FanFic Contest week 1 ~ Saving Jebediah By Doug Ward

Doug Ward owns all rights to the following work, which may not be copied or used without express permission in writing by him.  Enjoy:


Saving Jebediah

  It was many weeks after the initial outbreak of zombies that we saw our first one.  You have to understand, I live in the mountains of West Virginia in an extremely small town called Helvetia.  Our current population has to be less than sixty and we're surrounded by mountainous wilderness.  That's why we took little notice of the countries plight.  Sure, the news from outside our area went deader than a stinkbug left out in the cold but we're used that sort of thing.  Winters can be long and hard so you just stock up on food and fuel for the generator.    I was just thinking that it was a great time to settle down to a good book and wait for the countries media to get back online.  The last reports were disturbing, about all those city slickers getting their flu shots and then they all got sick.  Nothing big, just blown out of proportion.  That was until it came right up to my doorstep.    I live in an old white aluminum sided farmhouse just on the outskirts of town.  The house sits about a stone throw from the general store.  I don't have much family around here since ma and pa died.  Just me and my great uncle Jebediah.  He lives out in the hills, just off the road to Holly River State Park.    It seemed like I had just lit a fire in the wood burner, with my handy pocket lighter, and settled onto my couch for an early afternoon nap when I heard someone pounding on my door.  The peculiar thing is that the pounding was really rapidly.  Nobody around here does anything quickly.   This urgency sent me into action.  I hoofed it across the room and yanked open the door only to find old Stan Drucker, white smock covered in blood, holding his arm against his chest.  His legs were pumping up and down as he hurried looks over his shoulder. "Hurry up Max," he said pushing his way from my cement porch and into my living room.    "What happened to you," I stammered trailing behind him as he made his way into my kitchen.    "One of those campers came in looking like death warmed over.  I asked him if he'd gotten into a bottle and he bit me."  Stan replied while running a stream of water over the gaping wound on his arm.    I helped the store owner dry and wrap his limb in a dish towel and directed him into my living room so he could lie down.  "Holy crap!" I yelled as a bizarre nightmare stepped up onto my porch and was lurching toward the open door.  It was dressed in a plaid shirt with kaki shorts and was missing part of its cheek.  The smell assaulted me as I ran to intercept the intruder.  The apparition put one hand on the doorframe, and was reaching inside for me with the other when my Marine training took hold.  You have to understand that being a Talbot, it's almost a requirement that I spend some amount of time in the military.  My flavor of service was the Marine Corp.  At the time, the training I received didn't seem so useful.  Little did I know just how useful it would become.   I chopped his outstretched arm up and away then delivered a side kick to this guys mid-section knocking him from the small porch.  Recovering quickly I swung the door closed and drove the dead bolt home.    Stan was on the couch shivering, sweat beading on his brow.  Now I am not going to try to fool anyone.  In this isolated mountainous region, television is spotty at best.  I have watched a lot of zombie movies in life and I immediately put the pieces together.  What I had thought was some freak hoax over the TV now became crystal clear as I pictured the creature I had so recently kicked off my cement landing.  I sped to my bedroom and pulled the 9mm Glock from my nightstand.  I was shoving the clip home just as a dull thump sounded outside the living room door.  Not having time to ready any of my other guns I hurried back into my living room and chambered a round.  A series of low thumps followed as, I assume, the zombie camper was trying to figure out the door.  I wasn't going to give him the chance.  Twisting the knob which released the deadbolt and in a single motion I threw open the door while swinging the gun into the open portal at head height.    Nothing was there.  Panic seized me as I swiveled my weapon looking for my quarry.  A wet hand latched onto my ankle.  Trying to free myself, I fell backwards, ankles still angled toward the now open door.  Another hand slapped home.  This time it grasped my opposite calf.  As I looked down I could see the blood stained mouth poised to plunge down upon my unprotected legs.  I leaned to my left swinging the Glock around and taking a desperate wild shot.    The 9mm round took the zombie camper through the forehead blowing out a small section of the back of it's skull. I never saw the bullet striking the target but I felt the bulk of it's weight slump heavily onto my lower legs.    Relief flooded my body as I lay there regaining my composure.  A moment later, I felt disgusted by the corpse pinning me to the floor.  Although it's body was slack it took a whole lot of kicking to free myself from it's tight grasp.  As I resumed an upright position I could see why it wasn't standing when I opened the door.  The undead creatures right leg was broken.  A decent length of it's thigh bone protruding from under it's gore covered shorts.  With my foot, I pushed the now still body far enough outside the door to assure its closing and once again secured the entryway.  