III: The Spaceman

As I peered into the darkness down the access hatch, my nose caught a whiff of the most horrific odor I had ever encountered. It went far beyond the distinct smell of decomposing bodies; it was more of a combination of rotten food, mildew, and wet dog, topped off with the distinct smell of decomposing bodies.

Murray’s Mart had once catered to a generalized market. It carried produce, toiletries, and even a tiny pharmacy center; the basic needs of the surrounding area were met at Murray’s. Unfortunately, Murray didn’t see the influx of undead making residence in the neighborhood, and thus forgot to make that bulk order of brains and human flesh. As a matter of complaint for the poor customer service, the zombies took a bite out of management. Literally.

The access hatch was located at the back of Murray’s, meaning the only way of getting to the sales floor, where Singer possibly was, happened to be through the warehouse located exactly below where I stood. Truth be told, it was a great way to test one’s mettle: if you could make it through the warehouse, you were golden. A second whiff from the hatch gave me the opportunity to smell an additional scent to the mix: that of stale vomit.

Apparently the mettle of a few people had been tested – and had failed miserably.
I swallowed heavily as I prepared my stomach for the approaching odor onslaught. As I gauged the distance from the top of the access hatch to the floor of the warehouse, I dug thorugh my utility belt in search of my night-vision goggles.

Yes, I have night-vision goggles; and before you crack wise, allow me to inform you that they have come in handy, on several occasions. Plus, if you allowed for the utility belt without a titter, don’t start picking and choosing what to laugh at.

Once the goggles were securely fastened and in working order, I made my way down the hatch’s ladder. The green light provided by the goggles increased the eerie feel of the too-too quiet mini-mart. Pipes creaked, though they had not been in use for several weeks; and somewhere within the store itself, something groaned. I hoped it was just my imagination, but just in case…

Before the Day Everything Changed, I was what you would call passive-aggressive. Whenever conflicts were concerned, I avoided them at all costs. If someone did something to me, no matter what it was, I would normally walk away and leave the person to think upon what they had done; something really harsh, and I would write a scathing entry on my blog about them, with incriminating names and all. On the World Wide Web, I was a legend. Unfortunately, once all main resources of power were expended and cut off, I became a nobody once more.

As soon as things had changed and society took a dive, a more physical approach to conflict resolution seemed more of the way to go.

I had never wielded a blade or a firearm before the Day Everything Changed, but I took to it almost immediately. It basically came down to point-and-thrust or point-and-shoot. I found that my years of playing first-person shooters had helped hone my aim; in fact, aiming with the actual weapon was much easier than using joysticks to aim.

In my time of fighting for survival, I had picked up a large-bladed machete, and it became my number-one defense against the undead. It was quieter than a gun, it was incredibly effective in cleanly removing a head – undead or otherwise – from its original body, and, as they all say, it never needed reloading.

After hearing the groan, I paused on the ladder and unsheathed the machete. I had made a quick and convenient sling in order for me to carry it around and be able to take it out with ease. It held firmly against my back and never impeded any movement whenever the blade was in use. I loved my handmade machete sling… thing.

I checked the blade to make sure it was in tact, and once everything was in order, I continued to climb down the ladder.

To say it was an easy way down from that point would be a bold-faced lie. Not only did I now find my hands full with the bulky blade, thus making the handholds on the rungs difficult, but I also had to ensure that the blade itself didn’t clang against the rails too much. I didn’t want to cause too much noise and either spook Singer or, worse, call attention to myself if any undead patrons were still doing their evening shopping. Unfortunately there wasn’t a better way to hold the machete, and I sure as hell wasn’t going to put the thing in between my teeth, like they do in the movies. A cut-up mouth was the last thing I needed.

I needn’t have worried, however, because as soon as I made it to the bottom of the ladder, there was nothing there ready to greet me; that is, aside from the visual display that went along with the rotten food-decomposing bodies-stale vomit combination from before. Needless to say, the flies were a nice added touch.

