“I’ve got one question,” said Val, looking at Jackie and Claire.
“Val!” I said.
“You’re awake,” Jackie said. “How are you feeling?”
“Like a zombie is eating my intestines.” She cringed. “Well, you asked. Anyway, here’s my question.”
“Yes?” Claire said.
“This zombie thing has been happening for a year now. Why were you dressed so fashionable when we met?”
“We ran until our group found an abandoned mansion,” Jackie said. “We got comfortable and didn’t see more than a handful of zombies for over eight months.”
“There were giant closets filled with the most gorgeous designer clothes,” Jackie said, “so we started relaxing and letting our guard down. We dressed up every day and did our hair and makeup. All the girls in our group did. We were led into a false sense of security. I know now that it was a big mistake. We should’ve been training to fight, but the men treated us women like china dolls. They took care of us, and I guess we let them.”
“At three o’clock one afternoon, a window shattered,” Claire said. “I’ll never forget it to this day.”
Jackie sipped her beer. “That was the end of our group…and our time together. A herd broke in and killed everyone else.” Her voice wavered. “We barely escaped.”
I wrapped my arm around her and pulled her close. It had to be awful. I couldn’t even begin to imagine what that night must have been like for them, mourning the loss of their protectors and running for their lives with no supplies or weapons.
“I’m sorry,” Val said, looking out the window.
“Isn’t the sunset gorgeous?” Jackie asked, changing the subject.
“Yes. And I want to watch it one last time before I…before I die,” she said between breaths.
“How can I deny my wonderful sister her last wish?” I rushed over to help her up. “Technically though, you’re not really dying, Val.” I scooped her up in my arms and brought her next to Nick. We all sat together and watched the sun sink into the horizon.
“That was beautiful,” she said and looked up at me, then at Nick. “Hey, guys, what if the cure doesn’t work?”
I gripped her hand tightly. “Don’t even think about it.”
A tear ran down her face. “I don’t want to die, Dean. I want to live to see another sunset.”
“Shh.” I wiped her tear away and pulled her into my arms. “You’re my sister, and Nick and I are going to do everything in our power to save you.”
“You’ve got to trust us,” Nick said.
She smiled, but I could see the hopelessness in her eyes. “I’m not giving up yet.”
Nick touched her hand. “That’s my girl.”
“Just promise me one thing,” she said.
“Anything,” I said, meaning it.
“If the cure doesn’t work, I want you or Nick to…one of you have to put the bullet in my head—nobody else!”
Tears welled in my eyes as I met Nick’s gaze; he was choking up too. I tried to compose myself because I didn’t want to cry in front of everyone. “I…we promise.” It was the hardest promise I’d ever had to make to anyone, and I hoped it wasn’t one I’d have to keep.
She sniffled. “Thank you.”
I squeezed her hand. I prayed against all odds that the cure would work, but if it didn’t, I knew I’d have to keep my promise, no matter how much it hurt.
Val let out a sigh. “I wish we could’ve been a real family, that we could have grown up together.”
“Well, we’re a real family now,” I said, “and that’s what counts.”
“Tell me about Mom and Dad,” she whispered.
I laughed. “You remind me a lot of Dad, with that temper of yours. I think that’s a family trait.”
Nick chuckled. “I’m the worst. I punch walls when I get pissed off.”
“My adoptive parents were as sweet as can be. I knew I didn’t get my temper from them.”
“You’re funny and sarcastic like Mom, but tough like Dad,” Nick said.
“And you’re a fighter, just like Mom,” I said. “When she had cancer, she never gave up. She beat it years later.”
“Mom almost died?” she said.
Slowly, the word came out. “Yes.”
A tiny gasp escaped her throat. “Why didn’t she tell me about it?”
I sucked in a deep breath as I considered my words. “Even though the ordeal was over and done with, maybe she didn’t want to worry you.” I shrugged. “I honestly don’t know.”
“I’m glad she made it,” Val said softly.
“Me too.” I nodded. “Imagine if she didn’t. Then I might never have met you, and she would’ve died without having a chance to meet her only daughter.” I met her gaze. “During chemo, she said she only had one regret about life. She wanted to meet Valarie again. Yeah, she called you by your formal name. I thought she was talking about an old high school friend.”
“But it was me.” She let out a sob. “I never cry like this. It’s the virus. It’s doing crazy stuff to my emotions.”
Lucas put an arm around her, and she playfully slugged him.
“Hey! I’m willing to let that one slide,” he said, “but I’m warning you, if you try to bite me, our little friendship is all over.”
Val smiled. “You don’t look like the type of guy that dates zombie chicks.”
He shot her a gleaming grin. “I’d date a zombie, as long as she didn’t treat me like a piece of meat, though I’m not at all opposed to a little nibbling.”
“C’mon,” she said. “Be serious. You know I want your braaaaains.”
“You know what else I like,” Lucas said. “Zombies aren’t quitters. I mean, if they want you, they’ll keep coming after you…and I love being chased!”
“That’s a no-brainer.”
