An Ill Wind at The Grab-Ur-Grub

Before…

There was a strong wind which blew through the trees huddled around the outside of the Grab-Ur-Grub convenience store out on the Old Semiyamoo Highway. The gusts shook the boughs and stripped the branches of their dead and dying foliage. An undulating hissing sound, like that of waves cascading onto the shore, punctuated the relative silence. The store’s pink-painted, brick structure stood straight and firm indulgently bearing the brunt of the onslaught. The structure withstood the gentle assault as it had for many years. Leaves blew about on the roof, collecting in large, wet piles at the corners and choking the rain gutters.

The front façade of the store was made up of three large floor-to-ceiling panes of glass in stout metal frames with a double door set in the middle. The huge windows were designed so that passersby could see that the store was open all the time and to show a bit of the merchandise sold inside. Across the glass storefront, banners announcing the availability of Lottery tickets, "2 Dogs for a Buck," and ice cold drinks hung from hooks and whipped back and forth in the breeze.

The sale of gasoline was what drew most patrons off the Interstate and it had kept the little store alive when the rest of the town dried up and blew away years ago. It had been rough going there for a while, but between the few remaining locals and the steady stream of travelers seeking road supplies, they were still able to keep the lights on. Unfortunately, every day had become a dance with insolvency.

Out front, three gas pumps squatted like sleeping Indians. Small signs on springs which read "Get Your Gas On" swayed back and forth in the wind. A blue Ford Taurus sat next to the pumps; its driver’s side door left hanging open. A lone shoe laid abandoned just under the car’s chassis. At the far end of the row of parking stalls, a beat-up red Hyundai Accent was parked; its bright paint obscured by a thin layer of road dust and bird shit. At the other end, a Mercedes E-class coupe sat looking regal and out of place.

Inside the store, a dozen rows of fluorescent lights lit up the place and gave the stock an all-too-white appearance both day and night. Along the wall on the left, an open cold case sat humming, brimming with an array of sodas, juices and energy drinks. At the back were the Beer, Dairy and Bulk Soda refrigerators with several glass doors set in a rubber-gasketed metal framework. A thin layer of frost coated the metal racks inside.

To the right, the L- shaped checkout counter was set up, its surface littered with impulse items like candy, lighters, and snacks. To one side of the cash register was a Quik Pik Lottery machine. Behind the counter, small pints of alcohol lined up like soldiers on long shelving with racks of cigarettes, cigars, pipe tobacco and prophylactics to one side. Below that, a small rack of men’s magazines stood, their covers obscured by black cards which read "For Adults Only." At the far end of the counter, the coffee station and fountain drink machines were surrounded by racks of condiments, creamers, cup lids and assorted straws.

The leftover floor space in the center was monopolized by six aisles which offered everything from candy, cookies and chips to bags of charcoal briquettes and loaves of bread. For the most part, if it could conceivably be needed in a car or in the middle of the night, the Grab-Ur-Grub stocked it in abundance.

An air of "inconvenience" hung over the little convenience store now as several people nervously milled about the place. Most were either looking disgruntled or complaining loudly. Up until a short time ago, these people had been simple customers, who—for one reason or another—had stopped in for some necessity or to cure a craving for something sweet. Now, they were besieged—having become little more than hostages. As they paced up and down the aisles, the mood in the place was becoming more and more agitated and, in some cases, downright angry. They’d been stuck behind the store’s locked doors for about a half an hour now and, from the looks of things, no one was leaving any time soon.

Every now and then, one of them would cast a wary look outside and shake his head in disbelief. Each in his own way questioned what in hell was going on: some silently, some quite vocally. Oddly enough, "what in hell" was, given the present situation, exactly the correct terminology.

Betty Gillespie stood anxiously behind the counter in her green and red striped uniform and tried her best to settle everyone down. She was the afternoon clerk at the Grab-Ur-Grub and while she had precious little experience telling people what to do, she was working on being able to assert herself. Betty was a plain woman with a heavy smoker’s voice and a look about her that showed she’d had her share of hard knocks. Married young, divorced early, and having raised two kids who’d both ended up doing some time, the job at the Grab-Ur-Grub was the best thing ol’ Betty could manage this far out from civilization. A good worker, she’d hoped to land a shot at a management position should one ever open up. From the look of things outside, those dreams were rapidly going up in smoke.

