Zombie Chaos Box Set | Books 1-4

by Martone, D. L.

  All fun and games til somebody goes splat. Damn, I really am a grumpy old man.

  Chapter

  7

  “Is there some higher force at work here?” – Valentine McKee, Tremors (1990)

  As I stood in the relative silence of our wooded campsite, contemplating my next move, I discerned a humming engine on the nearby road, shortly followed by a metallic clanking several yards away. Thanks to my preoccupation with the stupid radio, it took my brain longer than it should’ve to recall the significance of such a sound. Jangling beer cans during a windless lull meant trouble—of the intruder kind.

  But by the time I heard my wife’s gasp on one side and George’s muttered curse on the other, it was too late to ready myself for the inevitable fight.

  “Good evening, folks,” a male voice said, his Mississippi twang evident. “May I see your park pass?”

  I froze, my hand halfway to my holster. Clare and George stiffened beside me, their own weapons hanging limply at their sides, and Casey made no sound at all. If I snatched a glimpse toward his tree, I’d likely spot him crouching on a limb high above us.

  Reluctant to alert the officious interloper of Casey’s hiding place, I didn’t move a muscle. Just stared at Ranger Bob “I-shit-you-not” Roberts as he stepped toward me, his name etched across a golden plate affixed to the left pocket of his khaki shirt.

  Behind him, I could see an SUV parked on the gravel road leading down into the campsite. How had I missed spotting his headlights? Or hearing his approaching footsteps? For that matter, how had his unexpected arrival evaded my companions’ notice as well? Had we all been so fixated on the shortwave radio—on the possibility of human contact—that we’d ignored the imminent intrusion? Or had pure exhaustion simply dulled our senses?

  Not that it mattered now.

  When no one responded to his question, Ranger Bob aimed the brightest damn flashlight I’d ever seen directly at my face. “Sir, where’s your park pass?”

  I shut my eyes, wincing from the glare. “I’m sorry, what?”

  “Your pass,” he repeated, his exasperation evident. “Even though backcountry camping in Homochitto is free, you need a pass to stay here. An Interagency Annual Pass will do.” Mercifully, he pivoted the blazing flashlight beam toward my van. “Course, since there are two vehicles, you’ll need two passes.” He nodded over his shoulder, his eyes full of suspicion. “And what’s up with the tripwire? Somebody after you?”

  I squinted, surveying the short, rotund man who stood before me. Perhaps in his late forties, he wore the customary hat, uniform, and hiking boots of a forest ranger. The only thing out of place? The 1970s-style pornstache he was rocking. I might’ve chuckled at his dubious choice of facial hair if his presence hadn’t irked me so much.

  “Uh, Ranger Roberts, do you know what’s going on out there?”

  His brow furrowed in confusion. “Out where?” Then, he shook his head, dispelling the momentary distraction. “Sir, I’m simply checking to make sure you have the required permits to camp here.” He extended his hand, twitching his fingers impatiently. “Show them to me, and I’ll be on my way.”

  Clearly, the dude was a lifer, a rule-abiding ranger to the core, and zombie apocalypse or not, I had unfortunately decided to camp in his forest without a proper pass. His enormous, 192,000-acre forest.

  Seriously, what are the fucking odds he’d stumble into our campsite?

  I sighed, both exasperated and befuddled by the moron’s one-track mind. “No, I mean, you do realize that the world as you know it… just came to an end?”

  He huffed, evidently miffed by my lack of cooperation, and once again waggled the fingers of his waiting hand.

  “Do you even know about the zombies?” I asked, suspecting the answer was an unequivocal no.

  He lowered his hand, then shined the flashlight in my face again. “Look, I don’t know what kind of stupid prank y’all are trying to play on me, but if I don’t see a permit, I’m afraid I’ll have to ask you to leave.” He nodded behind him. “And take your tripwire with you. It’s just begging for a lawsuit.”

  Could this jackass really be that clueless? How could anyone have survived three full days of an undead invasion without realizing the world had turned to utter shit?