Remembering the events leading up to the struggle I brought my attention back to Stan.  He was no longer on the couch.  I could hear him vomiting into the kitchen sink.    As I entered the small country style kitchen I saw Stan, his back arching as he dry heaved.  Red soaked the towel covering his wound.  Thin rivulets of blood flowed down his arm and across his hand as he leaned on the counter over the sink.  "What's happening Max," the old shopkeeper asked in a thin voice, not turning around.    I slid the weapon into the waistband at the back of my jeans and softly, in my calmest voice soothed, "It's ok Stan.  I just had to take care of the camper.  He won't bother us again."  "No Max!" He said as he slowly turned around.  "What's happening to me?"  Stan's skin was visibly gray and covered with sweat.  His red-rimmed eyes had sunk as they they peered out of two dark holes in his head.  In silence he began unwrapping his arm.  It had stopped bleeding but the edges of the wound were an angry black.  It looked painful.  The worst part of it was the smell.  It emitted the sweet stench of rotting flesh.    "Am I gonna become like that camper?"  Stan asked in a small voice.    "Not on my watch," I responded following that up with the most confident smile I could muster.  We spent the next fifteen minutes cleaning and treating the bite.  We used sterile gauze and made it as comfortable for him as we could.  I tried telling him soothing things and buoying his spirits but he was silent throughout the whole procedure.  The weirdest thing was that while cleaning and binding the wound, things that should have hurt Stan didn't seem faze him at all.    Finally when it was all done we retired to the living room to decide our next course of action.  My first thought was to let Stan rest.  I quickly dismissed that idea because if he didn't get some immediate help, well, I've seen enough movies to get a pretty good idea of what he would become next.  Just as I was about to suggest going to the hospital, about an hours drive, my eyes fell to the picture on the now useless TV.  The frame held the last picture of my uncle Jebediah Talbot.  My good old Talbot sense of honor kicked in and I knew I had to alert him to the possible danger of the zombie apocalypse.    "Stan," I broke the silence.  "We need to get you to a doctor.  The hospital is about an hour away, what do ya say about a little road trip?"  He just nodded and I figured while I had him in the mood, "Let's stop and get my uncle, he's on the way."  Stan made no indication either way so I took that as an accent and went to the window to see what it looked like outside.  My first thought was all is quiet.  That's when I spied Audrey, she ran the local restaurant.  It's actually the front room of a house.  I told you there was less than sixty people in this town.  Audrey seemed to be walking a little too zombieish for my liking and remembering the dead camper on the porch I decided the back door would be the best escape route.  Besides, my truck was at the side of the house so either way would be just as close as the other.    I grabbed my Browning 12 gauge from my gun rack and pulled a few fists full of shells for it and the Glock, out of my china cupboard drawer.  Stuffing them in my hoodie's pocket I rejoined Stan in the kitchen and prepared for our exit.  The back of the house looked clear.  No visible undead.  So quietly, I lead Stan to the truck and got him in with no trouble.  Stan was becoming unresponsive, possibly going into shock.  I was going to have trouble keeping an eye on him and driving so while I helped buckle him in I pulled the belt really tight.  As I was crossing to my side I heard a distant gun shot from the direction we were about to go.    The truck, my pride and joy, fired up on the first try.  It was a black Ford F 150 I had almost literally stolen from a dealer in Morgantown. The truck was Canadian, I know, all Fords are Canadian, but this one was made for Canada.  It's speedometer and mileage indicator were in metric so they couldn't get rid of it.  That meant I got it for a song.  As we drove through town, which consists of about three blocks, I saw Audrey had caught sight of Erin, one of my former classmates, and was putting on a good chase.  Now Audrey was no spring chicken, but living the hard life out here, we are typically in better shape than most city joggers.  Erin was holding her own, but it seemed she'd eventually lose the race, so I gunned the engine and asking her forgiveness under my breath, I ran Audrey down.  A terrible thump recorded her head bouncing off the hood of my F 150 and she slid under the truck as we drove on past.  I didn't want to look back but human nature took over and I could see her crumpled form in the middle of the road.    Drops of Audrey's blood flowed in red streams toward me, across my trucks hood, as I raced ahead and paralleled Erin who continued running.  Her eyes were glued straight ahead.  I tried honking the horn to get her attention but she kept running.  Finally, I pushed the button to lower the passenger window and leaning forward I shouted, "Erin, it's ok.  Stop running and we will take you in the truck."     For a moment she seemed to slow.  I could see her eyes darting toward the truck in order to catch a quick glance.  Then she slowly turned her head and her eyes locked on Stan sitting in the passenger side.  Shock registered on her face and a whine sounded between gasping breaths.  She quickly changed direction and ran straight into the outstretched arms of Mr. Grady.  