New Year Zombie Story

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It's been a while since I've posted something I wrote so I figure, what better way to start the new year than with a zombie story? Hope you like it! 

TheZombies of Cow ValleyBy:Adam Gaylord
WhenI opened my eyes, the cows were gone.     “Shit.” Iscrambled to my feet. I’d only closed my eyes for a few minutes. How a herd of1500 lb. heifers was able to sneak away was a true mystery of nature. Usuallywhen the cows laid down they’d stay down for hours, chewing their cud in aswarm of flies. Rarely did they abandon their morning nap.Somethingmust have spooked them.I shruggedon my backpack and looked around the partially wooded pasture, seeing no signof the cattle. If they weren’t in the open they were probably down near thecreek. That meant fighting my way through dense thorn bushes and clouds ofmosquitos to find them. I walked toward the creek, once again I cursed my luckin landing such a crappy summer job. When applying for the field researcher positionI’d pictured helicopter wolf surveys or bull moose tracking. Instead I wasputting my new graduate degree to use taking second-by-second behaviorobservations of walking crap factories.Damnthis economy.Ireached the wall of thorn bushes marking the edge of the stream corridor. Sureenough, a steaming fresh cow patty waited for me on a small trail penetratingthe bushes. I ignored the smell and plunged in. By sticking to the trail Iavoided most of the thorns, only earning a few new scratches. What I couldn’tavoid were the mosquitos. Dozens circled, determined to find a chink in thechemical armor I coated myself with every morning. They attacked my knuckles,behind my ears, through my cotton t-shirt, anywhere that the bug spray wasn’tthick enough to assure cancer. I trudged through the bramble for half an hourbefore finally spotting the heard clumped together in a corner at thedownstream end of the pasture.“That’sweird,” I mumbled. That area was rocky with hardly any grass so the cattle usuallyavoided it. It was also directly adjacent to the road and its complement ofpickup trucks that never failed to scare the half-wit bovines. Pickuptrucks and dogs. Overthe course of the summer I had come to the conclusion that if you lived ineastern Oregon and you drove a pickup, you were required by law to carry a cowdog in the back. I pictured young men going to buy their mandatory first pickuphaggling with the salesman about what kind of dog to include with the truck. “Foranother grand I’ll throw in a pure bred border collie, already trained to barkhis head off at any living thing you happen to drive by.”Ineared the herd and noticed something else strange. None of the cows, not asingle one, was either eating or crapping. What such a bizarre andunprecedented event might foretell I couldn’t begin to guess. I was just happyto see something, anything different from the herd.Icircled down toward the road to get a better look. The cows were lined upagainst the fence, staring intently down the road to where it and the creekcurved down the narrow valley. I hadn’t seen the animals this interested insomething since the rancher put out a new salt lick.Ireached the fence, the cattle ignoring me as I tried to see what the fuss wasabout. At first I didn’t notice anything out of the ordinary. I was about tochuck the whole thing up to bovine stupidity when a movement caught my eye.Over the rocky bank that hid the creek from view climbed a sopping wet bordercollie.“Wellthat explains it.” Anything on four legs automatically warranted the cow’s fullattention. Buta dog without a truck? Where had it come from?Asmall plume of smoke drifting over the creek bank answered my question.“Shit.”Iscurried over the fence and ran down the road, already knowing what I’d find.Sure enough, as I neared the dog the underside of a pickup came into view, thevehicle sitting upside down in the middle of the creek. The dog ran up to meand then back to the creek bank, whining.“Iknow boy. I’m coming.” Thepickup was in bad shape. It looked like it had rolled a couple times beforeending up in the water. The smell of burnt rubber and oil filled the air. I dugmy cell phone out of my pack but as always, there was no signal. I triedcalling 911 anyway but without any luck. “Cananyone hear me?” I yelled from the bank.  Noresponse.Iclimbed down the rocky slope toward the wreck. The way people sped down thesewinding valley roads, I wasn’t surprised to see an accident. I’d only narrowlyavoided several myself. I wadedinto the knee-deep water, looking around for the cause the crash. I didn’t seeanother vehicle. Maybe the pickup swerved to miss a deer. Maybe the driver wasdrunk.Ireached the pickup and banged on the partially submerged driver side door. Thewidows were under the muddy water.“Areyou OK?” I shouted, feeling a little dumb for asking.WhenI got no response I splashed my way against the current around to the passengerside of the truck and banged the door.