Konrad Hartmann's Blog - Posts Tagged "zombie-survival"

HOMING PIGEONS
By Konrad Hartmann


“It's Robert,” Heather said, looking through the front door peephole. She recognized the next-door neighbor by his six-button suit jacket as much as by the remainder of his face.

“Robert?” Kyle nudged her to the side so he could look, excitement in his voice. “Oh,” he said, shoulders sagging. “I thought you meant-”

“No. Sorry,” Heather said. “Never thought you'd be excited to see Robert, hunh?”

Kyle half-smiled, half-winced. A thud fell against the door.

“I thought he was away,” Kyle said.

“Guess he came home,” Heather said.

“Walked home? It would take, well, if you didn't have to rest, I don't know,” Kyle said.

“It's two months today since it started,” Heather said.

Kyle stared at her.

“Like a dog finding his way home,” he said. He looked back through the peephole. “He has something on his jacket.”

“What?” Heather asked.

“Can't see. He's too close to the door now,” Kyle said. The banging increased.

“We should probably get him,” Heather said, glancing through the 2X4's nailed up over the living room windows. She saw movement across the street.

“Right,” Kyle said. Each pulled on hockey gloves and drew a drywall ax, a small hatchet used for cutting wallboard, from their belt.

“I'm up this time,” Heather said, taking her place near the door.

Kyle nodded and gripped the door handle.

“One, two, three,” he said, and opened the door.

Robert stood, clacking his exposed teeth, his body and clothes snagged in the strands of barbed wire strung tight across the doorway. Safety pins neatly held a brown-smudged envelope to his jacket. Heather only swung once, and Robert sagged into the wire. Kyle clutched the envelope and the safety pins tore free of the envelope as Robert slowly fell backwards, his weight tearing his body away from the wire. Robert's body lay on the walkway, one foot propped on the front step, the other foot, shoeless, remained tangled in the wire. Heather shut the door.

Kyle already had the envelope open.

“To Whom it May Concern,” Kyle read out loud, Heather reading over his shoulder. “We are a group of survivors living at 261 South Franklin Street. If you are reading this letter, please make contact with us. Please try to reach us. The house is very secure, and there is safety in numbers. We need more people. None of us know how long this situation will go on, but we have given up on waiting to be rescued. It's up to the few of us still around to make the best of it.

“Hoping this finds you,

“Paul, Whitney, Theresa, Roger, Amanda, Mary.”

“Oh, thank God,” Heather said.

“When should we go? Tonight?” Kyle asked.

“No, I don't want to walk at night. We'll be carrying our stuff, too,” Heather said.

“Right. And we're likely to get shot if they can't see we're OK,” he said.

They each packed a backpack, fastening as many useful items as possible to have while still being able to run. They slept fitfully until dawn, then made their way out the back door of the house, locking it before weaving past several staggering forms approaching the house.

“What do you think? A half hour?” Kyle asked.

“Less if we hurry,” Heather said.

But 30 minutes later, the couple found themselves still en route, slowed down by trying to avoid their former townsfolk. As they crouched in an alleyway, Kyle grabbed Heather's arm.

“Look!” he said, pointing at a female who dragged one foot as she shuffled, her leg ruined. Something protruded from her back, pinning a paper in place.

“Let's get it,” Heather said. “You're up.”

Kyle nodded as they drew their drywall axes.

Moments later, Heather was plucking the icepick from the woman's back and removing the folded paper. She smiled inwardly, noting that it had taken Kyle three swings to put the woman down. Ducking between buildings again, they read the note. The writing looked much different from the first one, this time scrawled wildly in marker across the page.

“Help! Warning-Paul Stacks holding me captive at 261 Franklin. Armed-guns. House booby-trapped. Cannibal. Killed Amanda, Mary, Theresa, Roger. Whitney.”

Like an afterthought, the last name was circled with an arrow pointing to the word “Alive.”

Heather felt herself sinking.

“We should help her,” Heather said.

“How?” Kyle chuckled, dark circles under his eyes. “Use our Navy SEAL training?”

“But we have to do something,” Heather said, angry at him, but without any plan that made sense.

“Like what, Heather? Sneak in, disarm whatever booby-traps are there, use our non-existent guns to shoot it out?”

“Fine. I guess we just go home and let her die!” Heather said, fuming.

“If you want to go there, I'll go,” Kyle whispered, his voice choked. “How long do we have anyway? Ready?”

Heather checked the anger rising inside her throat. She realized he wasn't being sarcastic. His apathy shocked her, and she found she wasn't willing to try it. Not that day anyway.

“Let's go home,” she said, taking his hand. As they walked, Kyle didn't seem to care where they went. Heather tried not to cry.

They spent the next few days hunting for note-carrying bodies, and were soon rewarded with another neatly pinned note.

“To the Couple on Broad Street, It has come to our attention that someone is forging letters, accusing us of murder and other fictitious wrongdoings. Since we unfortunately can't seem to trust this communication system and you haven't come to the house yet, it appears we will need to pay you a visit in person.

“See you soon.

“Paul, Whitney, Theresa, Roger, Amanda, Mary.”

“Tonight?” Kyle asked.

“Yeah,” Heather said, feeling the handle of her ax. “And I'm up.”