The Book of Kris

Crew-cut pulled out his sidearm and pointed it at Kris. He turned and stepped towards her and extended his arms with one hand gripping the weapon. The other hand was used to steady himself against the side of the truck. Kris watched his mouth move, but the world had gone silent. His lips formed the word “Freeze!” but there was no sound. His thumb flicked the safety off on his sidearm. Inside the gun, the sound of the spring that retracted the pin to keep the trigger mechanism from engaging was loud enough to make Kris wince. As Crew-cut inserted his index finger inside the guard, she heard the skin on his finger scrape against the metal. In her mind, the sound was like nails wracking down a chalkboard. The bones in his wrist were grinding together as his wrist muscles tightened up in preparation for the recoil of the heavy pistol.

“Wait! I’m not!” She shouted, scooting her way to the edge of the seat. Inside her head, her voice sounded hollow and drawn out. It was like she was speaking into a silent vacuum and her voice was swallowed up into silent nothingness. Did her voice even reach the air, or had she merely created the thought in her mind? “I’m human just like you are. I think. I feel. I breathe!” Kris placed her feet on the pavement and stood up, just outside of the Humvee door.

Crew-cut looked at her in the eyes. There was something there, he thought. The Infected he’d seen had all been lifeless. They didn’t speak; all they did was eat people. He had watched them shovel human flesh into their mouths, teeth gnashing and tearing apart muscle and bone. He’d grown up watching zombie movies and these things were just like the zombies in all those films. Kris was, in his opinion, not a zombie.

Prick yelled, “Shoot that bitch!” He moved around the front of the truck, reaching for his side-arm. “Everyone fucking knows when a god damn zombie bites you, you’re fucking toast. Put her down before she turns into one, or before she bites us!” He fumbled at the holster for a moment before realizing that his gun was missing.

“She’s not one of them,” Crew-cut yelled. “She’s not a zombie, jack ass. She’s breathing. She’s talking for fucks sake.”

“Maybe. Just you wait,” the man in black swimming trunks said darkly. He was suddenly standing behind Prick with the missing side-arm in his hand. Prick was furious at himself for not paying attention to his surroundings and letting a dangerous man get his hands on a weapon, “But I’m not going to give you fucks enough time to get us all killed.” He lifted the gun and Kris heard the trigger pull back.

Oh fuck, Kris thought sadly and then the Voice finally chimed in. Understand death? Sure. That was when the monsters got you. Salem’s Lot, chapter 6.

All of the voices and sounds around her were strained and warped in her ears. Her world had slowed down to a crawl, but her brain was processing everything. She heard his breath whistle through his teeth, the tendons in his arm tightening and the hammer slide back from its resting position as his finger applied five pounds of force to the trigger. Kris closed her eyes and turned her head to one side. She didn’t want to see the bullet leave the chamber.

Are you giving up, Kris?

It’s not giving up if you’re resigning yourself to your fate.

What’s the difference, baby?

She heard the SNICK just before he pulled the trigger and a ear thundering blast rocked through the air. Kris’s body flinched in response, but the bullet never reached her. The gun wasn’t even aimed at her.

She twisted back around. Crew-cut had turned his attention to the left and fired at an shuffling old man. The elderly gentleman had a hole torn through his upper right shoulder and Kris could see strings of muscle dangling out of the wound. The bullet hit the old man in the chest and with horror, Kris saw that he was still coming in towards them. The crater the bullet left in his chest was so huge that Kris could see the first rays of daylight trickle through it. Crew-cut adjusted his aim and fired again, hitting the zombie in the head. The .45 caliber bullet entered through his right cheek and blew out the back of his skull. As the back of his head blew out, blood and gore covered the other eleven zombies that were coming up behind him. The corpse crumbled and fell to the ground, never to move again.

Prick ran back around behind the truck, frantically searching for a weapon. He found an M16 by the driver’s side seat and grabbed it. The weapon was resting tightly against his shoulder as he came to stand next to Crew-cut. He swore loudly and opened fire on the horde of zombies. As bullets flew through the air, the men in fatigues were shouting. The pitch of their voices was approaching hysterical. They sounded like caged animals tearing at the bars of their prison cells.

CLICK CLICK CLICK The man in the swimming trunks had already spent the entire magazine that was in the gun, but continued to pull the trigger. His words were laced with profanity with each empty click and he didn’t understand why there weren’t any more bullets. Three zombies were almost on top of him and with a frantic glance around him, he resorted to using the empty Beretta as a club. He flipped the gun around and grabbed it by the barrel and began swimming with the butt of the grip. The man managed to get three swings before they had their hands on him. Their teeth were bared as they mercilessly tore into him.

