by Kenneth W. Cain
Copyright © 2013 by Kenneth W. Cain
Originally published by Post Mortem Press as Dead Civil War in 2013 and then United States of the Dead in 2014
Front Cover Image by Leo Lintang on Dreamstime
Graphic Design and Formatting by Kenneth W. Cain
All rights reserved.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the authors’ imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, without the prior permission in writing of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.
Third Edition
CHAPTER 1
While some people preached about the impending end of the world, those in control of this country locked themselves away behind closed doors. They debated and lawyered and passed bills while the rest of America fell victim to their shortcomings. That was commonplace these days, hypocrites in charge of every little detail. Dale had seen his share of heartbreak thanks to those men and women, and it had been too much.
He sat back in a tattered white and green striped lawn chair, a shotgun pressed against his chest with one forearm and a bottle of whiskey in his other hand. He didn’t plan on using the gun; wasn’t sure there would be any need. A familiar tune blared from the radio sitting beside the chair, loud enough to attract their attention. This song was one of his favorites: “Light My Fire” by The Doors.
Dale took a slug of whiskey, making sure not to let the gun slip. That’s when he saw the first of them emerge from the darkness of the woods like a rabid pack of wolves. He couldn’t see yet, but he was sure some of them would be foaming at the mouth. They’d all have that estranged look in their eyes; like some form of intelligence used to live in there. Though he doubted they had any senses now, it didn’t make this any easier. They were people, no matter what they’d become.
Over the slope to his right, horrid faces bobbed up and down like a game he played as a kid at a carnival. He remembered slamming the giant hammer down on their lifeless skulls, over and over again. This was really no different. That’s what he told himself. What he had to remind himself of to make what he did acceptable. He didn’t have to look over his shoulder to know they would also be coming from that direction too. They surrounded Dale, just like he’d planned.
The object in his hand that made it necessary to pin the gun against his chest felt slimy, uneasy under his thumb. He worried he might slip or worse, drop it. If that happened Dale would be screwed. The gun wouldn’t be enough to save him. Also concerned he might hold the device too tight, he tried to push these thoughts far away so he could focus. Overreacting led to mistakes. Dale couldn’t risk any blunders.
He considered how this whole mess started, when all hell broke loose. He supposed it had been on the horizon for decades, but no one really noticed until the bill came due for collection. All those business types, lawyers and politicians, anyone who had a hand in someone else’s pockets, had been too busy pointing fingers to know what was going on. In a country where great men once spoke of what they could do for their country, they had instead transformed it into a land of finger pointing. It became more about what the opposition had done in their past, or what they couldn’t do, rather than what the politician in the commercial could do for anyone. And those commercials were always followed with the all too familiar statement, “I’m So and So, and I approve this message.” With the focus on blaming each other rather than accepting responsibility for this country, everything was lost long before the war started. But without any true leadership, when the war came, it was long and devastating, leaving only the most resourceful people alive.
For years, everyone was too busy fighting to notice when the packs first started. Maybe people were too desensitized from movies, videogames or literature. Whatever the case, by the time anyone realized what was going on, at least half the population of The States were lost to the packs.
Dale, on the other hand, had always expected the apocalypse to come sooner or later. He and his family had prepared for it, knowing he would see it in his lifetime. How could he not? Those movies and games were all warnings, weren’t they? When it was done there were so many packs roaming freely across the United States. Some split, others merged, but all packs were the same, vicious deformed humans, raging and looking to kill. Not a single soul took the blame.
If only they’d been more concerned with what the real issues were instead of stuff like healthcare or unions. Maybe they would have seen it coming. Maybe they could have stopped it from happening. Most of them lost their lives in an explosion in the middle of these debates, a famous moment now in what people referred to as the Second Civil War.
Everything they chose to do, all they ignored, what came afterwards, it had affected Dale personally.
It’s a Dead Civil War if anything. That’s what Dale liked to call it. Fuck those assholes. Fuck everyone.
He shook himself out of the past, trying to refocus before it was too late. That was becoming harder to do with each passing day. He took another tug off his whiskey, swallowed hard. A tickle at his nose forced him to scratch. He used the bottle to silence the itch ineffectively, and, as a result, the gun slid down the fat of his belly. startled, somehow he managed to catch it before he lost it entirely. But he’d nearly depressed the button in his hand too soon.
Damned if you’re not tempting fate.
All around him, a horde of feet trampled the earth, closing in on him. They wanted to kill Dale. To bite him. Turn him into one of them, though he doubted they really cared. He was a big enough guy to feed a small army of these creatures for the few seconds it would take to turn him. He’d seen it before firsthand, whenever they sated whatever hunger kept them in such a fury. When they hungered, they worked over anyone or anything they caught like a school of piranha. But Dale hadn’t planned on being anyone’s late night snack. Not tonight.
