DEAD Snapshot Box Set, Vol. 1 [#1-#4]

by Brown, TW

  He turned on his stereo system and quickly tapped the CD back into the player when he recognized Dr. Linda Sing’s voice. That woman could talk as long as she liked about what nonsense it was to think that the dead were returning and attacking the living, but she obviously hadn’t seen what he and the others had witnessed.

  “One of them sumbitches bites you in the ass and you’ll change your tune,” he muttered as the twang of a rowdy country song filled his cab.

  He reached the parking area where Chief Gilstrap had told him a car would be waiting. Sure enough, a police car sat parked in the lot next to city hall and the fire department. He pulled his truck into the space beside it and hopped out. Just as he locked his truck, a blaring siren caused him to jump. He’d gotten out of his truck with his shotgun in his hand and brought it to his shoulder almost out of instinct.

  He tasted the adrenaline in the back of his throat and his stomach roiled, having only been filled with bitter coffee up to this point. The roll-doors on the fire department went up and one of the large red vehicles crept out, soon followed by the red Ford pickup that the fire chief often drove.

  Both vehicles turned right onto Front Street and sped away from him, hanging another right on what looked like Hillcrest Street. The sirens began to fade and Stephen was just unlocking the police car when a thought struck him.

  He jumped in the car, turned the key and took off out of the parking lot with tires burning rubber and sending up a cloud of acrid blue smoke. He reached Hillcrest and turned right just as he flipped the switches that activated the lights and siren of the vehicle. It wouldn’t do for him to run over some poor pedestrian, and considering the hour, it could very easily be some kid on his way to school.

  “That got dark fast,” he muttered, scolding himself for allowing his mind to drift to the worst possible scenario so quickly. Still, it might not hurt to keep that part of his mind functioning if things shaped up like they looked to be.

  He slowed as he pulled up to Liberty Elementary School. Both emergency vehicles had pulled up in the drop-off lane and still had their lights flashing. Just as he pulled up behind the red pickup, he saw the last of the responding firemen duck inside the main entrance to the school.

  He jumped out and considered his shotgun. In the end, he could not simply walk away and leave it behind. He tried to shove it under his coat but thought that might look even more suspicious.

  Jogging up to the entrance, he paused for just a second when he heard a terrible scream come from behind him. He was already thinking of what to say to whomever it was that was blowing a gasket about his carrying a weapon into the school, but when he turned and the scream sounded again, he realized that it was across the street in the direction of the church.

  He fought over what to do and decided that he would have to trust the firemen to not do anything foolish. His brain was already berating him before he’d gone two steps. Wasn’t that the basic job description for firemen? Go someplace dangerous that nobody else would want to go and then risk your ass to save somebody else? For some reason, an image of a fireman climbing a stairwell against a tide of people trying to go down flashed in his head as he sprinted across the street and then ducked through some trees.

  He would be approaching the church almost from the back. Just as he started up the little hill before reaching the small parking area in the rear of the church, he heard another scream. He put on a burst of speed and sprinted for the front of the quaint little brick church with its white steeple where the bells rang every Sunday to announce service.

  As soon as he rounded the corner, he knew that he was too late. A small set of legs could be seen kicking in their final fits on the walkway that ran along the front of the church. A woman in a pair of jeans and a dark tee shirt was hunched over the small figure. The screams were now gurgles and weak whimpers; but that only allowed for the wet slurping and rending noises to be heard that much more clearly.

  Walking up behind the female figure that had gotten down on all fours now and had its face buried in the midsection of a little boy that Stephen unfortunately recognized as Timmy Darcy, Ned and Stacy Darcy’s boy, Stephen brought up his shotgun and leveled it at the back of the woman’s head. He had a finger on the trigger when he remembered how the chief had said that it looked like these things reacted to sound. Reversing the gun, he raised the butt of it and brought it down hard on the back of the woman’s head. A lot of folks did not realize that the front of the skull was designed to endure a heavy impact. The rear of the skull was the equivalent of an egg shell; sure, a bit thicker, but not anywhere near the strength of the front.

  He brought it down twice more before it broke open. Shaking out his hands to rid them of the buzzing feeling, he grabbed the woman’s body and jerked it off the Darcy boy. He was trying to figure out what to do when the eyes fluttered and opened. He looked into that filmed over gaze and tried to tell himself to end it quick. He raised his weapon to bring it down and once again faltered. This had been someone’s child. Even worse, he knew the kid. He’d seen him at church, spoken with Ned in the store as this same child stood peeking out behind his dad’s legs.

  The child began to struggle to its feet and Stephen backed away. He warred within himself about what to do. The logical part of his mind screamed for him to put this thing down; it insisted that he was no longer looking at the Darcy child. The emotional part of his mind, a part he’d become adept at stuffing away during his time overseas but had worked hard to nurse back to health since his return, told him this was still just a child.

  Across the street was the church’s family center. There in the parking lot was a small trailer. He started backing away from the child and waited for it to follow. The zombie of Timmy Darcy was now on its feet. It cocked its head and regarded Stephen with its terrible gaze, but it made no move in his direction.

