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

by Urban, Tony

  When he wanted to head west, she insisted they go south instead. And he obeyed. “Yes, ma’am. That’s a fine idea, ma’am.” “How about you sit in the back seat while I drive you ma’am.” It was along one of her stupid detours where they came up on a road block, got gassed, and ended up in the Ark.

  There, life returned to the same old, same old, only without the benefit of cable TV to take his mind off his shitty life at the end of the day. If he wasn’t being shipped out on supply runs, he was burning trash or emptying the composting toilets, which were really nothing more than fancied outhouses. Even during the apocalypse, Caleb’s life sucked ass. And meanwhile Juanita had run off for greener pastures while he stayed behind, stuck and miserable.

  An opaque layer of dust cloaked the windows to Fanatical Fitness. Caleb tried to peer through it, but had no luck. He knew he should continue, to locate a store with food or toilet paper or any of the other things on his list, but he couldn’t get the idea of yoga pants out of his head. Maybe some little sweetheart had been working out in there when the shit hit the fan. And even if she was a zombie, it would still give his sore eyes a sight he’d been yearning to see. After all, it had been almost six months.

  Caleb spat into his palm, then rubbed his hands together. Once thoroughly lubricated, he used them to wipe clear a ten inch by ten-inch section of glass. He pressed his face against it, pushing his nose sideways as he peered into the cavernous gym.

  Was that movement? He thought so. But who or what? He strained, trying to see inside. Something moved to his left, he was sure of it that time. He hocked another wad of spit into his hand and just as he started to wipe clear more of the window, the glass shattered.

  Large chunks sprayed outward, crashing onto the sidewalk and exploding. A shard the size of a slice of XL pizza fell into Caleb’s face, peeling open his cheek, but he barely noticed because something was coming through the hole in the window. No, not something. Someone.

  A man who Caleb thought looked as big as one of those wrestlers on Monday Night Raw pushed his way through the broken window. Glass clawed and tore at his gray flesh but the man was dead and no blood flowed from the wounds. Caleb spied a large tattoo on his bare chest. ‘No pain, no gains’ it declared, in harsh, script font. As soon as he was through, another zombie appeared at the window. That one had upper arms which were as big around as Caleb’s head and thick, black veins popped up like he had yards of rope embedded underneath his flesh.

  Caleb took a staggering step backward, trying to grab the pistol he had tucked in the small of his back. In the process, he pushed the gun all the way into his jeans and he felt it slide down against his ass cheeks. He gave a little shiver as the cold metal hit his hot flesh.

  As he backed away from the bodybuilder zombies, his right foot dropped over the curb. The four inches drop to the road was enough to send him careening down where he slammed onto his back. His head bounced off the pavement and everything went black. Then he felt two hands grab his ankles.

  His sight came back in flashes. The first zombie was at his feet. Pulling at them. Its fingers entwined in his boot laces.

  Black.

  The vein-riddled zombie was above him, leaning down, expelling the rotten stench of hot death from his mouth. Caleb saw vaguely white mucous seep from its slack, gaping jaws and fall free.

  Black.

  He felt the zombie’s slobber splash onto his face where it dribbled down his cheek before ending up in his own mouth. The pungent taste of it made Caleb think of spoiled fish.

  He gagged and his vision returned. The drooling zombie was inches from him now, coming in fast for a bite of filet a la Caleb. He flailed with his arms in an attempt to push the zombie away, but it caught hold of his hands. Even in death its grip was unbelievably strong and Caleb thought it might break his bones. Instead, it pulled.

  The zombie at his feet grunted and jerked his body in the opposite direction and Caleb felt himself rise off the ground as he became stretched out between the two monsters. The creature with his hands yanked and he felt a shoulder dislocate, sending shockwaves down his left side. Before he could concentrate on that pain, his legs were forced in the opposite direction. Joints popped and cracked. Muscles and tendons ripped, then burst. He stared up at the overcast, milky sky above and tried not to hear his skeleton coming apart. He tried to think of anything but that. But the pain was too intense. He couldn’t even conjure up a vision of yoga pants.

