Rise of the Undead Box Set | Books 1-3 | Apocalypse Z

by Higgins, Baileigh

  “They’re just scared.”

  “Scared of what?” Dylan asked.

  “The unknown.”

  “The unknown?” Dylan repeated with a sarcastic twang. “Be more specific.”

  “The monster in the closet, the boogeyman under the bed, the big bad wolf. Whatever you want to call it,” Nick said, waving his hands around.

  “What the hell is that supposed to mean?” Dylan said, her temper flaring. “The big bad wolf?”

  “You’re an unknown quantity. They don’t know what to make of you, or how you’ll react in a fight. They’re scared you’ll turn on them, and to a soldier, that’s one of the biggest no-nos in the world. We stick together, and we always have each other’s backs.”

  “What about you and Saul? Aren’t they scared you’ll do the same?” she asked.

  “Nope. I’m one of them. A brother-in-arms. So is Saul. He might be a foreigner, but he’s still army. He knows the creed.”

  “Bullshit. Just because I’m not a soldier that makes me a monster?” Dylan cried.

  “I didn’t say that.”

  “Yeah, you did. That’s exactly what you said,” she replied.

  “Okay, sorry, but we’re not all like that, Dylan. I’m not,” Nick said.

  “So, it’s just Jackson and Miller?” she asked. They’d reached her house, and she stopped to open the small garden gate to let them in.

  “Well, you did attack him first,” Nick said as he followed her into the yard. “Jackson, I mean.”

  Dylan stopped mid-stride. “Because they tossed me into a cell with no explanation. Nothing. For days. Days!”

  “Major Reed thought he was doing the right thing to protect his men,” Nick said, a flush creeping up his neck.

  “Major Reed is an asshole. If he had any sense at all, Tara would be working on a vaccine in the lab by now. That’s how he can protect his men. Not by throwing innocent strangers into jail,” Dylan cried.

  “It’s not that easy!” Nick said, his voice rising in pitch. “He’s got thousands of people under his command. They rely on him.”

  “Yes, it is that easy,” Dylan cried. “Are you seriously going to back him and Jackson? Miller? All the rest of them who treat me like shit because they’re scared of the fucking boogeyman?”

  “No, it’s just…I understand where they’re coming from. You should too,” he said.

  “Excuse me?” Dylan said, her hands curling into fists. “I’m starting to regret saving your ass. Remind me not to do it next time.”

  “You know what?” Nick yelled.

  “What?” Dylan yelled back, prepared to sock him.

  “You’re very pretty when you’re angry.”

  Dylan blinked. “Huh?”

  “And you’re right. I’m acting like a dick, but it’s not easy talking to you.”

  “Why not? I don’t bite,” Dylan said, unclenching her fists.

  “Uh, yeah, you do. You fight like a Viking Berserker, and I’m scared you’ll rip my head off. Plus, you saved my life, so I owe you one.”

  Dylan stared at him, unable to believe her ears. Suddenly, a chuckle welled up from the depths of her chest. It soon turned into a full-blown laughing fit. She couldn’t stop, no matter how hard she tried.

  “You’re scared of me? Seriously?” she managed to say between gasps of breath.

  “Would you stop laughing?” he said. “This isn’t funny.”

  “Yes, it is. It’s hilarious.”

  “Hmph,” he said, folding his arms.

  Finally, Dylan managed to regain control and straightened up. With a shaky hand, she wiped the tears from her cheeks. “Whoo, that was fun. I haven’t laughed like that in years.”

  “Yeah, yeah. Are you done now?” Nick asked, rolling his eyes.

  “I’m done,” Dylan said, though a smile lingered on her lips. “Want to come inside for coffee?”

  Nick opened his mouth to reply but froze. His eyes were fixed on a spot behind her, and all humor had fled from his expression.

  “What’s wrong?” Dylan asked before swinging around to look at the house. Spray-painted in big red letters across the wall were the words. “Die, Zombie Freak!”

  Dylan stared at the single sentence until her eyes began to burn. Finally, she blinked and said, “I need a drink. Want one?”

  “Sure,” Nick replied, following her up the steps to the front door.

  She stepped inside and rummaged in the kitchen cupboard for a bottle of scotch they’d received from another scientist as a housewarming gift. Technically, it belonged to Tara, but Dylan didn’t think she’d mind under the circumstances.

