Free Humanity's Death: A Zombie Epic by D.S. Black

highway 17.
    The clouds hung low and shut out much of the
sun. A light sprinkle showered the windshield. She turned on the
wipers. The only sounds were the hypnotic back and forth swish of
wiper blades and the soft purr of the air conditioner on low. She
was approaching an old Army Surplus Depot. She slowed and crunched
onto the gravel parking lot. No one in sight, neither living or
dead. She climbed out of the Humvee and stepped cautiously towards
the front entry doors. She could only see shadowy darkness inside
the store. A bell jangled as she opened the door. She paused and
gripped her revolver. She waited and listened. Nothing. No sounds.
The store smelled like dried oil and old clothes. Dust settled
everywhere. Broken shards of glass from busted lights lie on the
floor and cracked under her boots. She stopped for a moment. She
listened. Nothing. She moved around the store. A row of World II
helmets sat on a shelf, covered in dust. Black boots covered in
more dust set on the shelf below the helmets. The store was a tomb
of America's war history. Open netted hats from every era set on
another shelf. Empty grenade casings from every war on another.
Black and white photographs hung on the wall showing the scenes
from different wars.
    She stood in front of a tall, narrow vanity
mirror. Pale white shin showed through torn and battered shreds of
her deputy’s uniform. The material hung loosely on her body. The
badge, smudged with smote and dark, dried blood hung heavily,
barley clinging to a strand of material. Outside, dark bluish gray
storm clouds gathered, sun light disappeared, and a hot bolt of
lightning crackled, lit up the store, and flashed in her graying,
blue eyes. She ripped the badge from her chest, and threw it on the
floor, and watched as it bounced and rolled away, landing face down
on the cold concrete floor. A harsh wind rattled the entry way
doors, and the gush entered the store and brushed up against her,
flowing through her long red hair, and breezing against her pale,
freckled skin. She tore her uniform top off, revealing her hard
abs, and slender, athletic frame, and threw the shirt on top of the
badge. Her bra, white and tight against her bosom. She watched her
reflection carefully as she removed her belt, then her pants, and
stared hard at her white, satin panties, clinging tightly against
her lean, muscled hips. She removed a tight black shirt from a
hanger and pulled it over her body. A ripple of harsh lighting lit
the entire store up as she pulled solid black BDUs over her hips,
and refastened her thick brown leather belt. She looked over, at
the front desk, and just beyond the register, sitting on a stool,
leaning stiff against the wall, was a dead man. Lighting crackled
again and white light lit the dead body. His chin rested against
his chest and above his head a sign stated: FROM MY COLD DEAD
HANDS. On his head was a solid black cowboy hat with a wide brim.
Candy walked over and hoisted herself over the counter, removed her
revolver and pushed the tip against the man. He didn’t move. She
took his hat. She ran her fingers over the brim. She raised it to
her nose and breathed in the scent of old leather. Back in front of
the mirror she put the hat on and pulled it over her brow, just
above her eyes. Another crack of lighting shook the entire building
and a light rain pelted against the metal roof; her reflection
looked like a ghost against the white light of lightning. She
turned and moved through the store and pushed the exit door open.
Another loud crackle of electricity sparked in the sky. A strong
gush rushed against her. Her hair blew under the hat. She stepped
off the concrete walkway and onto the parking lot’s asphalt.
Slanted rain blew against her. She stalked to the Humvee, opened
the door, and slammed it shut. She started the engine.
    4
    The army surplus disappeared in the rear view. Candy
drove down the black asphalt of highway 17. The road rumbled
underneath the car and a loud wispy