Table of Contents
Also by William Schlichter
Title Page
Copyright Information
Dedication
Aftershocks
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-one
Chapter Twenty-two
Chapter Twenty-three
Chapter Twenty-four
Chapter Twenty-five
Chapter Twenty-six
Chapter Twenty-seven
Chapter Twenty-eight
Chapter Twenty-nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-one
Chapter Thirty-two
Chapter Thirty-three
Chapter Thirty-four
Chapter Thirty-five
Chapter Thirty-six
Chapter Thirty-seven
Chapter Thirty-eight
Chapter Thirty-nine
Chapter Forty
Chapter Forty-one
Chapter Forty-two
Chapter Forty-three
Chapter Forty-four
Chapter Forty-five
Chapter Forty-six
Chapter Forty-seven
Chapter Forty-eight
Chapter Forty-nine
Chapter Fifty
Chapter Fifty-one
Chapter Fifty-two
Chapter Fifty-three
Chapter Fifty-four
Chapter Fifty-five
Chapter Fifty-six
Chapter Fifty-seven
Chapter Fifty-eight
About the Author
Editor: Chelsea Cambeis
Scripture quotations from the King James Bible. Public domain.
Excerpt from Henry V by William Shakespeare. Public domain.
NO ROOM IN HELL: Aftershocks
Copyright © 2019 William Schlichter
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law. For permission requests, please write to the publisher.
This book is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents, and dialogue are drawn from the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Published by BHC Press
Library of Congress Control Number: 2019938915
ISBN Numbers:
Hardcover: 978-1-64397-006-6
Softcover: 978-1-64397-007-3
Ebook: 978-1-64397-008-0
For information, write:
BHC Press
885 Penniman #5505
Plymouth, MI 48170
Visit the publisher:
www.bhcpress.com
For everyone who wakes up everyday
and is disappointed there are no zombies.
ZEKE’S FINGER JERKS away from the trigger as his Winchester rifle jolts upward.
“Don’t fire.” Jada’s firm grip keeps the weapon pointed up and away from the single biter limp-staggering toward the fence.
The low, guttural death rattle jars Zeke. Many years ago, when he was four, Grandmother babysat him, and the same guttural rattle emanated from her during Wheel of Fortune. He’d never heard such a sound. Saliva fluids build up in the throat until the accumulation prevents a person from swallowing the tiniest sips of water and finally air. Despite the rapid chest movement, the breaths were shallow and clipped. The final moment was a quick gasp, and Grandmother didn’t love him anymore.
Now the same noise fills his ears every day. Death rattles followed by the low, drowning moan-howls carry on the breeze and draw up the memory.
Don’t cry. You can’t let Jada see you cry. She’s one tough cookie, and tears won’t impress her. Say something manly, even if it makes you an ass. Women go for jerks. Or at least they did. “I wouldn’t have missed.” Zeke tugs at the weapon, but Jada refuses to release her clasp on the barrel.
She has more strength than him, and weight. She’s not heavy with her triathlon build, but a good thirty pounds more muscle presses the weapon at the angle she desires.
He considers remarking how her skin reminds him of deep, rich chocolate. How he wouldn’t mind seeing if she tastes as sweet as candy. But he releases his thought. She was training as an MMA fighter before the end. And with her powerful grip, he has no weapon to defend himself. Plus, he wants to woo her, not start a race riot.
“Listen, white meat. You’ll attract more,” she snaps with a drawl indicative of someone born farther south than Missouri.
“I’ve been stationed at the dam for months, and I’ve barely popped half a dozen.” His eyes betray him as they drift from her brown orbs to the exposed portion of her cleavage.
“You felt the earth move?” she asks. The effortless grip on his weapon puts pressure on his own triceps. He would last half a second arm wrestling her.
Just release the rifle barrel. I give.
“They’ve inspected the dam twice for cracks. I’m glad the nuclear planet south of here shut down a few days after the plague spread.” Zeke smiles, forcing his blue orbs from the top of her shirt.
Jada smiles, enjoying for a second the admiration of her figure, then she tears into him. “You’ll never hit anything if you don’t take your eyes off my tits.” She jerks the rifle enough to demonstrate how easy it would be to remove it from his hands.
“Sorry.” His teeth mash his tongue. Copper flavor coats the taste buds. His mouth throbs.
“Now, I’ve taken a few blows to the head, but even I recall learning about earthquakes and the waves they create.”
“I was never good in biology class,” Zeke admits.
His eyes receive the brunt of her angry fire. This woman wouldn’t break a sweat during a beat down.
“Wrong science,” she snaps.
He detects the detestable unspoken “stupid white boy.”
“Earthquakes travel in three waves.” She jabs three fingers at his face. “The accordion P waves. The up and down S waves and surface waves that rock.”