They fell in a tangle of arms and legs but I could tell, in the side view mirror, that his teeth found their mark by the spray of blood from what looked like her neck region.  He probably hit an artery.  I tore my eyes from the horrifying scene and glanced at Stan.  He turned to meet my eyes and I watched a thin string of drool pull free from his lap.    "How you feeling Stan?" I asked.  He just turned to back to his original position of looking out the passenger side window.    A chill ran down my back as I pondered how long I'd have before Stan would possibly turn.  What was I going to do if he turns in the truck.   We were out of town in seconds.  I don't need to remind you it's a small town. The road changed just as fast to the usual dirt road as we sped off towards my uncles cabin.  Dust made a thick cloud behind us covering the rear window with the powder.    About a half mile up the road I had to swerve to avoid several bodies lying in various places on the road.  My tires skidding on the unpaved surface as our forward motion came to an end.  The trailing cloud enveloped my truck as it overtook us with it's momentum.  Losing it's density it still made a thin veil through which I could still make out the blockade.  Ahead was a steel one lane bridge.  Sitting in the middle of the bridge was a big gray primer colored Chevy truck, facing away from us.  I was all too familiar with the owner of this vehicle.  Three big guy in various pieces of camouflage and flannel were sitting in the back with menacing looking rifles.  I took my foot off the brake and slowly moved forward until the biggest guy stood up and aimed his gun at us.  The other two mimicked his movement raising their own weapons.  I hastily brought us to a stop again and dropped the truck into park.  Through the thinning haze of dust I could see the larger man leap down from the rear of the Chevy.  With the gun once again held directly at me he called out, "that you Max Talbot?"  I knew it was Bo Jones by his size and his perpetually, almost ready to paint, truck. To say we weren't friends was an understatement. I had broken up with his little sister and he had personally taken it upon himself to make my every moment as miserable as possible.  When I returned from the military Bo kept a cool distance from me.  Never threatening me but never welcoming either.    I rolled down the window and responded, "Yeah, now get that piece of crap Chevy off the bridge before I use a real truck ta push it outta the way!"    Bo continued his careful walking-while-aiming gate toward us.  Slow measured steps closing the distance.  The cloud of road dust had nearly dispersed but had settled on the windshield partially obscuring the view both in and out.  "Put your hands out the window and open the door,!" Bo demanded 16 gauge shotgun still leveled at me.  "Now how am I supposed to do that?" I replied sarcastically.    "Use the outside handle dummy," he responded coolly.  He was now close enough to speak in a normal voice.    Opening the handle proved harder than you'd think.  When the door unlatched I pitched forward off balance.  As I fell forward I was greeted with a gun barrel sliding past my face and a loud roar as the 16 gauge fired.  I shifted my weight rolling to my left as I continued my fall.  The deafening gun shot sound was replaced with a loud ringing in my ear as I fell face first onto the ground.  Everything went black.
                                        *********
  I awoke on the road beside my truck.  Right ear ringing as I propped myself up on my left elbow.  Bo, Jim, and Bert sitting around me in different states of recline.  "What the heck was that about?" I yelled at Bo, realizing my mistake as the ringing increased to a high pitched wine as I spoke.  My right hand immediately cupped the offending area.  The boys rolled back hooting with laughter.  Bert, literally rolling on his back holding his belly as his flannel and camo covered body shook with waves mirth.    "You shouldda seen yerself doing that face plant," Jim explained through tobacco stained teeth.    "You shot at me," I said returning to my original question swiveling back toward Bo with one hand still holding my ear.  "No," he said.  "I was shooting at him."  he pointed at my still open truck door.  I could see the blood spatters on the little bit of windshield viewable from my current position.  I rose unsteadily to my feet, reeling from my recent ear trauma.  There, in the midst of all the gore, was Ole Stan Drucker.  Headless, mind you.  "It was reaching for you when I came up beside the truck," Bo said solemnly.  "I had to act fast.  Who was he?"  I explained the events from earlier that day.  They all lowered their eyes when I told them who had been with me.  After I had finished I listened to their own stories.  It seems they were out hunting when they came across their first undead.  Being rednecks, those zombies didn't stand a chance.   "What are you gonna do now?" asked Jim.  "Your welcome to join us," offered Bo.  Looking back at my blood splattered truck cab I was having second thoughts about jumping in there.  I had no idea how the illness or whatever it was jumped from person to person.  I had first hand knowledge of it being transferred through a bite but what if it could occur from a scratch.  I quickly looked at my lower pant legs.  For the first time I saw what the zombie camper had done to my jeans.  Blood and a greasy stain was all over the front of the lower trouser legs.  I gingerly lifted the pant leg where the creature had grabbed my ankle and it was clean.  