dead wrong," Graves said, and pulled the trigger of his Desert Eagle. The pistol roared, sending a screaming bullet into an old man's head. Alex, tied beside him, yelled as his uncle's brain matter splattered across the snack aisle of the gas station.

"You son of a bitch, I'll kill you! I'll track you down and kill you."

Alex's wailing for justice bounced off Graves' motorcycle jacket and tumbled to the linoleum floor like a spent shell casing. Graves leaned over, staring down at the twenty-something Alex. He smelled of stale cigars and hard liquor; a crow clawing a rotting skull in its talons was tattooed on his neck.

"You go ahead and do that," Graves sneered. He put the handgun into his side holster and withdrew a large knife from his back. The wicked looking blade was long and serrated, and the handle was a carved wolf's head. He tossed the knife across the floor and laughed.

"You're a lucky guy," he spat. "I was just going to shoot you, but I kind of like the idea of you hunting me. Why don't you crawl over your dead buddy there, grab that knife, and come and catch me."

Alex stared hatefully at his tormentor. "I will," he promised.

Graves laughed even harder. "Oh, I like you," he chuckled, and slammed his black boot into Alex's chest, holding him in place. "Take your time finding me, pup. The dead walk the fucking earth and I'm having a blast."

He lifted his boot and strolled toward the door, snatching a few bags of potato chips on the way out, and shot a zombie in the parking lot.

Alex heard Graves' motorcycle start up and thunder down the road. He imprinted Graves' face into his mind's eye so he would never forget it. He would find him and tear his heart from his chest. But first, he had to get his hands untied. He spotted the knife only a few feet away. If he wasn't bound, he could have taken five steps and reached it, but instead he had to crawl on his belly like a snake.

The electric door to the gas station shop slowly opened. A zombie shuffled inside, its vacant stare spotting Alex immediately. It reached for him with only one arm, as the other was missing from the elbow down.

Alex flopped toward the knife, accidentally striking his jaw on the hard floor, causing a jarring pain to ring in his head.

A decayed hand curled around his ankle.

Alex kicked with all his might, breaking free of the zombie and inching closer to his freedom. He heard a hungry groan from the entrance, as two more of the living dead wandered inside. He rolled forward, grabbing for the knife and had it behind his back within seconds.

The zombie from which he had broken free reached for him again. Alex waited until its rotting head was lingering over him then put his heels together and kicked for all he was worth.

The blow hit the zombie square in the face, and both of Alex's feet sank into stinking, rancid flesh. The zombie's nose made a loud crack as it was crushed under Alex's feet. The zombie paused only momentarily, then went in for a chomp.

As it grabbed Alex's leg and was about to take a bite, Alex cut the rope with the knife's blade and stabbed the zombie. The knife slipped inside its skull with ease and made a wet slurping sound when Alex yanked it out.

He got to his feet, ready to deal with the other two zombies who'd invaded his home.

They were faster than the ones he was used to dealing with outside. Both had been men at one point and, in all likelihood, had assimilated into the walking dead not very long ago. They were still fresh.

He leaped backward as the pair reached for him, letting them stumble forward, and then he sprang. The knife bored underneath the chin of one of them, the blade's tip emerging through the top of its head. When Alex tried to wrench the knife free, he found he couldn't. He twisted the handle but couldn't manage to loosen it.

The other zombie grabbed his unprotected arm and pulled it toward its infected mouth. Alex let go of the knife for now, jerking his arm away seconds before the sharp, blackened teeth could tear his skin, shoved the zombie away from him with his palms and watched it topple over.

He wrapped his fingers around a shelf holding a variety of stale Milky Ways, Skittles, Gummy Bears, and other candies, and pushed it over.

The zombie was already halfway up and ready to try again when the metal rack fell on top of it. The zombie twisted underneath the rack, pinning itself between the shelving and the floor.

Alex ran to the zombie he'd stabbed, and curled both hands around the knife handle. He put one foot on the corpse's face and pressed down while he pulled. The wolf head at the base disengaged, and then the rest followed, making a sickening sucking noise as he ripped the blade out. He turned to address the remaining intruder.

The zombie gnashed its teeth at him as it struggled to free itself from the metal rack. Alex bent over it, reared back, and stabbed the zombie in its eye sockets until it was motionless.

Afterwards, he sat on the floor and wept. This gas station had been home for him and his uncle ever since the beginning. They'd banded together, locking the store down, eating what they needed to survive, and taking comfort in the tattered remains of their family. And now his uncle was dead.

He walked over to where his last family member lay, avoiding the blood stains and chunks of bone shards littering the aisle. His uncle had met his final end. With his head blown apart, he would thankfully never return to join the living dead. Graves was to blame for his death; if it wasn't for him his uncle would still be alive.

Alex clutched the knife so tightly his nails dug into his palms until he bled.

"Graves," he spat the name out like a curse. In a world where the dead were eating the living why did an asshole like him have to come along and make things worse? Graves had told him to come and find him. To hunt him down and finish his life for ending the life of his uncle. Alex intended to do just that.

He wiped the knife blade clean on his shirt and slipped it into his belt, vowing to never use it again until the day came when he could put the blade against Graves' neck, slit it, and watch him choke on his own blood.

He spent the remainder of the daylight burying his uncle behind the gas station. He forgot the history of the Old World, and filled his heart with the incessant need for revenge. It was a new day.