"Ok, folks," her voice wavered nervously, "I’m not sure what’s going on out there, but I’m sure there’s a reasonable explanation for it all. So, if we can all just remain calm, things should be ok."

Across the counter, five people looked at her with unabashed exasperation. A couple of them were regulars, but the others were unknown to her. Just some folks who had simply been in the wrong place at the wrong time and had become stuck here like the rest of them.

Stanley Dillard was one of her regulars and had been coming here for as long as she could remember. His usual order of beer, smokes and an occasional girly book were as constant and dependable as the hands that wiped away the afternoons from the clock’s face. Stanley was an older, widowed man with skin like a worn saddle who always came dressed in a pair of bib overalls and a plaid shirt. His bright blue eyes which could be seen beneath his cowboy hat looked—even at this distance—confused.

Another local, Cody Chenault, was a kid whose parents owned the flower ranch out on the frontage road. His was a lonely life out here with few other kids his age to hang out with. Betty did what she could to take the time to talk to him, but the vast age difference between them always made their conversations consist of the smallest of small talk. He was a bright kid with a wide smile and an almost puckish nose who rode that bike of his all over the valley. His favorite topic of conversation was where he was going to go once he was old enough to drive. His plan pretty much started and stopped with him getting the hell out of Dodge.

"Look, Cody," Stanley was saying, "are you sure you saw what you think you saw? You have to admit it all sounds pretty far-fetched."

"Honest to God, Mr. Dillard," the boy said, his arms outstretched and his face pleading to be believed. "I was sittin’ over by the newspaper machine eatin’ that Abba-Zabba I just bought," he quickly shot Betty a glance for corroboration, "and I saw Boyd Chambers come walkin’ down the highway there."

He pointed off down the road and continued talking at a feverish pitch. "At first, I thought he didn’t look right, y’ know? I mean, he was all pale and his face looked like he was sick, really sick, ya know? Or about to be sick. Anyway, he was walkin’ down the side of the road like he was drunk, stumbling over his own feet and moving like his balance was all off… like that time he got all plastered at the County Fair and started pissin’ near the kiddie rides."

Cody looked around to make sure everyone, even the people who weren’t from around there, understood what he was saying. He knew coming in here that his story was going to be pretty hard to believe, so he figured he needed to make sure he got each and every detail exactly right in order to stall any questions before they got asked. Even then… with what he’d seen, he wasn’t so sure he believed the facts of the matter himself.

"Anyway, the guy that was drivin’ that blue Taurus there was fillin’ up on Pump #3 and he had his back to the street. He’d just about finished fillin’ up when Boyd came stumblin’ up behind him. I swear to God, Boyd looked like he was going to get sick all over the hood of the Taurus when he got close enough for me to get a good look at his face."

Cody looked around again for more of that confirmation he was now so interested in. He took an abrupt pull off of the soda can he held tightly clenched in his fist. The bump in his throat bobbed up and down as he drank. His tongue no longer dry, he went back to the telling of his story.

"So, Boyd comes up behind that fella and for no reason whatsoever he grabs him see. Grabs him from behind and…" He shook his head in disbelief. "I know how crazy it sounds, but… he bit him; bit him hard, he did."

The group all looked at one another and shook their heads as if the boy was just talking crazy. The stranger in the back of the store tisked incredulously.

"I swear!" Cody’s face was pulled tight in its anguish. "The guy he bit started screaming and trying to bat him off, but Boyd was like a dog on a bone. He just kept huggin’ him and tearin’ into the side of his neck with his teeth."

Cody took another swig off his can.

"It was about that time I noticed Jocelyn McNabb coming up from the opposite direction. She was near the pumps and she went over to Boyd and sort of grabbed the man he’d bitten by the arms. Then, she took a bite out of him as well. I mean she bit his arm right through his shirt!"

"Jesus…" Dillard sighed and shook his head. "Are you sure…"

"Look, if you don’t believe me, just ask them!" Cody said and pointed toward the front glass.

