The Gristle & Bone Series (Book 1): The Flayed & The Dying

by Roach, Aaron

  This is a work of fiction.

  Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Copyright © 2020

  by Aaron G. Roach

  All rights reserved. No parts of this book may be reproduced or used in any manner without written permission of the copyright owner

  except for the use of quotations in a book review

  First ebook edition March 2020

  ISBN 978-1-7348267-1-5 (eBook)

  Published by A.G.Roach

  For my Dad,

  who instilled in me the love of reading,

  and who helped to edit this book, even though he said

  it was it was a little too dark for his taste.

  And my wife, Tanya,

  who is adamant she would outlast me

  in a zombie apocalypse,

  and who said she would remarry

  once I die.

  In an America torn apart by rebellion,

  a weapon is unleashed that causes its victims to mutilate themselves beyond all recognition and then reanimate to devour the living.

  This is the story of the FLAYED

  – of those who die and rise again, changed and broken,

  to spread the infection and

  fight for supremacy over the horde.

  This is the story of the DYING

  – of those who remain after the outbreak,

  and must learn to survive in a violent new world.

  Beware, dear reader, within these pages you will find -

  Soldiers who battle walls of flesh.

  A woman who can sense the rain.

  A girl who witnesses the birth of monsters.

  A journalist who was forewarned of the doom.

  A father who must fight to protect his family.

  And a man who finds freedom in chaos.

  This is a novel of GRISTLE AND BONE.

  GRAVE MARKERS

  Prologue

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  Prologue

  1:55 a.m.

  Dr. Emilio Neyra ended his conversation with the journalist and put the phone down. The journalist had been chosen simply because his name had been in Neyra’s newspaper that morning. It was a trivial story, an article about the never-ending rebellion on the frontier, but the man’s name had been there, in the byline beneath the article’s title, ringed by a coffee stain left by Neyra’s mug.

  A sign from the universe.

  Neyra wasn’t sure if it was guilt or ego that drove him to suddenly make the call – perhaps it was a bit of both. When his life’s work was unleashed unto the world, at least one person would know what it was that destroyed them, and why. Who knows, maybe the journalist would get the story out in enough time to save a few lives, and in doing so, buy some redemption for Neyra’s soul.

  Neyra let out a soft, cynical chuckle, remembering the journalist’s tone. There was very little chance that the man had taken him seriously. Besides, if Neyra had a soul, he wouldn’t be doing what he was about to do.

  None of it would matter in the end, anyways.

  Neyra stood and pulled open the top drawer of his desk, the revolver inside rumbling amongst the pens and paperclips he kept in there. It was an old six-shooter he’d inherited from his father, the type of thing that wouldn't be out of place in an old Western. Had his father known before his death what Neyra would eventually plan to do with the thing, he probably wouldn’t have left it to him. He sighed. The dead were dead, and the past couldn't be changed.

  He picked up the weapon and tucked it clumsily into his trouser pocket, the wood trim of the handle sticking out like a panting tongue. He permitted himself a muted chortle. He was no John Wayne, but he felt like a cowboy, a rebel researcher with the greatest of causes.

  Neyra, aware of the security team posted outside his door, held on to the image of a clean, unburdened earth as he stepped out of the ground-level window of his office into the frigid night air. He quietly made his way around the building and set about crossing the open expanse of the facility, trudging through thick snow towards the warehouse-sized structure in the distance. He didn’t need to see well to know where he was going in the dark; he’d made the journey to the lab countless times in the years since arriving at the remote facility.

  At the entrance to the building, he passed his key card over the electronic scanner mounted outside the entrance. He gave a quick prayer of thanks as the light on the scanner flashed green and the door buzzed open for him. It had been a gamble, and luck was on his side. As of that morning, Project Stonemen had been terminated and nobody, not even him, had permission to be in the building.

  Neyra walked inside, past lab equipment and tables, to a wall on the right with a glass partition built into it. On the other side of the partition was the climate-controlled section of the lab, a room of steel and bronze. To the unaware, it would have looked much like a brewery, as the floor space was dominated by six massive vats that could have held fermenting beer. The vats were sealed, protected from air, and contained his life’s work.

  Neyra scanned his key card at the door that separated the two spaces and smiled when, again, the light flashed green and buzzed him entry. The door hissed open and he stepped inside.

  He was halfway through the room, walking past the vats towards the control panel on the other side, when he heard it – the faint sound of an alarm cutting through the night. He swore. His luck was running out. Soon, armed guards would be on their way to the laboratory to drag him away from his work, his creation.

  Neyra steeled himself. As long as he acted fast, there was nothing they could do to stop him. He hurried over to the closest wall where a box was mounted that read ‘Break in case of fire.’ He used his elbow to shatter the glass and pulled out the long-handled axe housed inside. With axe in hand, he walked back out into the arctic night to the key card scanner. He brought the axe up high and caved the face of the thing in.

