Last Day in Kansas - a Story from the Zombie Apocalypse

The bite didn't hurt, which was surprising. That isn't to say I didn't feel pain, feel my bowels loosen and curse words slip past my lips even as I tried to clench my mouth shut. But the bite was more like a dentist, poking at a tooth. Even when I saw my skin tear, my blood well up around the cracked lips and broken teeth, the pain was from somewhere else entirely.

When the dead rose and began to feed on the living, seven months earlier, the number of people who were actually ready for it, able to approach the situation calmly and with forethought, was surprising the the talking heads who still managed to broadcast themselves through the airways. That isn't to say there wasn't a great deal of denial and panic. It was mostly denial and panic. But there were some who simply loaded up the weapons and supplies they already had standing by and headed off to positions they already knew they could defend. There were website and social media groups they used to coordinate themselves, at the same time they diverted the "cattle" away and into the zombies maws.

I was in the cattle group. I didn't believe in zombies, though I freely admit to enjoying movies and books with them. The government was in denial at first, then frantic panic, and the instructions to the general population was confused at best. Stay put, seek shelter, report to Army or National Guard bases, then remain at home and seal yourselves in. And then nothing.

I had managed to get lucky, and the shelter I was in, really a severe weather building in Kansas, had food enough to keep us alive for months if we didn't mind the lack of variety. It was supposed to hold 50 people, but there were only 12 of us, three of them children under ten years old.

Samantha had led me to the shelter. She was a State Trooper, though her uniform was tattered when I met her. She still had a car, and ammo for her handgun. And she was a better shot than me, which is why I was still alive to make it to the shelter. She had also known how to seal the door. One of the others, an older man, had complained others might need to get in, but Samantha had just ignored him.

The first few hours were tense. Samantha made everyone strip, herself included, and we checked each other for bites. Cuts and scrapes were cleaned up and bandaged. Then we all set about checking over the supplies, and then listened to a emergency radio as the wave of undead rolled past us. We caught the first hints of The Betrayal, the survivor types sending the general population off to die, before we couldn't pick up the signal any longer.

None of use thought to start keeping track of the days right away, so its hard to say how long we stayed in the shelter. I think starting to keep track, once everyone's cellphones and tablets had died, had been a mistake, but none of use could see it coming. But then I was already growing intimate with Samantha, and we were both distracted.

She was 3 months older than me, and had been a marathon runner in her spare time. She had only made for the shelter when her ammo started to run low, and had stopped to rescue me when she could have just kept going. I had already seen plenty of law enforcement turning their backs on civilian types, and I couldn't blame them. Perhaps it was just the situation, the stress, the silence from the radio, but when she found her way into my bed that first night, I guess we both needed something.

We weren't the only ones to seek comfort in others, but as always there was an odd man out. Stuart, in the remains of a nice suit and shiny shoes, though with an impressive beer gut only slightly larger than his bald spot, seemed to think he was entitled to some of the action others were getting. He told stories of his penthouse, his sports car, his job. Things that probably helped him get girls in the bars, if only temporarily. Of course, it wasn't working now, and I think that isolated him even more.

So I know it was four months after we started keeping track when Samantha told me she was pregnant. It shouldn't have been a surprise. She had been on birth control, but that had run out long ago. There hadn't been condoms in the shelter, or if there had been someone else had taken and hidden them. I couldn't decide if I was happy or terrified. The radio was still silent.

A month or two later the radio caught a signal. The Army had established a large safe area with massive walls and supposedly they were even working on a moat. The safe area was about 100 miles away, and people in the area were being told to make for it if they could. I wasn't sure we should try, we were safe in the shelter. Samantha wasn't sure either, but others wanted to go. 100 miles was a long way on foot, and there wasn't much in the way of weapons to go along with. This was a storm shelter, and while there was plenty of food, water and power, the planners hadn't added 9mm shells.

