Drop Shipment

It was this afternoon. We heard, as well as felt, something thud on the roof. Riots have been getting bad, so Dad has been on a particular kind of edge. We all made for a window.

We pried boards away at the same time. I poked my head out, then I saw Dad protrude from the laundry room window. Looking up we could see an army green material dangling over the edge. We both looked into the sky at the same time and saw dozens of big boxes descending on parachutes of green.

We watched another box land in our back yard.

Dad signaled to me. I was to fetch the box from the backyard, and from wherever else I saw them land nearby. He would get the one off of the roof.

I drew back into my bedroom and ran into the hall. I threw the ladder down. I could already hear activity outside. Other people were thinking the same thing. I just slid down the ladder. Threw the bar from the door to the garage, hit the light, ran to the backdoor and opened it up.

I ran out a couple of steps.

Three people were already working on my box. They saw me. We froze. Coming out here without a weapon . . . stupid. I should have taken another second to grab a bar, a shovel, anything.

“We don’t want to hurt you, kid.” said the tall one. He was dirty and had dark, disheveled hair. His other companions I recognized from the attack on those troops. The woman, whose hairdo looked worse than it had just a few days ago, was there. She had the most vicious look in her eyes. For the first time in my life I knew what it was to be counted as naught.

I raised my hands and began backing away. As soon as I made a move the third, a wiry, middle-aged man sprung at me, drawing a knife that looked big enough to cut me in half.

I ran backward from him, stumbling into the garage.

There were four gunshots.

The man with the knife fell on me. I was done. I felt my life flash before my eyes. Man that was weird. I waited for the blade to enter me, wondering briefly what it would feel like. But the man just lay on top of me, the knife clattering away into the garage.

I could hear shouting outside. A couple more gunshots.

I lay there, feeling a warm, thick liquid spreading over me. The man was dead. I pushed him off of me and scrambled into the garage on my butt, leaving a streak of gore from the body to myself. Dad burst in, gun drawn.

“He . . . he’s dead.” I muttered.

Dad jumped over to me, “Are you alright, son?”

I nodded, “I think so.”

“Don’t focus on this right now, okay Martin?” he said as he hefted me to my feet. I stood there on shaky knees and tried to pretend like I hadn’t been a near homicide.

“Let’s get that box inside,” said Dad, “Then we’ll clean you up.”

“What about?” I asked, looking at the dead man.

Dad shook his head. He drug the man outside and set his body gently by the door. He drew his gun and scanned the property.

“Get the box, son.” he said.

I went to the box, which was as big as I was. It weighed a lot, but I knew I could get it inside. I used all my youthful cunning, and burning muscles to force that thing inside, but it worked. Midway through the back door I wondered how we were going to get that other one off the roof. 

We barred up the door. I went and took a very cold shower. I welcomed every freezing drop, and tried to ignore the pink water at my feet. I scrubbed seven times before I felt like I was free of blood-borne pathogens.

Yuck.

When I was dressed I called out for Dad. He didn't hear me. I thought he was still in the garage. When I opened that door the smell of bleach slugged me in the nostrils. I looked around, and I didn't see him at first, he was off in one of the corners cleaning off a mop.

"Where are your clothes, son?"

"Washer."

"Ew. We'll have to run those through a couple times."

I laughed. I was feeling a little better. My stomach was still twisted partway around my spinal column.

"What are we going to do about . . ."

"We'll bury him. There's no sense leaving a body to rot anywhere near us." 

I agreed.

"What was in the box?" I asked.

"I brought it inside." said Dad.

Apparently I had walked right by it without noticing.

"We have to get that one off the roof an item at a time." said Dad.

"How?"

That began a whole new adventure. We took the ladder out of the hallway and brought it outside. This time it was me covering Dad. The roof was a good vantage point, but we were easy targets. Anyone could have picked us off. I couldn't see the guy's body because it was next to the house, but knowing it was there gave me the creeps. 

Dad disassembled the box. He brought a big duffle bag up and stuffed as much as he could into it. He tied a rope to it and, as he was lowering it, I would stomp twice on the roof. Mom appeared from the backdoor and took the duffle inside. She would unpack it, then send it back up the rope to us. It took a good 15 minutes to get everything inside. Dad threw the lumber by the back door, and we folded up the chute.

As Dad and I were descending the ladder it shook. We looked down.

"Crap!" Dad said. He was on the rungs below me, just seven feet off the ground. Clawing at his ankles were three Zed. One could almost reach him, and I had the gun.

"Martin," he said, "Give me the gun."

The first thing I thought was, "Did they get Mom?" There was no sign of her.

"Holly!" yelled Dad, "Stay inside!"

We heard a muffled acknowledgement from the backdoor.

I tried handing Dad the gun, "Careful, son."

We fumbled it. 

It bounced off the tallest Zed's head. He seemed to take it personally, and shook the ladder harder. My heart was climbing into my throat, my stomach twisted harder around my spine, and I felt death tap me on the shoulder. Then I looked at the parachute I was holding under my arm.

I took it out and unwound it enough so that I could throw it like a net.

"Duck Dad!"

Dad hugged the ladder. I threw the parachute over the zombies. I almost missed, but with all their groping and pacing around each other they tangled themselves up good.

Dad went down and leapt clear of all three, as they had fallen to the ground. So did I. 

"Go get the rifle, Martin." said Dad. I think they were laying on the gun, and Dad liked dealing with them from a distance. I ran inside.

I ran back outside.

Two more Zacks had been attracted by the noise. I leveled the rifle and took both of them out. I let Dad finish the rest.

"Dang." said Dad, "I wanted to use that parachute."

 I don't know for what.

"Get the other guy, Martin. We'll put all the bodies on the parachute, drag them into the brush behind the house. We'll leave them there, bury them one at a time, or something." 

I went to the back door.

The body was gone.

It looked, from the gore and the stirred up weeds that the guy had gotten up and walked away.

"DAD?"

"What?"

"Is one of those Zeds the guy you shot?"

Dad took a minute to inspect, "I don't think so."

That's when I saw the bloody handprint on the siding.

I ran to the parachute and helped Dad pull those bodies a hundred yards or so from the house. We both ran back into the house, and shut the door.

"I don't like this pandemic, at all." said Dad. "Does this mean that, when we die, we will rise again and become one of those?"

I was already freaked out. I didn't reply. I just focused on what had dropped from the sky into our lives.

They actually armed us. We got another 9mm and four boxes of ammunition. I pocketed that sucker. It still hasn't left my side. We got a lot of food and MREs. Gallons of water, in hard plastic gallon bottles. We got some clothes. Some sewing supplies. 

And with an immense sigh of relief, and a gigantic smile, Dad set aside two suitcase-sized First Aid kits. "Looks like Lieutenant James made good on his promise." he said, his eyes watering. I felt sorrow for those lost Marines, and felt a sense of satisfaction that at least one of their murderers was dead.

I'm never going outside again. Dad can dig those holes himself. In the meantime, we are seemingly ok. I wonder if that guy's friends are going to seek reprisals. I hope not. I'm not sure who to be more afraid of. Us, or Zed.