Crimson Awakening

Chapter 8

Crimson Awakening

Chapter 8

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Chapter 8

Jenkins stood up, turned his back toward the door, and then pushed against it. He had two options: either abandon that part of the house and retreat into the living room or blast his way out, kill the zombies, and reconquer his backyard. He decided he would fight and sacrifice the back door in favor of killing the zombies. I'll fix it later. Jenkins loaded his Mossberg 500 shotgun with every shell he could find in his pockets.

As Chico continued his ruckus, Jenkins shooed him away so he could listen to the noises outside. With tail between his legs, Chico walked toward the living room, not quite understanding why the human was upset.

Jenkins put an ear to the door and listened. He counted the shuffles and grunts of two creatures outside his door. He waited until he clearly heard two separate growls then stepped back from the door. Glued to the opposite wall, he pulled the trigger.

Three shots rang throughout the house, and the door splintered. Gurgling sounds followed.

Jenkins peered outside through the holes in the door. The powerful buckshots had flung the two zombies several yards away, and they were now twitching and twisting on the ground like macabre contortionists. With holes the size of milk jugs in their bodies, they were still very much alive.

Jenkins stole a glance left then right, worried he might be ambushed again. Then he strode toward the zombies. Without a trace of remorse, he shot them in the head, and they stopped twitching.

The wood shelves in the closet. The idea on how to fix the back door dawned on him.

"Including the flap," he said to Chico.

The dog wagged his tail, glad the human was in a better mood, and approached him. He sniffed his feet, and Jenkins realized he was barefoot, with blood and bits of rotten flesh sprayed all over. The idea of trampling it all over the house did not sit well with him.

He turned to the dog. "Go bring a towel, Chico. Go on, boy. Go."

Chico hesitated for a beat then ran into the living room. He returned with an empty bottle of beer in his mouth. Proud of his accomplishment, he deposited at Jenkins' feet.

"You know me well, Chico"—Jenkins sighed—"but I need a towel. Towel!" he yelled, thinking that an increase in tone would make the dog understand.

The dog went back into the house. Surprisingly, he returned with a towel, depositing it next to Jenkins then waiting for the praise.

"Good boy, Chico, good boy," Jenkins cheered the dog.

Chico wagged his tail.

Jenkins sat on the step and wiped his feet. Then he leaped into the house and, in three long strides, made it into the bathroom. Running the water, he cleaned himself thoroughly. Then he reached under the sink and grabbed a large plastic bottle of bleach. He doused his feet with the liquid then walked out, changed into different socks and shoes, and cleaned every inch of the hallway leading to the back door.

Next, Jenkins walked around the house, hunting for shelves. He nailed all he could find then stepped back to admire his masterpiece. Happy with the result, he walked back into the kitchen and grabbed the last beer in the fridge. Damn! He returned to the couch, turned on the TV, and after vigorously switching channels, he found no stations transmitting, just the banner running across the screen with the Emergency Alert System.

Outside, the constant noise of alarms, sirens, explosions, and the occasional gunshots became almost immune to his ears. He paid no attention.

He turned to Chico. Now what?

Jenkins needed groceries, and he was running low on the pooch's food, too. Eventually, he had to go to Sylvania Labs and prep a room for Rey and his wife, but he had no idea how he would accomplish that. With all the doors and windows boarded, he needed a vantage point. The roof.

He emptied the beer then looked at the bottle. Time to quit, I guess.

Jenkins headed for the attic ladder. He pulled the cord, unfolded the stairs, and then climbed up. He looked around and figured that this was a good place to hide if zombies ever entered the house.

He carefully walked to the side of the house facing the street. There, he broke through a spot where termites seemed to have settled and broke through the flimsy wood. He pushed the shingles to the side then stuck his head out. The image hit him like a train.

Up and down the street, the neighborhood was unrecognizable. It looked more like the ruins of Kandahar or some other shithole he had been deployed to during his stint in the military. In front of boarded houses, a couple of palm trees were burning. The street was punctured with overturned cars; some smashed into electrical poles. Garbage bins and refuse filled the sidewalks.

Almost at every house, groups of ashen creatures were shuffling and growling, waiting for something. Several mangled bodies lay on the ground with blood splattered around them, mostly from the neck and head.

Two zombies perched like vultures on top of the body of a man, chewing raw flesh and sucking bone marrow. Jenkins recognized the two zombies—they were the mother and son, consuming whatever was left of their husband and father, killed earlier in the day.

"f*****g animals," Jenkins grumbled, looking away.

In the driveway, his car—a small VW Jetta—was still intact. He could sneak out, jump in the car, and drive to the lab. However, he had to figure out a way to lock the house so there were no surprises when he returned. If I return. Groceries were another problem. s**t!

He climbed down, walked back into the living room, and looked around.

Why would I return? The lab could be a perfect place to hunker down. It had backup generators, running water, plenty of offices to sleep in and, more importantly, restaurants with food probably stored in their refrigerators just across the street. The lab it is. But ... what if they go in there, too? I can always come back here. He thought for a beat then decided to take his chances.

