Pack Of Zacks

After our little community celebration, we felt inspired to be a little more social. It was not without planning, though. I managed to shoulder my way into getting security detail. Scotty and I patrolled the yards joining our homes (he lives four houses down). At first I was excited.

It got dark.

Then I wasn't so excited.

In fact I was scared to death. And if we hadn't been armed, Scott and I would be dead. Or undead. We still don't know how this works, but let me tell you what he saw. If I don't get it out of my head it's going to stay there, and grow a tumor or something.

We were just clearing the property fence to his yard, ready to circle around and go back. I was armed with my 9mm, Scotty had a .38 revolver, but he knew how to shoot.

There was a growl. The kind of throat rumbling that puts the hairs on your arm on end. We responded quickly, swinging to the left in time to see a shape leaping at us, blotting out the sky, all teeth and jaws. Scotty rolled through his gate, I rolled the other way. I swung my weapon toward the street where the shape came into the light of the tiki torches. It was a long, hideous German Shepherd. With the streets full of people I felt that a slaughter was inevitable.

But the dog's attention was on us. It turned and charged.

We emptied our guns into the thing. It dropped. Then, as we were walking toward the body, it tried getting up, that same growl mixed with a liquid popping I hadn't heard before. I felt kind of bad for shooting the poor thing. Starving, no doubt.

Then it tried to get up. I reloaded and cocked my handgun. It began crawling toward us.

That's when I smelled it. That odor threw my heart into my throat, and I couldn't breathe.

"It's undead." I said.
"I can smell it." Scotty replied.
"Finish it." I was shaking.
Scott emptied his revolver. The dog was still crawling toward us.
"Do we sound the alarm?" Scott asked.
It seemed a stupid question. People were already gathering around us. Scott was fumbling his ammo. I took aim and shot the dog in the head. It went down without a sound.
"Martin?" It was Dad. He came running.
"Dad!"
"Are you alright, son?"
I nodded as he put his arm around me, "It came from back there." I said, pointing toward the grove of trees.
"Not good." said Mr. Maggione. He was kneeling next to the body. "You can see where Zed gutted the poor thing."
It's insides were missing, and they weren't anywhere on the lawn. I shivered. Couldn't help it.
"We need to get inside." I said to everyone left standing around, "I think we may have attracted a bit of attention."
That was when the winds shifted. I turned my head toward the breeze. I heard that same growl, not so close, but not far enough away. I wasn't the only one. Everyone had their weapons out when I looked around again. Then those growls multiplied.
"Ah crap." I said.
In a fierce whisper Dad said, "Everyone MOVE!"
"My house!" yelled Scotty.

Scotty shouldn't have yelled. We could hear their paws moving in our direction.

Those who didn't flee to their homes were led through the gate to his backyard. Dad and I held the gate open as 15 people whipped past. I smiled as if I were a door greeter at Walmart, heart still trying to slam its way out of my ribcage.
I sniffed as the last person went through. These dogs smelled strong. I think these ones were a bit more ripe than their scout.
I slammed the gate and threw the lock. I was two steps into the yard when four loud pops announced that the pack had reached the fence, and tried to run through it. I was still standing there when they started gnawing through the wood. Frantic scratching, growling, snapping teeth, and the sound of at least one of them trying to hop over the fence.
I felt someone wrench me from my feet.

"Inside!" my Dad yelled in my face.
That got them going harder at the fence. I ran inside and shut the door.

A sliding glass door.

I threw the lock. Everyone had climbed the ladder to the second floor, Dad was beckoning me. I saw panic in his eyes. If a wooden fence couldn't hold them for long, how long would the sliding door last? I saw that Scott had tried to reinforce it with the dining room table.

They were in the yard.

And they came screaming at the sliding door. It shattered, sending them sprawling in. I leapt onto the ladder and climbed. Climbed like a rhesus monkey outrunning a fire. As I reached the landing they knocked the ladder out from under me. I slipped.

You know that whole 'life flashing before your eyes' thing people talk about? I really have to get a hobby. Man I'm boring.

Dad was hanging on to my forearm, but I slipped. I fell seven feet down into the maw of a most unwelcome revelation. I hit the ground pretty hard, felt cracking beneath flesh, and suddenly I was engulfed in that smell. I was on my feet and running down the hall, looking for any room with a solid door. Scott's room was upstairs, so I didn't spend much time down here. I slid on the hardwood floor into the last room in the hall, and slammed the door.

It splintered with the impact of a couple of dogs. Snarling. My heart was vibrating now. I reached back for my gun, which had been jammed into my pants. Not there. I drug a big dresser against the door, knocking a small vanity mirror onto the floor. It shattered, just like my hopes.

"Martin!" I heard from above. "Martin!"

It was Dad through the heating vent. I could actually look up and see him. He pulled the grate from his side. There was no way I was fitting through that hole. I shook my head, "Just be cool. I'll think of something."

Light bulb!

"Gun!" I said. "Give me a gun!" I took the grate out, and reached toward him. He took my hand and squeezed. He was pretty scared. I shook his grip.

"Come on Dad. Give me guns."

Dad handed his pistol down to me. I got Scotty's .38, and a few cartridges, too.

So here I am, the only thing between me and several rabid zombie dogs is a door whose integrity means my life. I mean . . . do I shoot through it? Hope that I kill some of them? How many are there? I never did a count. They all sound the same. There's no way to differentiate in all this noise.