Outside, the aforementioned Boyd Chambers and Jocelyn McNabb stood staring wall-eyed into the store. Both of their faces looked jaundiced and a dark maroon—almost black—substance coated their faces from the cheeks down. Their eyes were empty and their mouths hung open. Drool dribbled from their chins and mixed with whatever it was that soaked the fabric of their clothing. Both kept touching the glass and, as if trying to reach through it, extended their arms toward those inside. Behind them, looking confused, was the guy from the Taurus. More of the dark fluid coated the front of his shirt. The meat of his neck looked like it had been hacked into by a garden cultivator.

"This is bullshit," the voice from the back of the store said. The man, who’d come in with the pretty brunette standing by the magazine racks, was busy microwaving himself something to eat. He looked over the racks of merchandise with a haughty and arrogant look on his face. He’d not asked for permission nor yet paid for whatever it was he was heating up and from his demeanor, he probably wouldn’t be doing so, either. He was tall, thin and wore black slacks and a Polo shirt. His hair was pulled back into a tight ponytail which somehow added to his "I think I’m better than you" vibe.

The brunette stood quietly by the magazine racks off to the side and seemed as if she was more fashion accessory than real person. She was pretty, there was no denying that, but there didn’t seem to be a lot going on between her ears. Dressed in a denim jacket, a tight tank top and even tighter jeans, her attire was obviously designed to garner attention. However eye-catching her appearance was, she seemed to be the intellectual equivalent of a child. As she occupied herself with fashion magazines and the sunglass rack, it was almost as if she was blissfully unaware of the danger that was quickly unfolding around her.

"No, sir," Cody said. "I saw ’em do just that."

In response, Boyd and Jocelyn pounded feebly against the glass. Their fists left dark smears across the clear panes. The group looked at them and watched as they both pressed their mouths against the window and slobbered all over it.

"Say…" said the middle-aged woman who’d come in to use the public bathroom when all of this first started, "is that glass going to keep them out?" The lady, who’d earlier said her name was Irina Kovalenko, wore her brown hair in what almost looked like a bob. It fell limply down, but not so far as to reach her shoulders. Bangs hid her forehead and the hairstyle served to frame her face. She wore a single strand of pearls, a grey sweater and Capri pants. Her car sat idling next to the Handicapped space outside. She’d left it running since she was only going to be inside the store for a minute.

At least that was what she’d thought, anyway.

Stanley Dillard stepped up to the window and looked the panes of glass over.

"It should. I mean, it’s plenty thick," he said patting the surface of the glass. Outside Boyd made a feeble attempt to bite at his hand through the clear window "I doubt even a gang of men could beat their way through."

Betty suddenly spoke up from behind the counter and all eyes turned to her. "Well, if things ever get bad and they somehow get in here, there’s a Count Out Room in the back. We use it to balance the tills. It has a safe in it and it’s kinda small, but there are no windows and the door’s reinforced metal."

"Well, that’s good to know," the man at the microwave said sarcastically. "We can all pile in there like it’s a fucking clown car."

"Mister," Stanley said, "I didn’t quite get your name."

"Monroe. Phillip Monroe." He nodded his head toward the brunette. "This is my fiancée, Claire."

Claire smiled and waved as if it were a very real pleasure to meet everyone.

"Hiiii-eeee," she cooed.

"Well, Mr. Monroe, I’m not sure how you do things where you’re from, but out here in the sticks, we use a tone that’s a little more polite when people are talking about things that could save your life. Y’hear?"

"I’ll try to bear that in mind, Mr. Ziffel."

Claire giggled and walked back over to where Monroe was standing. He smiled at her and opened the microwave in order to retrieve his now hot food.

They all stood around in silence for a bit, just staring out the window and watching Boyd and Jocelyn French-kiss the glass. After a few minutes of being frustrated that she had been unable to get through to the sheriff, Betty reached under the counter and switched the radio on to see if any of the local stations were broadcasting any clues as to what was going on.

At first, there was just a lot of static coming out of the little speaker, but as Betty spun the dial, snippets of different conversations could be heard. As each one tumbled into the next, a story began to unfold and, from the sounds of it, it wasn’t going to have much of a happy ending.

