Page 8 of Creepy (The Zombiepidemic #1)

T he rest of the week I stuck to my normal schedule, starting with my walk to the mailbox.

On Friday, while driving down main street to Dirty Rice, a black Suburban rolled by.

Troy waved, and I waved. It was the only polite thing to do.

Sunday was the only day I deviated from my schedule.

I put on my finest for church, wondering if I should invite the only other resident in town.

Maybe next week.

Creepy’s downtown boasted three big churches, a Baptist, Methodist, and Catholic.

Covering all my bases, I rotated my visits to all three.

Saint Mary Mother Cathedral stood out in size, being second only to our massive courthouse.

Yellow and white brick layered up like a cake to the cross topped steeple.

White medieval crosses dotted the facade.

Huge arching doors and rainbowed glass made it by far the most handsome building in Creepy.

A greening, bronze statue of some saint stood at the entrance.

I didn’t know him. Being baptized down the street at the age of thirteen, I was no Catholic.

I didn’t agree with everything Christians believed, especially when it came to my Papa and who he loved, but he and I always attended church on Sunday.

“Don’t let them take Jesus from you,” my Papa would say about hateful Christians.

Admiring the rows of white marble columns, I strolled up the narrow aisle to the statue of Mary.

Under her, I lit every candle. I found it comforting.

Just as I had them all ignited, I blew them out to not burn the place down.

Then I went to work. Back in the office, I grabbed some cleaning supplies and a feather duster. Three weeks of grime awaited me.

Sunday being the only day I skipped going on my scavenging hunt, I still went to the diner.

I’d worked up an appetite and the generator wouldn’t fill itself.

Grabbing a butcher knife, I knew what I was after.

Stepping into the freezer, I pried two wieners off an industrial-sized frozen block of them.

What goes with bunless wieners? A rectangle of hash browns would do.

Paired with a big helping of ketchup and mustard, it’d be a treat for sure.

Leaving the freezer with a smile on my face, I ran right into Dillon again.

“What the fuck?” I almost dropped my food.

“You forget again? It’s Monday.”

“Is not.” I was astonished.

“Sure, it is. Don’t you look nice?” He undressed me with his eyes. “Is that a new sun dress?”

“It is. Had church. So, I know it’s not Monday.”

“You’ve got me.”

“What are you doing here? There are no freebies.”

“I had business nearby.”

“You didn’t message me first... you must like to scare the bejesus out of me?”

“I love making you jump, Sissy.”

“I’ve got the radio on. Business in Creepy?”

“My crew saw a truck headed this way. I came as soon as I heard. To check on you. Did you see anyone?”

“Yes,” I answered automatically, before thinking twice about it. Fuck.

“What the ever-living shit, Sissy.”

Fuck. I shouldn’t have told him. I tried to play it off, shrugging. “Creepy has a new resident.”

Dillon’s face twisted around.

“I should’ve invited him to church.”

Dillon became red. “And you didn’t radio me?”

“Why would I?”

“Who is he? Where is he?”

“How do you know it’s a he?”

“Boys saw a man driving an Amazon Prime truck this way.”

“Troy is a basketball player. He seems nice enough.”

“And?... Where is he?”

I held out my hands. “That’s all I know.”

“Sissy, I swear...”

“Fuck, Dillon. I didn’t have to tell you the truth.”

He turned to leave.

“Where are you going?”

He didn’t answer that. He didn’t have to. I knew he’d be going to look for Troy.

“Keep your crew away from my house or our deal is off,” I yelled, as he was mostly out the door.

“I’ll be back.”

Back at home, I noticed right away I’d had a visitor.

Two twigs tied together with a blade of grass to make a cross greeted me on the porch.

There was a little flower stuck in the middle of it.

Like every other time I’d gotten something from my stalker, I grabbed my gun and checked the perimeter of the house.

Finding nothing, I sat on the porch swing sulking.

Poor Troy. I’d probably gotten him killed.

If I ever saw him again, I’d invite him to dinner.

Then again, maybe he was my stalker. I hadn’t seen another living soul in Creepy.

I had no idea if he was who he says he was.

There was no internet anymore, no way to check.

And didn’t Dillon say he was driving through Alexandria, the wrong direction if you’re coming from Florida? He said a truck, not a Camaro.

Or then again, maybe the house at the end of the lane was truly haunted.

