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

by Urban, Tony

  The zombie had halved the distance. I didn’t want to interrupt this mostly one-sided conversation, but I reached beside myself and took hold of the axe, still not standing up.

  “So, what do you wanna do,” LaRon asked. “See the Grand Canyon or something?”

  “Maybe, but not yet. First, I want to see Stephen King’s house.”

  LaRon cocked his head. “The writer guy?”

  I nodded, stood, and pointed behind LaRon. “Hold that thought.”

  LaRon turned and watched as I circled around him, moving toward the zombie. It was a young woman in denim shorts and a ‘Virginia is for Lovers’ retro t-shirt. Her brown hair was clumped together and swayed from the back of her head like a heavy rope. When I closed in on her, she gasped, and a trickle of brown drool seeped from her open mouth.

  I didn’t hesitate. I swung the axe and the blade struck her in the temple. The force snapped her neck and her head flopped to the side. She fell fast, pulling the axe handle from my hands when she hit the beach. I yanked it free and let the lapping waves gradually pulled her body away.

  Finished, I turned back to LaRon. “Yeah, the writer.”

  “That dude’s creepy as shit.”

  I smirked. “I’ve read all his books. Seen all the movies. And I always wanted to see his house. I saw pics online. He’s got a gate with spiders and gargoyles. It’s incredible.”

  “Where’s it at?”

  “Maine. I even know the street.”

  “Are you a stalker or something?”

  “You ever see Misery? I’m his biggest fan.”

  LaRon chuckled. “You’re such a damn nerd. Ain’t Maine practically in Canada?”

  “Damn close.”

  LaRon flashed his gold-capped teeth in a Cheshire cat grin. “Then I guess we’re going to Maine.”

  I was surprised, but thrilled that he acquiesced so easily. He extended his fist and I gave it a corresponding bump.

  I did the numbers in my head. I knew where Maine was on the map and tried to guess how far we’d need to travel. I thought it must be well over a thousand miles. “It’s a long drive. We’d be smart to stock up on weapons.”

  “We should get steal a motherfuckin tank. Talk about ridin dirty.”

  He laughed when he said that, but I didn’t. A tank definitely sounded interesting. And, it occurred to me that I might know where to find one. Besides, as I’d asserted earlier, there was no one to stop us from doing whatever the hell we wanted to do.

  “We should take a little detour first,” I said.

  “Whatever you say, Mead. But, let’s wait until the morning”

  LaRon laid in the sand. I knew sleeping out in the open wasn’t the smartest idea, but I had a feeling that, for once in my life, luck was on my side.

  7

  July 30

  A brick encased sign declared the building ‘Pennsylvania National Guard Armory’ and a neighboring plaque warned ‘US Property - No Trespassing.’ I ignored both as I steered the Jeep into the empty parking lot.

  The plain, concrete block building that stood behind the lot was nondescript, with a few industrial windows and only two glass double doors on the front side to permit entrance. To the right, under a steel canopy, stood a row of five tan tanks that would have looked more appropriate in the Middle East than Western Pennsylvania. All that was separating us from the parking lot was an eight feet tall chain link fence.

  “Holy shit, man. You wasn’t joking,” LaRon said as he bounced in the passenger seat with excitement.

  I smirked, quite pleased with both myself and the reaction from my new friend. “I drove by this place every day for three years when I lived in Friedens. Never gave it a thought really.”

  I parked the Wrangler about ten yards from the fence, then moved to the front end and pulled the steel cable of the winch loose. Some bits of dried gore from my zombie encounters clung to the wire, but I ignored that as I looped the line around one of the metal fence poles and a chunk of fencing, then turned to LaRon.

  “There’s a toggle switch by the lights. Flip it.” I watched as LaRon found it and hit it.

  The slack was pulled from the cable as it tightened. When it was taut, the metal of the fence gave a low creak. It yawned outward, toward the Jeep, the pole bending, screeching. Then, it gave a metallic twang as the pole snapped off. After that, it was easy peasy as the fencing came apart and, a hole more than large enough to walk through opened.