"…any dead person should be isolated…" a man’s voice said.

 "Human remains are returning to life… and… and… attacking the living."

 "Stay indoors."

Betty continued working her way through the stations. Only a staccato of hissing white noise and modulated voices came out of the speaker. She kept turning the dial—at first in an attempt to find something that didn’t sound crazy. Then, she kept at it in order to try to find something that didn’t make her feel more afraid.

"Do not attempt to leave your homes," another man intoned. "These creatures seem to stay alive, as improbable as it sounds, by… by consuming human flesh."

"Every person who is killed will become one of them. If you are bitten, you will eventually die and become one of them as well," a woman’s voice said, sounding like it came from a place just this side of desperation.

"These are not your family, folks. They are not your neighbors. They are not your friends… not any longer."

The group all looked at one another once again; eyes scanning eyes in a vain attempt to gain understanding. The radio’s terrifying voices tumbled into the room like inebriated sailors.

"…the brain…

"These things must be eradicated as quickly as possible. There’s no time for sympathy or compassion. There is no time for religious services to honor them, no time for what one might call a dignified internment. There is only time enough for their destruction and their burning."

Finally, Betty had had enough and switched off the radio.

"As long as these things have access to a food source… in other words, us," the commentator said sadly, "they simply will not run out of food."

As the speaker went silent, one last sailor fell.

"If a day were to come that they did run out of things to eat, it would only mean that we were all dead and gone."

Silence enveloped the store and the only sounds audible were the soft tapping and guttural moaning coming from the front window.

"Well, that’s just fucking crazy," Monroe sputtered over his mouthful of microwaved burrito.

"It certainly is, Son…" Dillard said in a soft voice. "It certainly is."

The gathered group stood silently, each going over in his head what they’d just heard. The more each of them thought of it, it could only be that everything that was being broadcast on the radio was true. Given that Boyd and Jocelyn still stood leering in at them through the front window and more and more people who looked as bad as they did were now wandering the parking lot, it couldn’t be argued that something horrible was indeed happening. There were now at least a dozen of them outside, each with the same drawn appearance and the same sorts of splatters of red and black on their clothing.

As all of their eyes scanned the crowd outside, one by one, the locals were able to identify them. Fred Norwood, the mechanic at the Union 76 down the road was there, his face lacerated savagely. Nick Buford, who delivered the town’s newspapers in his little truck, wandered the parking lot aimlessly. From the looks of things, his Datsun had hit something very big and very hard because his arms appeared to be broken and his chest looked caved in. Jorge Velasquez, the short order cook over at the diner, was just standing out by the phone booth; his face and upper body a landscape of hot oil burns and feverish blisters. The list went on and on. One after another they picked out both long-time friend and casual acquaintance; each of them was smashed and injured beyond repair.

As more of the reanimated dead gathered in front of the glass, the group inside became even more concerned. All of this was like nothing they’d ever imagined and so they had no past experience from which to draw. This kind of thing just didn’t happen in this small town.

Hell, this kind of thing just didn’t happen.

Period.

"Are you sure that glass will hold them?’ Cody asked. "There’s getting to be quite a few of ’em out there."

Dillard nodded.

"That glass is pretty thick, Code," he reassured. He turned and spoke to Betty behind the counter. "Betty, you remember last summer when those kids shot at the front of the store with that huntin’ rifle?"

Betty nodded and assured everyone, "It’ll hold.

"Look," interrupted Monroe as he came up from the back, wiping his hands on a napkin. "I’d love to sit around and discuss old pals and how solid the construction is on this dilapidated shithole, but… quite frankly, I’m more concerned with how we’re going to get help and get the fuck out of here."

Even though it had been put rather rudely, everyone had to admit the fella had a point.