  The pain in his arms and legs was replaced by an excruciating fire in his abdomen. It was unlike anything he’d ever felt before. He wouldn’t have imagined such agony could be real if he wasn’t experiencing it firsthand.

  Caleb screamed, the high pitched, wounded wail of an animal in the throes of death. It was like every nerve ending in his torso had been doused in kerosene and set ablaze.

  And then it stopped.

  He was moving again.

  The zombie which had hold of his arms dragged him along the street, bouncing him over potholes and debris, but Caleb was so relieved that the tug of war was finally over that he didn’t mind the rough ride.

  His head felt cloudy, like he’d gulped down a six pack too quick. And his eyes, they seemed so heavy. Must be from cracking my noggin.

  He raised his head up and, in doing so, looked down his body toward his feet. But his feet were not there. Neither were his legs. Or his hips. Or his pelvis. Not even his damned dick. His body now ended in a ragged jumble of tattered flesh and intestines that were strewn out before him like streamers.

  Then, he spotted the tattooed zombie sitting on the sidewalk. The creature still held the lower half of Caleb’s bisected body, but now he raised it to his mouth and ate from it like he was holding a rack of ribs.

  “Well, shit,” Caleb said as he let his eyes fall shut. He’d seen more than enough.

  The feed sacks weighed fifty pounds each and Wim carried them two at a time. The mill had been free of zombies but filled with a variety of animal feed, grains, seeds and fertilizer. It was a treasure trove and, being less than an hour from the ark, an asset for which he thanked God. Nevertheless, it annoyed Wim that he had to make regular trips here.

  Doc and the others who had started the Ark should have planned ahead. They should have bought and amassed their own warehouse full of supplies. For a group of people who referred to themselves as ‘preppers’, Wim thought they were woefully unready for a disaster such as the one which occurred the previous May.

  The two bags dropped into the back of the pickup with a thud and a cloud of dust that rose up and surrounded Wim’s head like a fog. The bed was nearly full now and he knew he should stop. He needed to save room for whatever goods Caleb had scavenged, but the animals and crops were Wim’s responsibility and, so far as he was concerned, they took priority.

  He returned to the almost endless rows of pallets and grabbed two more bags. As he did, he glanced over to Clark Raber whose attention was focused on an adult magazine which he held sideways to get a better look at the centerfold. His belly sagged over his belt and Wim quickly looked away when Clark’s free hand fell into is lap.

  Clark Raber was there, in theory, to assist and supervise Caleb and Wim on their duties. But the fact that he allowed Caleb to wander about town proved to Wim that Clark was little more than his own personal babysitter. A poor excuse for one too. He told everyone he was a sergeant in the Army but Wim doubted that. The man didn’t carry himself like a soldier. Nevertheless, Clark had been given a position of power at the Ark, one he enjoyed flaunting.

  While Wim found the carelessness of the Ark’s founders frustrating, he greatly enjoyed his time away from it. The quiet reminded him of life on his farm and there were many days when the idea of returning to Pennsylvania and leaving the Ark behind sounded not only plausible, but desirable. Even knowing he’d be returning to nothing - no mama, no pa, no animals to tend to - still seemed more appealing than the thought of a life lived behind the Ark’s walls. Of being given a list of chores each wee
k like he was some sort of overgrown toddler working for an allowance. Of pretending that any of this was normal and that the world outside of the twelve-foot-tall timber barriers that lined the Ark like prison walls hadn’t gone to hell.

  None of the founders of the Ark - Emory called them OG’s which Wim didn’t understand even after his old friend had tried to explain the term - talked about the zombies. They never acknowledged that the world had collapsed. They simply went on as if everything was normal and that bothered Wim more than anything else. So far as he could tell, just about everyone was dead and to not even talk about them, to question why it happened, it seemed wrong on a moral level and Wim didn’t care to be around people who could go on as if nothing had happened.

