Life of the Dead Box Set [Books 1-5]

by Urban, Tony

  He noticed that there was a lot of sneezing going on around him. Coughing, too. The Hearty Buffet was hardly the pinnacle of health, but the amount of audible sickness unnerved him. Wasn’t cold and flu season supposed to be in the fall?

  A middle aged man topped with a ten-gallon cowboy hat on a twelve-gallon head was next in line. He was about as wide as he was tall and his plate was already overflowing with food. “I’ll take the beef. Slice her thick.”

  Mead did as told and, after he moved one slice to the plate, the Cowboy tipped his head. “One more.”

  “Sure thing, Partner.”

  Cowboy’s grin faded and he stomped away after getting his second helping.

  A six-year-old that Mead could tell was a brat just by looking at his carrot red hair and pointed, squirrelly face sprinted toward his station, almost crashing into it. He stared up at Mead quizzically. “You look funny.”

  So do you, twerp, Mead thought but didn’t say. He was aware that he looked different. The hairnet containing his thick, drab brown locks bulged out at the sides like Princess Leia’s buns. Add in a pencil-thin mustache and a head shaped like a Lego character and he got his share of curious looks

  Before Mead could put on his fake smile and ask the brat what he wanted, a scream drew everyone’s attention.

  “My Henry!”

  The voice was shrill and old. Mead looked for the source and saw it was Blue Hair. In the booth across from her a man, presumably the aforementioned Henry, had slumped face first into his instant mashed potatoes.

  Even though Mead had only been there a few months, this was not the first person he’d seen die at the buffet. If Henry was indeed dearly departed, he’d be the third fatality on Mead’s shifts alone. Says a lot about our clientele.

  Cindy, a chestnut haired waitress who put both the big and beautiful in BBW, and an Asian busboy named Pan, rushed to Henry’s side. Pan pulled Henry’s face free from the potatoes. White starch and brown gravy filled in his wrinkles like spackle. Pan held his ear close to Henry’s mouth.

  “Call an ambulance!” Cindy shouted and Mead couldn’t help but notice her tits jiggled like jello as she yelled.

  Pan’s face shriveled up as he tried to listen for breathing sounds over the growing commotion around him. Then, his squinted eyes grew wide, and he shoved Henry backward in the booth.

  Mead saw a spurt of red and noticed that Pan’s ear, or at least the bottom half of it anyway, was missing. Pan clasped his hand over his ear and screamed something in Chinese or Korean, Meade wasn’t sure which. Maybe even Thai, for all he knew.

  Cindy grabbed on to Pan, pressing her ample bosom against him, and tried to lead him away, but by that point pretty much everyone in the restaurant had crowded around to gawk at what had happened.

  Everyone but Mead, who was content to take in the events from afar. While all the lookie loos focused on Pan with his one and a half ears, Mead watched Henry. What he saw was the elderly man slumped back into the booth and chewing on the hard cartilage of Pan’s ear like it was a piece of saltwater taffy.

  “Henry! What are you doing?” his blue-haired wife shrieked. She reached across the table and toward Henry’s mouth where a piece of Pan’s ear extruded and tried to pull it free.

  “Bad idea, lady,” Mead muttered to himself.

  Bad idea, indeed. Henry snarled like a dog and snapped at her. He caught the first knuckles of her middle and index fingers between his yellow choppers and bit them clean off.

  She screamed again, but that faded away when she fainted and sprawled across the table.

  Someone else shrieked and Mead found himself longing for a return to the coughs and sneezes. This time he saw Wendy, Cindy with the huge, jiggly titties he so longed to bury his face in, squealing in agony as Pan took a massive bite out of the side of her neck.

  Everything shifted into fast-forward after that. Mead saw Blue Hair rise from her faint, grab the arm of a teen with one of those out of fashion Justin Bieber haircuts and devour it.

  Cindy pounced on a woman in a motorized scooter. Pan moved on to a waiter. Then the Bieber wannabe had his teeth buried in the plus-sized stomach of the cowboy. It seemed like everyone at the buffet was eating someone or being eaten.

