Should Have Worn a Poncho

Jack had some time before enough of the walking dead congregated into his neighbor's yard. He went into his office and looked at his office clock. 9:45. He had to find a watch. He couldn't rely on his phone if the power could go down at any second.

...Thinking about his phone, he realized he should try to make use of the internet while it still existed. On checking, the WiFi was already down, but he could still use data from the phone network. Satellites were hard to decommission. A friend once told him that the server rooms on which a lot of "the cloud" was stored were veritable fortresses, with their own power and security systems. He hoped they'd hold out for a bit, because he had a lot to look up and wouldn't have time to do so until disarming the threat he set up below.

One of his first orders of business would be to protect his eyes and mouth before going out to battle. He might be able to protect from bites, but he wasn't sure he could predict where that black blood might fly. That stuff looked nasty, and he needed to ensure that it couldn't infect him through his mucous ducts or something. Digging through his storage bedroom, he found some old sunglasses and a black plastic, full-face Halloween mask shaped like a eerily smiling man. In his kitchen closet, he then found a box of cotton face masks and some duct tape.

The mask had gaps in its eyes and in the broad smile of the mouth. Jack couldn't use it for full protection, but could use it as a base for augmentation. He popped the lenses out of the glasses, and attempted to tape them into place over the eyes of the mask. It was more difficult than it sounded in theory. Jack wasn't good with his hands. He didn't want to cover much of the lenses, but had difficulty getting the tape to hold well on the edge of the lens. When he was done, the black mask was itself wearing cartoonish mask made of silver duct tape, but the lenses would hold. Turning it over, Jack then worked to tape the cotton material from a face mask inside of the mouth opening. He hoped it would serve as a semi-replaceable filter, at least until he found a better alternative.

Putting the mask on his face, the lenses had some gunk on them, but he could see and the mask-filter was kept far enough from his mouth that he wouldn't worry about licking anything bad. It was also pretty comfortable, which is why he had bought that particular mask years ago. So, he'd consider his efforts a success for his temporary goals. Visually, the malevolent eyes of the mask had been covered, so it now looked a bit like the Lone Ranger sporting a goofy smile.

Jack then realized he had wasted nearly 20 minutes messing with tape. He was likely running out of time. Once the remnants of the mower stopped, the resulting mass of undead may not fully disperse, but would start to move in unpredictable ways. What would he do if they surrounded his house? Or broke a window? He would end up back in his safety closet and losing valuable time. Or dead.

Hurrying now, Jack started checking the two standalone closets in his home. The first was to the left of the front door, which was to the left of the living room. It was primarily occupied by coats, and in it he found an oversized leather jacket. He had originally kept it to wrap over another jacket in the event of some extreme blizzard, but it would serve well as a last resort armor. The leather was old, but hard enough to stop a bite, and the whole jacket was loose enough to slip out of if grabbed. It had an oversized metal zipper, so Jack wouldn't have to worry about that getting stuck or broken in the heat of battle. He made a mental note to change into jeans before going outside, as the dress pants he had on now had none of the benefits he had just considered.

The second closet was located at the top of the stairs. It hosted various outdoor accessories and knick-knacks. Within it, he found a pair of loose but flexible leather gloves, grey snow boots made of durable material, and an old set lawn darts. He had no idea where he had gotten the last items, they were a set of four with metal tips. He figured he could toss them over the fence into Frank's yard and see if they lived up to their own hype. The sounds outside had transformed from mechanical grinding and screeching to a variety of sub-human grunts and soft thuds. He had gotten distracted again. Focusing up, he re-entered his room and started to change into his new zombie killing outfit.

Once he was dressed, he began checking his weapons. The shotgun magazine still had all 8 rounds. His bandoleer had 11 rounds. If he wanted the missing 4 shells, he'd have to scavenge around the yard to find where they fell out. The weapon seemed to be in working order... from what little checks he could think to do. An internal mechanism could be broken from the fall and, with his skillset, he'd have no idea until he pulled the trigger. He'd also be a fool to assume he'd have time to reload if he went through the full magazine (or if the gun jammed, and he had no idea how THAT worked). With this in mind, he went back downstairs to retrieve the automatic pistol. Loading 12 rounds into its magazine and ensuring one went into the chamber, he hoped he could use it to buy enough time to escape if he failed.

Jamming the pistol into the front of his jeans (Hip Hop would die without someone to carry on its legacy) he then went to his exercise room to look down into Frank's yard. Surrounding the mower in the center of the fence furthest from Frank's former home was a cluster of 15 to 20 of his former neighbors. Five of them were lurching and slamming on the dented mower, which now sounded like a wounded and dying parrot, with the remaining cluster of... 13 were loosely gathered nearby, as if waiting their turn. From his point of vantage, Jack could somewhat confirm that none of these things had accidentally wandered to his side of the fence and gotten stuck. There were no kinks in his set up. It was time to go down.