  The only reasons he stayed were Ramey and Emory and Mina. He felt responsible for them and couldn’t bring himself to leave them behind. And he knew Ramey would never leave her father. That man, Doc, had been a sore spot in their relationship since his group arrived at the Ark. Wim didn’t trust him and, even more, didn’t like him and he suspected the feeling was mutual.

  Doc said all the right things. He blathered on about how they were starting a new, better world, but Wim thought the man was as phony as a high school student in a class play. He said the words like they were lines in a script, and to Wim’s ears, they rang hollow.

  Emory shared his opinion. Caleb too, for the most part, but Caleb was always careful to keep his criticisms in check, like he was afraid someone was trying to get him to slip up so they could run and tattle. Wim couldn’t really blame him as such tattling was a regular occurrence at the Ark. If someone missed a chore or snuck an extra ration or spoke critically when the wrong ears were listening, it wasn’t long before Phillip, Doc’s right-hand man, would sidle up to the offending party and scold him or her.

  Usually, a punishment followed. It could be as minor as no dessert after supper, or a day or two doing the Ark’s less desirable jobs, such as emptying the composting toilets. But for more serious offenses, like possessing contraband, there was a three feet wide by five feet high steel shed that stood at the far end of the compound which everyone called ‘the box’.

  Doc said it was a place to clear your mind and think about what you’d done, but Wim knew what it really was. A jail cell where you were confined with no food or water until your release. Most only ended up in the box for a day, but once a man named Waylon who had arrived at the Ark a few days before Wim and his companions, got drunk on homemade whiskey and started shouting in the middle of the night that they were all hostages and that Doc was a dictator. Waylon spent three days in the box after that tirade. When he was let out, Wim thought he looked like he’d aged ten years and the man never spoke out of turn again. Rarely spoke at all, matter of fact. Wim had never ended up in the box, but its very existence was yet another reason why he wished he’d never found that X on Ramey’s map.

  When it came to discussing Doc with Ramey, Wim had hemmed and hawed and beaten around the proverbial bush on numerous occasions but never worked up the nerve to come right out and share his opinion on her father. And considering the way Ramey looked at Doc with eyes gleaming adulation and spoke of him in a tone that exuded love, that was probably for the best. If Doc was a magician, he certainly had his daughter under his spell.

  Wim understood a child’s love for its parents for he had found his own to be just about flawless and he knew that keeping his big mouth shut was for the best. Still, Wim felt like Doc was a splinter under the skin of their… he wasn’t sure what they had. Friendship. Relationship. Romance. Whatever it was, that splinter was festering and it was only a matter of time before infection and pus pushed it to the surface and they’d be forced to address it. Wim suspected it would end badly and hoped to delay the inevitable for as long as possible.

  Wim was half way back to the truck when he heard the scream. It was low and masculine and, as he’d never seen a living person in this town on their four prior trips, he had a good idea it must be Caleb. He dropped the feed sacks which created another mushroom cloud of dust as they collided with the floor, and started for the door but Clark had heard the scream too and it had finally pulled his attention away from the dirty magazine.

  “Stay here and finish loading the truck,” Clark said as he went toward the door, drawing his pistol.

  “We should go together. It’s more safe.”

  Clark paused, considering it, then shook his head. “No way. Maybe you two got something planned. I’m not taking any chances. You stay. If I need you, I’ll fire off a round.”

  Wim thought he was making a mistake, but kept silent as Clark disappeared out of the building. He only had time to load four more bags before he heard the gunshot.

  The town had a small crosshatch of streets and it took Wim less than two minutes to stumble upon the scene. He saw the zombies first. A near giant of a man that made Wim think of a gray version of Arnold Schwarzenegger, shambled down the street, a dribble of blood staining his chest like an infant whose Kool-Aid had missed its mouth. Wim raised the pistol and sent a perfectly aimed shot into the creature’s forehead. It took an awkward step forward, then crumpled to its knees. Wim thought it might be staring at him and almost shot again but then the zombie toppled over in a backbend that would have reminded Caleb of a yoga pose.