We laughed some more as we continued to tell jokes and stories. For just a little while, we let go and allowed ourselves some fun; we knew that soon enough, we’d be back to fighting for our lives. Settling into our beds hours later, when the sun had long set and countless stars dotted the skyline, we decided to take turns standing guard to make sure no zombies crossed the perimeter and to watch out for Val changing while the others slept.
***
Morning had finally come. The sun beamed in, and we all immediately got to packing the little bit of supplies we had.
“Okay, I’m starting here. You guys split up. Check every corner and crevice so we don’t leave anything behind,” I said, glancing around one last time.
“Where’s Lake Tahoe?” my brother asked.
I peered at him, surprised. “He’s not with you?”
“I thought he was with you.” He shrugged. “He’s gotta be around somewhere. Let’s just pack up the Jeep. He’ll turn up.”
Ignoring the sudden uneasiness in the pit of my stomach, I grabbed a box and some blankets and looked out the window. My heart lurched. “Nick! Lucas! The Jeep’s gone,” I yelled, my voice reverberating from the walls.
Val’s eyes darted about, not really focusing on anything. The way Nick regarded me told me he knew before I even opened my mouth.
“He must’ve left during his short shift of staying awake and guarding. We’re so screwed,” I said. My heart lurched in my chest as I checked our belongings, or lack thereof.
I swear Val’s face turned another shade of red as she wailed, “He took our food, water, guns, freakin’ everything!”
“He didn’t take the stuff we dragged up here,” Jackie said, swinging a backpack over her shoulder. “We’ve still got some food and water and some guns.”
Nick grabbed my arm and pulled me aside, whispering so the girls wouldn’t hear him. “Where’s the serum?”
I scanned the naked floor, willing my eyes to see something that wasn’t there. “I-I don’t know. The bag’s gone!” I managed eventually. “I thought you or Lucas had it.”
“We’ll find another vehicle,” Lucas said, “and catch
up with him. I still have the tracking device.”
“You’re right.” My heart raced, thumping in my ears like a drum. “We can’t stay here.”
“We’ll have to leave on foot,” Nick said, “and I mean right NOW!”
A chill washed over me. We were right back where we’d started: running for our lives and in dire need of transportation. And now, we didn’t even have the cure in our hands. Val’s life depended on those vials, and without them, my sister was doomed, dead and gone forever.
“What are we waiting for?” Val asked.
“Let’s get outta here…and find those vials,” Nick said.
I couldn’t have agreed more.
The End of Installment One
To be continued in the next book,
The Zombie Chronicles: Book 2 (See pic on next page)
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Book Two
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Book Three
Book Four
Book Five
The Zombie Chronicles
Apocalypse Infection Unleashed Series
by
Chrissy Peebles
Copyright 2012 by Chrissy Peebles
http://www.chrissypeebles.blogspot.com
Cover design by: Patrick Griffith
Edited by: Autumn J. Conley, [email protected]
The Zombie Chronicles Book Trailer: http://youtu.be/ociUHiL1g70
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Jeannie Rae
The Sickness: Monte’s Story
By Jeannie Rae
AWAKENING
Sluggishly opening my eyes, I can feel the light and warmth of the sun peeking through the slight opening in my drapes. The window in my minuscule room faces the rising summer sun, if I’m not up by eight, that ball of fire cooks me until I get up. My skin is tacky with sweat, already. There’s nothing I hate more than being penny-saver poor and living on the south side of town. It’s not safe to leave my window open at night—or even at day for that matter. A swamp cooler hangs out of our living room window—the only source cool air in this place, which Dad refuses to turn on until dusk and only for an hour on days when it’s hot as hell.
My name is Monte. I’m sixteen and on the all-girls softball team at Druid High School, in the small coastal town of Port Steward and work part-time at the Taco Shell Taqueria around the corner. All that keeps me going in this miserable existence is playing ball and the thought of getting out of this rotten place.
Rising from my second-hand mattress on the floor, I’m fully clothed in yesterday’s outfit. After a quick change into a pair of blue jeans and a faded blue tee, I stumble my way to the door. Jerking the hair tie from my wrist, I yank up my knotted, blonde hair into a side pony tail. I steal a glance over my shoulder at my room, it’s a sty—but who cares. It’s not like there’s anything remarkable about this second-rate place, so why should my room be any different?
As I shuffle down the hall, the house feels humid and sticky as usual, with almost a wet smell of nicotine. Mom and Dad both smoke enough cigarettes in a day, to penetrate a hole in the ozone layer. They do most of their smoking inside, which leaves behind a smoke so concentrated that it’s nearly a solid. The house is quieter than normal for a Saturday morning. Ordinarily, Mom is in the kitchen fixing breakfast, while Dad is reading the newspaper. And my ten-year-old brother—Sammy, is usually causing trouble, with Dad always hollering at him. Hollering, that’s Dad’s word. Maybe Sammy’s already outside playing. I tiptoe through our empty living room eyeing the primordial, mismatching couch and recliner. There’s no carpeting in this old shack—only ancient wood flooring that may have been used from the same lumber that made George Washington’s teeth. A couple of holes in the rotting, wood floor are located in the bathroom and kitchen—no step zones—as Dad calls them. Moving into the kitchen, I see that our small, discolored table and plastic chairs are empty, as is the rest of the tiny space.
