Crimson Awakening

Chapter 4

Jenkins dreamed of a dog barking at him. He cracked his eyelids open to find Chico’s wet muzzle inches from his face. He blinked several times, suspecting the barks came from his own dog.

Jenkins frowned. I should’ve never taken him in.

“Shush, Chico. Daddy needs some sleep now …”

The dog walked to the door, where he whined and scratched at it.

Layered on top of Chico’s scratches, others of a more sinister kind made it to Jenkins’ ears. Growls erupted on his front porch, and feet shuffled just outside the door. Through the curtains, silhouettes peered inside, searching for movement. One appeared to be dressed in a uniform. Who the hell called the cops now?

Jenkins stood up and debated between calling 911 or cutting through the chase and blasting the trespassing bastards. He took the good citizen road and dialed 911.

An automated voice prompted him to leave a message, as the line was flooded with other callers.

“Figures …” he mumbled, reaching under the couch for his shotgun. He had flashed it a couple of times in the past and threatened several homeless people after the police had ignored his calls. Just like now.

He loaded two shells and pocketed two more in his sweatpants before approaching the door and listening for a beat. Cracked fingernails scratching the surface and teeth clacking made the hairs on his body stand up.

He yanked the door wide open and pointed the g*n forward. “What the f**k are you doing on my—”

He instantly froze up, the words melting on his lips. The image of horror had slapped him across the face.

A large zombie dressed in a police uniform stared with dark intent. The ashen face, devoid of anything human, was smeared with fresh blood. Peeled back, decomposed skin revealed a grey jawbone. On his neck, dark veins pulsated with dark blood.

A putrid stench hit Jenkins’ senses like a mallet to the head. Instinctively, he pulled the trigger, and a gaping hole appeared in the creature’s chest.

Unfazed, the zombie hissed and grabbed him by the shoulders. Jenkins could swear he saw a mocking smile on the disfigured face. Chico whined and cowered behind Jenkins.

He dropped the shotgun parallel to his body with the barrel sitting beneath the zombie’s chin. Jenkins blasted him again, and the powerful buckshot splattered the zombie’s head in a thousand pieces. The walking corpse with half a face continued to pin him in place.

From the corner of his eye, Jenkins saw two more zombies approaching from the other side of the porch. He had to get rid of the corpse hanging onto him or he would be dead in the next second.

Jenkins shook hard, but the grip was still strong. He kicked the zombie in the groin, which did the trick, as the body fell backward with a thud.

Jenkins stepped back into the house and slammed the door. Not fast enough, though, as an ashen hand squeezed through. Jenkins pushed against its weight. Then, to get more traction, he spun around, planted his bare feet on the floor and threw his whole body into the effort. With a shaky hand, he searched for the other shells in his pocket. The zombies on the other side pressed on, forcing him to slide across the floor and drop the shells.

“f**k you!” Jenkins yelled in frustration, smashing the butt of the g*n against the claw-like hand keeping the door ajar.

The pressure on the door diminished, and Jenkins pushed with all his might until finally the lock clicked in place. With trembling hands, he swiped the shells off the floor.

Loud bangs reverberated from the door, and the hinges shook. Frazzled, Jenkins loaded the shotgun, took a step back, and pointed it at the nuisance outside.

The next second, the flimsy door splintered and swung wide open. Jenkins was ready.

On the coffee table, the phone buzzed.

He blasted the first zombie in the head, splattering his rotten brains all over the doorframe. He then swung the barrel left and right in rapid succession, searching for the second zombie. He found none.

A hiss came from about three feet off the ground, and Jenkins, with adrenaline flooding his body, quickly lowered the g*n. He found a five- or six-year-old boy with blood on his chin and foggy eyes. The boy snapped his jaw and grinned. Scrawny, hook-like hands reached toward Jenkins.

The phone buzzed again.

“You little fucker,” Jenkins barked, blasting the little fellow right in that stupid grin without hesitation.

A powerful shot met no more than fifty pounds of body weight being flung across the porch, resulting in a headless corpse. His flight broke abruptly in Jenkins’ attempt at gardening—a few flaccid rose bushes by the fence.

“And stay off my lawn, you degenerate,” Jenkins spat, suddenly realizing that the neighborhood was in turmoil.

Across the street, on the neighbor’s front lawn, a pair of zombies were munching on the husband’s brain while the wife watched from inside, horrified. Next to her, a teenage boy was filming the spectacle, careful not to miss the action. Later that evening, he planned to upload the footage onto the internet and start a “Stash Me” page for his father’s funeral. Or for a new phone. He wasn’t sure yet.

Jenkins shook his head and spat the words, “Degenerates, you all are!”

He went back to his ammo box and loaded the shotgun to the gills. Whatever was left, he stuffed into his pants. Then Jenkins walked out and peered down the block.

At almost every house, small groups of ashen creatures gathered and made a ruckus. In the distance, columns of smoke climbed up into the blue sky and sirens pierced the air. Fire trucks drove through the intersection at high speeds; Jenkins noticed b****y limbs mangled on the front bumper. A few cars were turned on their sides or smashed into fences or electrical poles. Here and there, gunfire rang, and a general buzz hummed throughout the neighborhood.

As the last effects of his drinking binge evaporated, the horror of the present settled in. The feeling escalated. Damn! This s**t is real.

Memories of the late-night news returned, and he recalled a series of words and images shuffled together. “Infection, buried people, Zicomer, cemetery …”

“What the hell? If this did happen, then …”

He walked to the small coffee table to check his phone and see who was in the mood for a conversation this early in the morning. The phone showed one voicemail. He set it down, looked at the busted door, and sighed. I need a drink.

