Z.N.A. - Origin Read online

  There was nothing really that special about his basement door. It was a plain aluminum hollow-core door. The locks were nice high security locks, though. He put his key in and unlocked it, slipping inside and securing it behind himself. Paul had never really been a hardcore survivalist type. His father had started the tradition, after the family barely survived a devastating tornado without any shelter when Paul was a baby. Since that day his father had built a storm shelter and always stored enough food and water to last for 6 months at least.

  Paul decided it was for the best, and religiously bought a little extra every time he went shopping for groceries until he had what he needed. The guns, however, were not really in his father’s plan. Paul had decided a long time ago that he liked firearms. He loved shooting them and learning about them. He never went into the military like his brother, or desired a job in law enforcement, but he was perfectly content to own several nice weapons and go target shooting occasionally.

  He had a sizeable stockpile of ammo that he had purchased thanks to advice from another driver. The man told him it would be worth its weight in gold after the Senate passed a restrictive firearms bill that was being considered. The bill was never passed, but he was now very thankful he had listened to the man.

  There in the basement were some 5,000 rounds of cheap .22 LR ammunition and roughly 1,000 rounds each of 9mm, .223, .45 ACP. In a far corner rested roughly 500 rounds of old paper-wrapped 7.62x39 that he had purchased privately from a customer. He owned the Glock 17, a Springfield Armory 1911, his Bushmaster AR-15, and two older Ruger 10/22s.

  Not a huge selection of weapons in his mind, but he wasn’t made of money. Most people in his neighborhood would have thought he was insane having so many weapons and so much ammunition, so he never mentioned it to a single one of them.

  He had a wide variety of canned fruits, meats, and vegetables along with other foods he commonly ate. Paul had always been into camping, and there was a small camping grill if he needed it with enough fuel to last probably a few years. He had stocked up on Sterno too, and had about 50 small cans of it. He had plenty of water to go along with it all, stored in big blue plastic containers. Paul knew most people had little of anything stored away. Most of them had no more than 2 weeks’ worth of food. If the running water stopped running, almost everyone he knew would be going thirsty within a few days at most.

  The yellow Eton FR600 radio sat on his small workbench. It was fully charged, but he could crank it up if the power went out later. The radio was an impulse buy before he went on a big camping trip with some work friends a few months ago. It was barely used even during that time, but he had a feeling it was about to become his best friend for a while.

  Paul absent mindedly flipped the switch and surfed through the AM/FM channels. There were several radio stations still transmitting. The news was all the same as before.

  Something had happened.

  People were going crazy and attacking others.

  Some of the DJs speculated it was a terror attack or the new norovirus gone haywire, others prophesized that it was most likely the end of the world.

  One just played music, breaking in occasionally to let his listeners know he was “Still here, baby.”

  No one had any real answers though. Paul decided to head upstairs before he might not get another chance and grab a few things he would need if he were stuck down here for a while. Unlocking the door and holding the Glock at the ready, he quietly crept back upstairs.

  Peering through the blinds, Paul could see the same pandemonium continuing to unfold. A few cars went racing down the street, engines roaring, fully loaded with people and luggage. People staggered around, obviously infected, the telltale sign of bloody vomit covering their clothing. The house across the street looked like it caught on fire at some point, but was now out.

  No one seemed to be looking at Paul’s house, and for that, he was grateful. He put away the pistol and headed to the bathroom, washing out his hair and giving himself a general cleaning. There would be no telling when he would get a hot shower again.

  On his shoulder, he noticed a few light scratches from his earlier fight with the blond-haired girl. They were itchy so he poured some peroxide into a washcloth and cleansed the area thoroughly. His uniform was caked in blood and dirt, so that was removed and thrown into the garbage can. He grabbed some razors and foam and his small bathroom mirror. A large canvas duffel bag hanging on one of his kitchen chairs would hold his items.

  Paul snagged his laptop with a bunch of various DVD’s he hadn’t watched in forever and grabbed a few choice books to bring down too. In his bedroom, he dressed in comfortable jeans with a black sweater and grabbed several changes of clothes and some blankets and shoved them in the bag. Walking back into the kitchen, he opened the fridge and grabbed his leftover fried chicken. A cold 12 pack of beer sat waiting for him, so he grabbed that too. Tonight he was going to drink them all. Barely able to hold everything, Paul descended back into the basement.

  Chapter Four: Trapped

  Paul’s head felt like it was splitting in two. He rolled around on the small bunk, trying to force himself back to sleep…back to the land of feeling no pain. It was completely useless.

  “Ohhhh man,” Paul groaned, in agony, squeezing his eyes shut and twisting the sheets around himself. “What the heck happened? My head feels like it’s going to explode.”

  His stomach wasn’t feeling too hot either. The urge to throw up hit him, but he managed to choke it back. Suddenly, flashes of sick people somehow driven insane and turning into monsters ran through his head. Was that real? Was this happening to him? Maybe this was just some awful nightmare. He should be snapping out of it any minute now. He wasn’t. He drifted back to sleep for just a moment.