“What are you, a textbook?” He knows the remark fails to be as funny as he thought it sounded in his head.
“No, Zeke, but maybe you should have studied something in high school besides girls’ tits. All those waves make a grand noise, which is going to draw every undead as far away as Wisconsin right past us and on down to Charleston.”
“I thought it was the New Madrid Fault Line?”
“Yes, but the epicenter is more than likely under Charleston, Missouri. And since it was strong enough to shake us two hundred fifty miles away, it will travel north and bring every biter south.”
“We should take them out. Before too many more show up.”
“They are stupid. New noises distract them like a white kid who forgot his ADHD medicine. Why draw attention to us? You want it dead, you go up to the fence and stab it through the eye with one of the spears.” She rel
eases her grip on the rifle.
With the pressure off his triceps, Zeke promises to hit the gym. He slides the rifle into the leather saddle holster he mounted to the side of the tank turret. He glances at the second tank, preventing Jada from learning how much his arms hurt.
Considering how to impress Jada, his mind shifts to the pressing issue—only one tank crew on duty at a time. He has no idea how Ethan acquired two M1 Abrams tanks to protect the dam and the priceless hydroelectric power, but he did, and a single military team to man them.
Guard duty sucks.
No matter how cushy a job for the civilians, the military crew detests standing sentinel. They alternate days on which they operate. Ethan thought he’d acquire a second crew, but the fall of Fort Leonard Wood shifted his focus to train a second civilian team. But the skill set of those rescued outweigh manning two tanks. Wanikiya placed him on team two, but so far, no others have arrived worthy of training.
Not that tanks help in this situation. I’d like four more guns to secure the sally port. He glances back at Jada’s dark brown eyes. “You know, you make it difficult to like you.” Shit.
“I know what you like, Zeke. You want them? You have to earn them.”
He hops to the front of the tank and drops to his bottom, sliding to the ground. “Earn?” Some girls have said he would have to pay. But none have said “earn.”
“No more movie dates, maybe you find flowers, no more hockey games. What are you going to do to impress me? Prove to me you are the man I need to open my legs for. Maybe even father my children. The world ended, and the reason we used to choose a mate—financial security—is finished. What do you have to offer to make you the best candidate?” She picks up her AK-47 as two more biters stumble onto the road.
She opens the door, and Zeke opens his mouth. “Many people shack up. Tomorrow they might be dead, why not get laid tonight.” He pulls on the pair of work gloves stuffed in his back pocket. Dried black splotches have stained the leather. I hate the goop when they explode. It never seems to scrape from under the fingernails.
“I don’t plan to die. And without condoms and birth control, I won’t bring a child into this world without a father strong enough to protect it.” Her voice trails off.
Their semi-private conversation blasts loud enough for everyone crewing the tank emplacements to enjoy. If those around him didn’t know he desired Jada, they do now. Mess hall conversation will be all about him tonight.
I’ll prove I’m strong. Zeke approaches the gate system. Jada has given him much to consider, and he still doesn’t know how to speak to her.
Two undead shamble forward. They catch his scent, moan-howl and stumble forward faster. The fence interferes with their advance. They bounce off the chain-link as if they don’t see the wire.
Close in design to the main sally port in the south, the dam entrance’s natural rolling hills allow a vantage point for the twin tanks to be nestled.
Zeke marches past the opening between the two cargo trailers around to the side. He snags a metal bar. He slides the tip, ground to a fine point, through the chain-link fence.
The steel punctures the eye socket of the biter clawing the fence. It crumples in a heap of rot and shredded clothes.
Four more biters stagger onto the road behind two—fast approaching. I don’t care what Jada thinks about the noise. I wish I’d brought my rifle. He slides the pole back into the rack next to three more.
He races around the cargo trailer and inside, where he swings the two inner gates closed. He sprints back to his tank, pocketing his gloves. “There are more coming.”
“I see them.” Jada leans against the tank barrel as she aims her weapon. She flicks to semi-auto. Her lips move as she counts to herself. “PFC Wilber!”
The young man in green fatigues zips his fly before climbing onto the back of the tank.
“What did I tell you about pissing around the tank?” Jada scolds.
“Sorry. I don’t want to lose my water during a firefight.”
“Get on the radio. Tell Wanikiya we have a gathering of biters and it’s growing. Use some hand sanitizer before you touch the radio with your piss-covered hands,” Jada snaps.
“The army taught me not to piss on myself.”
You’re doing better than I will be in a few minutes. Zeke climbs on the tank. Despite his athletic build, he slips up the forward incline. Jada offers her hand to assist but never removes her eye from the barrel sight or the undead she targets.
His fingers lace with hers, and she pulls him up, moving him as if he weighed nothing. Zeke grabs his Winchester. Spinning around to take aim, he sees the six biters have grown to fifty staggering corpses.