One pair of teeth closed around his bicep, biting down harder than any human should be able to. The teeth slowly tore into the flesh, pinching and ripping through the muscle that controlled his arm. His elbow reflexively bent, curling the zombie’s head up in his arm. Another zombie bit into his shoulder, pulling a large chunk of flesh from the base of his neck. Strings of muscle flossed the gore of other victims out from between its teeth as it pulled its head back. The third caught his left hand, biting through his middle and index fingers. It chewed the fingers twice before biting again, clamping down on the stumps and pulling the flesh of his hand off like a glove, leaving a skeletal hand in its place. The man in black trunks filled the air with screams of agony. Kris watched in horror as they tore his body apart. She had to get out of here.

Run, Kris. Move your feet, she told herself. One foot after the other. All it takes is one step.

Shots from the other Baretta and the M16 rang through the air as the man in swimming trunks was finished off. There were seven remaining zombies that were still shuffling towards the men in fatigues and Kris could not see any sort of positive outcome. She turned and ran. Three steps later she looked for a place to go. She decided she needed to get some objects between her and the zombies, maybe if they couldn’t see her, they wouldn’t follow.

The Humvee had traveled across the Oregon Inlet Bridge and stopped about eight miles outside of Rodanthe and Kris found herself in the middle of nothing but vacant, empty shrubbery, dunes and sand. This just kept getting worse. The only thing she could do now was just run. While heading south towards Rodanthe might have been a more logical choice, Kris could only think of getting back home. Judging from her surroundings as she ran, she figured she was in the Pea Island wildlife refuge portion of Hatteras Island. She was around twenty miles away from home which would be a hell of a trip. Thankfully, Kris still had her backpack so running out of food and water wouldn’t be an issue. The problem was that this long stretch of unoccupied beach left Kris with no where to hide.

Just keep running. Don’t look back.

Kris kept running until she couldn’t hear the gunshots anymore. She was vaguely aware of an explosion that rattled the outside of her shield, but Kris didn’t think much of it. The sun was slowly pulling itself up over the ocean’s horizon. It shined like liquid gold as it separated from the water and the warm summer sky lit up with streaks of pink, orange and yellow. Hell had erupted onto the shores of the Outer Banks and no one was there to see that sunrise.

Twenty minutes passed before Kris noticed that she was still running. Her breathing came in short, sharp gasps as she stumbled down on the side of the road and her knees crashed against the pavement. She fell over onto her side, feeling defeated.

Kris had sealed herself inside her dome of silence. Living in the absolute stillness of her mind was safer than allowing the outside world to touch her. The only reason she was aware that a vehicle was tearing up route 12 was because she could feel the ground shaking. Pushing herself up to her knees, Kris looked south down the road and saw a bright red Jeep flying towards her. She could see a woman sitting in the front seat with the butt of a shotgun resting on her thigh. The barrel was pointed straight up. The woman wore aviator sunglasses and her blonde hair was up in a messy, high bun.

Kris jumped up and ran into the middle of the road, waving her arms. The Jeep slowed down as it reached her and the woman had the shotgun tight against her shoulder as the vehicle came to a stop.

“What do you want?”

Kris had her hands raised, “I’m completely unarmed. I just need a ride.”

The woman used her left hand to pull her sunglasses up onto the crown of her head and looked at Kris in the eye. “How do I know you’re not one of them? Where’d you come from?”

“Uh…well, I got picked up by these military guys…” Kris trailed off, suddenly feeling very distracted. It was remarkable how absolutely gorgeous the blonde was. “Right! Anyway. I got picked up by these military guys. Shit went down and then those…things showed up. So I ran.”

“You mean that Humvee back there? Fuck me. That thing was blown to hell. One of them must have used a grenade to take them out,” she shook her head. “Get in. We’re getting the hell out of here,” she said and lowered the gun.

“Thank you,” Kris said as she jogged around to the other side of the Jeep. The woman had taken the doors off of the vehicle. Kris hopped in and latched her seat belt. The woman next to her slid her sunglasses back down over her blue eyes.

“I’m Mackenzie. Let’s just stick with Mac,” she said, her hand moving the stick into first gear just before she slowly let the clutch out.

“Kris.”

The screen door to Kris’s house opened abruptly and Kris heard someone wrapping their knuckles against the wooden front door. “If there is anyone alive in this house, open up!” A voice called out. His sounded sharp and stern – pure business. Kris immediately hated him. The tone of his voice reminded her of a piece-of-shit guy she met at a college party. Bastard wouldn’t take “no” for an answer. Loosen up, baby. It’s just a shot of Vlady. Won’t hurt anything. The Voice reminded her. But six shots and three beers later, Kris found herself on the bathroom floor of the frat house, screaming for him to stop and anyone that was nearby only peered in the door to watch it unfold. No one pulled him off of her. No one tried to save her like they always did in the movies. That was the day Kris decided that the only person she could depend on was herself and to hell with anyone that tried to get in her way.

And once again, Jeff had proven her wrong. He had drifted into her life, not caring about what baggage she had. Hand in hand, he walked the road of recovery with her. By his words and actions, he had won her heart and her trust, never asking her to be anything other than what she was. It was them against the world…

Us against the world.