No scratches.  As I dropped my jeans to inspect the opposite calf I heard the boys gasp!  "Hey!" Bert blurted out.  "We run a family Zombie Hunter Squad here!" he chuckled exaggeratedly waving both hands in the air while closing his eyes as tightly as possible.  "If you want to continue killing the undead today then you'll have to put your pants back on please."  The others roared again in laughter as they feigned embarrassment.  My face flushed as I hurried to inspect myself for any wounds.  Finding none, I pulled my pants back in place and quickly closed my button and fly.  It was obvious. I couldn't take my truck and risk possible infection.  But I needed to get to Uncle Jeb.  He could be in danger.    "Can I get a ride?" I asked no one in particular.  Bo grinned, "Sure Talbot, I hope you won't mind riding in a piece of crap Chevy?" he mocked pointing to his bumper sticker of a boy peeing on a Ford symbol.    "I deserve that," I agreed retrieving my Glock from where it had fallen out of my waistband.  My shotgun was a loss in the truck so I passed my 12 gauge shells on to Bert who was sporting the same exact gun, make and all.  "Where are we off to?" Bo asked leaning out of the open truck cab.    "I need to make sure my uncle Jebediah is ok."  Everyone froze.  I guess I should explain.  My uncle Jeb is rumored locally, and I guess even regionally, to be crazy.  I don't think he's crazy.  He's a survival nut.  A Korean War veteran, he had came back and wanted to stay away from people.  To hide from the world.  He'd had enough of everything and just dropped off of the grid.  Not that there was much grid to speak of down in these hills but that just made it that much easier for him to disappear.    I climbed up into the bed of the pick-up and they all piled into the cab.  I noticed a few sideways glances from them before I settled with my back to the cabs rear window.  As my eyes grew heavy from the events of the last few hours I could hear them arguing about what they should call themselves.  The Redneck Zombie Clean-up Crew... The Hillbilly Headshot Posse.  I woke to the sound of shotgun firing and the hooting of my saviors.  Gripping the side of the truck bed I hauled myself up to see what was happening.    Bo and the boys had leapt from the truck and were off the road about twenty yards looking at something in the grass. I quickly surveyed my surroundings for any danger and feeling relatively safe I took a seat on the cab roof.   In the movies, the living always seem to have boundless energy.  Constantly on the move, never taking a moment to rest or even relieve themselves.  In reality I was exhausted. Coming off of the adrenaline rush I could have went right back to sleep.  I never did get that nap back at home.    Curiosity got the best of me as I rose once again and hopped down from the full-sized pickup. The dirt road gave way to brush as I approached my travel mates.   "What ya got?" I asked to no one in general.  "Bert shot us an eight point.  The animals seem to be running scared!"  Jim replied wiping his bloodstained knife in some grass.  "I think them zombies are causing the critters to panic."   "We saw all kinda game just run right if front of the truck while you were taking yer nap," intoned Bo.  "We stopped so we could shoot us some supper.  Those zombies are probably the reason we got skunked while hunt'en this morning."  "Or it could be cause Bert ate all them baked beans last night," Jim chirped through a brown toothed grin.  "Just keep that up and I won't share my cabbage stew with ya," answered Bert with a good natured shove.    Trueborn hunters the trio had the deer field dressed and ready to butcher in no time.  As Bo carried the carcass back to the truck Jim asked in a small uncertain voice, "You don't think this ole deer is gonna get up and try to chomp on us do ya?"  Everyone stopped walking.  Turning toward the group with the bucks head hanging over his broad shoulder Bo answered.  "We'll keep him in the bed with Talbot.  If he turns, won't be no loss."  A slow nervous grin spread across his face but his comment brought no sign of mirth from the rest of the group.  All eyes were on the carcass mostly hidden behind their leaders bulky frame.  As Bo turned and continued on to the truck Jim bent and picked up a twig.  He poked at the field dressed body with an air of caution, half expecting the beast to react to the torment.  We didn't attempt to stop him.  I think we were all waiting to see what would happen next.  Back at the truck Bo dumped the body into the bed of the primer gray pickup, shocks reacting, squeaking loudly in protest to the sudden weight.  "Yer uncles cabin is over the next mountain, so jump in with your new bunk mate," Bo mocked while doing his best courtly bow.    Mustering all my courage I climbed up in the open bed keeping as far from the head of the deceased animal as I could.  I squatted in the corner behind the cab.  As the guys piled back inside the vehicle I stealthily pulled the Glock from my waistband and, hand shaking, I nonchalantly pointed the business end at the hopefully dead animal.  As the truck started forward it hit a rut in the unpaved road.  The sudden drop made me lurch forward.  My free hand shot forward and so did the gun.  The bucks head jumped with the impact of the bullet.  The truck came to an immediate stop.  "What are you doing Talbot?" yelled Bo as he slammed the transmission into park while opening the door.  "Are you outta yer mind?"  "My weapon discharged causa the bump you hit." I accused trying to cover for my actions.    