Episode 11: Characters Neglected Part 2

Steve stood on the roof, pointing a shotgun into the crowds below them. His wife was clutched close to him, in terror. His shirt was slightly ripped in the manner of a classic vision of a modern apocalyptic warrior. Behind him huddled a few dozen scared, cold, and occasionally injured party-goers. They were wrapping themselves, and occasionally (when they were kind) each other up. Some held planks of wood and bars of metal. Steve was the only one who had managed to find a weapon that would help.

* * *

At eleven o’clock the fireworks were wrapping up. It had been an excessively long display, but that didn’t bother anyone. It kept their minds off of the fact that none of them knew who the rest were, or even who the host was.

Everyone was astounded at the magnificent finish that the display had. It was almost as if the final blast had lit the entire sky!

And all was dark. The lights slowly hummed back on. Everyone stood up, took a stretch, and began to collect their blankets. They slowly began to return to the house, worrying about how much they would have to clean if they were the hosts which none of them were sure that they weren’t.

And, as soon as the last of them were inside, just as at the baseball game and at countless other places across the world, all hell broke loose.

Well, first, the doors shut and clicked behind them. No one could clearly remember having closed them, but that didn’t panic anyone. A few people thought about it for a moment, and then forgot. And then the door to the basement clicked. This piqued a little interest.

And then it was that all hell broke loose. A shambling corpse burst through the door. The people just turned and stared for a moment, but when it advanced and bit one of them, they burst into panic. The crowd scattered every which way; most tried to open the doors to the outside. But, not surprising the more clever of them, the outer doors were locked.

Steve glanced around the room to take stock of the situation. There were more horrible rotting cannibals rising from the basement, and all the doors to the outside were locked. Obviously, they were trapped. And everyone was panicking. That was never good in a dangerous situation like this. People should behave themselves, listen to their superior officers, remain calm. He noticed quickly that he was the highest ranking person there, or at least the highest ranking person who was calm. This wasn’t in itself difficult; the only other person who showed any other signs of coherence was his wife. In part due to his ease under durress, he had made sergeant in the American armed forces during the Great War for Australia five years prior.

He suddenly noticed a staircase that he wasn’t sure had been there before. Then again, he hadn’t known that there were corpses in the basement before, either. "Up the stairs!" He cried. He dashed for them and Lucy, who had immediately understood, ran with him. She still had a hold on their fireworks blanket.

Steve only glanced behind him once to make sure that Lucy was with him; she was pretty fast, and so managed to keep up with him with no trouble.

Atop the stairs stretched a hall. It was long, and painted sort of pink. Steve surveyed the hall, and picked a promising looking door to the right. It was locked. He advanced down the hallway and, what would seem to the average and unaverage observer to be randomly, swung open the fourth door on the left.

Inside was a room containing nothing besidses another door. The room looked to be freshly dusted, and was hanging open slightly. A lock, looking shiny and new, was sitting smashed on the ground in front of the second door Steve took only a quick second to think, and stormed over and opened the door the rest of the way.

Inside that door was a small closet, containing only a shotgun and a good number of shells. He snatched up the shotgun, and checked the barrel. It was loaded. He grabbed the carton of shells and turned.

Behind him were a good number of survivors; about thirty, he might guess, had managed to follow. At their head was Lucy. He looked across them, their faces nervous and full of confusion. Few of them looked capable of much useful action. He found someone who looked at least vaguely aware of his surroundings and advanced to him. He shoved the carton of shells into his hands. "There should be fifty in there. That might get us out of here, it might not. But don’t drop them. If we lose them, we’re all damned." He stepped away from the doubly dazed man, and looked across the crowd again. "Anyone know this building at all?"

Everyone hesitated and shook their heads slowly.

"Damn," Steve muttered. Lucy smiled despite herself; she loved when Steve took charge like this. It reminded her how good of a man she had married.

"Okay," he started. "We have to find either a way out that doesn’t bring us downstairs, or a way to the roof."

"I…" A woman began to stutter near the side of the crowd opposite Steve. He marched over to her.

"I… I think that I saw a string hanging from the ceiling at the end of that hallway out there." She whispered.

"Alright, let’s find it. You," he pointed to the man with the shotgun shells, "will come with me. I need those shells." The man nodded in his stupor. Steve returned to the door to the room, and peeked around the corner. Nothing was on either side of them. He stepped out and advanced a few paces towards the stairs. The man with the shells followed. Steve turned back to the room containing the survivors.

"Lucy, lead them to the string. I’ll cover us back here. All of you get up, now!"

Lucy immediately advanced through the door and towards the end of the hall opposite the stairwell. The woman who had seen the string was next, and then the rest of the crowd in the room.

