Dustin Reade's Blog, page 4

Ticket Booth Survivor

(Note: This story originally appeared in the Static Movement Anthology "Unquiet Earth: An Anthology of Zombie Flash")

As the sun set, Charles checked his dwindling supplies. He was down to a handful of bullets and a few candy bars. Not much. The overhead light flickered, sputtered, and almost died. The last of the circling moths had died yesterday, falling to the ground like whispers. Charles was surprised the electricity was still on at all. He wondered how long it would keep going. Until the last man died? Would there still be running water when there were no longer people around to enjoy it?

            A bloody hand slammed against the glass, smearing a streak of red and black in a thick line. The glass groaned, but held. He wondered how much longer it would hold out. Then, he wondered the same thing about himself.

            He had taken refuge in the ticket booth two weeks ago, after the outbreak hit the carnival. For the thousandth time, he cursed his stupidity. Indeed, he cursed the stupidity of the whole town: holding a carnival in the middle of an attack of the Walking Dead had not—in hindsight—been the smartest thing they could have done.

            The bloody hand found the slot where the tickets had been disbursed. The fingers reached out, searching for him, sensing his presence. The fingernails were long, broken. Charles remembered hearing somewhere that the hair and fingernails continued to grow after death.

            Bullshit, he thought. What really happened was the skin began to shrivel and recede around the nails, giving them the appearance of growth.

            Nothing thrives in death but more death.

            That and bacteria.

            The outbreak started near the back of the carnival. A zombie found its way in through the back door of the funhouse and bit a couple of kids. From there it spread to the Tunnel of Love, then on to the Gravitron, Octopus, Paratrooper, Scrambler, then, finally, the Ferris wheel. Charles was working security. When the other guards had fought bravely, shooting the walking cadavers of children—some still with balloons tied to their little wrists and cotton candy stuck to their faces—Charles had ducked away into the ticket booth. The Girl manning the booth had turned, and he had dispatched her with a single shot.

            Her brains had dried to a hard, brown mess on the wall.

            As the roaming hand searched for him, Charles tore open a candy bar. After two weeks of nothing but candy bars, his teeth felt fuzzy. They ached and vibrated in his head. Still, it was nutrients. He needed the calories.

            The end of the world would not be known for its dietary plenty.

            Unless you counted the zombies. They seemed to have plenty to eat. Charles shuddered as he remembered the carnage of the carnival. Even now, two weeks later, he could still hear the groaning of the Ferris wheel and the dead that still rode in its endless circles. He could imagine the blood running down the mechanical joints of the kiddy rides.

            The bloody hand retracted, but the zombie did not leave. It shuffled around the booth slowly, stumbling and bumping against the sides.

            The sun had set. Night fell over the carnival. The lights still screamed neon into the darkened skyline, attracting countless zombies to his position. The music of the carousel faltered, warped, and became a maddening soundtrack. Charles listened to the game booths go "Bing! Bing! Bing!" to their undead audience, calling out to Rubes that would never play them again.

            He thought of suicide. The zombie slammed into the back entrance to the ticket booth. The hinges groaned. The booth was a temporary structure, never intended for prolonged use. It would not hold out forever.

            There was a deep shudder in the earth. A distant explosion shook the very foundations of the carnival, and all the lights went out in unison, heaving Charles suddenly into darkness so thick he could hold it in his hands.

            "Shit," he said.

            Upon hearing this, the zombie renewed its attack of the structure. Its moans rose in pitch and volume as it beat its fists against the door. Dust fell from the dead lights overhead, raining down onto Charles head like ghosts.

            The zombie banging at the door attracted other zombies. Soon, the ticket booth was completely surrounded. Bloodied hands searched the slot for flesh. Moans filled the night where music had once played. The glass creaked, groaned and cracked. The door hinges rattled loose against their bolts. Charles finished his candy bar and calmly put the wrapper in his shirtfront pocket.

            "Okay," he said, flinging the door open.

            Zombies poured into the booth. Charles leapt to his feet, firing at the lead zombie, forcing the contents of its head to empty onto the zombies behind. Panic set in and he began firing randomly into the crowd. A few fell but most of the bullets hit in non-lethal areas and the ceiling.

            When he ran out of bullets, Charles threw the gun at the nearest zombie, an impossibly tall young man wearing a Mickey Mouse t-shirt and running shorts. The young man was missing the entire right side of his face. Charles gaped and stammered as the zombie slowly, almost gracefully, knelt over and bit off two of his fingers.

            His blood sprayed the adjacent wall like graffiti.

            He was soon being devoured by an army of the dead. They tore at his throat, pulling tendons and veins in their powerful jaws. He tried to scream but released no sound. From outside, a hundred zombies still beat on the window.

            Charles was surprised to see it still held.