June 27, 2016

Questions 1


Rickett woke to darkness. He had been blindfolded and restrained, his hands bound behind his back with zip ties. His head throbbed from where Gus had struck him with the rifle, and the jostling in what he figured to be the bed of a truck exacerbated the pain. He was moving, or was being moved, lying in the aluminum truck bed. He kicked his legs around, hitting bags and not corpses. At least he wasn’t bound and lying with those who had been bitten.

He had a fleeting sensation of jumping from the truck’s bed and onto the road. But this wasn’t a movie, and he was an old, aching man. Instead, he turned his mind to focus on how he messed up, and did he mess up? I fought to help that son of a bitch. I saved his ass. I put everything on the line for a guy who I thought was human, more than a survivor, someone who wanted to set things right with others, and now I’ve got a huge fucking headache as my Boy Scout reward.

He settled down, and instead of thinking about escaping, he began replaying the scene in his mind, capturing faces, accents, and names, memorizing the most recent events as well as he could. Johnny, Stan: dead. Terry, Clint, and Gus: living. Vince—who’s Vince? He repeats it over and over to the rhythmic throbbing of his head wound until the truck eventually comes to a halt.

Gates screeched and people talked. He could hear Clint’s drawl, and then someone banged on the side of the truck. Rickett grew nauseous from all the sounds and the throbbing in his skull. The truck lurched forward and Rickett slid on the aluminum. Laughter. The truck lurched again. Clint’s fucking with me. But then the truck accelerates to a steady speed until it finally parks.

Rickett was pulled from the truck’s bed by his ankles, and he swallowed the rising pain induced groan to avoid making a noise. The throbbing and aches overwhelmed him, and just as multiple hands grabbed him to lift him to his feet, the darkness took him again.   


Rickett startled awake and tried to rise before the pain summoned the vertigo, and he lay down, trying to steady himself. He stifled any moans or groans with clenched teeth and taught lips, not wanting to show how much pain he was in.

The blindfold remained, and he could feel something—probably blood—caked to the right side of his face. The throbbing had subsided to a dull ache. He was in a cot, still in his clothes. The faint smell of bleach gave him comfort. He was safe from the biters, at least—somewhere inside, away from the trauma of the outside world. He knew people were watching over him; he could sense their presence. Perhaps outside of a door, or maybe even in the room staring at him.  

His hands were bound now in front of him, and his ankles had been zip tied together as well. Not good, he thought. But at least I’m not out there in the wild, dying world.

A door opened but didn’t close. Two men mumbled, and the smell of ham and gravy made his mouth water. He swallowed, unsure of whether there was actual food and if it was for him. The protein bars he scarfed down at the gym were long gone, and his body reminded him of his hunger. Yet another ache. Add it to the list.

“Don’t try anything stupid; we’re armed.” Gus spoke as he entered. Rickett heard his voice move closer. “Just got you some food and water so you’re able enough to answer some questions.”

“Where am I?” Rickett’s words came out like a coarse, grumbling whisper.

“Safe,” Gus replied, “and that’s all that should really matter for you.” There was rattling and clanking, the jingle of keys and the sounds from jostling firearms. “We’re going to cut the ties from your wrists and remove the blindfold. Don’t move, or you’ll likely be shot.”

Rickett acquiesced and followed instructions. The ties were removed, and the blindfold pulled from his head; the dried blood on his face cracked and flaked. He opened his eyes to blurred vision and a dimly lit room. Four armed men stood around him as Gus moved a school desk towards the cot.

“Eat up,” Gus said, pointing to a cafeteria tray. Rickett sat up, slowly moving his bound ankles over the side of the cot before clumsily grabbing for the plastic cutlery. “There isn’t much time before you’ll be seen.”

Instead of making eye contact with anyone to avoid confrontation, Rickett focused on the food, trying to blink away the blurriness.

“We’ll be back in a bit.” The armed men began to file out of the room, and Gus stayed at the group’s rear.

Rickett dipped a biscuit into the mashed potatoes, sopping up some of the gravy. Before he took a bite, he asked, “Who is Vince?”