Steve stood there watching the stairs, ready for an onslaught. He glanced behind himself once to see the progress on getting up; they had just pulled down the stairs, and were beginning to advance. He turned back to watching the stairs.

A few moments later, the top of a head began advancing down the stairs.

"Oh, god!" the man standing with Steve cried, and dashed into an adjacent room. He dropped the shells on his way in.

"Damn," Steve muttered, and reached down to scoop up the nearby shells. He shoved a few into his pocket. He aimed the shotgun at the stairs.

Slowly, very slowly, the man ascended the stairs. His body was covered in gaping wounds, but he was still moving. Steve took very careful aim, and shot for his torso. The spray knocked the man back, punctured holes in him. He fell down the stairs part-way. Steve lowered his gun and began reloading it.

Another man ascended into view. Steve noticed and finished reloading, and aimed the shotgun again. His aim trembled for a moment when he noticed that it was the same man that he had just shot. He accidentally fired-something that he hadn’t done in years. The shrapnel flew mainly into the wall, but a few dashes of it jammed themselves in the man’s head. He fell down at the top of the stairs. He didn’t get up this time.

"The head," He whispered to himself, as he regained his composure and reloaded the gun. He backed up to gather more shells and put them into his pocket. He watched the stairs for another moment and glanced back at the progress of the others. At least half of them had made it up now, and Lucy was at the last, making sure they did it as calmly as possible. He turned back to the staircase from downstairs.

Some more were rising up the staircase. He lifted and steadied the gun again. He fired into the crowd. The one at the top stumbled backwards, dead again, and knocked some of the ghouls back down. He reloaded quickly and aimed for the stairs again.

A few moments later he fired again, directly into the head of the next one. It fell down, but didn’t fall down the stairs. It fell atop the first one he had killed. He reloaded again. He pulled the trigger again when the next one was in sight.

There was no bang. The trigger wouldn’t pull.

"Shit," he growled. He turned quickly to check the progress; almost everyone was up. He turned back to the stairs, and began to back away slowly. He toyed with the gun, trying to get it unstuck.

One of the beasts reached the top of the stairs and began stumbling forwards more quickly than he had thought possible. He pulled the gun up and tried to fire at it, but it still wouldn’t fire. He looked back at the ladder to the attic; everyone but a couple were up. He shook the gun, and tried to fire at the approaching beast again. It didn’t work, and the beast approached closer, uninjured. He spun to his wife.

"Get up there! Close the door! Get to the roof!" he cried.

"But… you!" She yelled, as she advanced up the ladder, offering her hand to him.

"I’ll distract them! Just cover the hatch!" He looked back to the zombie.

"No, come up with us!" she held out her hand farther.

He paused and looked at her, into her eyes. He turned to the ghoul. He reached up and took her hand. She began to pull.

But the zombie grabbed his sleeve. He turned and slammed the barrel of the gun through its head. He was stunned at this feat of strength, and accidentally pulled the trigger. Apparently, the jam had been fixed. The shot, fortunately, pierced the skulls of two zombies that had already made it into the hall. The one that had his sleeve began to fall backwards, and as it fell, the gun slipped out of its head. It also ripped Steve’s shirt, very badly. And he fell down the ladder.

"Go!" He called up to his wife. She frowned, and her eyes misted, but she went up. She shut the hatch, and he heard the scrapings of something large being dragged over it.

He stood up, dusted himself off, and reloaded the gun. He fired into a zombie’s head, and dashed into an adjoining room as he reloaded.

This room was painted a sickly olive green, and was filled with polished furniture made of various woods. He surveyed it and hid behind a bureau. He listened for a moment while the ghouls scuffled about in the corridor. It took them at least five minutes to figure out how to open the hatch. They smelled food, Steve thought. Food. That’s what we are to them, isn’t it? Just food… He shook the thoughts out of his head, and heard the ghouls pounding on the barricade that the refugees had erected. He nodded to himself, and quietly opened the window behind him. He stuck his head out the window, looked up and down.

Right next to him was a drainage pipe. He pushed at it gently, and then strongly. It didn’t give way or squeak either time; he decided it would probably support his weight. He removed his shoelace, tied his gun to his back with it, and stepped outside the window. He stood on the sill, carefully, and attempted to shut the window. He couldn’t get proper leverage. It took him a moment, but when he gave up trying that, he just latched onto the pipe. He cringed at how cold it was to the touch, but began climbing. It was not easy going, as it didn’t provide very much traction. But he did make headway. He looked upwards; the roof was only a story above. He shut his eyes and smiled inwardly. He could make it.

