Poor Joe

"Dammit!"

Joe set his beer on the table. He didn't bother to find a coaster. There wasn't anyone to bitch at him for not using a coaster and the beer was warm so it wouldn't sweat anyway.

Bump!

Joe looked over his shoulder at the garage. The bump is what made him put the beer down in the first place. Probably for the best anyway. Getting drunk these days was stupid beyond belief.

Bump!

With a sigh he leveled himself up out of his chair. Looking down at his gut he let out a small sigh. He really needed to get into shape. If he survived the week he might think about a gym. Right now he needed to take care of the bump. He was more than a bit pissed at himself. He must have left the garage door open. That was stupid, very stupid.

The bump sounded again. Joe picked up his double barreled 12 gauge shot gun and checked to make sure both barrels were loaded. He then rummaged through the box of shells for a couple of extra. You didn't know what you were going to find and it was better to take extra.

The bump noise sounded again. Pretty close to the door from the kitchen to the garage. Joe thought for a minute and decided that it might be best if he went out the front of the house and came back in through the garage. It was simple, hell it should be, this was a 1960 's rambler. Single car garage that seemed to be glued onto a shoe box. Door in the front, door in the back, door from the kitchen to the garage. It looked just like the one across the street. Hell, there were six identical ones on this block alone.

Listening for the bump at the kitchen/garage door, Joe eased open the front door. Making a ton of noise would not me beneficial. He wanted to sneak up on the son of a bitch not have it come at him. Bump. Joe smiled a slow smile. He eased the door open and stepped out, right into that God Forsaken glass and brass wind chime that his wife, late wife, just had to have. He reached up and touched his cheek. He swore softly as his finger came away from his cheek, red with blood.

Well, he would deal with the cut cheek later. Right now he needed to deal with Bump the bump in the garage.

Joe eased around the corner of the garage. Shotgun tight to his shoulder. Sure as his wife was dead, so was this sorry piece of crap ahead of him. It hadn't noticed him yet. Joe breathed a little easier. Not to deep though, the walking dead smelled terrible. Best to breath shallow. The zombie bumped up against the kitchen door again. Any hope of it having a the motor skills to actually turn the knob were long gone. It was a surprise that there was any brain left at all. But there was a brain and you had to destroy it to kill it. If you didn't destroy the brain they just kept coming. Joe circled around behind the zombie. Shotgun trained at the head of the zombie, he new better than to make that mistake. Like his dumb ass wife had done. Might as well think of her as zombie chow now.

"Better get this over with," thought Joe. He got in close with the shotgun. The barrels almost touching the back of the zombies head. He never said a word, just pulled both triggers. The side by side kicked like a mule when you did that but it ensured that the head would disappear in a fine red mist. What was left of the blood and brain spattered off the wall and splashed back into Joe's face. He closed his eyes involuntarily. Not happy about being sprayed Joe lowered his shotgun and leaned it against the wall. He got rubber gloves off the workbench and pulled them on. He then picked up the body of the zombie and drug it into the street. No one would care. Joe hadn't seen anyone in days. Well, no one living that is.

Once back inside Joe grabbed a hand towel off of the stove door handle and wiped his face. He grimaced at the slight pain in his cheek as he wiped the zombie splatter off his face. He had forgotten about the cut on his cheek. Joe retrieved his beer from the coffee table in the living room and headed for the bathroom. Better check that cut and get it patched up.

Click!

"Dammit!" Joe snarled. Old habits died hard and he still tried to click the light on in the bathroom. His late wife used to tease him about it. He thought of her with both longing and contempt. She always gave him crap about not being the smartest fellow. He smiled, well ha ha on her. He was alive and she was zombie chow. Still he missed her. It had been nice to have someone to talk to when the night passed slow and it was an eternity until the dawn came. Joe shook his head and opened the medicine cabinet. He got out the peroxide and some gauze. There was tape too. Boy Scouts had taught him how to be prepared. He closed the medicine cabinet and looked into the mirror. "Dammit," said Joe. He looked at the cut on his cheek. He looked at the smeared marks he had made when he wiped what was left of the zombie ichor off his face. He remembered how his cheek had stung, that is what had prodded him to go into the bathroom to clean the cut.

The skin around the cut looked...well, dead. Not a good sign. Joe had seen this before. The slow turn from human to monster. It didn't even hurt. People were fine, talking to you, drinking coffee, then the virus or whatever it was would reach the brain. Their eyes would kind of go dim. Like someone had drawn a shade. Then they would lunge for you. They were quicker then, when they were still warm. Once their bodies had cooled they moved slower but move they did. Relentlessly they would move. On and on through the day or night. Through the rain. Joe wondered what would happen when they froze. He sighed. He would never know. He looked back into the mirror. The dead skin around the cut had gotten bigger. The dead zone came to Joe's mind. "Didn't see this coming," he said to himself.

Joe went back to the kitchen. He had set his shotgun on the kitchen counter after he had killed the zed in his garage. Zed was his own shorthand for zombies. It just sounded cool. He opened the shotgun and the two spent shells popped out onto the kitchen floor. Joe shook his head. He knew he should have reloaded after he pulled the trigger on the zombie. Stupid not to, in case the noise brought another one. It had in a way. Joe slipped two more shells into the shotgun and closed the breach. He opened a fresh warm beer and sat in his spot at the kitchen table. He had refinished the table in his first year of marriage. It was an old oak monster that he bought at a rummage sale. Took him weeks to sand it and stain it. More time yet to varnish and sand between coats. He still liked it, all these years later. Slowly he drank his beer. When he got to the last swallow at the bottom he noticed that beer was running from the side of his mouth under the cut. The dead zone was spreading fast. He set the can down and took off his shoe. Not much time now, he thought as he unlaced his sneaker. He pulled his sock off and laid it beside his shoe. He had always been neat. He set the butt of the shotgun on the worn kitchen linoleum. He leaned slightly forward in his chair and rested his chin on the side by sides barrels. He closed his eyes as he maneuvered his toe into the trigger guard. He hoped one barrel would be enough, he didn't think he could get both barrels to shoot with just his toe. Maybe he would see his wife. That wasn't an entirely unpleasant thought. Better than being here, alone, and turning into one of those things. His vision started to dim. Time was up. He gripped the barrels hard and pushed down with his foot.