  I shielded my eyes from the penetrating light, my impatience teetering toward the danger zone. “Um, I have some bad news for you, Ranger Bob… most likely, everyone you know is dead. A fatal virus hit this country three days ago. I don’t know how you missed the news, but let’s just say the world is fucked up beyond belief. Like, a permanent undead shithole.”

  “No need for that kind of language, sir.” He clenched his clean-shaven jaw. “I don’t know what’s going on here, but I don’t like it. I suggest you and your friends pack up your stuff and go back where you came from.”

  “Yeah, no, that ain’t gonna happen,” George muttered, her grip tightening on the tire iron Ol’ Bob had yet to notice.

  The infuriated ranger shifted the flashlight beam toward my companion. “Excuse me, ma’am? Are you refusing to obey the law?”

  I groaned. How much worse could the situation get?

  While Bob fixated on George, I considered yanking out my gun and shooting him, but somehow, it felt wrong to kill a living, breathing human whose only obvious crime was being a complete idiot. True, a dude like that could get someone killed, but since no zombies had yet appeared, I was still willing to negotiate, if possible. Better to try the diplomatic route than to turn an annoying situation into a dangerous one.

  Ever since my angst-filled teenage years, I had longed for less stress in my life. Just one smooth day that unfolded as planned. But since I’d never experienced such unadulterated bliss prior to the apocalypse, I couldn’t really expect an evening following the world-ending epidemic to go well either.

  Can’t hurt to dream, I guess.

  Sadly, good timing had never been one of my major assets. In fact, if anything, I’d always had rather horrendous timing.

  I recalled one particularly eventful night back when I was seventeen and had found myself behind the wheel of a car full of buddies and beer. Four friends and I had been cruising for chicks in a suburb outside Detroit—a common activity for teenagers at the time. Everything had seemed copacetic until my notoriously unlucky timing struck, resulting in my pal Anthony going into insulin shock.

  Truth be told, Anthony had resembled one of the zombies I’d seen over the past few days. Ashen face, vacant eyes, an inability to communicate—all the telltale signs of undeadness. I was worried—we all were—so I did the only thing I could think to do: drive him straight to the emergency room at the nearest hospital.

  While only five and a half feet tall, Anthony weighed about a hundred and eighty pounds. Muscular and stocky as hell, he had barely an ounce of fat on him—which meant, as unconscious dead weight, he felt like a dense, immovable boulder. So, carrying our sick friend into the E.R. required all hands on deck, naturally forcing us to abandon my car in the process.

  Even after we’d checked in at the receptionist’s desk, Kevin, the oldest member of our crew, was convinced that Anthony would die. When my two other friends and I tried—and failed—to calm him down, an extremely patient nurse stepped in, ultimately spending fifteen minutes assuring him that our pal would be fine by the morning. Soon afterward, the four of us left him in competent hands and headed back to my car.

  Once again, bad timing reared its ugly head. While we’d been inside, dealing with Anthony, a cop had pulled up beside my unattended vehicle. As we emerged into the parking lot, we discovered him scrutinizing the beer cans in the backseat, most of which were empty. Upon spotting Five-O, my three “buddies” immediately ditched me, which left me to fend for myself.

  The policeman swiveled his flashlight between me and the beer cans on the backseat. “Is this your car, son?”

  “Yes, officer. Had to bring a sick friend to the hospital.”

  Ignoring my altruistic reas
on for being there, he let the flashlight beam linger on my face as he asked, “Have you been drinking tonight?”

  “Just a little…”

  “Huh. And you don’t look any older than sixteen.”

  I was exhausted, the adrenaline having drained from my body once I knew Anthony would be OK. But still, that was no excuse for mouthing off to the cop over my actual age, which certainly didn’t do me any favors. In fact, it resulted in a one-way trip to jail, via the back of his police car—and a pricey impoundment of my vehicle.

  As the designated driver, I’d only downed about half a beer that night, which saved me from racking up a DUI. But my parents were still pissed enough to revoke my driving privileges for a month. Luckily, it didn’t take long for my dad to forgive my transgression, but for a while after the incident, my mom would insist on administering breath checks every time I came home.