The boys came around to the back examining the deer.  There was a tiny bit of blood showing the bullets entry point.  Bert had bled the deer right after gutting it.  "You shot it in the head," Bert moaned.  "I was gonna mount it!"  "Sorry," I offered feeling silly for my paranoia.  "I can't believe you were afraid of Bambi."  The boys slowly returned to their seats.  I felt silly.  Still, how was I to know if the recently killed animal would rise and try to eat my brains.  Bert wasn't the one stuck back here with the uncertainty of what would happen.  He didn't stop Jim from poking the deer to see if it was aware.  The rest of the ride was short and uneventful.  I replaced the missing bullet in the clip so the gun would be full.  Then settled in I watched as the deer bounced rhythmically as we drove across a washed out section of the road.  It gave me little comfort that the deer was head-shot.  The group had lost something.  A part of our morale was now damaged.  I felt even more like a misfit.  All too soon the truck slid to a halt beside an overgrown path used as his driveway.  "This is your stop Talbot," he said in a rather abrupt manner.    "You guys aren't coming?"  They all looked at each other.  "I don't think so," offered Jim.  "Ya see, yer uncle is crazy.  We heard rumors that some people who go back there never come back out."  The others shook their heads in agreement.  I didn't blame them.  I had heard those same rumors whispered when people thought I couldn't hear.  I didn't believe them but I, myself, hadn't been to his cabin in more than ten years.  He always came to my house.  Driving up in his old rusted out Jeep CJ 5.  When I offered to come out and visit, his eyes would get wild and he would make me promise that I would never pop in on him for any reason.  I didn't know what he was doing way out here, but he was family and I always respected his wishes.  Sometimes I thought he was another Ted Kaczynski.  But weather he was another Unabomber or just a bit off of his skull, he was my uncle and I was going to make sure he was ok.    I pulled my once again fully loaded handgun out and sighing said, "Thanks for everything guys.  If it weren't for you..."  I left the last part off.    They all said their farewells and wished me luck.  I turned and began following the overgrown trail to the cabin.  With a last look over my shoulder I watched the truck slowly head down the road, a small trail of dust marking their progress.    I felt truly alone.  Scared.  The only thing keeping me from breaking back to the road to flag them back down, was my loyalty to my uncle.  His cabin was about a mile off the road.  Night was still about two hours off so I had plenty of time to walk to his shack.  My boots crunching on the few bare spots in his seldom used driveway.    I had walked only a short while when I heard a strange sound.  My hand tightened on my gun as I followed the noise into the woods to the right of the trail.  It was a strange noise.  Low moaning with a creaking intermixed.  As I got closer I felt my pulse quicken.  Cold sweat trickling down my back.  The woods were dense so I had to weave my way between the trees in my search for the source of the sound.  All at once the branches above me erupted.  Leaves rained down on me as I swiveled the weapon up.  Hands, pawing at me, nearly knocking the gun from my hand.  I could feel the cold dead fingers slip past mine as the zombie, hanging upside down tried to grab my outstretched hands.  I fell to the ground and scrambled away as more branches began to violently shake with their own undead occupant.    I quickly realized that they were trapped in snares.  From the vantage of the base of a tree I assessed the situation.  There were three zombies in all.  Swinging upside down in separate snares.  I had to chuckle.  My uncle had company and he was more prepared than I was.  This was probably where the rumors had come from.    I rose and walked about looking at the spectacle while the undead in the trees continued to thrash about reaching futilely for my living flesh.  As I was wondering what I should do, I felt a sharp tug at my ankle harshly jerking me into the air amid the zombies.    "Crap!" I yelled as I careened wildly back and forth.  Cold hands snatched at me as I spun and swung in ever decreasing circles.  When the spinning slowed, I found that I was out of reach of the other snare victims, but they continued their mindless pawing.    "Stupid, stupid, stupid," I repeated as the full weight of my situation bore down upon me.  My hoodie gathered about my chest.  The extra bullets, I knew, we're a loss, scattered about the forest floor.  As the blood began to pulse in my head I knew I had precious little time to escape this trap.  Just as I was reaching for my pocketknife I heard something snap in the tree to my left.  I looked down only to see that one of the zombies had fallen to the ground and was limping into position below me.  As it greedily reached upward I noticed it had no foot.  It must have torn free but the lack of a foot didn't seem to deter it at all.  Luckily I still clutched my Glock in my right hand.  I extended it as far as I dared and, while slowly spinning, put a slug straight down through its upturned skull.    The zombie crumpled to the ground and I waited a moment to be sure it stayed down.  Satisfied, I carefully fished my pocketknife out and opened it.  Knowing I couldn't keep the gun in my hand I tried to secure it in my waistband.  It worked for about three seconds.  