However, any further discussion of the topic was halted when the sound of whining tires was suddenly heard from the street and all eyes turned toward the front of the store. A large brown delivery truck came careening into the parking lot; its ass end fishtailing and weaving erratically. In the seconds between the time when the truck bounded over the curb on the street and when it hit the pavement and angled toward the gas pumps, it was pretty clear that there were several more of those people—like the ones outside—hanging off the sides of the vehicle. A couple more were holding onto the back gate. A pair of legs stuck out of the passenger window, kicking at the air. On the driver’s side, a large man was holding on for all he was worth, his head angled into the window and he seemed to be fighting with the driver.

"Jesus, he’s going to hit the pumps!" Cody cried out and took a small step backward.

"Oh, my God…" Irina said dumbstruck, but remained standing near the two front doors.

There was a moment when everyone agreed that impact was imminent, but at the last second the truck veered away and, back end sliding, skated around the small but potentially explosive island. Abruptly, relief turned to panic and, to everyone’s horror, the truck high-sided and headed straight at the building. Its speed never let up as it hit the curb stops out front and became airborne.

"Ooooh, shit…" Claire whispered from her position near the magazine racks.

The truck smashed into the door and instantly shattered all three of the large panes of glass. In a shower of glittering hailstones, the windows went from protective barrier to lethal shrapnel. It all happened far too fast for anyone to document, but the end result was the same. One second they were safe and sound behind the supposedly bullet proof windows and the next all hell had broken loose. The truck continued on through the glass and crashed into the first few rows of groceries. Irina Kovalenko, who thought fleetingly of how she’d only stopped in for a moment to use the bathroom, took the brunt of the truck’s front fender in the chest. The weight of the vehicle bore down on her and slapped her to the ground. Blood gushed up and out of her mouth and in the milliseconds that it took her to draw in a breath to scream, the bulk of the truck’s weight came down on her and crushed her head and chest into paste.

Cody, who had been standing to Irina’s right, was knocked back and into the Hostess display. Cellophane-wrapped baked goods exploded around him and he fell hard to the linoleum. Dazed, it took a moment for him to gather his wits and begin to climb to his feet. No sooner did he stand up then two of the people who had been hanging off the sides of the truck sprang up from where they’d landed and swarmed over him. The three of them went down and the boy’s blood curdling scream rang out. Blood spurted into the air and painted the image of Twinkie The Kid in a deep crimson.

Once the explosion of glass and metal settled, Betty (who, when she saw the truck jump the curb, ducked behind the counter) came up and into view. She looked at the demolition that was, seconds before, the front of her store and began crying. She was desperately trying to take it all in and therefore never noticed Boyd and Jocelyn climbing through the empty window frames. Before she even knew what was happening, they were on her and the three of them disappeared behind the counter. Her screams and the sound of tearing cloth echoed in the ensuing stillness.

Stanley Dillard saw all of this go down and instinctively knew that they were in a heap of hot shit. With the store front collapsed, their only source of protection was gone. Dillard, who by now had moved away from the demolition and toward the back of the store, turned to Monroe and Claire and pushed them both in the direction of the backroom.

"Run!" he bellowed.

Monroe looked around bewildered.

"Where to?" he shouted while looking around frantically. "There’s nothing back there!"

For a split second, Dillard glanced about and realized he was right.

"The room…" Claire said. Her previous humor gone, she now sounded extremely scared. "The one that lady was talking about."

"Right! That a girl!" Dillard nodded and shoved Monroe back again. "Go!"

With that, the three of them were off and running. Claire rounded the corner first and scurried toward the storage area of the store. It was basically a long hallway which ran along the length of the back of the building. Looking quickly to the left, she noticed the back access doors to the Beer and Bulk Soda refrigerators. To the right was a roll-up door which led presumably to the loading dock outside. Next to that, set in a sturdy metal frame, was a small room addition which looked recently built. The structure looked strong and heavily armored. Its walls were made of cement and thick metal rebar could be seen threaded through the concrete. On each side of it, stacks of soda cases and metal CO2 canisters stood like sentries. Thinking that must certainly be the Count Out Room, she ran off to open the door.

As Dillard and Monroe rounded the corner, they could both hear movement coming from behind them. Small racks of food and large displays were being knocked over and a chorus of low moaning could be heard. From the sounds of it, there were at least five or six of those things running up behind them, coming on fast. Monroe’s feet suddenly went out from underneath him, his designer shoes slipping on the slick concrete. He went down with a painful sound.