“Canyou hear me?”Stillnothing.Ibent down and peered through what was left of the passenger window. I could seepart of the seat and some of the dash above the waterline but everything elsewas submerged. Not sure what else to do, I reached into the water. My hand metthe resistance of flesh and fabric. Grabbing the driver’s shirt, I shook, andthen waited for some kind of response. Getting none I felt my way down theseatbelt, fumbling with the buckle before finding the release. Bracing myself Ipulled on the driver’s clothes and body. Try as I might he would not budge. Bloodswirled in the muddy water. Iwaded back to the bank. I had no idea how long the driver had been submergedbut if he was losing that much blood, it didn’t look good. I’d have to drivedownstream 20 minutes before I was out of the steep sided valley and in cellphone range to call for help. I jogged back up the road toward my truck. I Atleast I could honestly say I’d done all I could. Orhad I?Istopped and turned back to the dog, still pacing and whining on the bank.“Commonboy. There’s nothing we can do.” Thedog stopped and looked at me, cocking his head with a whine. “Iknow you wanna stay but we need to go get help.”Thedog looked at the pickup again but then started toward me. “Notthat it’s gonna do much good,” I mumbled.Atthat the dog’s ears went back and he growled low in his throat.Ithrew up my hands. “Whoa big fella. I’m just the messenger.”Themenacing growl continued but as the dog circled to one side I realized hisattention wasn’t on me but on something behind me. I turned around.   From the brush on the other side of the roademerged a woman in a yellow spandex bicycle outfit and matching helmet. “Holycrap. Are you ok?” I asked, moving toward her.Shewas obviously not ok. One leg dragged behind her as she staggered forward, bonesticking out of the compound fracture below her knee. Her arm on the same sideswung freely and most of the skin had been scraped off that side of her body,blood staining the remains of her tattered cycling outfit. It was her eyesthough that brought me to a stop. They were completely white, even thepupils.  “Youshould probably sit down,” I cautioned.Thewoman continued to lurch forward, her only response a low gurgling moan thatblended with the growl from the dog behind me.“Quietdog,” I said without taking my eyes off the woman. She kept moving toward me,her clip in bike shoe scraping against the road as her leg drug behind her. Istepped back toward the growling canine.“Shutup dog!”Butthe dog wasn’t paying attention to me anymore, or even the woman. Instead hewas watching what was left of his former master emerge from the passenger sidewindow of the overturned pickup. I could only stare as an old man in a muddyplaid shirt pulled his torso out of the cab, only his tattered clothing andentrails following behind. He’d left his bottom half pinned in the pickup. “Holyshit.”Mycurse drew the man’s attention, his milky white eyes turning toward me, jawopen in a raspy moan. His skin sizzled on the truck’s smoking hotundercarriage. Icried out as a cold hand grasped my shoulder. I whirled around to find thewoman cyclist reaching out for me with her good arm, her functioning fingerspinching the air. Istaggered backward. “Ok, I know you’re pretty messed up but could you pleasesay something coherent so that I know you’re not a…a freakin’ zombie!”Thewoman groaned. “Anything.Like your name or ‘Help me’ or something. Please.”Shegroaned again. “Yeah,I was afraid of that.”Ijumped and whirled again when the dog barked. The farmer’s torso had managed topull its way through the creek and was cresting the bank. Feted water pouredout its mouth as it crawled toward me, moaning.“Thanksdog. I’m on it.” I jogged a short way up the road toward a patch of trees. Ifigured chances were pretty good that I was dreaming. It wouldn’t be my firstzombie dream. I’d always been a bit of a zombie nut, watching every movie,reading every book, playing every game. They were fun. Thiswasn’t fun.Ireached the trees and took a deep breath. Then I slapped myself in the face, hard.“Ow,”I mumbled, rubbing my cheek. “Ok, not a dream.”I searchedthe stand, quickly finding a downed pine tree. I broke off a nice sized branch,about 4 feet long and as thick as my bicep. Then I stepped back onto the road,my pursuers slowly closing ground, the woman in the lead. I grabbed a fistsized rock from the side of the road.“Ok,last chance. Stop fucking around or I’m gonna bean ya.”Neitherreacted, they just kept coming.“Allright, I warned you.”Withthat I took a full major league windup and hurled the stone at the femalecyclist. The rock bounced off her sternum with a sickening wet thwack. Shehardly reacted, staggering only slightly before continuing her halting marchtoward me. “Well,that pretty much cinches it.” I told the dog who had retrieved the rock and setit at my feet.“Thanks,but I think I’ll use this.” I raised makeshift club and started forward. Then Istopped and turned back to the dog.“Sit.”He did. “Stay.”He did.“Man,border collies are smart.” Iturned back to the zombies. Squaring my shoulders I closed on the cyclist, herfingers pinching the air as I approached. Taking a deep breath I growled andswung the timber, aiming for her left ear. The blow missed high and struck herhelmet, sending it flying and tilting her head to one side with the crack ofbone. Her head stayed at the odd angle and she kept coming.