Kris groaned and turned over in her bed. Maybe if she ignored him, the man with the prick-ish voice would go away. The silence that followed that was long enough for Kris to drift back off into blissful slumber. Then the knocking returned and she was jarred from her sleep. “If no one comes to open this door in 15 seconds, we’re breaking down the door.”

Jeff always told her that you could tell a lot about a person by the way they sounded. If he sounds like a sumbitch, then he is a sumbitch. Dealing with people on a regular basis gave him a wonderful, insightful view of humanity. He had a unique talent to look at someone and immediately know everything about them. It was a trait Kris had always deeply admired.

“Fuck me,” Kris murmured and rolled out of bed, “Yeah, I’m here. I’ll be right there,” she shouted. The room was completely dark as Kris shuffled awkwardly across the floor to her antique Rococo, six drawer dresser. It was painted dark teal with black stripes sponge-painted onto its face. The antiques dealer almost had a heart attack when Kris told them what she was going to do with the iconic piece of furniture. But like with most things, Kris didn’t give a fuck what anyone else said. It was her way, or the highway. Christ, what time is it? She thought and looked to her side table clock. It was flashing 12:00, 12:00, 12:00. Red flashing lights. It made her feel desperately uneasy. There must have been a power surge sometime when she was sleeping. One, two, three o’clock, four o’clock rock, the Voice sang. Shut it! Kris screamed in response.

Kris shook her head, trying to clear the Voice out of her mind. She pulled open the top drawer and grabbed the first panties and bra she could find. Pulling out the second and third drawers she grabbed khaki coloured linen Bermuda shorts and a plumb coloured long sleeved tee shirt, respectively. She pulled them onto her body as she hopped her way over to the door and opened it by a crack.

The men standing on her front porch were not from the police department. The two of them wore green military digital camo with heavy black boots and huge guns that Kris didn’t recognize. They did not carry a sense of calm control. Their presence actually pissed her off. As the door opened, the men tightly raised their guns in a greeting. She greeted them with the raise of her right eyebrow in response, “Can I help you?”

It was obvious that the men in fatigues were not impressed as one of them roughly pushed the door open, shoving Kris to the side. “What the fuck!” She yelled as she stumbled over herself and tripped to to the floor. The two men took the liberty of inviting themselves inside her home. Kris noted that their boots were muddy as they took a step into her tiny foyer. Mud ran down the side of their boots and dripped down onto her restored cork floor. Bastards.

“Were you bit?” The one on the right said, pointing his overly ambitious gun in her face. He was the one that sounded like the prick from college.

She glared up at him from the floor, incredulous. “What? No,” she spat at him. “Why the hell do you even care?”

“We’re clearing everyone out of the area. Get your shit in gear. Don’t bother with any weapons; bring only what you need.”

“Clearing everyone out?” She asked as she stood up. Kris looked over at them, hoping for a response. The two men only stood there, watching her intently with their jaws tightly clenched down. They were silent.

Kris was seething as she packed four days worth of clothing, six apples, four packets of Lance crackers, two bottles of water, sunscreen, a Maglight flashlight and a change of batteries. These pricks were treating her like a criminal in her own home. What right did they have? If Jeff were here…

Jeff.

She pushed the thought aside as she moved from the bedroom and back through the kitchen. Kris had traded her linen pants and bare feet for denim cropped shorts and heavy, steel-toed Timberland boots (Daisy Dukes, bikinis on top, she thought as she laced them up) and walked back into the living room. The military men never moved as she slung her backpack over her shoulder and stood in front of them. Kris stood at 5’7” and she could look the one with the prick-ish voice in the eye. So she did.

The man shifted his weight out of annoyance and then snapped, “Let’s move,” and stepped to one side to let Kris walk past him. They were in tight against her, rapidly moving her across the deck, down the stairs, across the sand and threw her into the back of the green Humvee. “Lovely manners, gentlemen,” she muttered and they closed the door in her face.

Inside the back of the vehicle with her were two men and she didn’t recognize either of them and they certainly didn’t look like locals. One of them had blood streaked through his silver hair and over his hands. He was shaking violently as he stared at the floor. The other man had red hair and was looking absent-mindedly out of the Humvee window. He was humming “Stars and Stripes Forever” lightly to himself and his fingers were drumming against the seat, mimicking the part of the low brass. As the Humvee bounced over the sand, Kris could see that the man covered in blood was getting progressively more and more angry at the ginger opposed to him. Each time the other man’s digits hit the seat, the blood-stained man cringed and gritted his teeth.

The Humvee bounded across a yard and rattled onto route 12, heading south towards Hatteras Island. That seemed strange to Kris. Why would they take them farther away from the mainland? Route 12 ended in a ferry that would take them down to Ocracoke Island and from Ocracoke Island, they could take another ferry inland to either Swan Quarter or Cedar Island. Both of those areas were rather remote and very under populated. If they were going to set up a quarantine, those would be ideal locations. The only reason Kris could see that they would bother taking the ferries was because the main road was completely blocked. Just the idea of the road being impassable even by military made her uneasy.

