When Is A Zombie Not A Zombie?

or, when is a zed word not a zed word?

Photo by Richard Williams on Unsplash

There I was surrounded by Bursters. I was pouring the foundation for my basement, roughly the size of an outdoor swimming pool only twelve feet deep. I digress. As I said, I was pouring the foundation when I heard the noise. I had gotten sloppy. The little mixer was loud as hell, but not as bad as a truck would be. I’d hoped it would save me some time and effort, but it also covered the sound of the approaching group.

I looked up and there were five of them. My stomach dropped. This could go very badly. Even on a relatively cool day, most of them had stripped at least some of their clothing off, and they were still pouring with sweat. Their fevers must be raging out of control. It was one of the last symptoms. My hands went clammy and gorge rose in my throat.

I slapped myself in the face to keep from freezing up. I grabbed a length of rebar and waited. It wouldn’t do much good against the slimes, but if I could kill the people, maybe I’d have a chance. The first two jumped down. There was a loud crack, and I saw white bone protruding from red flesh. The second one had managed to stick the landing, though. He marched across the concrete. Or tried to. He soon discovered it was twelve inches deep. Based on the reddish tint the concrete now had, he’d found the rebar. No doubt one of the semi-sharp pieces of steel had punctured his foot.

Three and four took the stairs I’d roughed in on that side, the quickly made pine risers set against the earthen wall. Number two crawled, the pain of his compound fracture overshadowed by whatever message its parasite was sending. Five just watched.

Number three came around from the right and number four from the left. Number one crawled into the cement and got bogged down. It would be hard for his shin bone not to get caught in the wire mesh and rip from the calf muscle even more. Based on the low moaning and jerking, my assumption was right.

I ran to my right with the sharpened rebar out in front of me. Grateful for my gloves, I rammed the metal right into the stomach of the much larger man. The air filled with the scent of blood and ruptured bowel. With a grunt of effort, I used the leverage and twisted. Getting him to fall into the cement wasn’t hard. Their bodies were resistant to pain, but they weren’t exactly at their peak of coordination. Their brains were slowly boiling inside their skulls, thanks to the fever.

The only problem I had now was, I had just given up my weapon. I kept running, giving number four a side eye to see where he was going. There was some hesitancy on his part as he tried to decide which way would be shorter. By the time he’d decided, I was already halfway up the stairs. I needed to get to my weapons. They were in my truck because I’m a dumbass. Complacency had cost me my edge.

Number five, down to her bra and shorts, came at me, nails out. As I passed an open bag of cement sitting in a wheelbarrow, I scooped a handful of the gray powder out and slung it at her.

She ran an arm across her eyes to try to clear her sight, but that only smeared the dust into a paste of sweat and concrete.

I lowered my shoulder and rammed into her at full speed. I’m not a small man; she folded like an umbrella and hit the dirt. I almost joined her but managed to keep to my feet. I ran to my pickup and grabbed the shotgun. Racking a shell into the chamber, I turned and ran back toward number one. A headshot should do the trick.

Her body started jerking and twitching. I was almost too late. There was a loud boom and the slug made a mess of her from the neck up. I waited to see if her gross passenger would bust loose. I’d never seen one this close to breaking free in person. There’d been plenty of pictures and videos on the internet and TV before the communications grid failed. It was probably different in person, just like killing was. After thirty seconds of stillness, I felt like I was safe.

That’s when I heard the squelching sound. A greenish-clear mass moved across the grass towards me like something between an inchworm and a slug. Shooting it wouldn’t do anything. Then I had a flash of inspiration. I fired the shotgun, racked another shell into the chamber, and fired again. The smell of gunpowder, snot, and cement filled the air. I grew less hungry with each passing second. The nearby bag of cement blossomed into a gray cloud. I dropped my gun, grabbed a shovel, and closed the distance. By the time I got there, I could see the thing was mostly covered in cement. I used my shovel to chop and fold. It was easier than I thought and soon there was just a blob of soon-to-be hard concrete.

I picked the grit out of my fingernails and wiped it on my shirt. There was still a lot to do but thankfully the worst of it was over. I was safe. All that was left was to stay that way.