I will post a couple more chapters and that's all folks.

Chris

The Return
Chapter 3

April 17, 10:18 AM

    Cold wing blew miniature snow devils between the debris filled aisles of the Safeway.  Some drifts of the cold snow were already nearly a foot deep in some locations near the smashed out windows of the grocery store as the trio of survivors carefully stepped over the broken glass.
    The darkness was nearly absolute only ten or fifteen feet into the interior and already Mike had his flashlight on, the powerful beam banishing shadows everywhere it touched. The store showed clear signs of not only having been looted, but there was damage that could only have been caused by fighting. The simple fact that they didn’t see any bodies was both reassuring but also disturbing all on its own.
    The three men split up and headed in different directions. Harold went straight ahead, immediately heading down one of the aisles in search of canned food and other goods that might have been left behind. Mike and Eric both took separate aisles but were intent on their own separate missions. Mike’s objective was a small enclosed section of the store near the magazine and book racks, where the pharmacy was located.
    Eric was intent on getting to the rear of the building where he could access the loading dock and hopefully find a way to open the back door, and at the same time check the contents of the semi trailer.
    All three men moved carefully through the trash heaped aisles, carefully stepping over and around broken glass and other areas that could prove to be hazardous to the footing, all the while keeping their eyes and ears open for the sounds of any potential hostiles. The further they travelled into the interior, the less snow they encountered, although the darkness seemed to close in on all sides, trying to envelop them.
    “It’s nice not to have to deal with any of those aggressive Panhandlers,” Harold called out from the darkness off to Mike’s left.
    “Yeah, no kidding,” Mike agreed in a conversational tone. Normally they would be moving through the building,, making as little noise as possible since the zombies were attracted to sound, especially that of voices. After encountering the feral dogs, however, the odds of them running into any mobile undead in the store were pretty remote.
       Mike allowed his gaze to break away from the floor, where he was carefully watching his step to spot both Harold and Eric. They weren’t difficult to locate due to the beams of their respective flashlights. The light’s bounced around in strange and chaotic fashion, causing the shadows to move erratically wherever the light hit.
       Just like a horror movie, Mike mused with a grim smile. His flashlight danced over a pile of paperback novels thrown together with a mess of various magazines. Just ahead he could see where the Pharmacy was located, but to his consternation the roll down grates were clearly locked into place. Sighing, he ran his light over the mess of paperbacks and periodicals and stopped for a moment. There were several titles that caught his interest, the latest Cussler and Rollins novels, so he quickly scooped up the books and put them into the large pockets of his jacket.
       The world may be dead, but he still enjoyed reading.
       He then noticed a couple of MMA magazines and the latest, probably the last ever issue of a gaming magazine that he and his son enjoyed reading. It took only a second for him to grab the magazines and he added them to his stash.
       “I’m heading into the back,” Eric called, “if you hear shooting, come running!”
       Harold and Mike both answered an affirmative and each man continued searching. A moment later Harold’s voice cut through the near total silence. “I found quite a stash of spam and other canned meats.”
       “Figures, that even with no means of getting food people would leave that stuff behind.” Mike laughed. Personally he didn’t mind Spam, but he knew a number of people back at the base were almost ready to turn to cannibalism in order to avoid having to eat it. “See if you can find a cart and load up.”
       “Ok Mike!”
       Mike finally reached the Pharmacy counter and he began to inspect the metal roll down grates. The spacing between the metal plates was too thin for him to get a good look into the back, but the fact that they were still locked and there was no sign of tampering was encouraging in on itself. It meant that there could be a good supply of drugs still stashed behind the grates.
       What he didn’t like was that the shelves before the counter, as well as the ones that were located behind the till were completely barren. There were torn open packages littering the floor, but otherwise it seems that this part of the store had been cleaned out in its entirety.
       As much as he loathed doing it, Mike switched off the flashlight and put it in his pocket. The soldiers at Wainwright had equipped his police issue Glock 22 with its own light, a nifty little device that sat easily underneath the barrel. He flicked the light on and approached the door that lead to the back of the Pharmacy, the door that would give him access to the prescription drugs.
       “Guys,” he called out. I’m at the pharmacy and I’m about to go in.”
       “Ok,” Harold’s voice came from the darkness. “I found a couple of baskets and I’m loading up on the canned goods.”
       There was no reply from Eric. Mike paused and listened, immediately fearing that Eric might have run into trouble, but there had been no screams or gunfire so it’s quite possible that Eric hadn’t heard him. “Harold?”
       “Yes, Mike?”
       “Go make sure Eric’s ok, would you?”
       “Sure thing, Mike. Maybe he just found some nice girly magazines to look at and is distracted.”
       Mike laughed. Harold always had a way of saying the most outrageous things and as annoying as he could be, he brought a strange crazy sort of innocence to the group. “Ok, just knock before you enter then, we don’t want you to see something that’ll give you nightmares.”
       “Ok, I’ll do that.” Harold replied. If he got the joke, he didn’t give any indication.
       With his left hand, Mike gave the door’s knob a tentative twist. It held firm. Carefully he used the gun’s light to inspect the door. It was a pretty standard wooden door with a sturdy lock and a dead bolt just above the handle. He contemplated the door for only a minute before he lifted his right foot and lashed out with a near text book perfect snap kick. The blow hit the door just to the right of the lock and with an audible crack, the door bowed in, but didn’t split.
       “What was that?” Harold’s voice carried concern.
       “I’m just trying to get into the Pharmacy,” Mike answered.
       “Oh, ok.”
       Again Mike hit the door with a snap kick and this time the door flew open with a resounding crash. It swung crookedly on its hinges. Holding his gun out before him, Mike bathed the interior of the Pharmacy with the small but powerful light.
       There were clear signs of looting, but there were still plenty of bottles and boxes lining the shelves from where Mike was standing, although the floor was littered with plastic bottles, spilled capsules and pills and other material that would make walking in the small room hazardous if he wasn’t careful.
       Mike stepped over the mess and looked down one of the tiny narrow corridors that had been created by the shelves and stepped into it. He knew the names of the three types of medication he was on and hoped that maybe, just maybe the Pharmacy stored the medication by name, although somehow he doubted it.
       The next thing he knew he saw the floor rushing up to meet his face. He didn’t even have enough time to shout.
      