  “No!” Paul shouted out.

  He shot up quickly in bed. He was covered in a cold sweat, shaking again with fear, mind racing a hundred miles an hour. And God, did his head hurt. Realization started to sink in.

  “Man I am never, ever drinking that much again. I swear.”

  He didn’t realize how true a statement he had just made. Beer bottles were strewn all over the cramped basement; one had been obviously smashed against the far wall. There was a dark wet-looking spot on the wall and on the concrete floor. The smell of urine permeated through everything.

  “Well, that was stupid of me.” Paul said with a groan, rubbing his temples, his throbbing hangover headache still going strong. Memories of the day before rushed back to him. Something had gone terribly wrong. People got sick and then went crazy. He shot someone, but somehow they didn’t die.

  “Zombies,” he thought, and wobbled out of his bunk.

  He could hardly believe it. The last thing he remembered was bringing everything down here and slamming beer after beer. Everything after that was a haze. Paul popped a couple of Tylenol and cracked open a bottle of water, draining it dry within seconds. Walking over to the radio, he found that he had left it on and the batteries were dead.

  “Stupid!” He cursed under his breath, slapping his palm against his head. Angrily, he grabbed the crank handle and spun it around and around for a while. A flick of the switch, and the radio powered back on again. Spinning through the channels, he found that not nearly as many stations were still broadcasting. The guy playing music was still on somehow, but now his voice sounded lost, faded. Near the top of the dial he found a very strong and clear signal. President Obama’s voice came through like he was standing in the same room with him.

  “…now is the time for us to stand together, to stand strong. Let me be perfectly clear. Your government leaders will do everything they can to help you. Thank you.”

  “Yeah…right,” grunted Paul. “Probably safe in some secret bunker somewhere with 20 years worth of food and supplies.”

  He listened for another minute till the message repeated and spun the dial around some more. There was nothing else except static or more pre-recorded messages telling people to stay in their hom
es. Paul flicked the radio off. The nausea had passed. He was hungry.

  Oatmeal was the day’s breakfast, along with some canned fruit and another bottle of water. He ate in silence, contemplating the situation. He had enough supplies for about 6 months if he rationed it to the bare minimum of calories and water daily.

  As he finished his meal and went to clean up he suddenly realized something. He had nowhere to throw away his garbage. An even worse thought suddenly entered his mind. With all his preps, he had forgotten one of the most important things of all: the toilet.

  “Oh man, no wonder there are bottles everywhere and the basement smells like piss,” He thought, again slapping himself in the head.

  He began to consider just designating the farthest corner as a place to defecate and put the trash, but he knew that was probably a very bad idea. He thought maybe he could just splash bleach into a bucket and use that, but he had no drains or any way to dispose of the waste without dumping it in a corner or leaving the basement.

  Suddenly, the urge to defecate hit him like a sledgehammer. Murphy’s Law was a stone cold bitch.

  “Oh man…..not now, please not now.” Paul whispered, frantically looking around, but finally admitting defeat. Unlocking the door, he moved as fast as he could quietly upstairs.

  The house was completely silent and illuminated by the sunlight even though the blinds were all still closed. He crept into the bathroom and closed the door, finally able to relieve himself. Deciding not to flush the toilet and make any noise, he put away the Maxim he was reading, wiped, and exited the bathroom. Paul wanted to head right back downstairs, but curiosity got the best of him.

  “Just one quick peek,” he told himself. “Then right back down into the basement. I can just keep coming up here to do my business if it stays quiet.”

  Paul edged over to the front window blinds and cracked one just enough to look outside. The house across the street was still smoldering. Looked like really nice weather outside, though. He craned his neck and looked towards Joe’s house. Joe and his wife were still dead, both of them nearly decapitated by the .357 that was still somehow clutched in Joe’s hand.

  Everything seemed so quiet. He saw a few birds flying around. They obviously had not been affected. No other wildlife or humans were around. Paul walked over to the sink and turned on the faucet. Water trickled out for a moment and then stopped. The clock on the microwave was off and the power was totally out.

  “Oh well then, back down to the basement.” He said, turning to head back down when motion caught his eye. Something was moving around and casting a very humanoid shadow on the front window of his house. The hairs on the back of his neck stood up when he heard something bump against the glass, and then a low moan. A creature was pressing itself right up against the glass. Maybe it smelled him, maybe it heard him. He didn’t know.

  Paul flattened himself out on the cold kitchen tiles. He had forgotten his gun in his haste to get to the bathroom. He had no weapon, and nothing he could use as a weapon up here. He dared not to breathe or move. The thing shuffled around outside for what seemed like forever, but finally it moved away. Paul didn’t hesitate for another moment and headed back into the basement. He locked the door and slid down against it; his nerves shot.