  If Anthony had had his reaction a few minutes earlier than he did—or a few minutes later—we might’ve ended up at a different hospital. And if Kevin, the witless wonder, hadn’t freaked out so much, we might’ve returned to the car fast enough to avoid the cop.

  Yep, it’s all about timing. And as usual, mine fucking sucks.

  Clare gripped my hand, yanking me from my inconvenient stroll down memory lane.

  As I gazed at the chubby ranger, whose car presently blocked our only practical exit, I shook my head. Why did everything have to be so goddamn difficult?

  Chapter

  8

  “I’m not going to waste my time arguing with a man who’s lining up to be a hot lunch.” – Hooper, Jaws (1975)

  Timing, that spiteful bitch, failed me yet again.

  Just as I steeled myself to draw the Glock from my holster and calmly convince Ranger Bob to leave us alone, the sounds of retching emerged from the rear of our van. I had closed the back doors after transferring the shortwave to the hood of the station wagon, but in the glow of the moon and George’s headlights, I could tell that at least one had been reopened.

  Oh, fuck. Here we go.

  I suspected my mother-in-law’s infection had advanced a step. Her transformation was imminent.

  Clearly startled, Ranger Bob whirled around and scurried toward the awful sounds. I doubted he would’ve moved nearly so fast had he understood what such upchucking signified.

  Once again, I wondered how the hell anyone could’ve missed hearing about the cataclysmic situation overtaking the world. Had Ol’ Bob been hiding under a bush since Halloween, or perhaps crashing in a nearby ranger station without access to a television or a radio? How was that even possible?

  When the puking sounds intensified, my companions and I edged around the station wagon and cautiously stepped closer to the van. I considered the possibility that I might not be Jill’s first victim after all. Perhaps the moronic forest official would have that dubious honor. At the very least, the distraction would give me a chance to safely put her out of her misery.

  As I rounded the back door, keeping Clare and George behind me, I spotted Jill kneeling near the edge of the van, her head hanging over the side, a pool of black-and-red vomit on the ground below her.

  “Oh, my god,” Clare cried, her voice wavering. “Mom, are you OK?”

  A ridiculous question perhaps, but worry could easily wreak havoc on a human brain—even my wife’s often level-headed one.

  Ignoring the outburst, Ranger Bob kept his eyes fixed on the nasty sludge creeping toward his boots. He inched backward and shined his flashlight toward my mother-in-law, courteous enough to avoid casting the beam right in her face.

  As he stared at her, his eyes noticeably filled with a mixture of concern and disgust. Perhaps Jill’s unsettling display—and her obvious poor health—would tug on the ranger’s sympathies and bail us out of our latest trouble… or at least compel the ignorant numbskull to immediately vacate the premises. Avoiding a contagious disease should far outweigh the need to verify our nonexistent passes.

  During the brief standoff, I glanced at the ranger’s crowded belt, which held all manner of apt tools, including a baton, a walkie-talkie, a smartphone, a sheathed knife, an encased pair of binoculars, a small canister of pepper spray, a pair of handcuffs, an ammo pouch, and, naturally, a holstered pistol. I was impressed: I wouldn’t expect a forest ranger (particularly, a round, out-of-shape one) to carry a gun.

  But then again, he seemed like the nerdy, by-the-book sort, the kind that would equip himself with all the paraphernalia expected of a federal employee. Ironically, he was well prepared for a zombie attack—even if he didn’t realize he ought to be.

  Since Ranger Bob didn’t know about the current happenings around the globe, he hadn’t yet reached for his gun, just kept the flashlight beam fixed on Jill’s torso. Maybe his concern for an ailing senior citizen really did outrival the usual fear of diseased strangers. Maybe, just maybe, we really could forgo a potential conflict.

  I almost exhaled with relief. But then Jill paused in her purging and looked up at us, her green-tinged complexion and pain-stricken eyes too startling for even me to bear.

  “Oh, Mom…” Clare whispered from behind my left shoulder.

  Jill wiped her chin with her sweater sleeve, glanced at the wide-eyed, light-wielding ranger, and opened her mouth, but instead of spewing more of the nasty black-and-red stuff, she unleashed her customary pleasantries.