Standing at the backdoor in the corner of his kitchen, Jack worked to focus on his breathing once more. Inhale, exhale. He was terrified, but couldn't let that stop him. Inhale. He checked his gear, all was in order. The shotgun hanging on its strap around his shoulder. Exhale. He had his mask ready on his forehead to cover his face. He wouldn't keep it down to allow a faster check of his surroundings once outside. Inhale. He opened the door.

It was a beautiful day outside, if you could ignore the din one yard over. Sun was nice. Not too hot. Nothing waiting to pounce on him... Exhale. Jack forced himself to move quickly but quietly, with an eye his surroundings. Approaching the end of the fence separating the two houses, he held the shotgun tightly by its grip. No zombies near the front of the house either. He reached the edge of the fence, peaking around it. The 18 zombies hadn't deviated from their previous places. The mower was thoroughly obscured by their mass. They looked bigger, down here. He pulled his head back behind the fence. Inhale. He pulled the mask down. His heart racing. The gun felt heavy in his hands. It would kick like a mule when it fired. He might not handle that, fire once, lose the gun, and just die. This could be suicide. His lungs were burning. Maybe he should just go hide inside. He didn't want to do this. He really didn't want to do this. Exhale. ...But he had to.

Jack flipped around the fence and took a moment to orient the gun in a way that made sense. He imitated the stance he had seen in videos online. He aimed roughly into the cluster at what he hoped was the upper chest of one of the beings. Jack pulled the trigger. BLAM! FUCK! That did KICK. His shoulder was going to be sore, but he kept the gun. Two zombies fell over, one lost an arm. He had aimed too high and skimmed the cluster. The rest were starting to turn. He pulled the trigger again. Nothing. He had forgotten to pump the next shell into the chamber. As he did so, hands trembling, as the first one saw him.

It screamed, brittle and hoarse, lurching forward at a slightly faster than walking pace. On reflex, he aimed again and fired, a bit lower this time. BLAM! It and the one behind it fell, but he cursed himself internally. It had been on the edge of the group and he had wasted the shot. 14 Left. 6 shells. Pumping the next round into place, 3 more saw him. Two on the outer edge and one in the center. He ignored them, aimed for the center of the horde, and fired. BLAM! Three fell in the center of the group, including one near the mower. He pumped, stepping backwards as he did to preserve the corridor created by the fence and house. He needed to be smart. He needed to focus on staying smart. They had all begun approaching now, the ones remaining not as clustered. He aimed the gun again, but fixed his form and waited for them to converge toward him.

One breath. They were neither fast nor slow, but were still too scattered to ensure multiple kills. Two breaths. They had covered a 3rd of the distance to him. His shoulder hurt. Three breaths. The majority had covered just over half the distance between them. But the two zombies at the edge of the group which had first seen him were too close to keep waiting. BLAM! He fired at the closest one, which was also furthest from the center of the group. Its left shoulder and neck burst apart. One zombie behind it lost chunks of its lower body on the right side, falling over in a heap but still moving. He took a few steps back, pumping again. The remaining lead zombie had gotten even closer, seconds away from being on top of him. He aimed again, forcing himself to slow down enough to orient the gun to its chest. BLAM! A cannonball-sized hole appeared where its clavicle used to be. Behind it, 2 more fell, pieces of flesh shedding off the rest of in different directions. Step back, pump, aim. They were closing in but the corridor was doing its job, they had thoughtlessly brought themselves into a tight cluster. BLAM. Four fell this time. The remaining two were barely upright. He could outpace them easily and did so, walking backwards until they were effectively chasing him in a line. BLAM.

Jack surveyed the yard. It looked like scrapyard for human parts, more red and black than green. Even the mower was fully dead, sporting fresh bullet holes. He set the shotgun on the nearby grass. It was too hot to hang on his shoulder safely. He pulled out the pistol and aimed at the zombie which could no longer walk, walking to stand a reasonable distance from it's crawl. He could use the last shotgun shell, but figured he should save it and practice with the pistol while he had a chance. He used a stance his father had once taught him, two handed with the leading arm straight, looking down the barrel. POW!! ...POW! ...POW. It took three shots for the final zombie to stop moving, which wasn't great but it could have been worse.

He removed his mask and took a breath, at which point the stench almost made him retch. If it had been less awful, he would have savored it. He quickly left the yard and checked the street in front of his home. Still empty. He realized he had left the lawn darts in the kitchen; it had been a dumb idea anyway. ...He'd try it later. The stench was following him though. Looking down, he saw his gear was splattered in that same black blood and even pieces of formally human flesh.

...He should have worn a poncho.