A crashing sound emanated from the room he had just left. He frowned both outwardly and inwardly; the ghouls must have smashed through the door. He climbed faster.

Something leaned out of the window and fell; it screamed. He glanced down; the body dashed on the lawn below was surrounded by shotgun shells. The little bastard got what he deserved, Steve decided. He continued the climb.

It must have taken him at least ten minutes to get just a foot from the top. Now there were zombies leaning out the window, trying to reach at him. They had begun to pull at the pipe. It wasn’t doing much, but it was worrying him. And his arms were beginning to give out. He cringed as he pulled himself up the few more inches that he thought he could. And he couldn’t seem to pull himself any farther up.

"Lucy!" he moaned. "Lucy, I love you!"

And he looked up, to try to make the last few inches. And lo, there was an angel. She reached out and grabbed his hand, and pulled him up. His world disappeared.

* * *

"Steve…? Steve!" His eyes opened to Lucy’s beautiful face.

"Lucy… Lucy… You made it… Or… Are we dead?"

"No," she smiled. "We’re not dead. I was afraid that you… But we’re all fine."

"Did… Were you the angel who saved me?"

Her smile grew. So did his.

"How long was I out?"

"Only about ten minutes," she said, glancing at her watch. "We’re safe. Your shirt is torn."

He soon found out that they had found a way up to the roof; a small, wooden staircase. Someone had found a hacksaw in the attic, and when all of them were up to the roof, they had dismantled the staircase from above. Just in case.

Steve stood up and checked his gun. He checked his pockets; he still had eleven shells left, plus the one in the barrel. Just for the hell of it, he fired twice into the crowd of zombies beneath.

And that’s how they got where they were.

* * *

Sunny had to work that entire day, from ten to midnight, just because everyone else who worked there had excessively large families and celebrated Fourth of July. He, however, was an orphan, and hated what little he knew about his family. He also automatically hated what he didn’t know about this family. He also hated the country-for a different reason every day. So he didn’t celebrate Fourth of July.

He hated his co-workers for celebrating Fourth of July. He hated his boss for knowing how he felt about Fourth of July and making him work. He also hated all of them for various reasons too numerous to list. He also hated junk food, cars, gasoline, Slurpees, soda, condoms, cigarettes, dirty bathrooms, lotto tickets, clean bathrooms, newspapers, magazines, astrology, ATMs, money, and convenience stores. Most of all, he hated his job. In that sense, he was the quintessential American Worker.

He also hated sleep, awakening, morning, lunch, afternoon, evening, tea time, night, and twilight. So, obviously, when he got to work he was in a worse mood than usual, which was fairly difficult. He had been seen to smile once, but by terrifying coincidence the witness was immediately struck by lightning (it was a cloudless day) and had become a babbling amnesiac idiot, so no one else ever knew. That had been ten years ago. Sunny hated babbling, lightning, amnesia, and idiots.

The day was generally uneventful for him, and he hated it. He hated it just as much-if not more-when something did happen.

Like when those three boys came in around three. Who the hell buys ten dollars worth of gas? At four bucks a gallon? He hated measurements, as well.

As the day dragged on, he barely had to do anything. The awful fat, fascist, Republican, patriotic, Christians came in (he hated them) to buy hot dogs and lotto tickets (he hated those too) and attack his hair style (which he hated-both the insult and the hair).

By the time the fireworks had started, he had been alone for three hours. He did, in fact, hate that.

And at eleven o’clock, his heart was filled with a new kind of hatred. That horrible light, consisting of his three least favorite colors (not that the rest were any good) filled the sky. It was absolutely abhorrent. He almost vomited then, but instead returned to work. At the moment, that consisted of staring at the door, simultaneously hoping that someone would walk through the door and that no one would walk through it, and hating the entire thing.

And at about midnight, just as he was getting ready to close up, a van came smashing through the window. That didn’t make Sunny happy.

Five gruff looking people, all armed to the teeth, piled out of the van and started piling junk food into the van. Sunny watched them, rage filling his heart. He hated everything about these people. Not only had they smashed the window that he hated with a van that was hideous, and started stealing (a wretched act) food that was disgusting, but they were ugly people with terrible wardrobes. He began to quiver with hatred, and pulled the rifle out from under the counter.

"HAVE A NICE DAY! EAT SOME MORE SHIT! YOU’RE AN IDIOT!" He screamed as he shot each of them in turn. He grabbed the junk food that they had been stealing (just in case he got hungry enough to overcome his hatred of eating), and their guns, and tossed it all in the van. He started it up and drove away.

He smiled for the first time in ten years.




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