Saving Jebediah
Another True Story from the Zombie Apocalypse
By Doug Ward
Copyright 2012 Doug Ward
Introduction
Everything seems to go wrong when the zombies invade the small town of Sigel. Join Max Talbot as he goes on a breakneck-paced journey to save his uncle Jebediah. This story was written as fan fiction and later posted on Mark Tufo's website. The zombies in this story are modeled after the ones from his stories, so keep in mind that you will be reading about speeders and the slower variety.
This book is a work of fiction. The
names, characters, places, and incidents are products of
the writer's imagination or have been used fictitiously and
are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to
persons, living or dead, actual events, locales or
organizations is entirely coincidental.
Other Fine Books by Doug Ward;
Ward's Laws
Ward's Laws Part 2
Ward's Laws Part 3
Ward's Laws Part 4
Parasite; The True Story of the Zombie Apocalypse
Symbiote; The True Story of the Zombie Apocalypse
Creator; The True Story of the Zombie Apocalypse
Predator; The True Story of the Zombie Apocalypse
Acknowledgements
Thank you to all of my friends and family who stood behind me and pushed me forward. You guys are the best. A big thanks to my editor J.D. Reed and Mark Tufo, who's contest inspired me to write this novelette and a full-sized novel called Parasite; The True Story of the Zombie Apocalypse. A very special thanks goes to my mother, Alice. She spent countless hours helping me learn to overcome my dyslexia.
It was some weeks after the initial outbreak of zombies that we saw our first one. You have to understand; I live in the Allegheny National Forrest in an extremely small town called Sigel. Our current population has to be less than sixty, and deep, old growth forests surround us. That's why we took little notice of the country’s plight. Sure, the news from outside our area went deader than a stinkbug left out in the cold, but we're used to that sort of thing. Winters can be long and hard, so you just stock up on food and fuel for the generator.
I was just thinking that it was a great time to settle down with a good book and wait for the country’s media to get back online. The last reports were disturbing, about all those city slickers getting their flu shots and then sick. It was probably nothing big, just blown out of proportion. That was until it came right up to my doorstep.
I live in an old, white aluminum-sided farmhouse just on the outskirts of town. The house sits about a stone’s throw from the general store. I don't have much family around here since ma and pa died. It is just my great uncle, Jebediah, and me. He lives out in the hills, just off the road to Clear Creek State Park.
It seemed like I had just lit a fire in the wood burner, with my handy pocket lighter, and settled onto my couch for an early afternoon nap when I heard someone pounding on my door. The peculiar thing is that the pounding was really rapid. Nobody around here does anything quickly. This urgency sent me into action. I hoofed it across the room and yanked open the door, only to find old Stan Drucker, white smock covered in blood, holding his arm against his chest. His legs were pumping up and down as he hurried looks over his shoulder. "Hurry up, Max," he said, pushing his way from my cement porch and into my living room.
"What happened to you?" I stammered, trailing behind him as he made his way into my kitchen.
"One of those campers came in looking like death warmed over. I asked him if he'd gotten into a bottle and he bit me," Stan replied while running a stream of water over the gaping wound on his arm.
I helped the store owner dry and wrap his limb in a dish towel and directed him into my living room so he could lie down.
"Holy crap!" I yelled as a bizarre nightmare stepped up onto my porch and was lurching toward the open door. It was dressed in a plaid shirt with khaki shorts and was missing part of its cheek. The smell assaulted me as I ran to intercept the intruder. The apparition put one hand on the door frame, and was reaching inside for me with the other when my Marine training took hold.
You have to understand that, being a Talbot, it's almost a requirement that I spend some amount of time in the military. My flavor of service was the Marine Corp. At the time, the training I received didn't seem so useful. Little did I know just how useful it would become.
I chopped his outstretched arm up and away, then delivered a sidekick to this guys midsection, knocking him from the small porch. Recovering quickly, I swung the door closed and drove the dead bolt home.
Stan was lying on the couch shivering; sweat beading on his pale brow. Now, I am not going to try to fool anyone. In this isolated region, television is spotty, at best. I have watched a lot of zombie movies in my life, and I immediately put the pieces together. What I had thought was some freak hoax over the TV now became crystal clear as I pictured the creature I had so recently kicked off my cement landing.
I sped to my bedroom and pulled the Glock 9mm from my nightstand. I was shoving the magazine home just as a dull thump sounded outside the living room door. Not having time to ready any of my other guns, I hurried back into my living room and chambered a round. A series of low thumps followed as, I assume, the zombie camper was trying to figure out the door. I wasn't going to give him the chance. I twisted the knob which released the deadbolt, in a single motion, I threw open the door while swinging the gun into the open portal at head height.
Nothing was there. Panic seized me as I swiveled my weapon, looking for my quarry. A wet hand latched onto my ankle. Trying to free myself, I fell backward, ankles still angled toward the now open door. Another hand slapped home. This time, it grasped my opposite calf. As I looked down, I could see the blood-stained mouth poised to plunge down upon my unprotected legs. I leaned to my left, swinging the Glock around and taking a desperate, wild shot.
The 9mm round took the zombie camper through the forehead, blowing out a small section of the back of its skull. I didn't see the bullet strike the target, but I felt the bulk of its weight slump heavily onto my lower legs.
Relief flooded my body as I lay there, regaining my composure. A moment later, I felt disgusted by the corpse pinning me to the floor. Although its body was slack, it took a whole lot of kicking to free myself from its tight grasp. As I resumed an upright position, I could see why it wasn't standing when I opened the door. The undead creature’s right leg was broken, a decent length of its thighbone protruding from under its gore-covered shorts.
With my foot, I pushed the now still body far enough outside the door to assure its closing and, once again, secured the entryway. Remembering the events leading up to the struggle, I brought my attention back to Stan. He was no longer on the couch. I could hear him vomiting into the kitchen sink.
As I entered the small, country-style kitchen, I saw Stan, his back arching as he dry heaved. Blood soaked the towel covering his wound. Thin rivulets of blood flowed down his arm and across his hand as he leaned on the counter over the sink.
"What's happening, Max," the old shopkeeper asked in a thin voice, not turning around.
I slid the weapon into the waistband at the back of my jeans and softly, in my calmest voice, soothed, "It's ok, Stan. I just had to take care of the camper. He won't bother us again."
"No, Max!" he said as he slowly turned around. "What's happening to me?"
Stan's skin was visibly gray
and covered with sweat. His red-rimmed eyes had sunk as they peered out of two dark holes in his head. In silence, he began unwrapping his arm. It had stopped bleeding, but the edges of the wound were an angry black. It looked painful. The worst part of it was the smell. It emitted the sweet stench of rotting flesh.
"Am I gonna become like that camper?" Stan asked in a small voice.
"Not on my watch," I responded, following that up with the most confident smile I could muster.
We spent the next fifteen minutes cleaning and treating the bite. We used sterile gauze and made it as comfortable for him as we could. I tried telling him soothing things and buoying his spirits, but he was silent throughout the whole procedure. The weirdest thing was that, while cleaning and binding the wound, things that should have hurt Stan didn't seem to faze him at all.
Finally, when it was all done, we retired to the living room to decide our