  She poured them each a glass before sitting down at the dining room table. A gas lamp cast a pool of golden light over the room, and Dylan raised her hand in the air. “Cheers to the freaks.”

  “Dylan…” Nick said. “You’re not a freak.”

  “Yes, I am. And so are you. The sooner you accept that the better,” Dylan said, tossing back the liquor. It burned a fiery path down her throat before settling into the pit of her stomach, and she coughed. “Shit, that stuff is strong.”

  “You’re not supposed to drink it all at once,” Nick said, leaning over to refill her glass. “You’re supposed to sip it.”

  Dylan waved her hand in the air. “Whatever. My point is, you don’t know what it’s like. The episodes. It takes complete control of your mind. It’s like you’re not even there.”

  Nick nodded. “Saul warned me about it, but I figured I’d be lucky because I got cured so soon after being infected.”

  “You think so? Maybe, but I wouldn’t count on it. Your episodes might be milder than mine, but you’ll still get them. The Vita virus is a real bitch, you know?”

  Nick nodded. “Can I ask you a question?”

  “Go ahead,” Dylan said, tossing back her second glass.

  “Why did you stab your foster dad?”

  “Because I’m crazy, didn’t you know?”

  “I’m serious,” Nick said.

  Dylan sighed and poured herself another glass of scotch. “Fine. I stabbed him because he got too friendly with me, his fifteen-year-old foster daughter.”

  “And you were the one who got sentenced to juvie?” Nick asked.

  “Who’d believe the word of an orphan, a foster kid with a reputation for being…difficult?”

  Nick chuckled. “I have no problem imagining you as a difficult teen, but a liar? Never.”

  “Thanks, but that’s the system for you,” Dylan said, waving her glass around.

  “I’m sorry about what those assholes did to your house,” Nick said. “I’ll organize some paint in the morning.”

  “It’s okay. I’ll get back at them somehow,” Dylan said with a wicked smile.

  “Do I even want to know?” he asked.

  “It’s probably better you don’t,” Dylan replied before downing her third glass.

  “You really should learn to sip your drink,” Nick said.

  “And you should loosen up. Have some fun!” She waved her hands around and danced to an imaginary beat.

  “I’m loose,” he said with a fake rapper accent. “I’m down with the rest of you.”

  Dylan laughed but stopped when the room began to spin around her head. “I think I’m about to pass out.”

  “Oh, boy. Let me help you upstairs,” Nick said, jumping up from the table.

  “Thanks,” Dylan said as he hauled her upright. She giggled the entire way to her room, each step a challenge to her wobbly knees.

  She fell onto the bed and hugged her pillow while he removed her boots. As he covered her with a couple of blankets, she asked. “Do you really think I’m pretty?”

  Nick brushed a tendril of hair away from her cheek. “I think you’re beautiful.”

  Dylan grinned as glorious darkness descended over her, dragging her into the depths of sleep. “A beautiful monster.”

  Chapter 8 - Saul

  Saul was woken up the next morning by a loud kno
ck on the door. With a groan, he eased out of bed, taking care not to wake Tara. She mumbled something in her sleep before turning over, and he extricated himself from the blankets without disturbing her. Hopping around on each foot, he pulled on a pair of pants and a shirt.

  Shivering in the bitter cold, Saul jogged downstairs and yanked the door open with a scowl on his face. “Sergeant? What are you doing here so early in the morning? It’s a Sunday, for God’s sake.”

  Sergeant Dean smiled. “Sorry, but I come bearing gifts.”

  The sergeant held up a can of white of paint, a brush, and a brown paper bag. Saul stared at the man like he’d grown two heads. “Fine, I’ll let you in, but this had better be worth dragging me out of bed at seven on a Sunday morning.”

  “Coffee would be great,” Sergeant Dean said in reply before placing his things on the kitchen counter. He opened the brown paper bag and pulled out five freshly baked muffins and a small container filled with butter. “It’ll go great with these.”

  Saul stared at the muffins with his mouth agape. The delicious scent of melted chocolate chips teased his nostrils, and his stomach growled with protest. “Where did you get those?”