  “What are you looking at, jackoff?”

  I sighed with resignation. Why did she have to make every stressful situation worse?

  I had no explanation for her near-constant acrimony. Only knew one thing for certain: If she hadn’t insulted the moronic forest ranger, he might not have hardened his jaw, pivoted his flashlight, and spotted the small pile of guns and knives I’d left on the floor while retrieving the radio. The light also fell upon the partially covered crate still teeming with weapons.

  Then, as if that weren’t enough, he shifted the beam across the van, noting the blood, black goo, and other foul-smelling secretions and chunks of flesh on the tires and side panels.

  “Monsters!” With a gasp, Ranger Bob stumbled backward and shifted the flashlight beam back to me—who was, as far as he knew, the only other male in the campsite and likely the biggest threat to his safety.

  Frankly, my money would’ve been on George. That was one tough lady—and dangerous to underestimate.

  But it didn’t matter. Before I had a chance to explain—or brandish my gun—Ranger Bob unlatched his holster, whipped out his own Glock, and aimed it at me, his hand trembling noticeably.

  “Freeze! All of you!” His eyes flitted from my dismayed face to the women standing behind me. “Don’t know what kinda horrible shit y’all already pulled and what other terrorist acts y’all got cooked up, but it ain’t gonna happen here. Not on my watch.”

  What a dilemma. On the one hand, I knew that George and I could easily overtake the guy. Even Clare seemed ready and motivated to remove the impediment between us and her mother. On the other hand, though, I wasn’t certain that, in his nervousness, he wouldn’t accidentally—or intentionally—shoot one of us. I couldn’t risk the chance of getting Clare killed, but I certainly didn’t want such an idiot to best us either.

  Before I could make up my mind, Ol’ Bob spotted my holster. “You! Put your hands up!” Then, he noticed the implements of destruction my companions were clutching. “You, too! All y’all toss your weapons on the ground and put your hands up!”

  While Clare and George reluctantly complied—and I silently wished for a roving zombie to show up and put an abrupt end to our problems—the ranger shifted his gaze to Jill.

  “And I don’t care if you’re sick! Get outta the van and walk over to your pals!”

  The roly-poly ranger had suddenly morphed into an extremely twitchy version of Dirty Harry. Not a great combination.

  His widened eyes flitted between Jill, who grumbled but slowly climbed down from the van, and my untouched holster. Although George’s tire iron and pistol l
ay on the ground beside Clare’s hammer, I had yet to give up my own weapon.

  “Mister,” Ranger Bob commanded, gesturing his gun toward me, “I told ya to drop the gun!”

  With a heavy sigh, I carefully drew my weapon and tossed it beside the others. A part of me hoped it would inadvertently discharge and shoot Ranger Nitwit in the shin.

  Evidently, the fool believed our ragtag group was actually a cabal of domestic terrorists, aiming to do him and his country—or at least his forest—some major harm. Guess that made more sense to his wee brain than the zombie invasion I’d ranted about.

  “Wow,” Jill quipped as she joined George and Clare, who had shuffled forward to flank me, “he’s even dumber than you.”

  I glanced at her. “Don’t give him a reason to do anything stupid.” Slowly, I lifted my arms and faced my palms outward.

  Jill pursed her colorless lips. “Too late for that.”

  Clare shot her a pleading look bordering on annoyance.

  “Listen, Ranger Roberts,” I said, hoping my use of his formal title would indicate some measure of respect and help to diffuse the tense situation, “you must’ve heard the reports. All of the government agencies—local, state, and federal—have been broadcasting evacuation instructions for the past three days.”

  “Fat lotta good that did,” Jill grumbled.

  Ignoring her snippy comment, Ranger Bob took a few steps forward. “My radio’s been out for the past week.”

  Although he still pointed his Glock and flashlight toward me, I noted a subtle furrow in his brow. Had he begun to doubt the terrorism explanation? None of us really looked the part—though the gore all over my van didn’t help our case much.

  “If you don’t mind me asking,” I ventured as politely as I could, “where’ve you been for the past three days? Somewhere without a TV?”