Dillard heard Monroe fall and slid to a stop. He looked back and saw the people coming up the aisle toward them. They were moving far faster than he’d thought possible, but he felt as if he still had time. It wasn’t like he could just leave the guy there to be killed by those things. He raced back and grabbed Monroe by the wrist and hoisted him to his feet.

"Go! I’m going to try to hold them off!" Dillard shouted.

Monroe needed no further urging and was off like a shot. He ran to where the small hall they were in met the long one at the back of the store. He whipped his head around, trying to decide which direction he should head next.

"Phillip!" he heard Claire shout to his right.

Monroe turned and saw her holding open a metal door. Frantically, she pointed inside. He smiled and started running.

"That’s my girl!" he said between frantic breaths.

Dillard managed to grab several milk crates as well as some flats of soda which were stacked against the wall and dumped them into the aisle. It wouldn’t deter the quickly approaching crowd for long, but it should delay them long enough for him to catch up to Monroe and get inside the protection of the room. He took off running as the sound of people stumbling through the wreckage reached his ears.

He ran off and turned the corner in time to see Monroe and Claire reuniting at what could only be the Count Out Room’s door. Monroe was pushing Claire inside and he turned to grab the door’s handle.

Dillard sprinted toward them as fast as his legs would carry him. Behind him, he heard the sound of his pursuer’s feet begin to slap on the concrete. He knew he’d have to be quick or they’d catch him with the metal door open and they’d all be lost.

He ran as fast as he could, pumping his legs harder, and judged that he’d just make it.

Monroe saw Dillard coming toward him and then his focus shifted to the crowd moving rapidly behind him. There were almost a dozen of them now and they all seemed to be moving impossibly fast.

He’s not going to make it!

As Stanley Dillard got to within an arm’s length of the door, his eyes met Monroe’s. For a split second, he thought he saw Monroe silently urging him on. All of a sudden, Monroe’s expression changed and it seemed as if he’d just given up on the old man. It was as though he thought it would be too close and risking his and Claire’s lives was too much of a gamble.

As Dillard took his next—and final—step, he saw Monroe tug the door closed behind him. With a heartbreaking finality, the metal door slammed in its frame just as Dillard felt the first pair of hands latch onto his shoulders. Slamming into the door, more hands grabbed onto him and pulled him down toward the unforgiving ground.

Inside the small room, Monroe and Claire panted and held on to one another. Claire started crying and Monroe pulled her tighter. Over the sound of her sobbing, a frantic thumping and hysterical screaming from outside could be heard.

~ * ~

The next morning, Monroe and Claire awoke on the floor of the cramped Count Out Room. Once the noise from outside subsided, they’d cleared some space by pushing the chairs and assorted boxes out of the way and created a makeshift bed for themselves. The floor was freezing, so they’d spent most of the time with their arms wrapped around one another for warmth.

Lying there, Monroe repeatedly ran the scenario of what had happened to Dillard over in his mind and, as was his way, he’d even managed to convince himself that he’d done the only thing he could have by shutting the door on the man.

After all, if he hadn’t, they all would have died.

The only thing Monroe now found himself regretting was him not having had the foresight to grab some food before locking themselves in here. It had been a while since he’d eaten the microwaved burrito and his hunger was now something he couldn’t ignore. Claire was hungry as well. She’d been bitching about not having anything to eat since she’d woken up. Monroe wasn’t sure what she expected him to do, for chrissakes. It wasn’t like he could just unlock the door and go grab them some snacks.

The only choice they had was to wait.

So, that was what they did.

And as the hours passed, they’d done little else except lie there on the cold floor and bide their time. Hopefully, someone—the cops, the army, someone—would come along at some point and find them and rescue them. All they had to do was be patient. However, if too much time passed, there would be no recourse but for one of them to take the risk and go out into the store in search of rations. It’d be dangerous and, if there were still any of those things still around, that person might not make it back.

Somewhere in the back of his mind, Monroe was sure he could talk Claire into it.

And as the hours wore on, Monroe closed his eyes and he began to formulate his side of the argument.