"No idea what you're gonna have, Chico. Sorry, you better get used to human food," he said to the dog.

"It's a plan, Chico," Jenkins decided. "Get your toothbrush and your slippers, 'cause we're going camping, buddy."

Jenkins walked into his bedroom, grabbing a bunch of clothes and some personal items. He stuffed them in a black garbage bag, grabbed Chico's leash, and then walked to the door. From the small bowl by the door, he grabbed his keys, phone, and the lab keys. He was ready.

Oops, the shotgun.

He picked it up then raided his g*n safe of all the boxes of shells, throwing them into the bag.

He stopped for one last check by the door and looked around.

"Now we are ready," he said, pulling Chico by the leash to walk close to him.

He pushed the large g*n shelf to the side, unlocked the door, and then cracked it open, peeking outside. Nothing. He pressed the remote key and, with a click, the car doors unlocked.

Jenkins pulled Chico closer and squeezed the bag and the shotgun. He looked at Chico with suspicious eyes. You better not bark.

Chico looked at him then averted his eyes, as if saying, "I might. Don't know yet ..."

Jenkins had to move fast.

Walking low to the ground, he reached the car, opened the door, and sneaked inside. Chico followed, taking his seat on the passenger side. Jenkins then locked the doors and let a long breath escape his lungs. Sweat dripped off his forehead, and his heart thumped in his ears.

He put the key in the ignition, but when he was about to turn it, he heard a scratch on the hood of the car. He lifted his head and froze. Directly in front of the car, the mother and son from across the street, having abandoned their spoiled meal, stared at him through foggy eyes, their heads c****d to the side, as if they couldn't quite understand what Jenkins and the dog were doing in the car. The gaps in their head that used to be mouths were covered in blood and gore. The woman had half her face peeled off, and chunks of skin hung loose down her cheeks. With every move, the skin flapped back and forth, slapping against rotten bones. Then the woman shrieked, as if calling on more of the horde to help. Her son clacked his teeth and snapped his jaw at Jenkins.

Adrenalize buzzing, Jenkins turned the engine over and pressed so hard on the gas pedal that he was sure it touched the ground beneath the car. The engine drowned with the sudden surge of gasoline and stalled.

"f*****g great!" Jenkins turned the key again.

The Jetta sputtered and shuddered.

He descended into hysteria. "Come on, you Nazi piece of s**t. Go!"

The Nazi piece of s**t buckled, as if scared of what Jenkins just yelled, and bolted out of the driveway like a rocket. He ran over the two zombies, catching the son under the wheels, and then ended up running over him.

The woman flopped on top of the hood and smashed into the car's windshield. The contact with the zombie's head cracked the windshield, and green and yellow puss, combined with dark blood and rotten teeth, found their way into the cracks. Chunks of her flapping skin plastered to the glass.

"You people are disgusting! You've always been disgusting!" Jenkins yelled, looking between streaks of blood and gore smeared on the windshield.

The Jetta farted a blue smoke through its exhaust pipes as Jenkins turned left out of the driveway and sped down the street.

He looked to his right. Where the f**k is he?

He called on the dog, and Chico's whine came from behind him. Scared out of his dog mind, he had curled up behind Jenkins' seat on the floor, crying and shaking.

"Come here, Chico. Come here, boy," Jenkins encouraged him in a soft voice, suddenly feeling really bad for the dog. "I know you're a lover, not a hater. Come here, Chico." He spoke soothingly to the dog all the way to the lab.

Sylvania Labs was only two miles down the street, so if the road was somewhat clear, he might have a chance. As it was, the street was somewhat deserted, with zombies here and there, busy munching on bodies piled on the sides of the streets. Several times, zombies decided to sprint behind the car, but Jenkins lost them, accelerating at the risk of hitting other cars abandoned on the road.

Finally, he reached the front gate of the lab and slowed down, scanning his surroundings. In the past, demonstrators had threatened to force their way into the facilities, so management had swiftly ordered the construction of a solid fence around the perimeter.

He passed The Leaning Tower of Pizza joint on the left and instantly salivated for one of Matteo's sandwiches. I hope the old man is okay.

Jenkins turned right, driving to the back of Sylvania Labs. He pressed the button on the remote, and the gates opened silently. He drove inside the perimeter, parking close to the stairs leading toward the back door. He kept the engine running and waited.

After scanning his surroundings, he saw no movement. He looked at Chico for any indication of danger. The pooch seemed content and relaxed.

Jenkins grabbed his g*n, opened the door, and sneaked into the building, quiet as a mouse. He walked the ground floor hallway, opened several doors, and yelled, "Hello." No movement, no weird grunts, no feet shuffling. Jenkins exhaled a lungful.

He thought it was strange that nobody was around, not even a regular workaholic, and then he remembered the infection had happened over the weekend. Makes sense. So, I'm alone, just the way I like it. He thought of Chico left in the car and felt guilty for saying that.

He went back to the car, grabbed Chico and his bag, and then vanished back into the building.

Up on the second floor, a pair of eyes watched his every move on a monitor.