“Hey,” the man with silver hair and black swimming trunks said, “Could you stop humming? I’m dealing with a lot of shit, here.” Kris could hear that his tone was sharp, pinched and boarder-line hysterical. If the military men sitting the front seats heard anything, they were ignoring it completely.

Expression of rage can be very intense, often distinguished by distorted facial expressions and by threat (or execution) of a physical attack. Rage is associated with individuals who experience psycho-pathological issues. This can lead to physical violence resulting in serious injury or death.

The red-haired man suddenly changed from soft humming to a whistle. As the pitch of the whistle approached piccolo heights, the silver-haired man growled through clenched teeth. “If you don’t shut the hell up, I am going to make you shut up.”

The singer paid him no mind and the tone of his whistle went higher and higher as the piccolo solo hit its peak. Kris watched a vein on the silver-haired man bulge out of his head and a bellow exploded out of his mouth. In a flash, the ginger had his face mashed up against the bullet-proof glass. Blood stained hands were driving his forehead into the glass again and again. With each blow, the grey-haired man shouted in triumph and screamed, “Watch you sing now, you fat fuck!”

“Jesus Christ!” Kris yelled, throwing herself back against the seat of the vehicle. His head smashed into the glass until Kris saw blood trickling down the side of the Humvee. The man was convulsing now and Kris heard his heart stutter and then stop beating. The men in uniform in the front were shouting now and the vehicle screeched to a stop. Kris’s body lurched forward and her head bounced against the back of the driver’s-side seat. Silver Hair turned her way and had an insane smile on his face. His head was tilted slightly to the side as he said, “You’re next, princess,” and lunged for her. Kris screamed and felt the dome around her harden into a solid brick wall. The man’s fingers collided with the shield and he shouted in pain, gripping his hands as if he had jammed them in a car door. The man looked at her with pure horror on his face and just as he was about to dive at her again, the military men opened the Humvee door and tore him from his seat.

“She’s one of them!” He roared. “She’s one of those freaks that killed my Emily!”

Step one: get to the truck. Step two: start truck. Step three: get out of the parking lot and avoid the wreck. Step four: get to the house and figure out what to do next. One thing at a time. You’ve got this, baby.

The late July sun was high and hot with the temperature sitting around 98 degrees. The moment Kris was out of the restaurant, she could feel her skin getting damp from the humidity. Looking around, Kris saw that there was not a single cloud in the sky. There was a soft breeze coming off of the ocean that would keep the mosquitoes away. It was perfect weather for the beach but she had a feeling that no one would be enjoying the surf and sand today. As she ran, she could feel the heat rising up out of the stones from baking in the sun all day.

As an almost unspoken rule, the locals never locked their cars. Most of the residents left their keys in the ignition because the crime rate in the area was so low that the fear of theft was rarely an issue. The windows in the truck were down and from what Kris could see, no one had been in the truck since she and Jeff got to the restaurant that morning. She opened the truck door and pulled the .45 out of her jeans and laid in on the passenger’s seat. Kris stowed the baseball bat close to the gun. The keys never left her hand as she jumped in and swiftly started the truck.

Kris and Jeff lived in one of the oldest homes in the town and it was the only safe place she could think of at the time. She drove off across the gravel parking lot and sat idle at the edge of the driveway. Looking to the left, she saw an old couple shuffling awkwardly down the center of the street towards her. Between Kris and them, three cars had crashed and they completely covered one side of the road. There was a section of the road open, but the old couple was almost directly in the middle of it. She wouldn’t be able to get around them. Route 12, through this portion of Nag’s Head, was very narrow with deep ditches that ran on either side of the road that were always full of water. The ditches dropped at such a sharp angle that even in the truck, she would not be able to get around the couple.

She looked to the right and saw that the entire road was blocked with more cars. With an annoyed sigh, she realized she would have to wait for the couple to saunter through the opening between the cars and then get the hell out of the way before she could drive through. Shit, I don’t have time for this, she thought. Kris drummed her fingers on the steering wheel, impatiently tapping her foot.

Just outside her concentration, Kris heard four large trashcans crash to the gravel driveway. They sounded like the ones that were right behind the back door of the restaurant. Concentrating on the world around her, Kris expanded her sphere of silence and projected it across the parking lot and around the restaurant. In her mind, Kris could visualise the entire area and saw that there was a group of eight people moving across the back of the building. The way their feet struck the ground rang sharp and distinct in her ears, but Kris could not pick out a single heartbeat between them. They were moving fast – much faster than the creatures she killed in the restaurant. Aside from the few movies she had seen, Kris’s knowledge of zombies was very limited. Ever the pessimist, Kris had a picture in her mind of getting swarmed by the small horde. They would pull the door open, lift her from the truck and tear her limb from limb, devouring her flesh. She was certain this situation was about to get very ugly.