Chapter 2.

Sarah and Joelle were on a reconnaissance mission for the Marauders in the brisk autumn cold. Sarah drove the Volkswagen van while Joelle rode shotgun and helped navigate the new terrain.

"Make a right on Seymour Street," Joelle instructed.

Sarah spun the wheel, and the tires squealed as she made a sharp right, nearly crashing into the side of a building.

"Watch where you're going!" Joelle gasped, pressing herself against the dashboard.

"You're too cautious. Try to loosen up a little," Sarah laughed and playfully punched her arm.

"That kind of talk will get you killed," Joelle replied. She rubbed her arm and tried to act like it didn't hurt.

Ahead of them, a zombie was standing in the road, tattered clothing about his body. Had he moved out of their way, he might've passed for a human.

Sarah accelerated.

"I'm not dying, not today at least," Sarah said.

Joelle braced herself for the impact and screamed, but Sarah wasn't paying any attention to her.

The van collided with the zombie head on. Instead of flying over the hood or being jammed under the vehicle, the rotting corpse exploded in a hail of organs and bones; ropey intestines covered the windshield as its head flew over the roof of the van.

Sarah laughed long and hard as she turned on the windshield wipers.

"Are you crazy?" Joelle shook her head. "Never mind, don't answer that."

"Damn, that one was a splatterer. I didn't think it was that old," Sarah cheered.

The windshield wipers cleared away most of the intestines except for one long chunk which had gotten stuck under the wiper blades and hung over the side.

"Did you see that shit?" Sarah asked, and mimicked the zombie impacting with her hands. "He was like BAM!"

"Are you out of your fucking mind? We've got a job to do," Joelle pressed.

"Chill out," Sarah said. "It's just one less zombie we have to deal with. What's your problem anyway?"

"My problem . . ." Joelle repeated, "my problem is that Graves assigned me to help you today and all you want to do is goof off."

"Hey, I'm still doing my job. What's wrong with having a little fun? Lighten upeit is the end of the world, you know."

Joelle crossed her arms. "Make a right down Western Avenue and then we should be there," she told Sarah.

"You're really mad at me, aren't you?"

"Just keep driving," Joelle said.

Sarah shrugged, "You're the boss."

Sarah made another sharp right turn, jerking the wheel hard enough to shred a layer off the tires, and Joelle was violently thrown sideways into Sarah.

"Slow the fuck down!" Joelle demanded.

Sarah pushed her off and straightened out the van.

"We're fine. There's nothing to worry about . . ." Her sentence trailed off when she saw the wreck in the road.

A military truck was lying on its side, partly covering a wrecked jeep, both useless vehicles completely blocked the road.

"Great, how the hell am I going to drive through that? I thought the report said this road was clear?" Sarah sneered.

Joelle opened her door to get out. "I guess we'll just have to walk the rest of the way," she said.

Sarah's upper lip twitched in a snarl. "Wonderful," she growled.

Joelle eagerly got out of the van, stretching her arms out and rolling her shoulders, shaking off the tension of her recent ride.

Sarah got out of the car and examined their surroundings.

The city was a disaster area but relatively devoid of zombies and other raiding nomads. They were parked between a pizza restaurant and a brick building. The windows of the pizza place were shot out, and inside they could see cobwebs on the upturned tables and lots of broken chairs.

"This city is a shithole," Sarah spat.

Joelle finished stretching and pretended not to hear her.

"Let's arm up and get this over with. I told Graves we'd be back before sundown."

"Yeah right, and I guess you always do what he tells you?"

"That's how I got to be your boss, Sarah," Joelle smirked.

Sarah dug in the backseat and produced an M16 assault rifle.

"Yeah, so fucking what? You might be my boss but I'm the one covering your ass. Without me you'd be zombie fodder, remember that. You wouldn't want my aim to slip now, would you?"

Joelle swallowed a hard lump in her throat. She tried to stand straighter and look strong and tough enough to take on Sarah, but they both knew that wouldn't happen. Back at camp, Joelle was boss, but out here, far removed from the Marauders and their laws, Sarah was queen.

"Remind me again why you came so highly recommended?" Joelle questioned.

Sarah lifted the M16 to eye level and aimed at the pizza restaurant. She scanned the barrel through the broken glass, and pulled the trigger. There was a loud report from the rifle, and the splatter of blood.

Joelle leaned forward as a zombie missing the top of its head tumbled from the open window and slammed into the pavement.

Sarah shouldered the firearm. "That's why you brought me along," she grinned.

"You . . . you'll kill us both. Do you realize how much noise that just made? We'll have the entire town bearing down on us within a few minutes."

"Let them come," Sarah answered. "I've got plenty of ammunition."

Joelle rubbed her own head in frustration.

"Hey, don't sweat it. I've been with the Marauders for a year and a half now. I can handle just about anything."

"Yeah," Joelle muttered, "But can you handle yourself?"

Sarah's lips curled downward into a frown.

"What were you back in the Old World anyway, a drill sergeant?" Joelle added.

"I was a stripper," Sarah replied.

Joelle's eyes widened.

"Nah, I'm just kidding," Sarah laughed. "I helped my dad on a farm. I was signed up to go to a university when all this shit happened."

Joelle nodded, "We'd better get going."