  LaRon shut off the winch and jumped down from the Jeep. “You rednecks have the best toys.”

  “I’ll take that as a compliment.” I held down the fencing with my foot so LaRon could pass through, then followed.

  The hatch to the tank was easy enough to open and I felt truly accomplished and successful for one of the first times in my life. That feeling faded somewhat when I was unable to squeeze my newly chunky frame into the opening. That was okay though because LaRon had no problem fitting inside.

  Once there, he looked up confused. “Yo, how do we start this bitch?”

  “Isn’t there a key or something?”

  “Nope. No keys. I don’t even see a hole for one. I thought you knew what you were doing with this shit?”

  My smile faded along with my confidence and all my feelings of accomplishment. I turned away from LaRon, my eyes cast at the ground, and wondered how I could have been so damn stupid.

  So, maybe a tank wasn’t the best idea, but that didn’t mean the whole detour had to be a bust. This was a freaking armory after all. There had to be something useful inside.

  After using the winch to tear open the double doors, our search of the building proved a goldmine. There were dozens of rifles and pistols with matching ammunition, knives, grenades, and more than a few weapons I couldn’t identify by sight. Truth be told, I didn’t know how to use most of them, but that was okay because LaRon clapped me on the back.

  “You done good, Mead. You done real good.”

  His knowledge of firearms far exceeded my own and he rattled off brand names and model numbers like he’d been cramming for a test. We loaded up whatever we could carry and fit into the rear of the Jeep.

  Along the way, I discovered two swords mounted on a wall. They hung beside a black and white framed photo of some soldiers that looked straight out of a Civil War reenactment. I thought they might be decorative, but when I pulled one out of the scabbard and swung the blade at a flag pole, the sword easily halved the inch-thick wood. I liked this better than the axe. It was longer and lighter. It still wasn’t my hockey stick, but things were looking up.

  We were almost finished when LaRon pointed to a nondescript, gray door. “What you think they’re hiding in there?”

  To me it looked like it might lead to a janitorial supply closet. “Mops and brooms would be my guess.”

  LaRon tried the knob. It was locked, and he raised an eyebrow. “They lock up mops and brooms but leave enough guns to arm Al-Qaeda free for the taking?”

  That was a good point. “I’ll look around for keys.”

  I turned down a small hallway but only made it a few feet before I heard three rapid gunshots. I turned back to see LaRon holding a pistol with smoke wafting from the barrel and the doorknob blown to pieces.

  “Don’t need no keys, man.”

  He was right, of course. I was still in the process of adjusting to this new, lawless society where you could have anything you wanted if you had a sack big enough to take it.

  I returned to LaRon who pulled open the door, careful to avoid the razor-sharp shards of metal the bullets had created. I was at his side as the door came open. When the contents were revealed I was confused, but LaRon grinned so big it looked like his face might split.

  “What is it?” It was a gun. I knew that much. But it looked like an antique, or better yet, a movie prop. It had multiple copper barrels that that were shined to such a high gloss finish I could see my own distorted and even fatter than usual reflection. At the other end was a hand crank of some sorts.<
br />
  LaRon clapped me on the shoulder. “It’s a Gatling gun. Old school shit, Mead, but I think it’s the answer to all our prayers.”

  I thought that term - Gatling Gun - sounded familiar. Like something from a Wild West movie, but that was the problem. My knowledge of firearms didn’t extend much beyond popular culture. I bet Bundy would have known all about this relic. And if LaRon was this excited, Bundy probably would have been shitting a brick. Hell, he might have even owned one. The giant - R.I.P. - was a cranky bastard but he sure knew his guns.

  “You know any auto body shops around here?” LaRon asked.

  I thought I remembered there being one a few miles up the road and nodded.

  “Then help me load this bitch up and take me there. I got an idea.”

  We rolled into Don’s Collision Center where the parking lot was vacant aside from a few crashed cars and trucks that sat waiting for repairs that would never come. LaRon shot open the locked door, poked his head inside.