  Hurrying back inside, he looked over his shoulder to see the headlights of snowmobiles heading in his direction. He closed the door, knowing they would be on him soon. Inside, he destroyed the second scanner before returning to the climate-controlled lab, closing the airtight door behind him and locking himself inside.

  Neyra set to work. He ran to the control panel at the far end of the room and flicked a sequence of switches designed to activate the pathogen. As his hands moved across the panel, lights blinked on in their wake. That done, he walked over to the first of the giant metal vats and twisted open a valve. Above him, liquid could suddenly be heard moving through the metal tubing connecting the vats. The sound grew upwards through the container, until it reached the plumbing that connected it to the second vat. The exterior of the piping suddenly became wet with condensation as the liq
uid inside moved through the metal tubes like some rat through a maze. The concoction’s arrival in the second vat was greeted with a hiss as the contents of both containers combined. At the noise, Neyra flicked a switch and a large flame roared to life beneath the vat, turning the thing into a giant pressure cooker.

  There was pounding on the door behind him. The facility’s security team had arrived. The banging was quickly followed by the assaulting noise of gunfire as they tried to shoot their way into the building.

  Neyra lamented that enough gunfire would do the trick, eventually.

  As the second vat cooked, Neyra ran to the third container and, dismayed, saw that its release valve was stuck. No matter how hard he pushed, the lever wouldn't budge. Outside, he heard his name being shouted, demanding him to cease whatever he was doing. He ignored the voices and pushed his body weight against the lever, cursing as the handle dug into his hands. In desperation, he grabbed the axe and swung the blunt end down onto the lever with as much force he could muster. The valve slammed open and he heard the familiar flow of liquid being released inside. Again, he followed the condensation as the contents of the third vat moved into the final three containers.

  He sighed in relief.

  Almost there.

  Neyra returned to the panel at the second vat and watched the hand of the gauge move as the heat and pressure inside increased. It was almost at the critical point when the door to the building crashed open. He threw a glance over his shoulder to see several armed men come rushing into the first room to stare at him through the glass partition, fear and urgency on their faces.

  Neyra ignored them and twisted the handle of the valve just as the indicator inside the gauge hit red. He ran back to the control panel as the men began firing their way into the second door. He heard them burst through just as he hit the activation switches for Vats 4, 5, and 6 – the ones that were designed to release the pathogen. A heartbeat later, a shot rang out and he felt a punch in his back, followed by a burning pain in his left lung.

  Neyra collapsed onto the controls, wheezing. Had he made it in time? He lifted his head to see the indicators under Vats 1, 2, and 3 winking steadily at him. A moment later the light under Vat 4 lit solid white.

  Primed and ready.

  Hands grabbed him. He struggled and fought back, kicking out at those who were pulling him away from his destiny. He roared and freed his arm, slamming his palm down onto the button that would set off the lab’s emergency sprinkler system. As water fell from the ceiling, he pulled the revolver from his pocket, bringing his aim across the heads of the security team. They retreated and fired their own weapons in response.

  Neyra’s torso ate the bullets, and he accepted them as his revolver lined up on Vat 4. He let loose five slugs, each one slamming into the container. Suddenly the room was filled with the sound of high-pitched whistling as the pressure inside the vat was released through the bullet holes; the invisible, ethereal contents mixing with the falling water.

  Neyra collapsed from his wounds and slid onto the floor. He felt hands reaching for him, to yank him back up onto his feet, and then the hands abruptly fell away. He opened his eyes to see the security team on the ground, convulsing and screaming in agony. Then he watched as his own legs began to twitch.

  Neyra knew what would happen to him next. It was the same thing that was happening to the security team and what the world would go through in the next few weeks, years even. He sent an apology to the heavens for his part in it.

  I’m sorry, but it is necessary.

  As the tremor in his legs began to move up his body, Neyra looked at the revolver in his hand.

  One more slug left.

  It was necessary.

  Neyra put the barrel in his mouth and pulled the trigger.

  A few moments later, beneath red wet spatter, the lights under Vats 5 and 6 on the panel lit solid.

  Primed and ready.

  ONE

  -1-

  Thaniel Briends brought his hand down on the radio-alarm clock, cutting off the voice of the weatherman mid-sentence and forcing his eyes to open. He needed an aspirin. His head rocked, and the saliva in his mouth pickled with whatever he had drunk the previous night. The dim morning light that shone through his curtains was dark and groggy and hurt his eyes, and the pitter-patter of rain on glass made his mind feel like slow static. With a groan he rolled to his side and reached for the glass of stale water he’d been kind enough to leave out for himself. He propped up onto an elbow and took a deep swig from the drink, then sighed in gratitude as its contents flushed away a night of poor decisions.

  I need a smoke.