“Yikes.”Iswung again, this time bringing the club up over my head like I was choppingfirewood. The woman’s head cracked open like an unripe melon. She collapsed,twitching for a moment before finally stilling. The dog barked but I didn’treact, transfixed by the gruesome sight.Thesmell of rotting flesh hit me as I was yanked backward, something pulling on mybackpack. Trying desperately to keep my feet, I shrugged of the straps andfell, dropping the club. I scrambled to my feet only to find myself face toface with a third zombie. This one was much further gone, bits of skin andmatted hair barely clinging to its decomposing muscle. The creature lunged at memouth first and I ducked to the side, expecting to feel the zombie’s hands clasponto me. Again it snapped at me and again I was able to step away unhindered. Afew quick steps backward showed what had saved me: the zombie had no arms. Whatit lacked in limbs however, it made up in persistence. It lurched toward me,forcing me back again. I managed to circle around and retrieve my fallen club. Thezombie lurched toward me and I whacked its head with a similar chopping motion,a second swing necessary to dispatch it completely. Itook a deep breath only to stagger as the farmer’s cold wet hand clamped hardonto my ankle. “Shit!”Thecreature moaned, pulling himself toward my foot, mouth agape. He bit down, histeeth sinking into the club I had just managed to jam between us. I pulled awaybut the torso drug behind me with every step, only the club keeping his teethfrom my flesh. “Dog,help!”Dogran over from where he had been sitting the whole time and chomped down on hisowner’s shirt, pulling hard. The sudden change in momentum sent me sprawling,dislodging the club from the zombie’s mouth. I kicked at its head, its jawssnapping at my boots. Only Dog’s pulling kept the zombie off me long enough tojam the end of the club into its mouth again. “Dog,get me that rock.” Hestopped pulling and looked at me.“Getme the rock boy, go get it!”Thezombie ground the log into my leg with its mouth, teeth breaking off as ittried desperately to feed. It was all I could do to keep the club between us.Dogdropped the same fist-sized rock by my head. “Goodboy!”Igrabbed the stone and tomahawked it down onto the zombie’s head. Over and overthe crack of bone and splatter of blood met the stone until finally thecreature stopped moving. Even then I had to pry its hands off my bruised ankle.I stoodand examined the corpses. The farmer’s blood pooled on the asphalt, a trail ofgore marking his path from the creek. In contrast, the cyclist was hardlybleeding. With the exception of her newly acquired head wound, her injuriesappeared older, the blood around them dried to a rusty brown, the flesh purpleand sagging.“Poorbastard, wrecked to miss a dead woman.” I rolled the farmer over with my footimmediately spotting what I was looking for, a circular chunk of flesh missingfrom the inside of his wrist. Abite mark.Awave of nausea sent me scurrying to the side of the road, separating me from mymeager breakfast. I stayed doubled over for a few minutes, overwhelmed, not bythe violence or gore but by the implications of what had just happened. I’dwatched enough zombie movies to know how these things worked. Pandemics startedin big cities. I’d been camping in the middle of eastern Oregon, over 200 milesfrom anything close to a big city for the last three weeks. I was due to gointo town the next day to restock my dwindling supplies. I had no cell service,no contact with the outside world. It was just me and the cows. And if there wezombies this far in the boonies…I pickedup my club and jogged back toward my truck.   “Comeon, Dog.”ButDog stayed put, his attention trained down the road to where it and the creekcurved out of sight. I stopped and saw Dog’s ears lay back and his hacklesrise. He growled low in his throat, like before. By now I knew enough to listento him.“Whatis it, boy?” I walked back and crouched down by his side, trying to see what hesaw. The road was empty. Not even a bird moved in the brush. I stayedmotionless. Slowly,unperceivably at first, Dog’s growl grew louder. Soon it seemed to fill thevalley around us. As it continued to grow I realized it was less of a growl andmore of a moan. A few moments later a wall of zombies rounded the corner intothe valley. There were dozens, maybe hundreds. I watched as the road back tocivilization, back to my friends and family, filled with the undead. I thoughtof my parents and my little brother back in Portland. Was there a chance theywere ok? Would I see them again?Dogbarked, glancing from the zombie hoard to me and back again.“Yeah.You’re right. Let’s go.” I resumed my jog to the truck, this time Dog fallingin step beside me. We’dhead into the mountains. There were dozens of old logging roads we could use.Maybe I could find an old fire tower or something where I could get cellservice. We’d have to try.“Goodluck cows!” I shouted to the herd who nervously eyed Dog as we ran by. I didn’tknow if zombies liked beef. Ihalf hoped they did.THEEND Note: I wrote this while doing behavior research with cattle in eastern Oregon. Pretty much any time I'm bored I think to myself, "What would I do if zombies showed up right here right now." It's a good way to stay entertained.