  “Empty.”

  He disappeared into the building and, a moment later, one of the garage bay doors opened. LaRon waved me forward. “Pull the Jeep inside.”

  “Why?”

  “Don’t ask. Just do it. I ain’t let you down so far, have I?”

  He had not and I obeyed, but not before noticing that the sounds of the gunfire coupled with the Wrangler’s engine, or both, had drawn the attention of some zombies that mulled around a gas station and mini mart across the street.

  Once inside the open bay, I shut off the engine. “Now what?”

  “I’m gonna need an hour or two.” LaRon said as his eyes scanned the variety of tools, auto parts, and sheets of metal.

  I could tell the man had a plan and had no interest in distracting him. Besides, the mini mart zombies were in the process of crossing the street and heading our way. I grabbed one of the swords and headed back into the parking lot.

  The nearest zombie was a teenager, probably just old enough to drive. He wore a camo sweatshirt, camo baseball cap, and blue jeans that were as much mud brown as indigo. I strolled toward him and the two of us met at the edge of the lot. The camo clad zombie swatted at me, then growled when I dodged his clumsy attempt.

  “Like your outfit,” I said as I raised the sword. “Almost didn’t even see you there.”

  The zombie lunged toward me, jaws chomping, and I responded by driving the tip of the sword into his open, almost expectant, mouth. It reacted with a choking, gurgling gasp and black blood oozed from his lips.

  I whipped the sword sideways and opened its cheek. Through the gaping wound I could see a few stained, half-rotten teeth but I didn’t take time to study them, instead swinging the sword in a back handed motion, catching the teen in the ear. The blade sliced off the top third of it, then sunk deeper, into the zombie’s skull. With that, whatever had been keeping the boy mobile was gone and it collapsed to the ground.

  There were three more zombies coming toward me. A tall, burly creature with a beard that would have been scary when he was alive and was even more so since he was not led the way. Its wiry, brown hair was clumped with dried blood and I could see bits of decayed flesh residing in it, giving it the appearance of some type of wild animal’s nest.

  When it got close enough, I saw something else in that beard. Something alive and writhing. Maggots had been birthed in that fury abode and they feasted on the chunks of partially eaten flesh that clung to the beard.

  The sight of the tiny, white worms slithering through that hair, eating that dead tissue, made my stomach flip and I clamped my mouth shut to prevent myself from barfing. That was it. I’d had enough of this freak show and I drove the sword into the bearded zombie’s eye socket.

  Next up was a young girl, maybe ten or so, and I thought she had the same pale green eyes as maggot beard. I wondered if she had been his daughter, but didn’t pause long to consider it. One strong swing with the sword cut straight through her head, cleaving it just below the bridge of her nose.

  The top third of her skull flipped through the air and came to a rest at the feet of the last remaining zombie, a skinny, old woman wearing a teal sweatshirt that read, “World’s Greatest Gramma.” I watched as Gramma’s foot came down on the dead girl’s head. Like something out of Three Stooges movie, she lost her balance, arms flailing, and careened sideways before hitting the pavement with an audible thud.

  I moved to her side as she attempted to get up and when I peered into her small, lifeless eyes she hissed at me.

  “Yeah, I don’t like you much either.” I stabbed her in the ear and was surprised when the blade continued the whole way through and poked out the other side. I really liked this sword.

  I left LaRon to whatever he was doing in the garbage and crossed the street to the mini mart. The top hinge on the door was broken and it hung open crookedly, granting me easy access.

  At first, I thought the store was empty, but when I ventured deeper inside I heard a low grumble. I clenched the sword tight as I moved toward the noise, which seemed to be coming from the checkout area.

  As I got closer, I heard scratching and clawing and then a rack of cigarettes tumbled over. That elicited another growl. It sounded annoyed. Almost human. But not.

  I had to remind myself of that from time to time. No matter what the zombies looked like. No matter how they reacted or what noises they made, the stuff inside that made them human had taken a hike long ago and it wasn’t coming back. These were husks and nothing more.

