Scribblings from the Asylum Walls

Hunting Season by GenXblogger

Jason’s heavy black boots trampled effortlessly over the scattered bags of chips, wayward candy bars and shallow pools of blood that littered the aisles of the small family owned grocery store where he worked. Slowly, he put one foot in front of the other and advanced down each row, looking for something to shoot at. Normally the act of walking wouldn’t require so much focused energy. Of course, normally the store wasn’t full of the walking dead either. Jason repeated, “left right left right”, over and over in his head. It was the only way he could make sure that his body kept moving forward even though his brain really wanted him to run and hide.

“People that hide end up getting eaten, and forget that,” he thought to himself.

Jason raised the hunting rifle to his sight line each time he came across a new aisle. He was up to paper goods and kicked a fallen box of Kleenex out of his way before lowering his rifle, all clear. He could hear a heavy labored breathing noise, chewing and slurping sounds as well which turned his stomach. He had to be getting close.

Next aisle was cleaning products. It wasn’t where one would expect to find a trail of blood where a body had obviously been drug across the floor. Resisting the urge to chuckle at the irony of the blood splatter on the floor right in front of the Pine-Sol mopping liquids, Jason kept moving forward. Pet food, it had to be pet food didn’t it? The smell from the ripped open bags of dried meat and vegetable by-products hit Jason’s nose before he even turned to face the aisle, gun raised. The sound of snorting and chewing stopped suddenly.

Mr. Hansen, a clearly recognizable citizen of the small town, was crouched down on all fours. He was the principle of the town’s only high school, a place Jason had himself graduated from only two years prior. Mr. Hansen grabbed the body splayed out in front of him and pulled it closer, hissing at Jason as if he honestly expected a quarrel to break out over the ownership of the bloody thing.

“No thanks, I just ate,” Jason said to no one in particular because it was quite clear that the zombies didn’t understand a word you said. He still had the gun raised, now pointed squarely at the former principal’s head.

Without moving its eyes off of Jason for a second, the zombie held up its victim’s arm and tore a chunk of flesh off with its teeth. Jason recognized the woman but only because she was a regular shopper, he didn’t know her name. He remembered Alan Hansen though; in fact he had attended his funeral just a few weeks before. It was a stroke that killed him, originally. Now Jason would take him down a second time with a gun shot to the head.

“Should have stayed in the ground,” Jason chastised shaking his head. The zombie just stared back at him blankly, licking the blood from the corner of its slack mouth. Its skin had turned grey and wrinkled already and the eyes were rimmed with a deep red. Jason paused for a moment to look at the dead thing’s hands. The fingernails were ripped off almost every finger which were all caked with blood and dirt. Clawing your way out of a grave took a good deal of strength, which the undead had in spades. Luckily though, they were slower than shit. Jason pulled the trigger.

He walked back to the front of the store, to the one cash register they had in the place. Several wide-eyed patrons were huddled there, waiting for him. Jason didn’t say a word. He set the rifle down on the counter and reached behind the register for a box of Camel’s and ripped the cellophane open.

“Did you get them all?” Jason turned towards the voice; it was a small boy, maybe eight years old.