“What do we do?” Zeke draws a bead on a biter at the edge of his range to effectively hit a target. “Do we plug them? They’re going to be harder to weed down if we wait much longer.”
“Wilber?” Jada calls out.
Private First-Class Wilber adjusts the radio frequency and depresses the mic button. “North gate to main sally port, request advisement, over.”
Not an official code, but not enough information given over the radio in case someone listened in, Zeke notes.
Constant gunfire renders the crackling voice inaudible.
Jada and Zeke both realize the brevity of the main gate’s call to arms.
“We’re on our own, white boy,” she whispers.
PFC Wilber, glad he relieved himself, “Repeat orders. We seek advisement on the growing number of undead at the north gate, over.”
“At least he remembered not to mention the dam,” Jada says.
“No one is monitoring,” Zeke says.
“Don’t be so sure. And no one knows this place exists, and we need to keep it secret.”
From the open mic spills more gunfire. Zeke counts the seconds after what feels like a full minute of no response. Two minutes. The gunfire never ceases.
Finally—
“No reinforcements available, do what’s necessary to hold the gate, over.”
“Was that Wanikiya?” Zeke needs confirmation.
Jada fires, not wanting anyone to recant the necessity to clear the fence, even if it will draw more undead toward the gate. Expending one round at a time until all thirty rounds find a home in the undead.
Zeke knows at least twenty were direct headshots. He drops one biter, racks in a shell, fires. Repeating until the Model 92 needs a reload. He nailed eight in the head. With fifteen rounds, he needs to increase his targeting to rounds ratio before he runs out of forty-four slugs. More important, if he is to impress Jada enough for a date, he better match her in head shots.
He reloads.
Wilber slips into the 50-caliber mounted to the tank. “Got your ear plugs in? Time to rock and roll.”
Jada snaps her head at him so fast Zeke swears he hears a vertebra pop. “The hell you will, white boy. Get a rifle.”
“I’ll clean them right out.”
Jada, as assigned leader of this guard, has rank over the military personnel. “We’re making enough noise,” she snaps. “That thunder boomer will bring the entire country.”
Zeke jerks the lever action on his rifle before fumbling a circular plastic case from his pocket. Thunder boomer? He slips the ear plugs into his ears, knowing there will be a lot more noise drowning out his hearing.
Jada’s now muffled voice orders, “Use your rifle and thin them enough to keep pressure off the gate. The fewer we draw to us the better. From the sound of it, the front gate is being hit hard.”
Overrun. Zeke never figured out why all the soldiers stationed here seem to lack a combat mentality. Green and barely out of basic when the world went to shit. Now my new world is about to go to shit. Six months. I was one of Ethan’s early recruits. My marksmanship put me at the most vital location in Acheron. Kind of wish I was less a crack shot so I could be scrubbing cooking pots right now.
Contingency plan. South, the bridge over a section of the lake wired to blow to keep t
he camp safe from marauders. No such luck from the north. No way to block it off. But in the six months, not a single living person has approached the north gate. Now every biter in the world marches at me.
Head shot.
Miss.
Head shot.
Head shot.
Head shot.
Black, oily goop splatters everywhere as three undead collapse into a heap.
Zeke rubs the sweat from his right palm on his shirt. He’s got his rhythm but waits. The undead behind the three who fell stumble over the fresh obstacles, all nearly tumbling to the ground themselves. If he fired, the heads would have dipped out of his line of fire. His bullets would have impaled the chest of the biters behind them and been a waste.
More and more undead stumble onto the road, bringing their number into the hundreds.
Zeke will never score with every round. How many do I have to kill to impress Jada?
Jada keeps her weapon at semi-auto. She racks up her kills. Now all six guards and the two tank operators on shift are firing. Each takes aim. Few rounds are wasted. Smoking brass pings on the blacktop.
None of them panic.
The fence protects them.
It helps when the enemy doesn’t shoot back, but their numbers are growing as is the pressure on the wire securing the chain-link. Zeke shakes the box of forty-four rounds. It’s not full. I’ll run out soon.
The hundreds grow to thousands of moan-howling undead.
Major Ellsberg wanted to add some reinforcement struts to the fence. God, how I wish it wasn’t on next week’s duty schedule.
More biters cover the road than they have bullets. Zeke reloads. I guess I won’t get to live long enough to impress Jada.
A beat-up pickup slides to a halt before the inside of the gate. Jorden jumps from the truck. “No reinforcements until they clear the main gate.” She draws her gun, vowing to not die a secretary.
“We can’t clear these numbers.” Zeke’s stomach cramps.
“Fire the tank,” Jada suggests.
“What!?”
“It won’t be effective,” Jorden says.
“I don’t want you to shoot the undead. Blow up that tree about a half mile down the road.”
No Room In Hell (Book 3): Aftershocks Page 1