***
      
       Man is the weather crazy today! Roger thought as he stared out into the bleak morning light. Sheets of snow fell across the nearly deserted parking lot, obscuring everything past a dozen or so feet in front of the truck. The young Harris yawned and stretched, trying in vain to dispel the exhaustion he felt.
       He glanced at the clock built into the dash of the Avalanche and grumbled. Almost a quarter to eleven and he was bored out of his mind. He wished that he could be inside with his father, Eric and even the nut-ball Harold. Searching for salvageable food would beat the hell out of what was essentially glorified guard duty.
       Roger pulled his iPod out of his pocket and glanced through the menu until he found the play list he wanted to listen to. His eyes were only off the front of the store for a second when he snapped his head back up and scanned the area. He could have sworn that he had seen something moving out in the near blizzard conditions.
       Carefully he scanned the front of the store, noting in satisfaction that he could see the beams of light produced by the flashlights that his father and the others carried. Roger sat perfectly still, moving only his eyes. The only thing that moved was a pair of snow devils, twisting and billowing in the wind that swept across the lot.
       With a shrug, he pulled his attention away from the parking lot and found the play list he was looking for. Although his father didn’t approve of Roger using the MP3 player while they were on a mission, he understood and as long as Roger kept one ear bud out of his ear and kept the music at a low volume, he didn’t complain.
       Besides, it helped keep the young Harris relaxed and actually seemed to increase his awareness of what he was concentrating on.
       His stomach rumbled slightly and he reached around the seat into the back so he could access the cooler. Although he wasn’t diabetic like his father, he was still growing and like so many other teenagers, he couldn’t seem to get enough to eat. What really irked Roger is that he more often than not did go hungry because food had to be rationed at the base, although those who worked out in the field, those like him and his father, were given a larger portion of food compared to the other refugees.
       He grabbed a sandwich from the cooler as well as a fresh bottle of water. He took a quick count of how much food was left and saw that there was plenty for the journey back to the base. And he hoped that the scavenger team would be able to locate more inside the store. What he wouldn’t do for a big bag of Miss Vickie’s Sour Cream and Chilli chips.
       Roger failed to notice the group of dark fur covered figures slink past the side of the truck and through the smashed open windows of the Safeway.