  “Hey!” Stephen hissed. The zombie actually took a step back. “You’ve got to be kidding.”

  He snapped his fingers and still received no response. With a sigh, he brought up his weapon and steeled himself for the horrible task that he looked like he was going to be forced to act out. It was like a switch had been thrown. Without warning, the child lurched forward, hands coming for him and teeth gnashing.

  He staggered back a few steps and angled himself towards the small trailer across the street. The entire time, he kept looking every direction for signs of anybody—living or dead.

  Nothing; he wasn’t sure if that was a blessing or a curse.

  When he finally reached the trailer, he had to break open the locked doors.

  “Now for the tricky part,” Stephen said to the child as it stumbled closer.

  He judged the child’s movements and then dove in, grabbed the kid by the hair and slung him into the open trailer. He slammed the doors and pulled his belt off to secure them and prevent the child from escaping.

  “Now what, genius?” he muttered.

  As if in response, terrible screams came on the morning breeze from the elementary school.

  ***

  Jamie stared at the screen of the television in disbelief. She knew Greenville well enough to recognize the downtown skyline such as it was. Plumes of smoke were rising from several locations in the background of the field reporter who looked to be stationed on the span of a bridge. She turned up the volume and crossed her arms as she listened.

  “…as reports of unrest are coming from all over the city. Police and fire department resources are being stretched beyond capacity and the nine-one-one centers report that they are overwhelmed. From our position here on South Academy Street, we just watched a convoy of what appeared to be military vehicles roll past.

  “There is still no word from Sky-chopper Four. As we reported earlier, they landed on the top deck of the parking lot across from Wellness Arena when they spied a woman trapped in her vehicle and surrounded by what appeared to be at least a dozen angry rioters.

  “Wait…I am just now being told that reporter Cole Simmons
is requesting to cut in. Cole?”

  There was a flicker and then a new image came into view. This was at street level and Jamie immediately recognized the Greenville Health System and Sun Trust Bank building in the background. Smoke was pouring from several windows and sounds of shouting and screaming could be heard in the background.

  “Thanks, Chet,” the square-jawed man said as he looked into the camera with eyes that had just the slightest squint to them. “I am here on the corner of Spring and McBee just a few blocks away from where a crowd of the rioters has been reported. I can tell you that we have witnessed three separate auto accidents in just the past few minutes, and one woman just ran up to us bleeding from a terrible wound on her right arm. She said something about somebody biting her before running off.

  “The mob should be coming into view shortly, and we hope to be able to share images with our viewers. I do want to repeat that, unless it is absolutely necessary, you should avoid downtown Greenville at all costs today.” There was a shudder in the picture as the camera swung away from the reporter. Cole paused for a moment and then resumed his narrative.

  “We have the first images of this mob, and as you can see, initial reports of this being some sort of racial issue are inaccurate as we see, people of all colors…” Cole Simmons’ voice trailed off.

  There was another moment of chaotic background noise and Jamie was certain that she heard the pop of a gun at least twice before the reporter resumed speaking.

  “Brad, can you tighten up the picture on the leading edge of this group?” Cole’s voice could be heard over the background noise.

  The picture blurred for a moment and then came into horrifying focus. The leading edge of the oncoming mob instantly made Jamie think of those zombie movies again. There was a variety of injuries that no person could withstand and keep walking. A casual observer might dismiss this as some sort of flash mob hoax, but Jamie already knew better.

  “Okay, can somebody in the studio please help sort out what we are seeing here?”

  Jamie heard the annoyance in the reporter’s voice. She had a feeling that he might be dismissing what he was witnessing with his own two eyes. After all, this was simply not something that anybody with one foot in reality could accept as fact…until it came up and bit you on the ass, a voice in her head mused.

  “Cole, maybe you should pack up and get out of there,” a female voice offered, obviously from the relative safety of the newsroom. “We are hearing reports all over town about people being attacked by violent mobs. The governor has just called for a press conference that is set to begin as soon as the president makes his address.”

  “C’mon, Brad,” Cole’s voice barked.

  Jamie felt herself breathe a sigh of relief until the image of the reporter appeared and was now headed directly towards the oncoming group of what Jamie was certain had to be the walking dead. She felt a stinging sensation in her hands and looked down to see that her nails were digging into her palms.

  “C’mon, you idiot,” she breathed.

  “Hey!” Cole could be heard shouting. “Can one of you…”

  Jamie refocused on the television. The camera was a good fifteen or twenty feet behind the reporter who had closed about half the distance between himself and the crowd. She could hear heavy breathing and then a gagging noise.

  “What in the world?” Now the reporter was staggering back a few steps. “Brad, are you smelling that?”

  The reporter turned to face the camera. He had an arm up over his face in an obvious attempt to ward off the smell. Jamie’s memory sent a sympathetic blast of that stench trickling down the back of her throat. She knew very well what the man would be smelling. There was nothing quite like it.

  “Now run,” she urged.

  Her heart hammered as it dawned on her that the reporter now had his back to the approaching group of undead. He was still refusing to accept the evidence that had literally been right in front of him.