  Grabbing the pack of Luckies off his nightstand, Thaniel heaved himself out of bed and shuffled his way across his small studio apartment to the kitchen window. Leaning his head out, he hocked and spat, and watched the ball of phlegm fall in the rain. As it disappeared among the falling droplets towards a dumpster three stories down, he felt the wet sky on the back of his head. It was almost refreshing enough to shake the hangover. Almost, but not quite. He lit a cigarette and felt his eager lungs maw at the toxic air, the nicotine rushing in to dull the throbbing in his skull.

  Ten minutes later, Thaniel was stepping into his shower, a billow of steam rolling out to meet him from behind the curtain. He ran the water until it was scalding, trying to boil away the last of the bourbon that clung to his skin in a thin film. He didn't bother washing; it was all he could do to just stand there, eyes closed to the heat while his thoughts tried to decipher the events of the previous night.

  He recalled being at The Tombs, the bar across the street where he’d spent the night drinking and cursing his boss, the editor-in-chief at the New England Times. He went backwards from there, recalling the memories through the steam.

  A few days back, Thaniel had received a middle-of-the-night phone call from an alleged scientist claiming he was about to kickstart the next great extinction event. “The apocalypse of man,” he’d called it. Thaniel knew these types of callers, the ones hoping to get their UFO sighting or paranormal experiences published in the paper. He’d entertained the man’s mad ramblings for a while – he loved a great story – but refused to offer his belief until the man said something that had piqued his interest.

  “Mr. Briends, whether you believe me or not is inconsequential. This is only a courtesy call. What will be, will be.”

  The man’s tone was so matter-of-factly indifferent towards Thaniel’s skepticism that it actually had him doubting his doubt. Usually, the crazy ones desperately wanted someone to believe in their delusions. But not this one, apparently.

  And if not to bring Thaniel into his fantasy, what was the point of the phone call?

  It didn’t matter, though. When Thaniel had discussed the call with his editor, the man had laughed in his face and called him a fool. After that, Thaniel had gone to The Tombs, damning himself for wasting his own time and cursing his boss for being a prick.

  He turned the knob and killed the water pressure. He immediately felt his body cool as the heat from the shower began to dissipate. He opened the door to the bathroom and started across the apartment to ready himself for work but froze when he saw the still form of a woman on his bed, the edges of her body smoothed over by the dark sheets.

  Damn! Celia.

  Another distinct memory came out of the fog. Celia, the Tombs' bartender, had been flirting with Thaniel for weeks. She must have finally won him over in last night's drunken stupor. No good. As a rule, he avoided sleeping with women he met at bars – especially bartenders.

  “Celia, I have to get to work. Wake up.”

  She mumbled in response but made no move to leave his bed.

  “Celia, come on. I'm late and I feel like hell. I don't have time for this.”

  “It's alright babe, you go on. Just let me sleep in for a bit and I'll lock up when I leave,” she said with a smile, her eyes still closed.

  Babe...? When she leaves…? What the hell?

 
“Celia, get up. It's time to go.” His tone left no room for compromise.

  Celia opened her eyes and gave him an icy stare. “You're a real prick, you know that?” she retorted. She kicked the sheets off, stood, snatched her clothes from the floor and squeezed herself into the tight-fitting jeans and black 'Keeper of the Tomb' staff t-shirt she’d worn the previous night. As she made her way out of his apartment, she turned around and flipped him off before pulling the door closed in his face.

  Thaniel shook his head, undecided if he should feel relief or shame at her departure. Celia had been kind to him, and he was enough of a regular at The Tombs to almost consider her a friend. He probably owed her an apology.

  Maybe later.

  He put on his clothes and readied himself for work.

  -2-

  Burome Shea had the stature and gnarled looks of a man not to be messed with. A veteran of the Frontier Wars, he wore reminders of it all over his body. His arms bore shrapnel scars from when his team had stumbled across an IED on a rocky hillside in Jackson, Wyoming – he’d been lucky that day, three of his friends had not. His face was rugged, but not handsome, and it was obvious his nose had once been broken; a dark token of the time he had to fight and kill a rebel Ranger in hand-to-hand combat. Sometimes, unknowingly, his eyes set in that grizzled look that seasoned soldiers wear when their minds wander to war-torn places, years back and hundreds of miles away.

  For the most part though, Burome could hold those memories in check and his demons closeted deep, deep down. He simply looked like a man that couldn't.

  Burome turned in the mirror, making sure that his security guard uniform was squared away. While it didn't have the same pedigree as his old dress blues from the Corps, it was a job and there was a certain integrity in that. Any job was better than none, and any job that didn't see his mates killed and him shot at was best of all.

  After leaving the Federal Infantry Corps, Burome quickly learned that not many places had jobs for war-weary vets with no formal education. He had been turned down everywhere until the staff at Boston’s Human History Museum decided to give him a chance. For that, he was eternally grateful. The museum paid above minimum wage, offered overtime and had a decent benefits package. Plus, he was able to come home to his daughter every night. All that was demanded from him in return was hours of standing around staring at bones, and the occasional chasing away of schoolchildren who got too close to the exhibits.