  A hissing growl to his right caught Wim’s attention and he turned to see Clark Raber. Most of the skin from his nose down was gone revealing gristle and bone and bottom teeth that Wim thought looked scary and long. Clark’s eyes had gone gray and Wim didn’t hesitate before firing a shot that poked a hole just under Clark’s right eye.

  As he fell, Wim saw a second musclebound zombie further away, sitting on the sidewalk before a pile of bloody clothing. Blue jeans? Wim wondered and tried to remember what Caleb had been wearing that morning. Before he could recall, the zombie rose to his feet, tottering as it stabilized itself and prepared to move. Before it could come toward him, Wim shot again and the left side of the monster’s face collapsed inward like a tiny bomb had gone off inside its skull. It fell forward, landing face first in the rain gutter.

  Wim hurried across the street to where the motionless zombie had taken its final dive, but he wasn’t concerned with the dead man. He knelt beside the mound of blue jeans which were soaked purple with blood. At first, he couldn’t understand why the fabric was so voluminous but when he reached out to pull them closer, he realized the unusual density was because they still contained a pelvis and legs. Leftover bits of bowel spilled out when Wim lifted them and hit the pavement with a wet thwack. Wim dropped the jeans, causing more tissue to tumble free.

  He was almost certain the jeans belonged to Caleb and whatever small percentage of doubt he clung to disappeared when he heard noise behind him. It was a heavy, scraping sound with an undercurrent of throaty gasps and labored breathing. Wim didn’t want to turn around, but he did anyway.

  Caleb, or what was left of him, dragged himself up the street, toward Wim. Blood leaked from his mouth and, further up his face, his dead eyes stared ahead in that desperate, insatiably hungry gaze that Wim had seen all too often since the plague.

  Wim had known splitting up was a bad idea, but Caleb always insisted they’d finish their runs in half the time by doing so and, since Wim tried to avoid conflict on general principle, he always relented. Now it was Caleb that was split up. His bottom half laid useless at Wim’s feet and he pulled his upper body along the roadway with his fingers which had become destroyed in the process. Wim could see shards of broken fingernails peeling back as the zombie clawed its way toward him. In some places, the flesh had totally torn free and white bone gleamed through the gore.

  None of it slowed down the dead man and Wim pondered whether zombies could feel pain. He suspected not. Not the physical kind anyway. But occasionally he’d see something in their eyes, some small bit of tortured humanity trapped inside, and that made him wonder. He tried to ignore that. Tried to tell himself it was his imagination and that might ve
ry well be true, but late at night when he’d closed his own eyes but sleep wouldn’t come, the memory of that pain in their eyes was impossible to forget.

  In six long strides Wim reached Caleb. The half man pushed himself up on its bloodied elbows and its head flopped back as it peered up at Wim. Caleb’s mouth hung ajar and a quivering, raspy groan tumbled out. Hunger or hurt, Wim thought, then quickly tried to push the question away. He tilted the barrel of the pistol down and shot a round through Caleb’s forehead. The zombie fell to the pavement and Wim couldn’t avoid seeing the splintered burst of skull that had broken apart in the back of the man’s head.

  “Sorry about that,” Wim said to the dead man.

  He considered dragging Caleb’s torso over to his severed legs and reuniting the pair, then thought the idea foolish. Neither half had any use for the other anymore. So, he left them lying twenty feet apart and returned to the mill where he finished loading the truck. Caleb wouldn’t be able to retrieve whatever items were on his list and Wim wasn’t rifling through his pockets to find it. The Ark would have to make due with feed and fertilizer and if that didn’t satisfy them, oh well. Wim found himself not caring much at the moment.

  When the truck bed was so full that the back end sagged down and threatened to brush against the rear tires, Wim figured he had enough for the day and climbed into the cab. He knew he had an hour or so drive back to the dock where Hal would be waiting for him. For them. He didn’t look forward to explaining why three had become one and suspected he’d catch the blame someway or somehow.