Louis forced his eyes open once more. He had been fighting off sleep for some time now. It was nearly morning and they would soon be out of the house and continuing their journey. The office worker was beginning to wonder if he and his companions would ever reach the Florida Keys. It felt like years had gone by since they had departed from New York, but in reality it had only been a matter of weeks. He tried to remember his life before the outbreak. Louis could barely recall it. That life seemed eons ago. It may as well have been, for Louis knew he would never live anything close to the life he once lived. The sudden noise of breaking glass broke his thoughts. The sound had a profound effect on Louis. Instantly his gun was locked and loaded; the safety turned off. In mere moments he had changed from a friendly office worker into a coldly efficient killer. The first time this had happened Louis had been shocked and frightened at what he was capable of. But now it was happening so often he barely noticed it. Louis turned to his comrades and began shaking the awake.
"Wake up!" he cried, "Wake up! We're under attack!" The others awoke, groggily at first, but once the words registered in their minds they were up on their feet and ready to go. The sound of breaking windows rang throughout the old house. The screams of the ragged throats of the infected mixed with it to form an ear-wracking noise. The bloodied arms of the creatures reached in through the smashed windows, reaching for the survivors. The seven people began firing into the mindless crowd. There were shrieks of pain as bullets made impact. Bits of rotting flesh flew everywhere. Louis was busy reloading when he noticed something peculiar about the creatures. The sea of heads that bobbed in and out of view were different. It only took him a second to tell what it was. The eyes. The eyes were glowing a sickly greenish color.
"What the Hell?" Louis muttered to himself. He had stopped reloading and stared at the eerie creatures. He had never seen anything like it. He turned to Francis. The biker was shouting the usual profanity at the hellish ghouls.
"Francis," Louis shouted over the din, "Look at the eyes!" The Biker paused long enough in his onslaught to follow his friend's advice. Once he did he froze. He did not seem frightened; only curious.
"Huh," said Francis, "Never seen that before." He went back to firing at the monsters. By not most of the other survivors were noticing the strange luminance that was being emitted by the eyes of their attackers.
"What in the name of Mike is wrong with their eyes?" Coach wondered aloud. No one could answer him as they were too busy fending the creatures off. Nick spoke up as the reloaded.
"Question guys," he muttered as he filled the chamber with ammo, "How are we going to escape this one?" Again, no one answered. Suddenly a familiar roar filled the air. The Survivors paled as they recognized it. They stopped shooting in order to conserve their bullets. But they knew no matter how many bullets they had. A Tank never goes down easily. Already they could hear its enraged snorts as it tore through the crowd of infected. At that moment a massive wall of muscle filled the window. The scar-covered skin shone a dull gray in the light of the rising sun. The hideous face of the beast roared at the survivors as it thrust its pillar-like arm into the house. The Tank had a considerably longer reach than the rest of the infected, and forced the survivors to retreat backwards.
"Anyone got a bomb?" Rochelle asked as she fired a cloud of buckshot into the Tank's shoulder. The monster howled in pain and fury as it momentarily retreated. Louis began searching through his backpack, but he knew he didn't have one.
"Son-of-a-bitch," Rochelle swore as he realized he had just used up her last two shotgun shells. The only thing she had left were a couple of dummy shells filled with rock salt. They would sting like Hell, but wouldn't really do any damage. But maybe if she fired into the Tank's eyes… Rochelle shoved the two shells into the double chambers and took careful aim. It was difficult because the brawny creature kept thrashing about in a sporadic fashion. It also didn't help that trying to hit its tiny head was like trying to hit a knothole in the broadside of a barn. Finally when it paused to reach in again she fired. The salt made impact with its snarling face. Suddenly the tank cried out in absolute agony. The creature's roars were unlike anything the survivors had ever heard. The Tank clawed at its face. Blood began to splatter around the window frame as it wildly shook its head. It scratched so hard it began to scrape its skull clean of flesh. Finally it let loose on more earth-shaking death cry before it fell forward. As its chin hit the windowsill the green glow in its sockets ceased to exist. The survivors stared openmouthed at the dead creature.
"Whoa…" Francis muttered, "That was some serious shit right there." Louis turned to Rochelle.
"What was in that thing?" he asked in a nervous tone. Rochelle looked at her weapon with a mixture of amazement and fear. She held it out before her as though it were a holy relic.
"Just…Rock salt," she responded as she snapped out of her daze, "I didn't think it would do that."