You have two options. Option one: wait for them to get to you. You would be able to take out two of them, but you would be dead shortly after that Option two: run down the old couple and get to safety.

You’ve got to be kidding me.

This is as black and white as it gets. Either sit here and die or run them down and live to fight tomorrow. It’s your choice.

The group of eight was closing in fast and she had to make up her mind. That couple was no longer alive. Running them over would be like putting a sick animal down. It was the humane thing to do. Keep telling yourself that, Kris. “Fuck!” Kris shouted and slammed her hand against the steering wheel and put the truck into drive. One of the zombies had reached the side of the truck. Its hand was reaching for the handle of the door as Kris smashed down on the accelerator, turning a hard left.

The truck crashed against the old couple and they crumbled to the ground. Kris heard their bones snap and crack as the tires tumbled over them. The cab jostled slightly as the front tire came down on the skull of the woman. It popped like a balloon spewing her brains all over the underside of the truck and across the pavement.

Kris floored it and tore down route 12, weaving through the road to avoid the wrecked cars and shuffling zombies. Two blocks down, she could see dark, choking smoke billowing out of one of the locally owned grocery stores. With sadness, she saw that it was the same store she worked in all through high school. As she drove by, she saw that there was a small group of people, still very alive, breaking into the building and looting it. Their arms were full of canned food, cases of bottled water, and flashlights. In passing, she saw that one man was pointing a revolver at another man who was carrying the last case of water. Kris heard the shot ring out a half block later.

Get to the house. Wait it out. If you stay calm and don’t lose your head, you’ll make it, Kris told herself. She felt comfortably detached from the entire situation. It was like she was watching a movie and everything that she experienced was happening to someone else. Processing and dealing with strong emotions was not something Kris did very well. It had always been easier to box them up, push them to the back of her mind and deal with them later. Thankfully, “later” was a vague term and truth be told, she never dealt with them later. She never dealt with them at all.

The rest of the drive to her house was uneventful. She breathed a sigh of relief as she pulled off of the main road and across the sand to get to her house. Built in 1921, her home was one of the first houses built in Nag’s Head. Sitting directly on the beach, the house was only 300 yards from the surf during high tide; it was amazing that the home was even still standing after all these years. Hurricane Emily in 1993 was almost the ending point of the historic home, but Kris’s grandparents had pulled enough money together to completely repair the damages to the house. The wooden shingles that covered the house had been replaced the previous spring and Kris noted with pride that it almost looked new. That little house had become her pride and joy and she felt blessed to have shared that home with Jeff. As with most of the old homes, it sat up on posts high above the sand. There was enough space for two cars to park under the home, but Jeff’s truck was too large to fit. All of the windows and doors had dark green hurricane shutters on them. There was a large deck that wrapped around the entire house that was full of brightly colored rocking chairs. Kris had hand painted each of them with great care.

It was a two story, three bedroom home with a small kitchen, living room and a breakfast nook. It wasn’t very large, but it was perfect for two. Kris and Jeff had decided that if they ever got married, the house would be perfect for raising a family. Lovingly picking out every piece of furniture, painting, rug and accessory had become Kris’s passion. In college, she studied interior design with a minor in fine art. She knew it would be tough to find work in that field when she moved back home, but she’d managed to eek out a living working at the bar and still managed to sell some art pieces to the local shops. It made it easier because she was good at her work and the tourists loved it. Moving to one of the larger cities was never something she had seriously considered. She was an islander through and through. Her heart and soul belonged to the Outer Banks. There was no other option than to come back to Nag’s Head. Back home. Back to where she belonged.

Kris suddenly realized that she was inside the house and sitting on the floor of the glass tiled shower. Breathing hard, she was sitting in a fetal position with her arms wrapped tightly around her legs. She must have been operating on auto-pilot once she pulled up to the house. There was way too much strong emotion happening for her mind to process and she had simply shut down. The shower was covered in dark teal and cream 1×2 glass subway tiles. Another labor of love. Kris ran her fingers along the glass as the hot water ran down her body and she tried very hard to ignore the memory of Jeff from this morning, but it was impossible to keep the memory away.

It was 7am when Kris hopped in the shower and Jeff was outside smoking his second cigarette of the day. It wouldn’t be long before he would join her in the shower. Showering together had become a morning ritual and Jeff would lovingly wash her hair. Kris cherished those moments and appreciated every single second.

They had knocked out the original tub and replaced it with a flat shower base, big enough for two. It was always Kris’s opinion that anyone over the age of six had no need for a bathtub. Jeff was a handyman and added a teak fold-down seat in the shower. Kris was sitting on the bench, carefully shaving her legs when Jeff opened the glass shower door and stepped inside. She looked up and met his eyes and he had smiled deeply. Jeff liked to watch her, regardless of whatever menial task she was doing.