I watched in horror as the weapon slowly dropped onto the chest of the fallen zombie below.    Now I remember telling you that us backwoods people were strong and that I had good military training but I still couldn't pull myself up to cut the rope.  I tried to climb up my pant legs with knife in mouth, like a pirate, but it was doomed to failure.  My only hope was to swing back and fourth and maybe grab a branch.  As I swung I quickly understood my folly.  I lacked control.   One of the still struggling zombies managed to grab my hooded sweatshirt.  And quickly reeled me in.  I acted with pure instinct.  I screamed!  Loud and hard, through my gritted teeth.    My left hand shot out and grabbed the undead by the throat in order to keep it from biting me.  My right snatched the knife from my mouth.  We careened to and fro in a cloud of brown leaves as I plunged the blade into the side of it's head.    I was about to release the foul beast when it dawned on me.  I could climb up the horror and maybe gain my freedom.  I retched as I climbed up its greasy pants feeling morbid joy when I was able to grab the rope. As I continued to scale the hemp rope I noticed that I had gained some slack in it.    Using my free foot I was able to slip the loosened noose off of my foot.  The full weight of my body swung into the body of the now still corpse with a wet smack.  I knew I was too high up to just drop to the ground.  I didn't want to risk injury so I decided to climb as far down the zombie as possible before risking the drop.  The smell was horrendous.  It's clothing leaving a slimy coating on my hands making it hard to keep my hold on the fabric.    That's when it happened.  I fell.  My right ankle exploded in pain as I rolled on the ground.  Cursing my luck I grabbed the offending limb and grunted in agony.  Leaves clinging to my clothes I hurriedly exposed the injured area and saw with relief that it wasn't broken.  Sprained.  Just my luck.  Could have been worse though, so I took a quick appraisal of my situation and found I was relatively safe for the moment.  The zombie above was still but the other continued it's empty attempts to somehow get to me.  Sitting there I composed myself for a moment and it dawned on me that the zombie above may draw others.  I needed to somehow get to my uncles cabin and any creatures investigating the ruckus overhead might delay me.  I snatched my gun from the fallen zombies chest and abandoned any attempt to recover the lost bullets or the pocketknife.  Jeb was more of a survival nut than I was so I was sure he would have plenty of weapons and ammo.    I thought that I should kill the remaining undead.  It would be one less in the world.  But I quickly dismissed the idea.  I only had a ten round clip.  Minus one round.  That left me with nine rounds and I wasn't sure what I would still run into.  It took some time but I found a suitable fallen limb to make a crutch.  Wrapping my hoodie around the "V" where it branched I was comfortable while walking but a little cold.  The sun would be going down soon so I needed to get moving.  I decided against returning to the trail and opted to go straight through the woods to the Jeb's place.    I was very careful as I hobbled on my way.  Not wanting to repeat my last folly.  As I neared the cabin I heard a familiar moaning.  Grimacing I continued on.  In my present state I really didn't need any more adventures.  But as I hobbled onward the sounds got louder.  Carefully I moved forward as the woods blocked out much of the remaining light.    I was almost at the edge of the trap when I realized what was in front of me.  A hidden pit yawned in my path.  I reeled backwards staggering in order to avoid falling.  Pain erupted as I forgot the makeshift crutch in order to maintain my footing.    After the pain subsided I crept to a safe distance and looked in.  The bottom of the pit was covered with wooden stakes.  Two zombies were inside.  One staked through its torso struggles for me but was held fast by the stake.  The other walked awkwardly toward the side I was on.    It moaned and reached but couldn't reach the top.  If it hadn't have been for these undead blundering into the pit it would have been me down there.  Once again I pondered shooting the pathetic creatures but knowing I had to conserve my ammunition, I made a mental note to come back when I had healed and had more bullets.  I carefully hobbled around the trap skirting it by a wide margin.  My armpit was starting to get irritated by the strain of supporting my weight.  But I didn't have the time to look for a better fit.  It was getting hard to see.  I did my best to avoid any other traps but it was more by sheer luck rather than any skill.  I was becoming desperate.  Exhaustion was making me take dumb chances.    Finally, I hit the edge of the clearing.  My uncle had cleared a hundred yards around the cabin so there would be no obstacles in his firing line.  The only thing inside the clearing was the outhouse.  Which was about fifty feet to my left almost on the tree line.  Jeb's place was a one-room shack.  Windows on all sides were small but provided a great view of all angles of approach.  The waning sunlight was a little stronger here than in the woods so I could still see fairly well.  But what I saw made my heart sink.    Three zombies were weakly beating at the door.  The windows were shuttered.  As I stood there I saw no lights escaping even the smallest cracks.  Uncle Jeb was holed up in there tight.  But it was up to me to clear the zombies trying to get in.  