  When I reached the counter, I saw the fallen rack, the multicolored sea of cigarette packages, and underneath it all a very pudgy, curly haired zombie. She looked to be in her early twenties and glasses with thick, black frames clung askew to her face. She saw me looking her way and struggled to free herself, rolling and rocking side to side.

  I couldn’t hold back a laugh and decided to give her a few minutes to recover while I shopped. I grabbed a yellow, plastic shopping basket and loaded up in energy shots, then added some beef jerky. I reached for the candy bars, but remembered that awful photo showing off my rapidly expanding waistline and decided to pass on them. For now, anyway. I took a few jars of peanuts and some dried fruit, then topped off the basket with Funyuns because I remembered LaRon was a fan.

  I returned to the checkout area and saw the cashier had freed herself from the tobacco avalanche and was almost back on her feet. I couldn’t resist staring down her shirt, as the deep valley of cleavage that revealed itself was almost hypnotizing.

  “What a waste.” I sighed, then forced myself to take my eyes off her pendulous breasts. In doing so I saw a name tag reading, ‘Chelsea.’

  “Chelsea, huh?” She looked at me and, for a second, I thought maybe she recognized her name. Then I realized it was just the sound of my voice that had elicited the response. The way a dog tilts its head when you raise the pitch of your voice. That and her instinctual, insatiable desire to eat me. And not in the good way.

  “We could’ve had fun, Chelsea.”

  She made it to her feet, then teetered, trying to get her balance as she stomped across a mound of cigarettes. I decided not to wait any longer and shoved the tip of the sword through the lens of her glasses. There was a light pop as her eyeball burst and milky, pink-tinged goo ran out. After she fell, I wiped the blade of the sword against her shirt to cleanse it of the gore.

  Before leaving the store, I spotted a display of instant lottery off tickets, tore free a handful, and scratched them off one by one. They were all losers. Some things never changed.

  When I returned to the garage, I found LaRon standing in the cargo area of the Jeep. He wore a welder’s mask and a cascade of sparks came down like orange rain. I knew enough to not look directly at the flame of the torch, so I mulled about the shop while LaRon worked.

  The building was filled with a variety of tools and car parts. I sorted through it all, not knowing what most of it was, and not really caring. I didn’t know a carburetor from a catalytic converter. My vehicles ha
d always been pieces of shit held together by duct tape and hope. When they conked out, I didn’t bother getting them fixed. I just moved on to the next $250 Craigslist special.

  Large pieces of sheet metal were stacked horizontally on a shelving unit. They were bright and shiny, almost mirror-like, and they caught my attention. When I brushed my hand against the edge, I opened of a gash several inches long. Smooth move, dumbass.

  I jerked my hand away, squeezing the wound closed while I looked for something to stop the bleeding. I found a box of cotton rags that looked unused and held one of them against the cut. Blood seeped through the white fabric and I folded the rag over for extra absorption. That worked.

  “The fuck you do?”

  I turned and saw LaRon watching me. The welder’s mask was tilted up revealing his curious face. I held up my hand. “Cut myself.”

  “Good thing we’re overrun with zombies and not vampires. Elsewise you’d bring all kinds of hell down on us.” He paused thinking. “Zombies can’t smell blood, right?”

  “I don’t think so.” Once upon a time I didn’t think they could climb stairs either, but I didn’t mention that to him. I moved toward the Jeep trying to see what the man was up to. I noticed a triangular frame had been welded onto the center of the Wrangler’s roll bar.

  “Help a brotha out,” LaRon said.

  I climbed into the back of the Jeep where LaRon had his hands under the Gatling Gun. Together, we crouched down and lifted.

  “Careful now,” LaRon said as he steered the gun toward the metal concoction he’d affixed to the roll bar. We set the gun on the triangle. “Hold it steady.”

  LaRon grabbed a wrench and made adjustments under the set up. He swore once, then stood, apparently satisfied. “You can let go now.”