  It spread at lightning speed, one after another after another. And through it all, Mead watched Henry casually gnaw away at his wife’s fingertips.

  His attention was diverted when he caught the little ginger who had earlier almost taken out the meat station staring at him. The brat’s left eye hung from its socket and dangled back and forth like a yoyo at the end of its string. He had a gaping wound in his neck that gushed blood by the pint, turning his lower body crimson.

  The brat sprinted toward his station for the second time, only this time Mead wasn’t afraid he’d upset the cart, he feared for his life. Mead shoved the wheeled cart toward him, knocking the boy onto his back.

  The cart tipped over and fell onto the brat, but he squirmed out from beneath it with little effort. Then he jumped on top of it and leaped into the air, diving straight for Mead.

  The kid hit him in the chest and wrapped his skinny legs around Mead’s waist to hold on. He clawed and scratched at Mead, who desperately held him back. The brat’s jaws snapped together so hard Mead thought his teeth would break.

  With his free hand, Mead grabbed the large serving fork. He looked into the brat’s eyes, or eye, as it was. The pupil was fully dilated and he couldn’t see but a hint of the iris. It looked dead, like a shark’s eyes.

  The little fucker’s a zombie.

  Mead plunged the two prongs of the fork into the brat’s good eye. He felt it pop like a water balloon and bloody, vitreous gel splashed out. He kept pushing the fork into the cavity until he buried it up to the handle. It was only then he noticed the brat had ceased moving.

  Mead shoved him away and the lifeless body hit the carpeted floor with a muffled thud.

  “Take that you little ginger zombie fuck!”

  Mead looked up and saw everyone in the restaurant staring back at him.

  They ran all at once. Mead spun on his heels and sprinted in the opposite direction. He dashed through the kitchen, slowing only to pull down a few food carts to throw obstacles into the course behind him.

  The zombies scrambled after him. Some fell over the metal shelves and the ones on their heels crawled over them with ease. They closed in on Mead as he neared the rear exit.

  He hit the metal door and slammed down the handle but the door wouldn’t open. He tried again with the same result.

  “Shit!” He remembered the door needed to be unlocked and searched his pockets for his card.

  Mead risked a glance back. The closest zombie was only yards away.

  He found his key card and swiped it. The door unlocked. Mead thrust it open and fell out into the parking lot. He spun on his knees and shoved the door closed. He could hear the zombies hit the other side, pounding against it, but the heavy steel door held them back.

  Just as he tried to catch his breath, he thought about the front entrance. With what little energy he had left he ran around the building, grabbing his keys from his pocket and thanking God because the only reason he had them was because he was scheduled to close that night.

  The front of the restaurant was clear. Mead slid his key into the lock and sealed the door tight. The creatures inside heard the click and the few zombies which hadn’t chased him all the way through the kitchen ran toward the door.

  The first one there was Cindy, and Mead couldn’t help but take a longing look as her breasts pressed against the smoked glass.

  “What a waste.”

  The zombies beat their fists against the door, but they were trapped.

  Mead backed away from the restaurant, toward employee parking. He pulled off his hair net and his greasy hair tumbled to his shoulders. He threw the net onto the pavement and climbed into his Cavalier. It started with a bang and as he drove away, he couldn’t resist a glance at the huge “All You Can
Eat” sign perched atop the roof.

  “You’re not eating me. Not today, anyway.”

  Chapter 16

  Wim’s farm stood about twelve miles from the nearest town and he only made the trip once or twice a month when he needed groceries or had to pick up parts for something that had broken down.

  Calling it a town was a stretch. There was one stop light which marked the intersection of Elm and Main Street and it turned into a blinker after 5 pm. Along those roads were two bars, a gas station and sub shop, a market, and three churches along with rows of old, residential homes.

  After killing Hoyt the mailman, Wim had decided that his only option was to go to town. The way he figured, there were two possible outcomes. Either everyone would be normal and he’d be arrested for murder, or maybe lynched on the spot if he dared share his crazy story. Or, there would be more zombies. If the latter were to occur, he decided it was best to be prepared, so he loaded up his old Ford Bronco with every gun he had on the farm.