"Salt?" asked Zoey. The moment Rochelle had uttered that word something clicked in her mind. During her extensive viewing of numerous zombie movies, salt had come up in at least four of them. But she had forgotten the significance of the mineral and what it had to do with zombies. She dredged her memory for answers. The moment of stunned silence was ended when the rest of the infected crawled on top of their fallen ally and once again resumed their attempt to enter the house. The survivors shakily began firing at the horde. The infected seemed to try even harder to force themselves in, as if compensating for the loss of their muscular comrade. Their unearthly shrieks blocked out all other noise. All the while Zoey was still thinking of salt. Salt and zombies. What was the connection? The brown-haired woman turned to Rochelle.
"Rochelle," she shouted above the screeching horde, "Do you have anymore of those shells?" Rochelle shoved her fist in her pocked and searched for a moment. She pulled out a single cartridge.
"What do you want it for?" asked Rochelle.
"Shoot it at them," responded Zoey. Rochelle looked at the ululating creatures as she loaded the single shell into the gun. She pulled the trigger and sent the salt flying everywhere. The grains embedded themselves in the exposed skin of several creatures. Their cries of anger turned into wails of pain and terror. Again the survivors witnessed the infected literally scratching themselves to death. The ones that had not been hit were shoved out of the way as the salted creatures writhed and thrashed about in agony. Zoey's eyes lit up as she remembered the correlation between the white mineral and the undead. She remembered the poorly-made B movie she had watched over spring break about the sorcerer who resurrected the dead with magic. The only way to return them to their rest was the crystal element known as-
"Salt!" she exclaimed, "Salt kills them!" She turned to her companions and cried out over the noise of the dying creatures. They were too busy plugging infected to notice. "I'll be right back," she shouted as she ran for the kitchen. Louis turned around from the fight, looking very concerned.
"Zoey," he cried reaching out, "Don't run off!" But she was already out of earshot. She was in the messy kitchen, her feet kicking the fallen pots and pans out of the way. Zoey began to throw open the cabinets and furiously searching inside. Her hands ran across cooking utensils that were rusted and broken. She opened one door after another, shoving out their contents on the floor. Eventually she found what she was looking for. The spice cabinet. Not surprisingly the salt was the one that was closest to the door. Zoey laughed triumphantly and grabbed the container in her hand. It was a small cardboard box that bore the cartoon image of a woman under an umbrella. There was a small metal spout that could be folded out of the side. It felt heavy, indicating that it was nearly full. Zoey ran back to her company and poured herself a handful of salt. She suddenly whipped down the length of the window, spreading it across all the zombies in sight. Again the horrible screeches of death began and the monsters started raking their claws all over their person. Seeing that their entire frontline had been decimated in a matter of seconds, the rest of the horde retreated fearfully. The survivors watched as the creatures clumsily stumbled out into the distance. They turned and stared at their savior, who stood with a small grin on her dirty face.
"You know what?" Francis said as he put his hand on her shoulder, "I didn't hate that."
The being heard the frightened howls in the distance. He scowled as he saw the horde running in through the cemetery gates like scared children. They stumbled on their feet as they ran with their unsteady gaits. As the infected continued to swarm into the lot, the being noticed something that made him flare with anger. About one fourth of his horde was missing. Knowing that they would have been unable to do anything except his bidding, he came to the correct conclusion that something had killed them. The skeletal figure adjusted his hat to block out the rising sun as he looked over his army with a look of disappointment. The creatures timidly moved towards him. Some of them hid behind each other, looking at their leader with fear.
"What is the meaning of this?" rumbled the being. The diseased faces of his horde could only look back at him in frightened silence. "Well?" he boomed, "Why haven't you brought me the living wretches?" Again, his question was met with no response. Enraged as he was the being managed to remain in control. The logical thing to do was to find out what had killed so many of his flock. He swiveled his head to look at the hunter who had brought him the news.
"Coon-dog!" he barked as he thrust a bony finger at him, "What did they do?" The predatory creature whimpered and growled, gesticulating in a manner that resembled someone throwing something and then scratching his body. The leader watched carefully. His knowledge of his dark arts allowed him to piece together what had happened. The humans had discovered the horde's weakness: salt. The spice of the living. Had these creatures been created through traditional means, salt would have not had such a painful effect on them. But having been made by his own twisted power, the use of salt was much more devastating. If the survivors were to escape with their knowledge of the horrible effects, the use of it as a weapon would wipe out his horde. The being was not about to let that happen. Through clenched teeth he spoke to his followers.
"Start digging."