Seeing most of the pack now, he eased the gun back up to his chest and folded his loose arm back over it.
Might have to use the gun after all.
A strange sensation rose from beneath him, the ground had started shaking because of how many there were. At first, he thought his mind playing tricks on him. Going three nights in a row without good sleep tended to make anyone a little jumpy. Throw in a couple six-packs of warm beer, half a bottle of whiskey, and the fact that he was waiting out in the middle of a field for one of the largest packs he’d encountered to attack him, and it was easy to have delusions.
Life’s a bitch.
He liked to believe the alcohol made him more alert. It reminded him of the good old days, driving home from the bar in Indiana. Nothing but farms and bars in his part of Indiana, so everyone did it. Commonplace or not, whenever a cop passed him then, he stiffened up like someone had shot a bottle rocket straight up his sphincter. But that always refocused his attention on the road.
Right now, Dale felt about as rigid as one could be. He took another sip of whiskey, careful not to let the gun slip again.
It’s a stampede.
At least that was what it sounded like, and he’d heard a few in his days. Hearing that made him nervous. He traced the edge of the button on the device with his thumb. His hand felt sweaty, and the urge to depress the button prematurely
overwhelmed him.
Wait, damn you. Keep your cool.
Anyone who truly knew Dale could attest to the fact that he could be as cool as any cat out there. He didn’t let shit get to him, not then, not now. He never worried about his weight or what poisons he pumped into his system. He ate and drank what he pleased. Having been told he had a stone-cold poker face like no other, he always won at cards. Regarded for his bravery, Dale had stared death in the face more than once and walked away with no more than a scratch. And he’d defy death a thousand more times before they caught him pushing up daisies. He’d make sure of it.
Too bad I couldn’t do that for Diana or Caleb.
No, his wife and son were both gone. Heck, pretty much everyone Dale knew was gone now.
Fuck them all indeed.
He preferred to get this over quick. There was a warm sixer with his name on it, waiting for him back at the shack. But there was only so much he could do to hurry this pack along. Hell, it had been hard enough to lure them in. He had chosen The Doors for a reason. Not only were they his favorite band, but he’d never met any creature, live or dead, that didn’t like some kick ass rock ’n roll. The way Morrison spun a tale in his lyrics had made many a young men and women shake their tales back in the day. It brought back memories of when he met Diana, watching her dance at one of many concerts he’d attended. That was the first time he saw her, the moment he knew he wanted to spend the rest of his life with her.
Death ruined things back then, too. Some claimed Morrison didn’t die. A few even claimed the man had risen up from the dead and ushered in this apocalypse. Dale always thought that would be something to see, a goddamned undead Jim Morrison leading a pack while singing his songs.
Dale knew better, though. That wasn’t possible. Morrison wasn’t even buried in the States.
All sorts of bullshit went down at the end. The Jesus freaks went into overdrive, preaching about who was going to heaven and why some people wouldn’t make the cut. the scientists, with their astute pale faces and white lab coats, had instructed everyone to stay home. Politicians were too busy trying to repair the nation, whittling away at what was left of the pie to the very end while the lower and middle classes literally slugged it out in the streets, most of them dressed in either blue or red uniforms. The President, well Dale thought that sneaky bastard might still be alive to this day. Fuckers like that tended to be quite crafty when it came to finding a safe place to hide. maybe he was deep underground now, worm-like at his core to begin with, so it made sense.
Is my chair shaking?
It sure as hell was. But was it the music, his nerves, or the dozens of creatures barreling down upon him? He was pretty sure it was all of the above. he was glad, because it redirected his attention back where it belonged. They were less than a couple seconds away. He needed to make sure they all came within range.
One little bastard in the back was the only hold up. That one half-limped, trailing the others by several yards.
If I use the gun, I lose the bet.
So he waited. He cheered that limping asshole to hurry up, egging him on best he could.
CHAPTER 2
Adjusting the brim of his hat, Allen was sure he had seen them on the horizon. Now, there was nothing. He wasn’t one to hallucinate, so he didn’t trust the emptiness. This was a prime reason he had been considered a good general.
Allen had led his squadron of the Republican National Party in thirty-six campaigns. He had won many of those battles, but, in the end, none of it had made a difference. The infected didn’t care which political party people were aligned with.
If he could have gone back and done things differently, he would have. Truth told, he doubted that would have changed anything. Americans had a stubborn tendency, many set in their ways, egocentric and disillusioned.
He remembered informing one senator, Landon Hughes, just how bad things had gotten, hoping that would be enough to spark a change. If nothing else, he had hoped it would force both sides to debate the real issues. But no one had time for that anymore. Both sides were too busy trying to heal the bleeding economy. Only, no one could fix what they no longer controlled. Even when Allen forewarned the senator, Landon only stared at Allen—not hearing his words, as if looking right through him trying to recall his daily schedule. Funny, how that man only heard what he wanted to.