  His father had been a collector, and all together Wim found fourteen firearms. There were six rifles, two shotguns, four revolvers and two pistols. He had ammunition for each and Wim loaded them all to capacity, then put the remaining ammunition in the truck, just in case.

  Wim didn’t pass a living, or dead, soul on his way to town. The first building he came across was the post office. The small red brick structure stood a quarter mile outside of town and when Wim turned into the parking lot, all the spaces were empty. In a village of less than a thousand that wasn’t an unusual site. Since the man he’d earlier murdered was employed there, he figured it was as good a place to start as any.

  Although he knew that it was a crime to take a firearm into a federal building, Wim grabbed a snub-nosed revolver that was small enough to fit into his pocket before he headed inside. Under the circumstances, he wasn’t too worried about being a scofflaw.

  Brass bells above the door jingled as he walked inside. All the lights were off and the lobby was empty.

  “Hello?”

  He walked to the counter and peered into the mail sorting area where he saw no one. Large bags of undelivered mail were strewn about the floor.

  “Hello? Anyone here?”

  Silence.

  As he looked around, Wim noticed the cash register drawer was hanging open and filled with undisturbed money.

  The eeriness of the situation was getting to him and when a thunderous crash exploded outside he jumped a good three inches in the air.

  The sound had come from the rear of the building, so Wim hopped the counter, rushed through the mail room, and out the back door. As soon as he stepped into the daylight, he saw a pickup truck crashed into the back wall, its front end crumpled like an accordion. White smoke billowed from the crushed engine compartment.

  Wim approached the driver’s side and saw the door open, but the cab was empty. He wondered if everyone in the world had up and disappeared like in one of those Twilight Zone episodes his mother had always watched.

  He moved around the truck and looked past it and it was only then he saw Nate Bauer, one of three brothers who owned a local contracting company. Nate was a loud, boisterous man who always had a juicy bit of gossip or an off-color joke to share, but today he wasn’t laughing.

  Nate sat on the road and gripped what looked like a red, wet rope. A few yards away from him was another man, an Amish pumpkin farmer who Wim recognized from the produce auctions, but whose name he didn’t know. That man clutched the other end of the rope.

  “Mr. Bauer?” Wim called out.

  Neither of the men reacted and Wim approached them with caution. When he got within a few feet, he could see they weren’t holding a rope. They were holding Nate Bauer’s intestines.

  Nate’s plain, white button down was scarlet with blood and his guts protruded from a fist size gash in his belly. Nate held onto his intestines with both hands while the Amishman pulled in the other direction with all his strength. It was like they were in a life and death game of tug of war.

  “Christ on the cross,” Wim said. Despite what had happened on the farm, he still struggled to believe this was real.

  Nate looked to him, his face pained and pale. “He’s stealing my guts, Wim! Help me!”

  Wim was frozen in place. He looked to the Amishman and saw his scraggly, gray beard was stained red.

  “Kill him! Kill him or I’m gonna die,” Nate said.

  Wim broke out of his daze. He ran toward the Amishman.

  “Let him go!” Wim said, trying to sound forceful, but he could hear the fear in his own voice even as he took out the pistol.

  The Amishman ignored him and ripped a few more feet of Nate’s insides to the outside. Nate bellowed in pain. Wim raised the revolver, aimed, and fired. The bullet zipped through the air and part of the Amishman’s right ear hopped off his head like a jumping bean.

  The man tumbled over sideways and dropped the intestines. Nate pulled them back in, like he was collecting an unraveled extension cord.

  The Amishman dove for the guts but missed. Then he turned toward Wim. His eyes were blank and dead and he was missing a chunk of flesh on his cheek.

  The man grabbed hold of Wim’s left leg and chomped down on his calf. Even through the heavy denim of his jeans Wim could feel the power of the bite.

  Wim kicked out and his heavy boot caught the Amishman in the midsection and knocked him onto his back.