Halfway to the fridge, new images came pouring down into his brain. His son, Joshua, was in Florida with his mom—the b***h, and that Rick the d**k stepfather—visiting Disneyworld.

He turned around, grabbed his phone, and called his son.

“Pick up, pick, up …” Jenkins said to no one.

Finally, a sleepy voice answered, “Dad?”

“Josh, get your mother and … Rick and get somewhere safe.”

“Why? What’s going on?”

“Zombies, son. They are everywhere. Call your mother. Where is she?”

“Zombies?” Josh’s voice shoot up with excitement. “Cool.”

“No, it’s not cool. Listen, just get your mother. I need to talk to her,” Jenkins said then paused, waiting. When nothing happened, he said, “Now, Josh.”

“All right … hold on a minute.”

Jenkins heard Joshua calling to his mother in the other room then returned to the phone.

“Are they for real, Dad?”

“Who? Zombies? Oh yeah, I blasted like two—three of them already.”

“Wow! That’s so cool … Um … Here’s Mom.”

After a short shuffle, Jenkins heard his ex-wife’s voice through the speaker. She sounded annoyed, as always when he called.

“What is it now, Fred?”

“Bridgette, listen, there’s an infection going on, and you and the boy need to get to safety. Grab—”

“Fred! I’m in no mood for your crap. Stop with the nonsense. Is this another one of your doom’s day scenarios? In what bottle did you find this one?”

Bitch! Jenkins took a deep breath and struggled not to hang up the phone, as he had many times before. This time was different. He tried, and mostly succeeded, to keep calm.

“Bridgette, it’s all over the news. Just check it, and then we can talk like adults. Okay? Call me when you are convinced. Bye.” He hung up, and then said, “b***h!”

Chico looked at him, shuffling though his small dog memory for the word. He knew Jenkins was referring to the woman who he used to live with a while back. Chico, like Jenkins, didn’t like her either. She never paid attention to him.

Jenkins waited, caught between a drink while waiting for Bridgette’s callback or checking his voicemail. The hell with the wait and the voicemail. If it’s important, they’ll call back, he quickly eliminated his options. Instead, he decided that fixing the door was more important.

He walked through the living room, down the hallway, and into the garage where the old front door, painted in an obnoxious red, rested against the wall. “It’s oxblood red, Fred,” Bridgette had once declared snobbishly. “And it’s Fung Shui, too. It will bring us luck.” Yeah, right. Luck for her maybe. Money was all she cared about. And other men.

Jenkins picked up the door, lugged it up front, and then went back to pick up some tools, grabbing a beer on the way. Might as well have some fun while working.

With all the pieces in place, he worked fast, getting everything done within twenty minutes. Then he stepped back, admiring the door back on its hinges, and took a sip of beer. Yep, I can still do things.

He looked at the phone. No calls, though the voicemail continued to blink unchecked. It can wait, he decided, redialing Josh’s number.

“Yeah …?” Bridgette answered.

“So, did you see it? It’s crazy, right?” Jenkins asked then waited for confirmation.

On the other end, barely aware she was holding a phone, Bridgette’s eyes were glued to the TV screen. With news around the world transmitting horrifying images of mayhem and destruction, Bridgette barely kept in check from not plunging into hysteria.

“Lock yourselves in the room, Bridgette,” Jenkins said with a hint of worry. “Hopefully, the military will be on this pronto.” He paused, listening, wondering if anything he said registered with his ex-wife. “Bridgette!” Jenkins called out.

“Yeah …”

“Woman! Wake up!” he shouted into the speaker.

“Yes …” Then she hung up the phone, transfixed on the terrible images sprawled on the screen.

Back in Long Beach, Jenkins looked at the phone as he slowly set it on the coffee table. He refused to call her names and just prayed his son was okay.

He looked around the room. Who’s to say these monsters won’t come through the windows?

Jenkins went back to the garage and fetched a Black & Decker handsaw, more nails, and some screws. He started to cut down furniture. Dining room table? Who’s coming for dinner anyway? Dresser? What’s the closet for then?

One by one, large pieces of furniture ended up in planks, nailed or screwed against the windows. He worked for hours. As a final piece, he hauled his g*n rack down and pushed it against the front door. Then he did a last, thorough inspection to make sure everything was bolted down, nailed, and secured, and no zombie, no matter how strong, would break into his little fortress. At least, he hoped.

Chico whined. What if I let him out? Chico looked up at him with large, wet eyes like only a dog could. Jenkins chuckled.

“You can stay, pooch. But you’ll be on your own if you go in the backyard for your craps. I’m not going out there. Papa will protect you from a safe distance, okay, Chico?”

The dog sensed the mood changing in the room, approached slowly, and licked Jenkins’ hand.

Dogs are great. What the hell was I thinking kicking out poor little Chico? He blamed himself for even thinking it. Jesus … what a bastard I am.

He sat back on the couch and looked around at the furniture-deserted room. Looks much better now. Then he grabbed his phone.

What was that dude’s name? Viking something? Nah … Ray, maybe? s**t, I’m getting old … I’ll look like an a*s. I’ll call him Sergeant.

As Jenkins checked his voicemail, pressure from outside was put on the back door. After a few seconds, a ghoulish head peered inside through the door flap. The zombie snapped his jaws and sniffed the air in the house. A blob of blood mixed with puss dropped onto the floor. The creature then growled and retreated.

Chico whined and approached the back door.