***
      
       The back area of the Safeway wasn’t quite as messy as the aisles he had passed through, and the floors were relatively clear of product. There were pallets scattered around the back, all containing boxes. Some where open, the contents clearly searched, while others were still closed. Eric shone his light around the room, taking it all in. A dozen or so yards off to the right he could see the large metal door and dock plate, with the smaller man door just to the left of it.
       Eric continued to scan the large room, letting the light chase away the shadows that clung to every corner like a living entity. He let the light play across the floor, his eyes searching for signs of blood or other relics that might indicate that the room held undead, but considering the dogs that they had heard, he doubted that there would be any. They would have had to be hidden away in areas, just like the truck, which would have been all but inaccessible to the animals.
       Walking slowly, Eric Stone continued to inspect the back of the Safeway. There were plenty of boxes left on shelves and as he read the printing, he realized that a significant portion of what he was seeing was in fact canned goods.
       Exactly what the people back at Wainwright needed to help feed the civilian population that had made the military base their home.
    He could hear Harold and Mike speaking back and forth in the main portion of the building, but didn’t bother to try and reply or even make out what they were saying. If there was trouble, he’d know right away, not only from the tone in their voices, but most likely the sounds of battle.
    Moments later he was at the large rolling door that closed off the loading dock from the trailer. He ran the light of his flashlight over the man door to the side and noted with gratification that the door was simply locked by a metal bar and a deadbolt. There was another small padlock which secured the bolt of the loading door to the wall, but it wasn’t something they couldn’t handle.
    Eric turned and scanned the darkness once again, taking his time as he inspected every nook and cranny. The zombies had an uncanny way of staying hidden and springing to life when it was least expected, and several survivors had succumbed to these ambushes. There was no way that Eric was going to join their ranks.
    Satisfied as much as he could be, Eric placed the light on a small table that was located to the right of the large dock door. He unlimbered his battered and trusty fire axe from the makeshift sheath that held it to his back and he took careful aim, eyeing the padlock.
    The metal lock split with hardly any resistance when the axe came down and it fell to the floor with an audible clanking noise. Eric put the axe against the wall and pulled the securing bolt out of the door and pulled it open.
    Slightly colder air wafted into the building and several fat snowflakes flew in from the tiny gap between the trailer and the dock itself. The trailer doors were open, revealing that it was packed nearly to the top with boxes and boxes of goods. Eric picked up the flashlight and scanned the labels. He grinned, seeing the familiar brand name of Chef Boyardee.
    Jackpot!
    Hopefully the fifty-three footer would be filled with similar goods, although that was too much to hope for. But it was food and they had succeeded in their mission. He was about to remove the retaining bar from the door to check on Jack when he heard Mike’s fear and rage filled scream coming from deep within the grocery store.
    “Shit,” Eric cursed as he turned and ran throughout the back of the store towards the interior.