  “Kill him!” Nate screamed.

  Wim glanced toward Nate and saw that he was trying to push his intestines, which were covered with dirt and shale and grass, back through the hole in his belly.

  As he looked away, the Amishman grabbed Wim from behind. He caught his fingers in Wim’s belt and pulled him down. Wim fell on top of him, his back against the zombie’s front.

  He heard the dead man’s jaws snapping and tried to keep his head raised up. With every attempted bite, the zombie was closer to getting him and Wim could feel spittle hitting the exposed nape of his neck.

  Wim threw his elbow back once and then again, both times catching the zombie in the stomach. He did it a third time, heard a rib break, and the zombie released him.

  He rolled free of it and onto his knees. As the zombie sat up, Wim was ready and he shot it in the face. A dime-sized hole appeared under his left eye and he fell backward.

  Wim quickly crawled away from it, horrified by the situation. He caught his breath, then checked his leg where he’d been bitten. There was a white outline in his skin, but the zombie’s teeth hadn’t penetrated his jeans or his flesh. Then Wim looked to Nate Bauer who was lying motionless on his side. He’d managed to get about half his guts back into his stomach, but nonetheless, Nate was dead.

  Wim sat down in the street and ran his fingers through his black hair and wondered again how this could be real. There were no such things as zombies. That’s just made up movie nonsense meant to scare kids and sell popcorn. But if it was made up, then what in the world had just happened?

  And then Nate Bauer groaned.

  Wim looked and saw the man’s eyes were open, but like the Amishman and the mailman before him, they were blank. Slowly, Nate’s head turned, first looking left and then to the right where Wim sat.

  When he saw Wim, the zombie rolled onto his stomach and crawled to his knees. His guts fell back out the gash and when he made it to his feet and staggered toward Wim, his intestines dragged on the ground behind him.

  Wim jumped to his feet and backed away. Nate kept coming toward him. He growled and bared his teeth like a rabid animal.

  Wim raised the gun, but just as he pulled the trigger, the zombie stepped on his own intestines and fell forward. His face hit the pavement with a crunching thud. Before it could get up, Wim put a round in the back of its skull.

  When Wim looked up from the lifeless body, he saw that the gunfire had drawn a small crowd. Seven zombies, all people he knew, staggered toward him. He retraced his path through the post office and returned to his truck. More zom
bies had arrived on Main Street, too.

  The world is cursed, Wim thought. He couldn’t understand why this had happened and, even more confusingly, why he was left alive. Maybe he was the cursed one. Why was he more worthy of life than all of these good people? Why was he spared? Why was he the one left to clean up? He almost wished he would have just died right along with his pigs and chickens.

  He removed the guns from the Bronco and lined them up on the hood. Once he'd laid them all out for easy access, he took the Marlin 336 that he used for hunting deer and leaned against the side of the Bronco for stability.

  One of the zombies was Dale Yoder, who owned the greenhouse where Wim bought his tomato plants every spring. Wim lined up the peep sights of the Marlin with Dale’s head and pulled the trigger. This was going to be a long day.

  Chapter 17

  Ramey’s texts and calls to Loretta had gone unanswered for almost five hours. Most days, that wouldn’t be enough to garner a raised eyebrow, but the world had gone to hell and that changed everything.

  It seemed like the entire town was sick. Well, almost everyone. Ramey was fine, but the way Loretta was hacking and coughing around, never bothering to cover her mouth or wash her hands, the girl knew it was only a matter of time before she caught whatever germs had taken up residence in their crummy trailer.

  Since the power went out, most of the trailer park residents had moved outside where they grilled whatever meat they had before it could spoil. Through the thin walls of the mobile home, Ramey could hear the steady drone of country music accompanied by a chorus of coughing and sneezing. It was like the Fourth of July in a tuberculosis hospital.

  While the rest of the park celebrated, Ramey retreated to her room and tried to ignore everything. Today, she sat on her bed and unfolded the last letter her father had sent. It had arrived in the mail over a year ago. His words, in his neat, blocky print, were few.