Then I got an idea. My system shot through with some serious adrenaline. I checked to make sure both guns were loaded, safeties off. I picked up a piece of that broken mirror, and cut my pinky finger. Ow. I squeezed some blood, and wiped it against the door jamb. They dogs went silent. I could hear some heavy sniffing. Whimpering. Then they started up again, louder than ever.

I tried to look through the door crack, but I couldn't see anything. No lights.

I opened the window in the room, knocked out the screen, looked around outside, and jumped out into the landscaping. Shrubs suck. Scratched me up. I almost dropped my guns.

I ran.

And I know what you're thinking. I ran straight home, locked myself inside, and changed my pants.
That would have to come later. Right now there were 17 people crammed together on the second floor of my best friend's home.

I ran through the back gate, slipped a little on the broken glass of the sliding door, and went straight into the hallway. In a flurry of panic I unloaded both guns into the mass of mutts hammering at the door at the end of the hall.

They were not happy. As they recovered whatever senses the devil had granted them, I reloaded the revolver. I had put down five of them. Two left. And they weren't as wounded as I would have hoped. They charged me. First one down with the first shot. Second, third, fourth, miss, miss, miss. The Zack-dog leapt at my face, its wicked yellow teeth sharpened to terrible points. Its tongue shredded, and flailing at me like the flames of hell. It's paws reaching at me like mutated hands. The .38 flew up, aligned with the black of its gaping maw, and popped off, the small flame from the barrel lighting up its mouth for a fraction of a second.

I thought Why is the roof of a dog's mouth so viciously textured?

It knocked me over with the impact. It lay still on my chest. Man I'm tired of that. Living, undead, man, animal . . . I don't want anymore corpses landing on me. I got up and set the ladder back up.

"Martin." said Dad as he reached the bottom rung. He turned and hugged me hard. Scared to death, the poor man. I was fairly positive I hadn't dunged in my pants, but all I could smell were undead dogs. Dad was still hugging me when Scotty reached the first floor. I smiled and handed him his gun. He went to the sliding doors as people filed out, hands on his hips, his head hung.
"I had a feeling this would happen." he said.
I gave Dad a good squeeze, and wormed out of his grip, "Dad and I are pretty good at boarding up stuff. We can help."
Scott shook his head.
"Tired of being in this house alone." he said.
I felt instantly ashamed. I hadn't noticed that Scott's Mom was gone. She had never been in the street with us. She wasn't in the house.
"Where's your Mom, Scott?" asked Dad.
"She's ok. I think." he answered, "She's in Florida with Aunt Rhonda. Flew out a couple day before the world went to hell. She called me frequently up until a few days ago."
I looked at Dad. He nodded, "Get your stuff, Scott. You're coming home with us."
I felt that giddy rush all kids get when their best bud gets to sleep over. I had to make fun of myself a little as I started listing off all the stuff we were going to do.

We were heading out the back door when we were commanded to put our hands up, and drop the bags. I hadn't seen anyone, but I knew better than to run.
"On your knees!"
A shadow emerged from the darkness against the fence. Several of his compatriots entered through the gate.
"Lower your weapon, Corporal."
He did.
"Civilians," said a stocky Sergeant, "What are you doing outside?"
I about swallowed my tongue. We had been taking several risks with our outside socials. Dad spoke up.
"We were attacked by dog . . . zombie dogs."
The Marines jerked in response. They knew what he was talking about. The Sergeant looked around for a while. I saw his eyes graze the broken glass door. He sniffed.
"There are several of them dead in the house." said Dad.
"Private." said the Sergeant, putting his hand out.
A big Marine produced some paperwork, and handed it to him. With a penlight he produced from a pocket he scanned the papers.
"This residence is unregistered." he said, "What is your name?" He shined the light at Dad.
"Martin Joseph Ashton. This is my son little Martin, and his friend Scott Wells."
"Mr. Ashton." he flipped through the sheets, "You are four houses down. Why are you out here?"
Dad kept cool. It was impressive. With a straight face, and a matter-of-fact attitude he answered, "Little Martin wanted to see his friend, who was staying in this house."
He whipped his light onto Scott.
"I came out to get his little butt back in the house, but we were chased by a pack of those dogs. We took shelter in this house. The rest you can deduce with a forensics team with little to no talent."
The Sergeant laughed.
"There have been rumors that this neighborhood has been a little liberal with the rule that no one goes outside." he responded.
Dad shrugged, "Now you know why."
"I see." said the Sergeant, "And why aren't you registered, here, son?" he asked Scott.
"I heard knocking. Commands. The Marines kicked in my door. I was scared. I hid. I'm alone, here. That was a few weeks ago. I guess they were looking to see if someone lived here."
The Sergeant took a knee so he could be at our level, "That was dumb. We are here to protect, not to terrorize. I apologize for your door."
"He'll be coming with us," said Dad, "If you want to register him. Register him at our house."
The Sergeant nodded.
"Get up."
We did as we were told.
"We will escort you home."

And thank goodness nothing else happened. Authority like this makes me beyond nervous. I was glad when I put a door between me and the Marines. I felt foolish, breaking the rules. More out of a sense of putting myself in danger, than in breaking the law. We set up the guest bedroom for Scott. Bethany was more than willing to help, smiling and blushing the whole time.

Dad took him to the side before he went to his own room. I overheard what he said.

"My bedroom is just down the hall. I have weapons, ears like a bat, and an omniscience within these walls. I expect respect. You are a guest in our home, Scott, and you are welcome. I trust that you are a good boy, and will behave yourself?"
"Yessir." Scott squeaked.
Dad left the room shortly thereafter.

When I went in to get him settled in, Scott looked a little pale. I laughed. Inside. Dog zombies. That's great, just great . . .