“Huh?” Gus turned and looked at Rickett, puzzled. “How do know that name?”

“I heard you and the other fellow talking before all hell broke loose back in the street.” Rickett kept his eyes on the food, unsure of whether this may be his last real meal or not.

“What are you, some kind of spy or something?” Gus chuckled—a dry chuckle that masked sincere interest.

“No.” Rickett took a bite. “Just observant.”

“Yeah? Well, you can observe Vince when he gets here.” Gus left the room and closed the door behind him. Rickett raised his head enough to look at them from the corner of his eye. He could see their heads through the window in the door, but soon they were out of sight.

Rickett took his last bite and washed it down with some water Gus left next to the tray before stretching out on the cot again.  They’re going to want to know what I’ve done, where I’ve been, and whom I was with. Rickett looked around the room, a classroom converted into a shelter of sorts. Furniture pushed to the side, wired glass windows through which an afternoon sun shown. The real question is, how much of the truth am I going to give them?

June 14, 2016

Blood on the Road

Blood on the Road

Rickett stood before the door and tightened his grip on the aluminum bat in his right hand. There seemed to be a significant gap of silence between the shots fired in the black truck’s cab and the other men exiting their trucks, which were parked in the middle of the road, perpendicular to the wreckage.
The first man out hopped down from the driver’s side of a lifted blue pickup. He said something to the passenger in his cab before moving his attention to the black pickup and placing his hand on a firearm holstered on his right hip. His clothes were splattered with a mixture of blood and earth; red, brown, and black—a Rorschach of life and death, of survival and defeat—covered him from shoulder to boot. He moved to the front of his truck and motioned to the other pickup, a smaller, white pickup truck  with wheel wells caked in mud—or gore for all Rickett knew. The driver of the white truck—a broad chested, heavier fellow—exited and brought a shotgun with him.

The two men met in front of the blue truck and talked, motioning towards the black pick up, the school, and the road ahead throughout their dialogue. The driver of the blue truck seemed to be the leader of the two men as he did most of the jawing while the other fellow nodded. They eventually broke their huddle and headed toward the black truck and surrounding wreckage. Rickett moved away from the door, trying to position himself against the cooler of water so they wouldn’t see him as they approached the truck. Because the gym had so many windows, Rickett was able to keep an eye on the drivers.

The others moved slowly, cautiously, towards the truck. The leader, the man splattered with blood and dirt, drew his gun, a 9mm, and approached the driver’s side door. The man with the shotgun advanced to the passenger side door.

Rickett knew what they would find. Death was all too familiar with him lately, and it almost seemed to gravitate towards him. You’ll find them, dead. Bullets in the head. But he still waited, frozen with anticipation to see their reactions, and—ultimately—to pass judgment on them.

Just how human were they?

Obeying a bark from the leader, the larger man opened the passenger side first and peered into the cab with the shotgun raised.

“Dead,” he said. “Johnny’s dead.” His shoulders slump and he takes a step back, lowering the shotgun. “Stan, too.”

Now that they were closer, Rickett didn’t need to strain to hear them or make out their words; the rest of the world was silent.

“Hell, now,” the other man exclaimed. “Why’d they go and do that?” The leader jerked open the driver’s side door to look for himself.

“You saw what happened back there,” the larger man yelled, pointing in the direction of the school hidden within the billowing smoke screen that slowly inched its way closer.

“Ain’t nothin’ we coulda done to protect everyone.”

“Sure there was. We could’ve turned around and got help, but you and Stan thought we could handle it alone,” he accused the leader.

 “They got bit. Stan musta shot Johnny before slingin’ one inta his own head.” His voice was detached, uncaring.

A horn sounded from the blue pickup. A blonde fellow opened the passenger door and yelled over the roof of the truck’s cab at the two men squabbling around the wreckage: “Got more coming this way!”
The biters had broken containment from the school; the others’ effort to regain control with the fences of fire had floundered. Rickett couldn’t see how many were emerging from the smoke, but he knew that if there was one, more were not far behind.

“We need to take them back.”

“What’s that?” the leader asked.