Any idea of leading them away would be purely foolish.  Even though I was probably faster than they were it would probably lead me into more trouble.  I decided that the best way would be a frontal approach.  If I came in firing, maybe Jeb would help out from his side.    As I took my first steps into the clearing I felt an adrenaline rush.  My progress was steady and they hadn't noticed me.  Then my crutch went into a small hole and I banged my foot off the ground.  The sudden jolt of pain made me wince.  That was enough.  Two of the zombies broke from the door at a run.  They were fast.  Real fast.    They were still kind of far away but I was scared so I leveled my gun and slowly, as I released a breath, fired.  I missed.  Repositioning my angle I shot again striking it in the shoulder.  The running corpse spun wildly hitting the ground.  I acquired the next target.  This time it was close enough for a clean head shot.    It was a lucky shot but I wasn't going to argue.  The zombie I had earlier hit in the shoulder popped back up and renewed it's sprint toward me.  I took two more controlled shots as it closed on me.  Four shots left I reminded myself.    The sprinter was about twenty five feet from me as I squeezed off three more.  Sweat running down my forehead I felt panic rise as I prepared my final shot.  The zombie disappeared.  I dropped my aim lower and waited for it to reappear.  Nothing.  Fearing an assault from the woods I hobbled forward.  Another hidden pit gapped in front of me.  The zombie had fallen in while running at full stride and hit the opposite side snapping it's neck.    Throwing caution to the wind I went straight for the cabin.  Hopping with the crutch caused waves of pain but I had to get to the safety of the shack.  I met the last zombie halfway across the clearing.  I raised my weapon level with it's bobbing head and muttered, "did I shoot 9 shots or 10.  In all this excitement I... Oh forget it.". I shot it nearly point blank, dead center in the head.  I didn't even watch it fall completely to the ground.  At the cabin my heart sank.  The door was securely locked.  I called out for uncle Jeb to open up but even after I clearly identified myself the entrance remained secured.  I wondered what had happened to Jeb.  Had he left.  Was he Ok.  I knew I couldn't remain outside the shack much longer.  I could see several forms shuffling out of the tree line probably drawn by the noise of the gunshots.    I needed to get inside and it needed to be fast.  I couldn't see any of the fast moving type but that didn't mean there weren't any around.    I checked all of the windows but they were all shuttered and barred from the inside.  Immediately abandoning any idea of breaking down the door, I set to work on one of the windows.  Although Jebediah had built his home to be a bunker, at 84 years old, maintenance hadn't been preformed in a long time.  The window frame felt spongy with rot and possibly some recent termite damage.  Tearing at the decay I quickly had the corner of the shutter free and was able, with a few well-placed blows of my handguns grip to bash the whole shutter inside.  It clattered to the floor releasing the other half of the porthole.  I once again called out for my uncle.  After a few seconds with no answer, I lunged through the small opening, leaving my crutch outside.  My midsection folded as my weight suspended from the sill.  The cabin was pitched black.  Any moonlight filtering from around me was immediately swallowed by the absolute blackness inside.  Swiveling my hips I gained enough leverage to fall inside.  There was a thump as my body flopped to the floor but no other noise followed.  It smelled of wood smoke, mildew, and a hint of something else.  Rotting meat.  I thought my gun was empty but I swiveled it around anyway.  The now revealed moon light cast very little light through to tiny opening.  I was nearly blind.    I fumbled for my lighter, feeling a wave of relief as I found it's shape in my front right pocket.  I snaked my fingers inside and produced the object.  Two hasty flicks later and I was rewarded with a dull warm glow.  The flame was not bright but it illuminated the small one room shack.  I nearly dropped the lighter when my eyes fell on the object of my quest.  My uncle Jebediah sat in his bentwood rocking chair.  His corpse remained perfectly still.  One hand resting on a bottle in his lap, the other clutched his chest.    A  tear drew a wet line down my cheek as realization of my uncles plight struck me.  Here, I had been surrounded with death for nearly a day and now it hit home.  I reached out and touched his wrist.  It was cold, stiff, and definitely dead.  My uncle had probably succumbed to a heart attack but why he hadn't turned, I had no answer.  I was merely relieved.  If I needed to fight my uncle off or even had seen him walking about undead, it would have devastated me.  This felt natural.  Right.  The way it should be in a world gone mad.  Moaning from outside brought me back to the moment.  Thumb burning from the heat of the flame I swung back toward the window to find a pair of hands reaching inward.  Using a table leg I hoisted my way up to my feet again.  I spied a group of candles on the table and lit them with my no overheated lighter.  Then I began hastily searching through the room for weapons. Increased moaning at the window made me hop faster as I went for the closet near his bed.   I dug through his clothes and in the back of the closet I uncovered three rifles of various calibers and two pistols.  