Water ran down her legs as she washed off the remaining shaving cream. Jeff extended his hands to her and pulled Kris to her feet. His arms were wrapped around her body, their lips were intertwined. Jeff’s hands were gently tracing her body before he reached down and squeezed her butt. Kris groaned into his mouth as he bit down on her lip, sucking gently. Running her hands over his chest, her hands moved down his body and lightly grazed his inner thigh. Jeff had smirked then and his fingers wandered between her legs, pushing gently against her. They kissed passionately.

“I love you, Kris,” Jeff whispered as he moved behind her. They writhed as one, joined together for all eternity.

Kris was back in the present, tears running hot down her cheeks. Deep sobs wracked her body as everything that happened today came crashing back into her mind. Jeff’s death. The people she killed. The realization that her world would never be the same. She had reached up and turned off the knobs to the water, tears still falling from her eyes. Keeping fresh towels on a small table just outside the shower was a necessity, given the number of unexpected house guests that visited. Jeff and Kris had many close friends and most of them didn’t have beach front homes. Kris always liked the company. She loved playing hostess. As she stood, Kris’s legs were violently shaking. The cream colored towel she grabbed was plush and soft. The smell of detergent was strong as she wrapped the towel tightly around her body.

Her sight suddenly dimmed as she was pulled away from reality by a vision.

Kris saw a small blonde-haired boy, about three years old, standing on the roof of a silver, modified SUV. There was a horde of zombies surrounding the vehicle and a man, very human, was standing close by with a gun in hand. The small horde of zombies were all facing the small boy, but they were just standing there. They weren’t stumbling over one another to get to him. In a way, they all looked to be at peace. The man, Kris assumed he was the boy’s father, fired five bullets. Of the five shots he fired, two of them hit zombies directly in the back of their skulls. They fell forward, still facing the boy. Even after the corpses hit the gravel ground, the rest of the zombie group continued to face the child. Kris found that odd and so did the man with the gun. Kris decided that the man was handsom. He stood at around six feet tall with intense light eyes and dark, short hair. The man looked like he worked a normal, office-based desk job that paid well. He wore khaki, canvas cargo pants and a navy blue Henly long sleeved shirt.

Go away! She heard the little boy think and the group of zombies lined up and walked directly into the bar behind him. Kris watched the dark haired man lock up the bar and write a note on the door, warning others about the bar full of zombies.

Kris shook her head, pulling herself back to reality. The towel was still pulled tightly around her body and she shuffled into their bedroom. Pictures of her and Jeff were all over the room and she groaned, trying to look away from the memories. The towel dropped from her body as she climbed into Jeff’s half of their queen sized bed. On Jeff’s side table, she could see her favorite picture of them in a thick black frame. In the photograph, Kris had her head resting against Jeff’s shoulder with a look of pure joy on her face. She picked up the frame and held in in her hands, running her fingertips over Jeff’s image. With deep sadness, she recalled that the picture was taken last summer on the Fourth of July.

The sheets smelled like him.

“Oh God,” she groaned, pulling the blankets around her. She breathed deeply, trying to hold on to the very last memory of Jeff. It wasn’t enough. It would never be enough. An unimaginable grief tore through her body as Kris wailed into Jeff’s pillow until everything went black and she thought no more.

Shattering glass from the bar tore Kris from her hazy sleep and she sat up with a start.  The heavy, iron-rich smell of blood filled her nostrils and the memory of Jeff’s death tumbled back into her mind.  There was a large, dark pool of blood where he perished that was still slowly spreading across the floor.  Kris brought her hand up to Jeff’s face and ran her fingertips along his jaw line.  With a shuddering breath, she kissed his forehead and whispered, “I love you, Jeff.  I miss you already…”

More glasses shattered out in the restaurant and she knew she had to act quickly.  Focusing her energy on hearing, she felt her herself expand outward from her chest.  A brightly colored dome of  liquid energy spilled out of her and flowed through the door, down the hall, past the dry storage area, over the prep kitchen and into the restaurant.  Although she could not physically see the area, she was still able to picture it perfectly in her mind.  The back areas of the restaurant were empty.  As her mind’s eye traveled through the space, the dome pushed against three organic figures that were moving awkwardly around the bar.  She recalled that the man that originally bit her, Sergent Werner Rachtman?  No, you fucking idiot. That’s a movie, not real life, and thought it was odd that he moved so much differently than these creatures.  She thought of “The Walking Dead.”  Terrifying how perfectly their movements matched that movie .  But there was no way that they were actually zombies.  Normal, sane people don’t think that zombies are real and certainly don’t go running out into a bar with a baseball bat and beat the fuck out of them, she thought.

Was Jeff insane then?

No, of course not.

Trust him, Kris.  He wouldn’t lie to you.  You need to get out before they find you.  Get to the truck.