“We’re taking them back, Clint.”  The larger fellow moved back toward his truck. “Terry,” he said to the blonde, “climb out and give us a hand.” Terry looked to Clint for confirmation, but Clint didn’t notice.

“List’n here, Gus!” Clint barked, charging after Gus, who had already placed the shotgun on his driver’s seat. “We ain’t got the time for that. Scabs are trailin’ us, and we already lost two back there.”

“Sarah and Alex are gone because of your decision. You ordered us to retreat, and so we did.” He donned a pair of work gloves and walked around Clint to the black truck. “We can make it right. Stan had his boys back at the lot. Johnny’s wife is pregnant. This is the least we can do.”

Rickett was in pain, and not because of his sore ankle. He could see the loss and frustration on Gus’ face, how everything was turning his beard gray and hardening his brow into a consistent scowl. He could tell Gus cared, if not for the dead, for at least those who would mourn them. Rickett wanted to help, but now was not the time. There was still Clint, and he wasn’t sure about the blonde fellow. Clint was too eager to leave, and that pained Rickett even more. The guilt of leaving Gavin rose like bile in his throat: acidic and bitter.

“Alright, Gus. You’ll get your way this time,” Clint said as he motioned for Terry to jump out of the truck and help expedite the process. “But I’ll have to tell Vince.”

“That’s fine,” Gus groaned as he pulled Johnny’s body from the wrecked truck. “That’ll give me a time to let him know how it got to this point.” Terry grabbed Johnny’s legs. Both men struggled to carry the dead weight back to his white pickup. They laid Johnny’s limp corpse on the trucks bed.

“Dammit,” Clint scoffed. “Scabs are closin’ on us.”  All three men turn to face the biters headed their way and closing the distance, their tongues flicking in and out of their mouths, tasting the air to find their prey. Rickett couldn’t see their eyes, but he had been close enough to them to know the milky, mucus-based film that covered their wild, searching eyes was there. He knew the brown, frothy saliva that leaked from their mouths. Their insatiable hunger. He knew it all too well.

“How the hell did there get to be so many?” Terry squawked as he and Gus made their way back to the truck to collect Stan’s body.

“Place was turned inta quarantine once it was evacuated. The mercenaries gathered all the wounded and housed ‘em in the lots and dorms.” Clint faced the swarming hive of biters and yelled over his shoulder, “We ain’t got the time to grab Stan. We got to head out.”

“Stan comes with us,” Gus hollered, pulling Stan from the driver’s seat. “We took on more back there, so just knock them around until we can get Stan’s body loaded up.”

“Gus! We—“

“His boys, Clint!” Gus almost dropped Stan’s body before Terry was able to grab its legs.

Clint vaulted into curse-laden rant, yelling on his way back to his truck, and Rickett was losing it. The itch to help was there. But Clint—he had to watch Clint. Something wasn’t right about this. He felt Clint was about to abandon the others as they were attempting to rescue their friend’s body from the biters. Instead, Clint pulled a machete from the truck’s cab and advanced to the closest predator.

Gus and Terry struggled with Stan’s body. He was a larger fellow, a little bigger than Gus. The stress of the situation was obviously wearing on them and causing them to almost fumble the body to the ground.

Clint was smart to not initiate the fray by slinging bullets and creating more noise with each shot. Instead, he swung the machete and grunted when he pulled the weapon free from his target. Clint moved out of Rickett’s line of sight as he continued his advance, attempting to hold the biters at bay.

“Terry!” Clint yelled. “Get your ass over here!” More grunts came from Clint; Terry stumbled and dropped Stan’s legs. Gus was off balance but caught himself to avoid falling completely to the asphalt.

Terry grabbed sledgehammer from the blue truck and went to help Clint. If Rickett wanted to see the outcome, he would have had to move his position at the cooler. He was able to see the oncoming horde of biters but not the two fighters that helped buffer Gus from the violence.

The hive was expanding, growing, almost pulse-like from the smoke. Rickett couldn’t tell how many were actually out there, but the number had grown from around a dozen to easily forty or so. Shit, he thinks to himself. The storm is here.