Now, where was the source of the groan? As I started to wonder even further, my question was answered by a third groaning call. It had definitely come from the direction of the sales floor, so I slowly made my way forward. The green dim of the goggles helped me steer around the shelving units and disregarded pallets of merchandise; I couldn’t see the floor, but I prayed heavily that the circular object that burst under my foot was a rotten melon.

Another groan later, I found myself standing in front of a set of swinging doors. The sound had been much louder than before, so I knew I was heading in the right direction. I didn’t know if it was a zombie or possibly an injured Singer, but I needed to find out and find out quick.

If it was a zombie, it needed to be removed from the sales floor and properly disposed.

If it was an injured Singer, he would need immediate assistance.

If it was an injured Singer, about to turn into a zombie… well, see Option A.

Holding the machete straight out in front of me, I gently opened one of the swinging doors with it. Slowly, I walked out onto the sales floor, and immediately found myself wishing I had pushed open the other door when a pair of hands latched onto my arms. Tightly. I turned toward the arm just in time to see a snarling, undead face open wide and proceed to make a meal of my arm.

Thankfully, the several layers of leather I had on, along with the thick gloves I was wearing, protected my arm from any possibility of being wounded or infected. The zombie attempting to feast on my arm seemed to notice its utter failure and stared at my arm as if confused. This gave me plenty of time to get my bearings and land a solid kick to the undead thing’s chest.

It fell backward dramatically: arms waving, head bobbling, legs doing a drunken jig. As if that weren’t bad enough, for the zombie anyway, a shopping cart seemed to sneak up behind the thing and trip it over. Both zombie and shopping cart fell over.

I took a moment to regroup, as well as to observe my attacker. Yep, definitely one of Them. Poor social skills, none too chatty, and a voracious cannibalistic mindset: the basics, and this one fit them all.

Only the zombie’s attire gave me pause as I circled it.

Zombies, being reanimated versions of those they once were, tend to wear the clothes they were wearing when they died. Most of the undead walk around in the normal affair: t-shirts and jeans, sometimes business suits. Some wear hats. And, over the course of time, they might lose at least one shoe.

However, the zombie in front of me wore none of these things.

First off, he wore a solid suit. There weren’t any separating marks that would describe the line between shirt and pants; it was, for what it’s worth, a one-piece suit. It covered everything, aside from his head. It even covered his hands and his feet.

Secondly, the suit itself was shiny. As if made out of tin foil, it gleamed and glinted as it caught random glares of light. And, like tin foil, it crinkled as the zombie got its footing once more.

And thirdly, the best bit: the zombie had two antennae poking from his bald head. As the undead thing stood as straight as it could, it lifted its head quickly; the antennae whipped up and bobbled with the motion.

With all of that, plus the green glow I saw through the night-vision goggles, I was looking at – I kid you not – a genuine spaceman. The insignia on its chest promoted some kind of space administration, but I was unable to read it clearly as the zombie snarled and lunged itself at me.

I hefted the machete and prepared myself for the swing to end this bit of fun.

The zombie closed the distance between us, and I began to tense up to take the decapitating swing. A few feet more, and that’d be all she wrote, folks.

I never got the chance to swing, as right before the zombie reached that last foot between us, its face exploded in blood, gore, and general nastiness. The mess flew outward, but only went so far as to cover my boots in its muck.

After momentarily mourning the cleanliness of my boots, I looked up to see the zombie before it crumpled to the floor. In place of its facial features was a large, sharp barbed arrow. From behind the undead’s head, I could see the large feathers on its tail end; however, because of the goggles I still had on, I was unable to appreciate the plumage.

The zombie fell to the floor in a lazy heap and directly behind it stood the man I’d watched sing his way into the store without a care in the world. He held a large crossbow that, for a scary moment there, I thought he was going to use on me next. Instead, he lowered it, looked down at the heap at his feet, and gave it a gentle tap with his sneaker-clad foot. Then he looked up at me and gave me a smile that, if it could, would win awards.

And that, ladies and gentlemen, was the moment I met Singer.