Stuart was in the group that wanted to go, he was very vocal about it. He brushed aside the practical concerns, and even suggestions that some people might remain in the shelter. We didn't even know what was on the other side of the closed door. The argument started every day, as we listened to the radio, and ended with bitter silence every night, as we all went to our beds.

We should have seen it coming. We didn't, but we should have. I was in bed, curled up with Samantha. She wasn't showing yet, but she had complained her breasts were tender and seemed larger. I had been worried about the delivery, but she had pointed out people hadn't always had medical facilities and done alright, when we heard the screams.

She had managed to grab her pistol, and we reached the common area in time to see Heather, the 8 year old little girl, go down under three undead. There were more coming in through the open door, and next to it was Stuart, a pack of food spilled next to his body, as he was fed upon.

We turned and ran back, Samantha slamming the door closed on the scene. It didn't lock, and there wasn't anything to put in front. Others started to appear, and Samantha quickly told them what had happened. There was a lot of cursing. I just felt icy cold. There was only the one door, which had been fine when it was closed but now trapped us inside. Something slammed against the door to the common area, and I moved to put my weight against it. Roger, a white haired farmer, joined me.

Samantha organized the others, looking for things to seal the door. The weight pushing against was growing, and my feet slipped now and then. I was bare foot, not wanting my shoes on in bed and not wanting to wear out my socks. At least I wasn't naked.

Something thudded against the door, and it slipped part way open before we could slam it back. It was enough time for one of the undead to slip a hand around. The crunching of the door on it reminded me of breaking sticks for firewood, but there was no scream or even blood. And the door wouldn't close all the way.

There was another thud, and another. More limbs appear. Samantha and another woman appeared behind us with a bed frame, but I could tell it wouldn't be enough. Samantha looked at us and I think she saw the same thing. The next thud tore the door of it hinges.

The farmer, roaring something defiant, actually waded in to the undead, fists flying. He even knocked a couple down, and that gave me a change to rush down the hall and get around the bed frame. Samantha waited for me, I don't know where the other one went. The undead moved through the door. Some where little more than skin and bones, dried husks that had once been human and now looked like mummies.

"I found a ventilation shaft." She said, "It had a ladder and the others are climbing out."

"You need to go." I said. I was watching the undead try to get around the bed frame with a strange, clinical detachment.

"Not without you." she answered, pulling at my arm.

We moved away, keeping an eye on the undead. The bed frame had become jammed, and it was actually taking them longer to get around than the closed door. But it wouldn't last, the mass of themw as starting to force the frame down the hall.

The shaft was in a back room. We had found smaller ones, but this one was large enough to allow a person through. It looked like some of the adults had already gone, and the two remaining children were being hustled onto the first rungs. I looked back.

"There isn't enough time." I said.

"There will be." Samantha answered.

The children were on the way up when the frame slipped out of the way. Samantha didn't even hesistate before raising her pistol and firing. Each shot exploded a head, but there were too many and she stopped before the gun ran empty.

"Just in case." She said. "You go, I'll cover you."

I looked back, the base of the ladder was clear, but I didn't think more than one of us would have time to make it up.

"Take care of both of you." I said, then following Roger's example I charged the undead.

It wasn't like hitting a person. I hadn't been in a fist fight since High School, and the first undead I hit, squarely in the jaw, actually had the lower part of their skull cave in. I had a brief feeling of triumph, and that is when other grabbed my still extended arm and bit.

I fought back the terror, the emotional pain of all that I was giving up, raised up my foot and kicked the zombie who had my arm right in the chest. It flew back, knocking down a couple others, and slowing the horde for just a few seconds. I looked back.

Samantha was standing under the ventilation shaft. Her face was pale. I thought I could see the slight swelling of her belly, I hoped I could. I felt something hit my back, another of those numb, pressures on my shoulder, wetness on my shirt. I spread my arms, blocking the hall as best I could as I saw her jump up, grab the lower rung of the ladder. She hung there, just for a moment, then I saw her gun come up to bear on me.