NOVEL NEXT Chapter 2: Refuge
The bar door creaked in a way that seemed to scream for help, but Glenn had no choice. He pushed the piece of wood, looking around before slipping inside. Outside, the hungry moans still echoed through the street, a macabre chorus that seemed to mock his attempt to survive another day. The smell of old alcohol and mold filled the air, but it was better than the stench of death that had followed him up to that point. He locked the door with a broken chair, even knowing that it would only delay the inevitable.
As his eyes adjusted to the dim light, a shiver ran down his spine. He wondered how much time he still had before the creatures found a way in. Glenn stumbled to the counter, where an intact bottle awaited him. Grabbing the drink as if it could keep him alive, he murmured, "This will be useful."
On the other side of the bar, the sound of nails scratching the wood began to fill the silence. Glenn stood up suddenly, his heart racing. It was hard to tell what was more frightening: what was outside or the constant feeling of danger that weighed on him.
He picked up a stool lying on the floor, quickly assessing it. "It can be used as a weapon," he thought. The weight and rough texture gave the impression that it could be useful in a hand-to-hand confrontation.
Taking a deep breath, Glenn pushed the small counter door, crossing it carefully. The tension in his body was palpable. He let out a breath of relief upon seeing that there was no one there. Neither monster, nor person, nor zombie. At least for now.
He began to rummage through the bar with slow steps, finding some useful items behind the counter: two knives, a flashlight, a metal lighter, a small first aid kit, boxes of matches. And most importantly, bottles of water and food, small bags of peanuts, snacks, and treats. He opened and ate until he satisfied his hunger, which had accompanied him along the road. Then he put as many bottles of water and snacks as he could into the backpack.
He put the matches and the lighter in the pocket of the pizza delivery jacket, strapped the knives to his belt, and stored the flashlight in the side pocket of his jeans. Although his first instinct was to use the flashlight, he hesitated. "Too much light." "Better to use the matches," he murmured. The flickering and wavering light was less visible to anyone outside.
The signs of the struggle in the bar were clear: fallen chairs, overturned furniture, and stains of dried blood. "Damn," he murmured, feeling a chill.
In the corner, he found a baseball bat leaning against a dusty jukebox. He picked up the bat, gripping it tightly. He knew he would have to face more than just the dead to survive.
Suddenly, a static sound pulled him out of his thoughts. It was different from the creaking of the floor or the sound of claws outside. It sounded like a radio. With the match almost extinguished, he followed the sound to a pool table, where he found a black walkie-talkie. The static hiss seemed to almost mock his isolation.
After trying in vain to tune into a channel, Glenn gave up with a frustrated sigh. "Damn," he cursed softly. He tucked the radio into his waistband and decided to explore the second floor.
The stairs creaked under his feet as he climbed carefully, the bat in one hand and the flashlight in the other. At the top, he found a door with a men's sign. It was the bathroom. Next to it, the women's restroom. Further ahead, a wooden door and turning left, a glass door that led to the bar's balcony. He quickly hid the flashlight's light.
Slowly opening the wooden door, he found a simple room. A bed, two dressers, a wardrobe, and a window. Subtle decorations gave a personal touch to the space: a painting of a mill, fishing rods in a corner, and a photo on one of the dressers. The couple in the picture seemed to be in their fifties. Glenn felt a pang of compassion, followed by pity. "At this point, they're probably dead." Or worse."
Turning the room upside down, he found a rectangular box under the bed. Inside it, a Remington 700 hunting rifle with a custom Timney 510 trigger and a personalized HS Precision Stocks black stock, and two scopes, a Leupold VX-3: ideal for hunting and sporting shooting, and a Vortex Viper PST: great for precision shooting. In one of the drawers, a matte Smith & Wesson Model 642 .38 caliber revolver, 2 boxes of .308 Winchester ammunition for the rifle, and a box of ammunition for the revolver.
"Yeah... it seems like I'm still a bit lucky." A Remington 700 and a J-frame," he smiled, feeling a slight relief. "The owner must have been a hunter, but also practiced target shooting," he guessed.
Even so, even with those weapons, his instinct told him he couldn't relax. He prepared himself. While he was making preparations, the "skills" he had acquired in his dream were taking effect. He organized supplies, set traps with shards of glass on the steps, and made Molotov cocktails with bottles and rags.
In the end, he changed out of the delivery clothes and into a hunting jacket and camouflage pants he found in the wardrobe, only keeping his underwear and baseball cap from his original outfit. He organized his backpack with everything he needed, assembled the rifle with the Vortex Viper PST scope, and kept watch at the door with the rifle in hand, in case anything came up the stairs.
...
|September 17, 2010|
The first glimpse of dawn was breaking on the horizon, filtering through the dusty window of the room. Glenn was sitting in the chair, holding the rifle. His eyelids were heavy, but he hadn't slept. He couldn't. The nails outside were still echoing, but they were less frantic. It was now or never.
He watched the street through the window, mapping the movements of the dead. They stumbled aimlessly, clustered near the entrance of the bar. He needed to push them away to clear a path.
Glenn devised a plan to leave the bar. From the balcony, Glenn pulled the cloth from a Molotov, struck a match, and lit it. The flame illuminated his sweaty face for an instant before he threw the bottle towards the car parked on the street. The impact was immediate. The fire spread quickly, licking the rusty metal. The zombies reacted almost instantly, turning towards the source of the noise and the light.
"That's it." "Come on, you bastards," Glenn whispered as he threw two more Molotovs at strategic points.
With most of the zombies distracted, he strapped the backpack tightly to his back, slung the rifle over his shoulder, tucked the revolver into his waistband, and opened the window. The morning wind was cold and biting, but it was a small blessing compared to the acrid smell of mold and blood in the bar. Using the fishing rods found in the room, he improvised a rope and carefully descended into the alley.