Where is everyone?
After searching the rest of the house and finding it void of all but me, I wonder, do I want to find them? Or should I just take in a moment of peace? Against my better judgment, I head out the back door off the kitchen. The sun hasn’t found its way to the backyard yet, as the house shades most of the patio at this early hour. A gust of cool air hits me when I open the back door, it must be at least fifteen degrees cooler out here, than it is in the house. As I soundlessly step out onto the porch, I see Sammy first, sitting on the ground with his back to me. My kid brother is hunching over like an old man, and his head is hanging low, snaking back and forth. He’s tracing his hands in a circle on the sidewalk in a blob of goo. It looks like motor oil or something. Dad’s going kill him for this one.
My eyes widen as I notice my mother near the shed. Her shoulders are slumping forward and she’s shuffling through the garden, toppling over her marigolds and daisies. She’s still in her nightgown and slippers. And the front of her gown is caked in dark-colored gunk. It looks similar to the stuff Sammy is playing in.
I sigh, shaking my head. Dad must have tuned her up again. Damn! I didn’t even wake up. I want to say something across the yard to her as she dirties the cotton on her slippers, while trudging through the dirt, but what would I say? This whole production plays out at my house at least three times a week for as far back as I can remember.
I hate him so much. His reign of terror over our family has gone on long enough. I’m so tired of taking his crap, and watching his drunk-ass smack everybody around. I wish he would fall off the planet. I hate this whole place—I want to get my license and a cheap car and put this place in my rearview mirror and never look back.
I keep my silence, waiting for either my mom or my brother to notice me, before I take a seat on the back porch steps. I watch Sammy play in his greasy mess and my mom roam around trampling her garden—in her nightgown—like a psyche ward patient. Her eyes are fixed downward, as her head bobs back and forth. She must be running the whole fight back through her mind. It’s moments like this that I lose patience with her. Why couldn’t she have walked away from my creep dad a long time ago, at least for the sake of Sammy and me? But then, I remember where my frustration should be placed.
I’m waiting for that bastard that goes by the name of Dad. I can’t believe that I didn’t hear him beating on her again. Where is he anyway?
As though my thought had been heard, my dad comes stumbling out of the darkness shaded from within the shed. Drunk already? It’s like eight in the morning. He stumbles his way out of the shed and takes a face-plant right on the sidewalk. My brother gets up and wobbles his way over on unsteady legs, almost looking like he's sloshed too. Mom stumbles toward the shed as well. As Dad gets back to his feet, blood is pouring from his mouth as he spits out a broken tooth. Disgusting, but deserved. The blood all over his face and chin is dark, almost black looking. The fluid dribbles down his throat and drips off his chin onto his dingy, sleeveless shirt. I watch as Sammy and Mom bypass Dad. Both going into the shed, as if they hadn’t even noticed the drunken king of the house just knocked out a tooth. As Dad slowly raises his eyes, I notice that he looks terrible. Not even regular drunken stupor terrible, but like—seriously ill. Like—knocking on death’s door—ill.
Maybe that’s wishful thinking.
His blackened eyes fall upon me like an inescapable fishing net. I’m nearly paralyzed with fear as the look on his face could be described as nothing less than murderous. Breaking into an inhumanly quick run, he sprints straight for me.
I jump up from the porch step and race into the house, flinging the spring-loaded door open and dashing through the kitchen and down the hall. I’m nearly to my parent’s bedroom, when I hear the back door slam shut. I burst into my parents room like I’m running for my life, and to be honest, I probably am. Brushing past their double bed, I race into the closet and pull down the old, black shoe box that holds Dad’s revolver.
With terror in my heart, my trembling hands drop the box. The bullets fall all over the closet floor, inside shoes, in the laundry pile—all over. I find two bullets and with a shaky hand, load the chamber. My entire body tremors as if an earthquake had been triggered in my body alone. I know I have to make my shots count. If I don’t kill him, he will definitely kill me for trying, and he won’t need a gun to do it. I back myself deeper into closet with the gun pointed at the doorway.
THE SHOWDOWN
Waiting for the showdown with my Dad, feels like an eternity. My heart is pounding so hard that it could burst right here, while hiding in his sweltering, musty closet. I feel sweat trickling down my temples and brow—my parents' room is like a sauna. The only sounds I hear are from my hammering heart and shallow breathing. On a shaky foot, I step forward, inching my way to the closet doorway. I squeeze the revolver tighter in my hands and poke my head gradually out of the doorframe, but he is not in the bedroom.
Tactfully stepping out of the closet, I sneak my way to the bedroom door. It’s closed, but not locked. I must have flung it shut when I raced in here. Listening at the door, I hear nothing. Maybe he’s still outside?
Darlings of Decay Page 75