What Clint and Terry didn’t take into consideration was how the biters were predators, not just stumbling brawlers. They stalked their prey as a group, expanding and contracting when necessary to trap their victims, as their entire existence was based on consumption.

And that’s when Rickett finally decided to act. Biters were spreading themselves out, strategically placing themselves in positions to broaden their reach. Terry and Clint were primarily to the right of the scene, smashing and cutting, but Gus, attempting to heave the weight of Stan’s corpse into the bed of his truck, was to the left.  Like a giant carnivorous mouth opening to eventually close on its prey, Rickett sensed the looming danger, and Gus was weaponless. Gus was human, overwhelmed by compassion, something that set them apart from the biters or the “scabs” as Clint called them.

“Clint!” Gus tried to yell, but the attempts to heave Stan’s lifeless body onto the truck’s bed had stolen his wind. He knew what was around him, and he may have been regretting his decision to rescue Stan’s body.

Disregarding the pain in his ankle, Rickett moved quickly, opened the door, and raised his revolver.
He fired two shots, immediately dropping two biters closing in on Gus. Clint and Terry were startled, not expecting to hear gunshots, knowing the sounds would only bring more frothing mouths in their direction.

“Who the—,” Gus clamored.

“Never mind that,” Rickett roared back. “Get the body in the truck.”

But Gus was still fumbling his words, unsure of who this new face was and what danger he may have posed.

“Hurry!” Rickett yelled at him, firing his last shot and tossing the revolver. Another biter fell, giving Rickett time and space to help Gus pick up Stan’s legs and get the body onto the truck’s tailgate.  Before Gus could respond, Rickett had moved away from the white truck to fend off a few more biters.

“Hey, you!” Clint moved towards Rickett, using the machete to carve a path, leaving gaping wounds in the biters’ brittle heads. But Rickett ignored him and continued swinging the bat, aluminum shattering bones and faces, crushing the milky white eyes and open jaws.

It wasn’t until Rickett had fought off enough biters that he became fully aware of his situation. Clint and Terry were advancing towards him, yelling. Clint drew his weapon and pointed the machete. Rickett was ready for the confrontation, but he wasn’t ready for the blow from Gus, the Remington’s stock hitting his temple, sending him spiraling into darkness.

June 6, 2016

A Brewing Storm

A Brewing Storm

Minutes passed before Rickett would consider leaving the room after the others drove off toward the school. Rickett took advantage of the daylight and began sifting through the materials in the office. He ruffled through the files in the file cabinet and checked behind the drawers in the desk only to find flash drives, papers, receipts, and other items only essential to running a business, not to surviving the terror outside.

In the storage cabinet, Rickett at least found a few stacks of black polo shirts embroidered with the Pins and Pints logo. He replaced his gray sweater with an extra-large long sleeved shirt. At least he can feel a little cleaner by removing bloodied clothing.

Out in the main area, behind the counter and under the register, Rickett found a set of keys next to a box of clean white socks for bowlers who didn’t bring their own, a quick way for the place to make a buck. He replaced his own soiled socks with a new pair and shoved a second pair into his pocket.

Behind the seating and computers for the lanes at the far end of the building were stacks of small lockers.  Rickett walked with a slight limp to the lockers, gently swinging the bat in his left hand and tossing the new keys in his other. The silence was welcomed after what he had been through the past few days, but he knew not to get too comfortable with his surroundings.

After a trying a few of the keys on the first few lockers (there were fifty on each side of the building), Rickett discovered the master key. He went through the fifty lockers in front of him, but the majority were empty. Only a few lockers had bowling ball bags for those habitual bowlers, a small jacket, and a canvas drawstring bag. Rickett dumped the contents onto the floor, and a pen, small notepad, and textbook fell to the floor. Someone left their schoolwork, but he was sure that was the least of anyone’s concerns now that the local college was overrun with biters. He rolled up the bag and shoved it into his back pocket.