Her resolve was set and she pushed herself to her feet.  There would be time to mourn for Jeff later.  The best and fastest way out of Sam and Omie’s was through the back, “one way” delivery door.  Jeff lost the key to the back door two summers ago and never got around to replacing the lock or getting a new key.  Once she was out that door, she would not be able to get back in.  If there were more whatever-the-fuck-they-were outside the restaurant, it was very likely that she would be shit out of luck.

She knew that the keys to Jeff’s truck were in the bar, behind a bottle of 18 year old Jameson whiskey.  It was a good place to put them.  Hardly anyone chose that particular brand of whiskey as their poison of choice.  If she was feeling particularly ambitious, she would get the Kimber .45 that was under the cash register.  Crouching down, she grabbed the metal baseball bat.

Inhaling deeply, she took a step out of the office and into the hall way, listening intently.  Three of the plastic covers over the fluorescent light bars in the ceiling were pulled down and Kris could see that two of the lamps had been shattered.  Fine glass shards with a white dusting of fine particles littered the ground.  If a fluorescent lamp is broken, a very small amount of mercury can contaminate the surrounding environment.  The broken glass is usually considered a greater hazard than the small amount of spilled mercury.  Wikipedia.  The Voice told her.

She quickly made her way through the hall and into the dry storage area.  There were four tall shelves stocked full.  The delivery company had just dropped off a new order this morning.  Potatoes, onions, tomatoes, six kinds of bread, jars of cherries, extra mixers for the bar, cans of soda, four empty kegs of beer, boxes of chips, dishes, disposable napkins, cleaning supplies.  The list was endless.

One of the metal shelves had been knocked over.  A large burlap bag had split and spilled Yukon Gold spuds all over the floor.  Kris gingerly stepped around them, being cautious of the shattered remains of  the stacks of prep-bowls that had been on top shelf.  She gripped the bat tightly; her heart was beating fast now.  Adrenaline shot through her as she leaned against the side of the wall just outside the prep kitchen.  Kris closed her eyes and listened to the world around her.  She needed to see what she was about to get herself into.  Opening her senses, the image of the bar filled her mind.

There are three of them out there.  The smallest one is just outside of the entry from the kitchen into the restaurant.  He looks like a local.  You’ll need to get him first.  He is not injured in any way.  Six of the tables have been flipped over and most of the chairs are broken.  There are eight bodies laying on the ground; they’re not breathing and have no heartbeat.  Chances of them getting back up are 1:1,204,607,7089.  The other two look like tourists and shouldn’t be hard to avoid or kill.  All of the bottles behind the bar are still intact and Jeff’s keys are exactly where they should be.  The register is clear for now and no one took the .45.  Fully loaded.  If you begin with a running start and swing hard, this should go relatively smoothly.  Once you’ve taken out the local, head for the register.

She crouched low and sprinted through the prep kitchen.  Out of the corner of her eye, she could see that Larry the line cook, had been chopping onions.  His large chef’s knife was laying flat with the blade pushed safely under the cutting board.  He probably heard commotion in the restaurant, went to see what was happening and never made it back.

The first zombie had its back turned to her as she came upon it.  As she she sidestepped to the left, Kris swung from her shoulder and connected with back of the creature’s upper-neck.  Create Jefferson fracture. A bone fracture of the anterior and posterior arches of the C1 vertebra,though it may also appear as a three or two part fracture. The fracture may result from an axial load, in this case from a metal baseball bat, on the back of the head or neck, causing a posterior break.  May also be accompanied by a break in other parts of the cervical spine.  See also: You’re fucked.

As her swing connected with its neck, she felt the bones crack.  There was a slight drag against the bat as the skull detached from its spine and was jettisoned across the restaurant.  The flying head slapped against the back wall and landed on the seat of one of the booths, its jaws snapping.

Strength required to create Jefferson fracture miscalculated.  Did not account for adrenaline.  Status: threat terminated with extreme prejudice.  “Shut the hell up!” Kris yelled out loud.  “No one fucking talks like that.”

Any possibility that Kris had of a quick escape was lost as the creature fell to its knees and toppled over to one side.  The headless corpse smashed into the bus tubs that were stacked up from the lunch rush.  Glasses and white plates crashed to the old, hardwood floor and shattered.  Kris swore loudly and tossed the bat aside.  She kept her momentum up as she ran across the restaurant and towards the register.  Ten steps to the Kimber.  Eight steps.  Five steps.  Two steps.

She had to crouch down to pull the .45 out from behind the touch-screen console.  Jenelle, the hostess, must have moved it back behind the paper towels and disinfectant spray.  Kris was losing precious seconds.  Annoyed, she threw the objects out of her way and grabbed the gun.  By the time she stood up again, the zombies were on the other side of the counter.  They were moving much faster than she had anticipated.

Taking a deep breath, she flicked the safety off on the Kimber and lifted the gun.  It was much heavier than she thought it would be.  The handle had a decent weight to it.  She aimed and waited for this new “magical” inspiration take over.  If it took her through beating a man with a bat and could show her the entire layout of the restaurant, it should be able to know how to fire a gun, right?