On the top shelf he had tons of ammunition for the weapons.  The 22 caliber rifle and pistol I quickly discarded but his 9mm six shooter I tossed on the table along with two speed loaders.    The moaning took on a choral tone as more undead were gathering at the diminutive opening.  I could hear their hands tearing out chunks of the rotted window frame.  As I hobbled near the window I could see their gray forms as the moonlight robbed them of their natural colors.  They redoubled their efforts as I came into view.  At this distance I dispatched them using only four shots for the three of them.  Hopping closer I spied three more emerging from the trees.  Two were the fast type.    I returned to the rifles and inspected them closer.  They were all junk.  Corrosion rendering them unsafe to handle.  Examining the pistols, I found both to be functional but in need of serious care.  As I used one of the speed loaders to replace the spent cartridges in the revolver I could hear the swift approach of the quicker zombies and knew my time was short.  I whirled toward the open portal and fired as one half dove, half toppled through the yawning window.  Blood spattered the inside sill as it fell partially inside.  Black blood trickled into an ever-growing pool under it's still body.   The other hit the wall at full tilt.  Rotted chunks of the deteriorating wall rained in small arcs across the wood plank floor.  I could feel the whole cabin shake under it's assault.  I planted my feet as best as I could while aiming at the spot I believed my attacker would break through.  Hand shaking, my palms felt slippery as I waited for the inevitable.    It felt like hours, my ankle throbbing in protest of the small amount of weight that I allowed it.  Suddenly the wall burst apart.  I got off one wild shot as the gruesome beast was upon me.  We collapsed back against the table shattering it beneath our weight.  The gun skittering off somewhere into the shadows on the floor.    Somehow I was able to grab both of the monsters shoulders.  It, in turn grabbed mine and attempted to pull me within range of it's snapping mouth.  The stench of it's breath assaulted me and I could feel the slimy coating of it's gore stained shirt.    I was on my back.  I needed to get on top and subdue the zombie so in a practiced wrestling move I dropped my left arm while shifting my right side up.  At the same time I arched my back throwing the off-balanced creature to the left rolling on top of the struggling beast.  The maneuver was swift but took a lot of energy.  My strength was rapidly waning.  I knew I couldn't keep this up indefinitely but yet my opponent could.  I also had the problem of it's slower moving companion.  He would be showing up soon.  Just as I was losing hope I heard a low boom.  My heart quickened as I expected to feel the third one bite down upon my back.  Then I noticed lights dancing through the newly exposed portion of the shack.  The roar of a Chevy engine drew my attention as my hopes were raised, but my excitement turned to panic as my hand slid off the slimy left shoulder of the creature.  Lurching backward and to my right I narrowly avoided it's mouth as it flew upwards now free.     I was on the bottom again my burning muscles trembling under the relentless assault.  I maintained my hold on it's right shoulder as my left grasped the first thing it found.  I had it's wrist.  The moment I realized this I knew it was all over.  The zombie moaned triumphantly and began its unobstructed decent upon my exposed neck just as a blast roared through the small building.    Blood and gore splattered across my upper body and face as the struggling zombie dropped directly on top of me.  Arms and hands flying I pushed the disgusting bulk off of me. I back peddled away from it not trusting that it was truly over.  Vomit flew from my mouth, back arching as I emptied my stomach on the plank floor.  Acid burned my lungs as my body competed for air between eruptions.   When I had settled I looked at the opening and framed in the headlights of the vehicle was Bo.  Shotgun resting its tip on the ground, he looked every bit the hero from an action movie.  Chest heaving with ragged breaths I couldn't say anything.  I just stared, gasping.  "Come on Talbot," he said sounding like a drill Sargent.  "Do I have to pull yer butt outta the fire all day?  Get on yer feet.  All these gun shots are drawing them like a dinner bell."  I breathlessly asked, "How?"  "Bout an hour down the road we got ambushed by a gang of those zombies.  We lost Jim there.  It was about then that we decided we couldn't leave ya to these pieces of crap!"  Bo emphasized the statement by kicking the now still corpse on the floor.  We were silent for a moment.  Each not knowing what to say.  Both lost in our private sorrow.  Bo slowly turned and walked back through the headlights toward the truck.  His shadow grew larger until he vanished from sight.  After finding and lighting a single candle I paid my last respects to my uncle, then pulled an old sheet over his form.  Numbly, I used some water and an old towel to clean myself up as best as I could.  We took what we could salvage from my uncle's home and before leaving set it ablaze.  The old wood caught quickly, flames eagerly licking at the long dried wood.  As we left I watched the glow of my uncle Jebediah's pyre grow smaller in the distance.  My tears faded as the miles wore on.  The next day it was bitter sweet.  Knowing I had lost most of what I knew, but feeling the bond of old enemies turned friends.