He went into the kitchen area next, which was located behind the bar. All the alcohol was gone, which didn’t surprise him, and the kitchen area had been stripped of anything edible. Even the walk-cooler and freezer were empty. Rickett needed to eat; he would have to leave the bowling alley, and he needed to do it soon.


He looked through the windows and scanned the area. Across the street were a few buildings, but the one that stood out was the fitness center. Who would raid a gym? There could be protein in there. Even water, perhaps. In his head, Rickett formulated a quick plan. 

After a few deep breaths, he ran as quickly and his hobbled ankle would let him. He clenched his teeth and hissed with each impact as he raced across the four lane road, through the parking lot, and around the corner of the fitness building. The windows were two tiered, the bottom level being just large enough for him to crawl through without making much of a noticeable mess by smashing through the door. Rickett broke the lower window with the bat and knocked glass shards from the frame. He crawled through the opening, keeping both hands on the bat so he wouldn’t drag his palms across the broken glass on the floor.

Once inside, he moved toward the building’s entrance. On the counter were small displays for energy and protein bars. He hastily ate two and shoved more into the bag he pulled from his back pocket. He turned around and saw a tall cooler stocked with bottled water and energy drinks. He put some bottles into the draw string bag and the cracked on open. He downed the water in large gulps, not caring about it spilling from his mouth and rolling down his chin and throat. He cast the empty bottle aside and looked around. Behind the on the wall adjacent to the main counter and register were athletic items. He helped himself to a pair of black weightlifting gloves and a roll of athletic tape.
He sat down, removed his shoe and sock, and massaged his swollen ankle. He’d had worse sprains inhis life, but he needed to nurse this injury or it would be the end of him. For him, surviving lately was mostly a game of chase: he had to outrun the biters to see another dawn. He took the white athletic tape and wrapped his ankle, testing his ankle’s stability and how much pressure it could take before putting on his footwear.

He cracked open another bottle of water and sat with his back to the counter so he could look out into the parking lot that separated him from the road. The sky was a bright blue until he looked in the direction of the college he escaped last night. The others must have reignited the fires as the smoke was thicker, blacker, and climbing into the sky like an ominous storm ready to roll in his direction.


The gunfire was distant at first, but he couldn’t tell how far away it was. The others must have made contact with the biters, he thought. Rickett felt better now that he had some food, albeit not enough, on his stomach and had drank his fill of water. They must have lost containment when the fires were low last night. The well of adrenaline opened within him.

He checked the ammunition in the revolver: three rounds left. He chuckled. Ain’t much, but it’ll have to do. He thought about how one of those spent rounds had ripped through Gavin’s throat, and Rickett’s initial burst of adrenaline was replaced with anger. The shots fired in his memories were as loud, if not louder than, the shots fired in the distance. The scene replayed itself over: Henry’s finger pulling the trigger, Gavin falling over—wounded—pleading for help, and then Rickett pulling another trigger. So many simple, common movements—the bending of fingers—took the last of what he had from him within seconds. He regretted pulling that trigger. The guilt for killing her and leaving Gavin gnawed at him, twisting his guts.

He stood and moved towards the glass doors to have a better view of the road. The smoke was closer, and so was the gunfire. A storm had been brewing in the early hours of the morning, and now it was headed his way.

Rickett heard the motor before he could see the black pickup.  The truck swerved back and forth for a few hundred yards before taking one sharp turn across the road and smashing into the side of an SUV. Rickett  sucked in a deep breath and held it in anticipation of what would come next. There was only silence after the initial impact. Rickett exhaled slowly, but before he could finish exhaling, someone in the truck’s cab fired one shot.

Rickett was tempted to open the door. The guilt he harbored almost forced him to, and he realized the doors to this building were not chained. They are only chaining what they want to control: drugs, food, equipment. There’s plenty of exercise when running from biters, so why waste a chain and lock on a gym? He turned the lock, and the click of the bolt retracting to unlock the door snapped him back to his senses. No. Wait. Maybe the storm will blow over.

The other two trucks pulling up to the black pickup told him that the storm was just beginning, that the smoke and death and biters were only so far away. But it was the second shot echoing from the black pickup that punctuated his revelation: an exclamation point of death.