  “Oh, they’re for higher-ranking officers only. A weekly treat prepared in the kitchens, but I know one of the cooks, and he owes me a favor,” Sergeant Dean said with a wink.

  “What’s the paint for?” Saul asked.

  “You don’t know?” The sergeant leaned back with a frown on his face. “What time did you come home last night?”

  “Around nine. Why?”

  “It would’ve been too dark for you to see it then.”

  “See what?” Saul asked with rising confusion.

  “You’d better go check the front of the house. Someone left a message for Dylan, and it’s not pretty.”

  Saul walked onto the porch and stared at the writing splashed across the white wall, the red paint garish in the early morning light. “Son of a —”

  He stomped back inside and put a pot of water on to boil. “Dylan saw that?”

  “She did.”

  “That explains the missing half-bottle of scotch.”

  “Yeah, I had to put her to bed. She’s got no head for strong liquor,” Sergeant Dean said with a shake of his head. “Anyway, I thought I’d get here early and cover it up. I really don’t want to experience a Dylan pushed to the edge of sanity.”

  “Trust me, you don’t,” Saul said, remembering the night Fort Knox fell. She’d been a vision from hell that day. Not something you wanted your kids to see.

  “What’s this? A visitor so early?” Tara said, appearing in the kitchen. She was bundled up in several layers of clothing and stifled a yawn behind her hand.

  Saul explained about the message, and Tara went to have a look. She came back as pale as a ghost. “Poor Dylan.”

  “That’s why I brought the paint,” Sergeant Dean said, accepting a steaming cup of coffee.

  At that moment, Dylan came stumbling down the stairs. She wore an oversized hoodie, boxers, and bunny-eared slippers. Her hair was a mess, and purple shadows decorated her eyes. She looked like a zombie, and for a moment, Saul wondered if the virus had finally won the battle. “God, you look awful.”

  She pulled a face. “Thanks.”

  He eyed her bare legs. “Aren’t you cold?”

  “Nope.” She stared at them for a couple of seconds before falling into the nearest chair. “Man, my head hurts.”

  “I’m not surprised,” Sergeant Dean said, fishing a couple of painkillers out of his pocket. “Here you go.”

  “You’re a lifesaver.” She swallowed the tablets with a glass of water handed to her by Tara before spotting the can of paint. “Thanks for bringing that.”

  “I hope it’s enough. I could only get the small can,” the sergeant said.

  “Don’t worry about it, Nick. I’m sure it will be fine,” she answered with a wave of one hand. “I could use a cup of coffee, though.”

  “Nick?” Saul said as he poured Dylan a cup of the hot brew. “That’s your name?”

  “The one and only,” Nick replied.

  “Good to know,” Saul said as he distributed the muffins. “There’s one extra here.”

  “It’s for the doctor. Isn’t he here?” Nick asked.

  “He didn’t come home last night. I assume he spent the night at the infirmary,” Saul explained.

  “I’ll put it away for him,” Tara said, tucking the brown paper bag into the nearest cupboard. “It won’t be so fresh, but that doesn’t matter. Thanks anyway.”

  “My pleasure,” Nick replied, taking a huge bite from his muffin.

  “Delicious,” Dylan said, wiping stray crumbs from her shirt. With nonchalance, she placed both slippered feet on the table and slumped down in her chair. “Much better.”

  “I guess I should be the one to address the elephant in the room,” Saul said as he eyed her feet. “Where did you get the slippers?”

  Dylan shrugged. “I found them in a box full of old clothes. Aren’t they cute?”

  “Cute isn’t the word that comes to mind,” Saul muttered beneath his breath.

  “Um, guys. Did you know we missed Thanksgiving?” Tara said. “It was this past Thursday, wasn’t it?”

  “We did? That’s too bad. I could’ve gone for some wild turkey,” Dylan said, licking her lips. “Stuffing, pumpkin pie, roast potatoes. Mm.”

  “I must say, I didn’t even think about it,” Nick mused. “I suppose we could celebrate it tonight?”

  “With what? Army rations aren’t exactly holiday-friendly,” Dylan said.

  “How about now?” Tara asked. “It doesn’t get much better than freshly baked chocolate chip muffins and coffee.”

  “I suppose,” Dylan conceded with a shrug.

  “We don’t celebrate Thanksgiving in my country,” Saul said. “What do we do?”