Landon’s response still echoed in Allen’s head. “All those progressives want is to change everything. Look where that’s gotten us, Forrester. Our economy is being flushed down the toilet. And while those damned unions aren’t fully to blame, they’re part of it.”
He was right to some degree. Only Landon failed to see the other side. All parties were to blame. The fact no one could find any common ground in the middle was the precise reason the country was in the shitter. That much was obvious, and had been for years prior. They were all monsters. Yet no one had seen the real monsters coming.
After years of border patrol at the southwest wall, the troops were needed elsewhere. Those posts had been abandoned, leaving illegals to enter America freely. Without anyone preventing their entrance, organized guerillas staked claim to many of the lower states in that area. They tore down one wall only to build another—a ragged fence constructed of various construction materials—farther into the States, before America could defend the point. The guerillas progress had been impeded only by the appearance of strange new creatures, and even then, not for long. They alone patrolled this new border without rest, no American or otherwise allowed to cross. These insurgents even started construction on a permanent wall at one end of the fence before everything worsened.
None of that was his concern anymore, although if people knew he had once been involved with one of those political parties it could rile them up even now. So, he didn’t go around broadcasting his role in the war. Allen kept to himself, a simple task that was becoming more difficult as people began to crawl out of the embers of destruction and make themselves seen.
He redirected his attention to the south, wondering if the pack had headed that way. His horse reluctant, Allen pushed onward, fully aware of the animal’s instinct. Bad idea or not, Allen pressed the horse at a slow stroll toward the music. All of it, the impending pack, the music, everything, was making him nervous. So much his mouth felt dry.
Parched or not, he no longer drank unprocessed water for fear of what it might do to him. When dry spells like this occurred with no rainwater to collect and winter still out a bit, he had to scour the area for bottled water. Yet most stores and homes had already been looted, and the supply would not last forever.
Taking a sip from his bottle of Avian, he wondered if one of those filtered bottles would work. Somehow, he doubted it.
It’s not worth the risk.
Allen noticed a man sitting alone in the middle of a field for the first time. Clutched to his chest was a shotgun and a half-empty bottle of liquor in his other. A cassette player sat on the ground beside the man, blaring music. The approaching horde moved in on him like a pack of rabid wolves, though Allen still couldn’t see any of them.
He’s dead, for sure.
Allen had only caught a glimpse of them, but from what he could tell, there were too many for just one guy to fight off. But the man remained unwavering.
Maybe he’s trying to kill himself.
Suicide had crossed Allen’s mind more than once, especially after things hadn’t worked out at home. Even if that were the case, Allen couldn’t sit back and just let this happen. He had to do something.
Allen drew his guns, one in each hand. They felt good, belonged there; had saved his life on many occasions. He did not take helping anyone else lightly. This was serious business.
“Hey! Over here! You okay?” His voice barely pierced the music.
The man looked surprised by Allen’s intrusion. He nearly dropped the rifle he held against his chest.
Then Allen saw them. There were so many racing along the horizon, surrounding the man. A f
ew had taken note of Allen’s meddling, shuddering to a half-stop, likely trying to decide which would prove easiest to take down. Lucky for Allen, they stayed on course, heading for the man after a brief hesitation.
Allen readied his horse for a chase, thinking he would lead them away if nothing else. This would at least give the man a fighting chance.
The man should have been thankful, but his expression wasn’t one of gratefulness. The look on his face appeared bitter, which Allen hadn’t expected.
Time seemed to stop as the pack split, heading for both of them. While the man looked surprised by this, Allen wasn’t one bit shocked. He had somewhat expected this and rode in to attract more and draw them away. Before Allen could get very far, a loud noise shook him out of his valor; one he hadn’t heard for a very long time.
CHAPTER 3
Clyde saw the man on the horse, then eyed up his brother, Dale. Even from here he could see Dale panic. That was good in a way, but Clyde also worried he might need to help his brother. Or, at the very least, be prepared in case the need to jump in arose.
He picked up a semi-automatic and strapped it over his shoulder, took aim at the approaching throng. Dale did the same with his shotgun. The look on Dale’s face was priceless, a pure giveaway of something Clyde thought they had both come to realize—Dale was going to lose the bet. That sentiment evident in his brother’s surly frown. If he waited much longer, though, it would be too late, and then Clyde would have no choice but to interfere.
These things had powerful legs and could jump high in the air. Twenty or so more yards and they would be ready to pounce on their prey like agile lions. Seeing his brother wait for that last little fucker to come within range meant Dale had already cut things way too close. With the added distraction of the man on the horse, a lot of those bastards would never even reach his brother. About a half dozen of the infected had already taken off after Mr. Lone Ranger and his stupid horse, which ruined everything.
Pack Animals [An Undead Post-Apocalypse Thriller] Page 1