Reminded of my routine, I went inside to gather my large pot and odd jars, a Classico spaghetti jar, some big salsa jars, and glass pickle ones.

Thanks to Mrs. Dean, I knew about canning.

Thankfully, she’d been cheap enough to show me how to reuse old jars.

I canned some tomatoes and basil and made some salsa.

Dillon hadn’t come back like he said he would. Worried for Troy, I radioed him.

“Are you coming over or what?”

“Have you seen anyone?”

“No, no sign of Troy. You find him?”

“No. It’s getting dark... probably... heading back.” His radio was cutting out.

“Okay... see you.” I ended the call and turned the radio off.

Since Dillon wasn’t coming, and it was starting to get dark, I planned to head over to the Jules’ Estate to hide my new jars of sauce.

My hands on my hips, admiring the lot of them, I counted in my head.

Though they were still warm, I emptied my backpack all but the black steel baseball bat I’d strapped to the outside.

Smoothing my hair, I put on my headlamp.

I’d need it for the quick trip in and out of the dark basement.

I stuffed as many jars as I could in the backpack and filled two small Trader Joe’s totes.

Before the pandemic, I used to make a trip into Alexandria for groceries because the produce at Piggly Wiggly wasn’t good enough for me, often wishing I had time to grow my own. I laughed at the irony.

Slinging on my heavy backpack, I grabbed the bags and vaulted down the back steps.

Carrying a load, I kept a steady but quick pace, focused solely on completing my task.

Every step familiar, the worn path through the overgrowth guided me to the gate.

An inkling of worry interrupted my journey.

The path was too worn, detectable. I thought about the cross on my doorstep.

I’d take another path next time. Setting the bags down only to punch in the combination, the muscles in my arms burned.

I stretched them over my head and behind me, tugging each one straight to feel some relief.

Bending to pick up the heavy bags, I centered on my chore again.

Like I had a million times, I went straight to the side door, probably once a servant’s entrance, one that didn’t even lock.

When I moved in, I’d be installing a deadbolt for sure.

Not that it’d do anything to keep out a human who could bust in the wooden door.

A zombie, on the other hand, would be deterred with the right lock.

Leaning on the knob with my elbow, I twisted while using my foot to pry the door open.

I slipped in, letting the heavy door shut behind me.

The basement laid straight down the hall.

Pitch black on this side of the house, I counted my steps until I almost ran into the door.

At least this door locked. I’d made sure of it, installing a deadbolt when I decided to use the space.

I sat the bags down and reached up to use one finger to turn on my headlamp.

Even reaching up hurt. I scolded myself for overdoing it.

Being sore tomorrow would cancel out my extra efforts today.

“Don’t be too hungry,” my Papa would say anytime I bit off more than I could chew.

“Pace yourself,” I said, under my breath.

I dug in my pocket for my growing ring of keys. I flipped through until I found the ancient one and the newest one. Unlocking the knob and the dead bolt, I gained entry to my secret stash. I picked up the bags and marched down the wooden stairs carefully.

Basements were scary in general. This one was no different, no matter that with the proper lighting it was quite cozy, being finished out and all.

Regardless, I ignored the tingles climbing my spine as I descended the stairs, even as I broke a few cobwebs with my face.

I didn’t even bother knocking them down anymore.

Spiders, the little workaholics they were, quickly replaced them.

I stowed the jars away on the high shelves of the built-in bookcase that lined the whole wall.

My task finished, I left the basement a hundred pounds lighter, bounding up the stairs. Taking the keys, I locked the doors and headed down the dark corridor until something stopped me. A sound. I froze.

“Hhhrr...” and thump.

A motherfucking zombie.

Not wanting to blast a hole in the wall, I unstrapped my bat and swung it over my shoulder. Dreading the cleanup of killing a zombie, I tiptoed farther into the house.

“Hhhrr...”

I followed the sound, rounding each corner, anticipating an undead monster to scuttle toward me.

Halfway through the mansion, I’d come into the light, out of the shadows, where the large front windows illuminated the rooms. Fuck.

I’d have an even bigger mess to clean up with the melting zombie oozing goo all over these beautiful floors.

“Hhhrr...” Thump. Thump. Whack.

I peeked around the corner for a shock. A young man crouched, his arms out in a fighting stance. His face serious, he made the, “Hhhrr,” I’d heard. In one swift motion, he spun around, jumped up, and kicked.