She waited.  The groaning zombies closed in on her.  Nothing happened.  No inspiration.  No knowledge.

“Oh shit,” she said.  Come on, you bastard, I know you can hear me! Silence.  Kris had never fired a gun before, but she could vaguely remember Jeff mentioning something about exhaling as you squeezed the trigger.  At least it was a start.

Holding the gun in both hands, she aimed carefully, exhaled and squeezed the trigger like hell.  She was not prepared for the recoil of the gun.  The force of the bullet leaving the chamber snapped her arms back and she fell against the shelves full of restaurant-named t-shirts and pilsner glasses.  Kris could hear the bullet tear through flesh and embed itself in the wood paneling of the far wall.

According to the picture in her minds eye, she completely missed the zombie she was aiming for, but managed to hit the second one in the shoulder.  The ghoul farthest from her spun counter clockwise, landing on its face.  She cursed loudly and pushed herself off of the racks of shirts.

The zombie was five feet away from her now.  His ridiculous Hawaiian shirt had been torn and he was bleeding profusely from a gaping hole in his neck.  It was almost impossible for her to miss this shot.  Kris repositioned her feet, lifted the gun slightly and braced for the recoil as she pulled the trigger.  Blood and gore exploded out of the back of his head as the bullet carried the liquefied remains of its eyeball out the back of its skull, leaving a hole large enough to drive a Cadillac through.

There was only one zombie remaining in the restaurant now.  It was awkwardly trying to stand up, but failing miserably.  Every time it tried to stand up, it would start with the leg that was broken in four places.  Even though the zombie was dead, its leg was still not able to hold its weight, so the creature would fall back down to the ground to repeat the same process over again.  Kris moved over to watch him more closely.  He reminded her of a broken record, stuck playing the same five notes over and over again until someone either changed the record, or replaced the stylus.  It was time to remove the record.  In a sick way, he was almost pathetic.  She caught herself wondering if it could still feel.  Still dream.  Still have hopes for tomorrow.  Maybe there would be a cure so this poor man could be saved from this terrible existence.  Are you kidding?  Just shoot it!  Kris lifted the gun, placed it against his temple and fired.

His body slumped over to one side, still and silent.

Feeling numb, she made her way to the bar in search of Jeff’s keys and tried to ignore the emotions she was feeling.  It was not time to acknowledge what she had done or to think about the men she had killed today.  Four.  Four men dead, Kris.  Five if you count Jeff.  Why couldn’t you save him?  She inhaled sharply as the wave of emotion threatened to overtake her.  Blinking rapidly, Kris fought off tears.  In an effort to distract herself, she looked around the bar.  With some pride, she noted that the bar was still fully stocked and perfectly clean.  She ran her hands over the smooth, polished wooden bar top with a sigh, shaking her head.  Kris didn’t think she was good at much, but she could at least keep the bar clean.   Leaning over, she pushed the half-gallon of 18 year old Jameson aside and grabbed Jeff’s keys.

It took a few seconds of fumbling with the gun to figure out how to turn the safety on before she tucked the .45 into the waistband of her jeans.  Jeff’s bat had come to a rest not too far from where she originally dropped it.  That Slugger suddenly became extremely important to her and couldn’t imagine leaving the bar without it.  Once the metal bat was in her hand again, she felt renewed.   Its weight was safe and familiar.  “Time to go,” she said to the empty room.

The walk to the front door felt like twenty years as Kris prepared herself for the worst.  Over-analyzing was something she did very well and normally, she projected things as being much worse than they actually were.  She had a sickening feeling that her intuition and over-all negativity was correct this time.  Using the head of the bat, she pushed the door open and peered outside.  It must have been around 3 o’clock judging by the location of the sun.  There were still two cars and a blue Jeep Cherokee parked in the lot.  From the doorway, she could see a half mile down route 12.  The old, iconic road looked like something out of a badly directed disaster movie.  Cars were pulled to the sides of the street at odd angles.  Three blocks up, at least a dozen cars were smashed.  They were piled on top of each other and laying all over the road.  The damage was extensive, as if they had all been driving way too fast.  It was remarkable to Kris how irrationally humanity acted in a time of crisis.  During times of mass panic, the “herd mentality” can lead to the formation of mobs or large groups of people with destructive intentions.  The Voice said.  Fucking idiots, Kris added.

Close to where the cars were crashed, Kris could see a small, shambling group making their way up the street.  She needed to go somewhere safe and familiar before she got trapped in the restaurant.  Their apartment was the only choice she had but she had to get to the truck first.  One thing at a time, solider.

Jeff always parked on the far side of the lot.  Kris ran out of the front door, down the three rickety steps and onto the gravel parking lot.  Her black Converse sneakers crunched down against the stones as she took off towards the truck.