  “Normally, we’d all sit around a table eating turkey and pumpkin pie with friends and family we hardly ever see,” Tara explained. “Then, we’d take turns saying what we’re thankful for this year before breaking into a huge fight.”

  “Sounds about right,” Nick said.

  “Okay, I’ll go first,” Saul said, flashing her a big smile. “I’m thankful I got to meet you, Dr. Lee.”

  Tara blushed bright red. “And I’m thankful I met you, Lieutenant.”

  Saul drew her into a tight hug, every nerve in his body singing at her nearness. He buried his face in her neck, drinking in her musky scent.

  “Aw, that’s so sweet,” Dylan said, fluttering her eyelashes. “A bit schmaltzy, but still sweet. Glad to see you two finally got it on.”

  Saul smothered a sigh. “Keen observation, Dylan.”

  “I’m just thankful I’m not a zombie right now, thanks to Dr. Lee’s cure,” Nick said.

  That earned him a look of wrath from Dylan. “That was my line. Take it back!”

  “Nope, no backsies,” Nick said with a smug smile.

  “Fine. I’m thankful I’ve got friends, for once in my life. Even if they can be real shits, at times,” Dylan muttered.

  “Hear, hear. A good meal and a fight,” Nick applauded. “Now that we’ve observed the holiday traditions, what are you guys up to today?”

  “I’m not sure. I guess I’ll —” Saul was interrupted mid-sentence by a knock on the door. “Who could that be?” He walked to the front door and opened it, revealing a soldier standing at attention. “Can I help you?”

  “This is from Major Reed, Sir,” the soldier said, handing over a note.

  Saul took it with muttered thanks. On his way back to the kitchen, he opened it and scanned the writing. “Interesting. ”

  “What does it say?” Tara asked. When Saul didn’t answer straight away, she tapped her foot on the floor. “Well?”

  Saul looked up at her with a massive grin on his face. “It says that we’re all summoned to a meeting at ten-fifteen this morning.”

  “What for?”

&nbs
p; “The major has given permission for the lab to be cleared,” Saul said.

  “I can’t believe it. It’s happening!” Tara cried, her voice shrill with excitement. She threw herself into Saul’s arms, and he twirled her around in a circle. “All our hard work, all the crap we’ve had to put up with…it’s finally paying off.”

  “That’s good news,” Nick added, saluting them with his coffee cup. “Another thing to be thankful for.”

  The only one who didn’t seem thrilled about it all was Dylan. She threw her head back and groaned. “Why did this have to happen on the one day that I’ve got a major hangover?”

  Saul had little sympathy for her. “Too bad. Take a cold shower and shake it off. I’ll paint the house while you’re busy.”

  “I’ll help,” Nick offered.

  “Thanks, you guys,” Dylan called as she ran up the steps.

  “You can thanks us later, just get your ass into gear,” Saul said with a grim smile. “We’re going to war.”

  Chapter 9 - Alex

  Very little light penetrated the gloom caused by the mob of undead streaming past the truck, and the stench of decay filled the tiny area until Alex wanted to choke. With his free hand, he pulled up his shirt until it covered his nose. The flimsy material didn’t block the smell completely, but it was better than nothing. He looked over at Tony and noticed he’d done the same. Their eyes met, and they exchanged grim looks.

  “What now?” Tony mouthed silently.

  “We wait,” Alex mouthed back.

  And wait, they did.

  Thirty minutes passed, and the undead ranks showed no signs of thinning. Alex shifted around to make himself comfortable. He ended up with his head resting on his free arm while the other cradled his rifle.

  He stared at the legs moving past and tried to amuse himself by guessing what type of person they belonged to. Laddered stockings and court shoes indicated a middle-aged secretary, perhaps. Or a librarian. Ballet pumps with glitter detail pointed to a teen girl, fancy sneakers to a skateboarder, maybe. A pair of steel-toed work boots meant a construction worker, of course, and the sensible shoes belonged to a nurse.

  After a while, he closed his eyes and tried to forget where he was, but the noise made it impossible. It was a mixture of sounds that blended into one continuous symphony: Feet shuffled across the tar, shoes crunched on gravel, material rubbed against the side of the truck, and throats moaned with hunger.