High school juniors Billy Gunn and Rory Wilder return from a weekend camping trip to find a mysterious plague has wiped out their small town of Port Moss, Mississippi. The question of why is only the beginning, especially when the dead refuse to stay dead.
For Billy and Rory, figuring out what happened is the first priority, but complications quickly set in. Not only do the dead rise, but a freak storm threatens torrential downpours as winter looms. And enormous ships appear in the sky, bringing with them alien visitors with technology never seen before.
Left without electricity and modern conveniences, Billy and Rory must figure out a way to navigate horrific zombies, advanced alien life forms, and apocalyptic storms, as well as deal with their growing love for each other in a world gone mad.
Once beyond the safety of the front doors to the elementary school, I was no longer so certain about the wisdom of my plan. It was too quiet. The silence was so deep, so profound, it was screaming in my ears. It was as though we were all alone and the world was a huge, frightening place full of secrets and darkness and unimaginable horrors just waiting for us to stumble upon them.
Rory glanced at me, bit his lip. He heard the silence too. He had a shotgun cradled on his arm. His shoulders were tense.
We walked slowly to the car, alert for any sign of the deadheads.
“Are you sure this is a good idea?” he whispered as we reached the car.
Before I could answer, the silence was pierced by a high-pitched scream from somewhere nearby. It sounded like a woman.
It came from the direction of downtown.
“Someone needs help,” I said.
“And?”
“We should go help,” I said, exasperated.
“We don’t know what could be out there!”
“We do know what’s out there, and we need to help,” I replied. I opened the door to the passenger side and got in.
Rory reluctantly followed, got behind the wheel after giving me the gun to hold.
“It came from Main Street, it sounded like,” I said.
The Impala roared to life.
“Are you sure about this, man?” Rory asked fearfully.
“Just go,” I said.
His hands on the steering wheel were trembling, but he put the car in reverse and backed out of the parking space. I rolled down my window, heard another scream, then a shout that sounded like “Hurry!”
“Move it,” I said to Rory.
He gunned the engine.
We passed empty houses, buildings, the high school.
On the stretch of road that led to the highway, we saw a man standing at the base of a large oak, pulling at the lower branches as if trying to climb up the tree. We also saw why he was doing this. There was an African American woman in the tree, the one who had screamed.
As we neared, the dead man turned slowly and regarded us with dark red eyes.
“That’s Mr. Chilton,” Rory said in disbelief.
Chilton had been our English teacher last year in ninth grade.
“Run him over,” I said.
“I’m not going to run somebody over!”
Instead he jammed on the brakes, and the Impala lurched to a halt.
Chilton shambled in our direction as quickly as his feet would allow. His feet seemed made of lead: heavy, cumbersome, things he dragged rather than walked on.
Rory and I got out of the car quickly, Rory raising the shotgun as if he meant to shoot. But he didn’t, and Chilton shuffled forward.
“Kill him!” the woman screamed from the tree.
“Do something!” I cried out.
Chilton was now about ten paces away. Rory stood there, facing him, the shotgun in his hands trembling. His face had gone pale, drained of blood.
“Rory!” I shouted. I turned to run around the back of the car so I could help him.
The smell of death assaulted my nose.
“Rory!” I shouted again.
Chilton was now about three steps away, and Rory simply stood there like a deer in the headlights, trembling. The sudden smell of piss told me he had wet himself.
I grabbed the gun from Rory’s hands and pushed him away as Chilton closed in on us.
The dead man moved quickly then, his prey within striking distance. He did not look at me as he threw himself forward, aiming his mouth at the crook of my shoulder as if he meant to suck my blood like a vampire. Because he was so close, I could not turn the gun around to shoot him, and we went down in a tangle of limbs, the stench of him in my nostrils and making me want to vomit. It was like rolling around in a pile of rotten meat.
I instinctively rolled away, throwing out a foot to kick him in the face. I got to my feet before he could respond. He got on his hands and knees and scrambled forward like a bug, moaning and grunting pitifully as he did so.
I still had the gun, and now I lowered it, aimed it directly at his face, and pulled the trigger.
Nothing happened.
The safety was on!
Chilton groaned as he lunged forward, trying to get at my legs.
Where was the safety?
Damnit!
Suddenly I heard a rush of small footsteps. Bewildered, I turned my head, thinking more of the dead were about, but it was a boy with a baseball bat. Mark Patton, if I wasn’t mistaken, whose father worked on the road crew for the county.
“Get out of the way!” Mark shouted at me.
I stumbled backward, lowering the gun.
Chilton, on the ground, sensed the boy’s presence.
Mark ran forward, stopped just short of the man, positioned the baseball bat over his shoulder, and then swung for all he was worth.
Chilton’s head exploded in a rush of blood, bone, and gooey bits.
Rory passed out and fell to the concrete like a stone.
“Jesus!” I exclaimed, breathless.
Mark looked at me, his eyes dark.
“Next time just shoot him,” he said.