  For the first four months being in the shelter, things were peaceful. The few radio stations that still broadcasted seemed to finally all disappear one by one. The power had never come back on, but the basement thankfully provided a comfortable and relatively stable temperature. His supplies were holding out well and he had managed to get a fair amount of reading done. Working out and exercise had never been a huge part of Paul’s previous life but now that he had all the time in the world he started giving himself a descent workout daily. It would be one of the smartest things he ever did, despite having to use up slightly more of his food and water supply to keep at it.

  Paul set up an emergency toilet that was little more than the first 5-gallon bucket he had managed to finish using. He dropped in a trash bag, poured in some bleach, and kept it covered with the original lid. Not the most sanitary thing in the world, but it suited his purposes better than he originally thought it would. Still without a way to dispose of the bucket’s contents, Paul had no choice but to leave the safety of the basement at least once a week or be forced to endure the terrible stench.

  Initially, leaving the basement to “take care of business” upstairs was a frightening affair, thanks in part to the scare he got the first time he left the basement. Four months in however, he found his nerves steeling and his ability to practice stealth was becoming more of a natural ability than a learned skill.

  Paul slowly and methodically cracked open the basement door to make his weekly waste disposal. He always carried a weapon on him when he left the basement now, and even when inside it he often had his Glock on his hip or at least sitting within arm’s reach. With only the faintest creak, the basement door opened fully and a quick check around revealed no hidden zombies or anything that seemed disturbed since the last trip.

  Paul made his way to the upstairs bedroom, which he now dubbed “The Dump”. The smell emanating from the room was overpowering now, even from the hallway. He cracked open the door and held his breath, quickly tossing in the bag of garbage and the bag of waste. As he went to close the door he suddenly heard the ear-piercing shriek of his alarm clock. The power was out but it ran on batteries as a back-up. It was sitting on the night stand right next to the bed, and the tossed garbage bag must have knocked it down and somehow set it off.

  “Oh NO!” screamed through Paul’s head as he quickly took in a huge breath and ran into the room, leaping over the growing mound of reeking trash bags and snatching the alarm clock off the floor, smashing it to pieces on the corner of his nightstand. The alarm garbled out in one last buzzy tone before dying.

  “Always wanted to do that,” thought Paul before exhaling and running out of the room.

  He crouched in the hallway for a few seconds listening and hoping that the blaring alarm clock had not brought him some houseguests of the flesh-eating variety. He heard nothing, and decided to start back to the basement. Just as he rose, there was a loud hammering bang against the front door.

  The banging on his front door increased within seconds. It sounded like an angry mob was trying to beat its way into his house. Paul pulled out his Glock and raced towards the basement, stealth be damned.

  Somewhere downstairs, glass shattered.

  He knew he would have to pass the front door on the way but he had nowhere else to hide, and there was no way he was going to hunker down in “The Dump”.

  “I’d rather die!” Paul thought as he flew down the stairs and darted through the kitchen, nearly back to the basement.

  As he rounded the corner he was surprised by a large and drooling male zombie wearing full police riot gear, including helmet. He brought his gun up and fired 3 rounds. One round glanced off the helmet, the other two impacted body armor. The zombie growled as it ran at him with a speed much greater than he had anticipated.

  Knocking Paul down, the zombie chomped its teeth as it tried to edge closer to tear his face off.

  “Tryin’ to take a bite outta crime, huh?” Paul questioned the thing through clenched teeth.

  The Glock had been knocked out of his hand from the impact, but was nearly within his reach. Paul strained and stretched to hold off the zombie and grab his weapon. Just as it closed in and was about to overpower him, he felt the grips from the Glock and wrapped his fingers around it.

  Paul swung the weapon, pistol-whipping the zombie and knocking off its helmet and very nearly breaking his hand in the process. He threw all his weight to one side and rolled the zombie off, sending it toppling into his bookshelf, which then collapsed over on top of them both with an enormous bang and sending books scattering everywhere. Paul struggled and managed to get out from under the bookshelf, finally free, and tried to run towards the basement.

  The zombie reached out
and grabbed Paul’s leg as he tried to make his escape. It sent him into a less-than-graceful face plant directly in front of the front door, which now looked like it was about to come off its hinges. Paul awkwardly scrambled back up in time to see the top half of the door explode inwards, wood splinters everywhere, and revealed several very hungry-looking zombies trying to claw their way inside.

  Paul spun and fired the Glock, managing to drop one of them with a perfectly placed head shot. The zombie’s head snapped back for a split second before it collapsed across the breech. The now dead zombie hung over the broken out portion of the door partially blocking its friends from making their way inside, at least, for the moment. Paul turned and fired behind him at the zombie still trying to free itself from the bookshelf, but he didn’t see if he hit anything or not. His heart was pounding and adrenaline was shooting through his body as he broke out into a desperate sprint.

  Very nearly jumping down the entire flight of steps to the basement, Paul got inside and slammed the door behind him. He wrenched the deadbolt locks into place and stood back from the door. Seconds later, he heard the front door upstairs give way with a crash and then his ears filled with the sound of what seemed like hundreds of zombies moving about above him.