  “I don’t know what exactly might be going on, but let me reiterate the point that this is not something that appears to be based on some sort of racial division. The group of rioters seems to be a mix of all races, but for some inexplicable reason they have the look of one of those zombie-walk groups…” Cole’s voice ceased reporting for a moment and then quickly resumed. “This is like that one group Kaley Chisholm reported on a few months ago that was raising money for local food banks. Only, apparently these people are not acting out of charity…” Cole turned back to face the oncoming group and his words died on his lips.

  Jamie knew that it was too late. The first of the zombies was now within an arm’s reach. Hands clutched at the man who now stood stock still, apparently rooted in place by fear as a pitiful squeak was almost drowned out by a chorus of moans.

  The cameraman continued to shoot the scene, but it was also apparent that he was backing up. The reporter was now being dragged to the ground and the scream that came was enough to peg the audio and turn it into little more than a roaring sound that ended suddenly with an electronic shriek of feedback.

  The image blurred again and then there was a moment when it looked as if the world was spiraling crazily. The cameraman had apparently tripped and fallen over backwards. The image of the reporter being savagely attacked was now replaced by a sideways view of the street and a nearby curb. A hand planted on the ground at the edge of the shot and then a pair of feet raced by in a blur.

  There was another moment of just the skewed image of the street and then a studio shot that revealed three people standing behind a long news desk, staring to the left with varied expressions of horror etched across their faces. Somebody off camera must have gestured or done something to get the attention of the trio as they all three started and then began trying to compose themselves as they looked straight ahead at the camera.

  At last, the woman on the left who Jamie actually recognized as being the traffic and weather person cleared her throat and began to speak. “Umm, I can’t be certain as to what we just saw, but I believe this is far worse than we’ve been told. Do we still have the clip of that CDC doctor? Can somebody get that queued up, please?” The woman straightened and looked to her fellow news people and then continued to speak when it was clear that neither of them were going to do so. “I advise you to reconsider the words spoken by…” She squinted down at a stack of pages in front of her on the desk, rifled through them and then nodded in satisfaction. “Dr. Linda Sing of the CDC. Despite her denials and refusal to consider the possibilities, I think what we have seen just now flies in the face of her words. I advise—”

  The screen flashed and then a picture of a sunny day in downtown Greenville with the station call letters, logo, and network affiliation popped up. The strains of a familiar tune being performed by an orchestra drifted from the television’s speaker.

  “Muzak?” Jamie laughed harshly. “The world is coming to an end and they are playing Muzak?”

  Well, she was not about to let Liberty, South Carolina go down like that. This was her town. She had a plan, and if she could get everybody on board fast enough…they might just be able to ride this out until somebody got a handle on things. And, if they never did and this became the extinction event like in the movies, well then, they would not just survive…Liberty would thrive.

  5

  The Meeting

  Jonathan barely had enough time to put his arms up and grab the dashboard to brace for the impact. The body of the undead man folded over hard and slammed into the hood, rolled up and smashed against the windshield, and then flipped up and over the car.

  Chief Gilstrap had turned reflexively but much too late. The car veered left and plunged off the road, nose-diving into the shallow ditch that ran alongside the road before coming to an abrupt stop with enough forward momentum that the rear end lifted a good three feet off the ground before coming down hard, blowing out the right rear tire in the process.

  “Holy crap,” Jonathan groaned and then hissed in pain as his b
rain became flooded with messages about his many injuries. He glanced down at his right wrist and saw it cocked over at an odd angle. His vision blurred and he used his left hand to wipe his eyes. It came away coated and slick with bright red blood.

  “Are you…” Chief Gilstrap let the words die when he glanced over and got a look at Jonathan. He craned his neck to look in the back seat and paled.

  That reaction made Jonathan forget his pain. He tried to turn, but couldn’t, and went to work on his seatbelt which seemed to be stuck. At last he heard the click and wriggled free of it as he climbed onto his knees and looked in the back seat. His mother was leaning back, but the odd angle that her head sat on her shoulders gave away her condition.

  “Mom,” Jonathan cried.

  The slap of a hand on his window made him jump and he spun back around in his seat, banging his fractured wrist in the center console of the police car. His vision swam as the pain returned with a renewed vengeance. Once it cleared, he could see the undead face of a man staring in at him. It brought a hand up and slapped at his window again in a futile attempt to get at the living being on the other side of the glass.

  Torn between the grief of his mother’s death and the anger at the undead creatures outside the police car that had caused this accident, Jonathan let loose with a howl of frustration. He reached down with his good hand to open his door and felt something grip his shoulder.

  “Stay put, son,” an authoritative voice spoke from behind him.

  A piece of his brain reminded him that he was in the police chief’s car, but he was currently incapable of rational thought. His mother was dead just a few feet away. Her last thoughts of her son had been that he was something terrible…a murderer. Tears began to well and drip from his eyes, mixing with the blood that ran freely from his busted open forehead.

  The sound of a car door opening drifted into his jumbled thoughts. He turned to see the chief force his way out of the car. It looked like he tried to shut the door behind him, but was unable to do so. Jonathan could only watch as the man worked his way around the front of the car where a hint of steam now drifted up from the edges of the crumpled hood. He had a machete in his hand.