***

    Breath blew out of Mike’s lungs as he hit the floor chest first. His training kicked in at the very last second and he barely avoided smashing his face into the tile covered floor. Still the impact hurt like hell and he had the wind knocked out of him. All that he knew is something had grabbed his ankle and pulled hard and he had absolutely no time to react.
    Still trying to regain his breath, he forced his arms down and to the side. It was only then that he noticed that he had dropped his Glock 22, which was currently lying against the back wall of the tiny, cramped aisle, about four feet from his reach. It had landed in such a way that the beam of light washed the aisle behind him, giving Mike a clear view of what had happened, and what was coming. A snarl and a strange shuffle pulled him back to his precarious position and he turned to see what had made it, fearing the worst.
    The zombie had his ankle locked in a rigor mortis grip as it used his own mass to pull itself out from under the shelves.  In life the zombie had been one of the pharmacists, as it was still wearing the white jacket over the desiccated remains of its body. There wasn’t a scrap of flesh or hair left anywhere on its skull, even the eye sockets were empty, but it seemed to lock in on Mike with a hunger that emanated from the fleshless skull, the jaws grinning hideously at him.
    Over the past month Mike and the other survivors of the Rising had been witness to a great deal of horror, sights that were indelibly burned into their minds for the rest of their lives. But the grinning mockery of life that had a grip on his ankle and that was slowly pulling the fleshless mouth towards him was a horror almost beyond anything Mike had encountered thus far.
    Somehow he managed to draw in a breath despite the blow he had taken from the fall and screamed. The scream broke through his lips, one that was three parts fear, one part rage. He wasn’t going to go out, not now, not like this. Savagely he twisted his leg in order to try and break the zombies grip but all he managed to do was pull it further from its hiding place. It was then that he noticed that the zombie was missing its lower half. Half rotted remains of its internal organs lay obscenely on the floor behind it, all fluids long since vanished.
    Panic threatened to overwhelm Mike as he desperately tried to reach the Glock 22. There was simply no chance that he would be able to grab the weapon before the zombie bit deep into the flesh of his calf or thigh. He knew that he had but once chance to save his life.
    Adrenaline pumped through his body, seemingly to cause time to slow down. He could see things with a clarity that only those who were in a life or death struggle knew. It wasn’t the first time he had experience it, and it wouldn’t be the last. Mike abandoned the attempt to grab the gun and he reached down to his right hip and with one finger undid the clasp that held the machete in place. The long blade slid smoothly from the scabbard as he awkwardly swung it backwards and brought it down on the wrist of the undead monster.
    The blow wasn’t anywhere near as effective as it could have been, but still, it split rotted muscle and tendons and the zombie’s hand involuntarily released its grip on his aching ankle. The reprieve was just enough and Mike pulled himself down the narrow aisle and managed to get into a sitting position.
    The zombie pharmacist wasn’t about to give up on its prey that easily. With both arms it pulled its ravaged body completely into the narrow aisle, inexorably moving towards Mike. The man didn’t waste a second; instead he got to his feet and, gripping the machete in both hands, brought it down with a bone shattering blow. The weapon cleaved the naked skull in two, spilling the still intact brain onto the floor of the small aisle.
    It was truly dead.
    “Mike!” Eric and Harold shouted in unison from outside the small room. Less than a second later a light flashed into sight and Harold was standing there, looking down at the corpse of the zombie. He brought up the light and shone it in Mike’s face. Growling, Mike threw up his hand to protect his eyes from the sudden and unexpected light.
    “Sorry,” Harold said as he lowered the light. Eric stood next to him and looked down at the floor. “Sweet Jesus,” he half gagged.
    Mike reached down and retrieved his Glock and then wiped the blade of his Machete on the back of the corpse before he sheathed it. “Yeah, tell me about it.”
    “Are you ok?” Harold asked.
    He nodded and made his way out from between the shelves. “Yeah, and I got lucky. I should have been more careful.”
    “I can’t argue with you there,” Eric agreed but he didn’t push the issue. “I’ve got good news.” He said, clearly trying to change the subject.
    “Yeah? Well, don’t keep me waiting.” Mike said, feeling his fear slowly being replaced with anger.
    All three stepped out from the pharmacy and into the main store. “The trailer’s filled to the rim. I don’t know how much might have gone bad, but we hit the mother lode.”
    It was at that moment that the three men noticed the glowing eyes staring out at them from the surrounding darkness. A heartbeat later they could hear the low growls coming from the creatures.
    “Oh, poop!” Exclaimed Harold as he raised his handgun.