Survival Instinct (Book 5): Social Instinct

by Stittle, Kristal

  Confusion eventually gave way to a sinking feeling. As he neared the community centre, he saw an array of pelts on stretchers just outside of it. He thought maybe some cows had been sacrificed to feed everyone, until he realized that the pelts had once belonged to horses. Had they really gotten so desperate for food, that the horses were being eaten? He had seen the two outside pulling the boulder, but no others. He was fairly certain that all the horses had been sent out, ridden by people who were supposed to travel to far away places like him, or pulling carts to communities likely to help without much in the way of an immediate trade. Had they come back already? James stroked Soot’s neck. They could eat the camels before he would let anyone kill his horse, no matter how old and deaf he was.

  Dismounting outside the community centre, James then took the time to remove Soot’s gear. With Katrina waiting out there for the Theatre group, he didn’t feel too rushed. After letting Soot wander off, he stepped inside the building.

  And nearly crashed directly into someone.

  “James!”

  “Evans?” This was even more confusing than the camels. James didn’t think he’d ever see Evans again after the attack on the Black Box.

  “How’s the foot?” the man asked him. Last Evans would have seen of James, his foot had been a bloody and mangled mess.

  “Lost two toes,” James told him. “How’s your… I don’t remember you injuring your leg.”

  “Yeah, that’s fairly recent.” Evans had a bandage wrapped around his leg just above the knee, and seemed to be getting around by using his sword within its scabbard as a cane.

  “Are you sure you should be walking on it?”

  Evans chuckled. “Probably not. But I don’t do well staying cooped up in one place for too long, injured or not. I need to walk, even if it’s just around your place. Don’t tell that doctor of yours that you saw me, or I’m afraid I might end up with more injuries.”

  James stepped aside to let him pass. “Which doctor? We have more than one.”

  “Riley. She can be rather fierce.”

  “I’ve heard. Enjoy your walk. You’ll have to tell me the whole story some time.”

  “I will.” Evans hobbled out into the sunlight.

  It wasn’t difficult to find Crichton inside. He was orchestrating a group of people who were dividing what food there was into equal portions of two different sizes: one for adults and one for kids.

  “Crichton,” James called to get his attention.

  Crichton turned and was clearly surprised to see him. “James. We didn’t expect you back for a long while yet.”

  “White Fang and the Dale are no good,” James said by way of explanation. “Are you really eating the horses?”

  “Not our horses,” Crichton told him. “I still don’t fully understand what happened myself, but apparently we no longer need to worry about any surviving raiders from the Black Box showing up here.”

  “Tell me everything.”

  “You first,” Crichton insisted.

  So James went through the whole story, not skipping any details when it came to the deaths of White, Jack, and Aaron. He did try to condense everything he saw at the Theatre however, figuring that could all be drawn out later.

  “You should have started with the fact that people are waiting out there. Let’s go meet them.” Crichton called for someone else to take over, and then walked with James outside. “You said they brought food? How much?”

  “A lot. At least enough to fill half a container, possibly more.”

  The smile that crossed Crichton’s face was one of genuine relief. “Scavengers can’t find much since the hurricane hit, and while Evans and the people that came with him brought some food, and we found those dead horses, we didn’t think we’d last much longer. We’ve already killed one of the cows that couldn’t produce milk anymore. There are only so many animals to slaughter around here, and many mouths to feed with them. We’re even struggling to feed the animals. Most of them are doing their best to survive on washed up seaweed.”

  “Well, once you see what Vee and her people brought, you won’t have to worry so much. We’ve even been given some seeds, for when that land is ready.”

  “So you think we’ll be all right?” It was the only time James could recall hearing doubt from Crichton.

  James was happy to answer without any. “I think we’ll be just fine.”

  The End

  Read on for a free sample of ZPOC: The Beginning

  Chapter One

  The skies showed signs of clearing; the heavy, low-level cloud finally looking to be on the verge of retreat.

  After six straight days of grey, the cracks started to appear. Sunline breaking through reminding them all that, while the world had gone to shit, the sun still existed. The reality they knew was dead––much like those who hunted them now––but the world itself remained.

  The dead may have risen, but that does not mean all hope is lost.

  Henry Graham repeated this line to himself over and over as he lay in the self-constructed shelter.

  It had been several weeks since the shit hit the fan and the first real cases broke the national media. He could not say for sure, because, well, time no longer had any meaning. There was day and night, survival or death. He knew which one he wanted; for him, and his family.

  Henry gave a grunt, rubbing his calf in an attempt to force away the cramp that threatened to eat through the lower half of his leg. He checked his watch just as the silent alarm sent a pulse through his wrist.

  Unable to ignore it any longer, he placed his weapon, a Remington 700 .308, to one side, and stretched his burning limb. While not a professional by any stretch of the imagination, Henry knew what he was doing. He understood what it took to survive. His entire adult life and a good portion of his adolescence were spent preparing for days like this.

  Sure, he never truly believed it would be the undead who decided to rise up and end the world, but he always knew, deep down, that civilization was fragile.

  It cost him two wives, but they just did not understand. His obsession was not dangerous; it was life-saving. That they couldn’t see it was neither here nor there. Those relationships were things of the past, a past that was not only long since gone but belonged to a different world entirely. Henry wished the women no ill-will. He loved them both very much, to that day he still loved them. He strongly doubted either of them would have survived, especially Cheryl. The levels of naivety she managed to achieve never failed to astound Henry. Her good heart and simple, trusting view of the world, planted her firmly in the first-wave group of the dead.

  Henry took a long sip of water. They had strict rations, but his shift was almost over, and he had plenty of water left in his canteen. Only mildly cool, it refreshed his spirit and brought his mind back to the present. Lingering on memories was a surefire way to get them killed.

  He stared at his watch again. It was getting late; the others should have been back by now. Henry slid back into position and picked up his rifle, settling back down with his focus set on the tree line. He would give them as much time as they needed.

  Taron and Hector left earlier that morning on a scouting mission through the woods. While the group invested their time and energy in creating their safe haven in the time before the world ended, they could never have factored in the power the undead could yield, or the overwhelming strength a moving group generated.

  As a result, they agreed to run a daily check on their perimeter. The precautions they had taken were good but not designed to withstand the impact of a large group. Their daily sweeps ensured anything that got close enough was taken care of before it could form a congregation.

  Even though it was still early days, the patterns had become clear. The dead showed no inclination to work together, but yet congregations of them formed without any rhyme or reason.

  Henry spotted a group of fifty the week before while he was on the edge of town. They were just standing there in the street,
gathered around a crossing like lost tourists. He remembered it because the power was still on, and the traffic light above their heads was stuck on red. Just blinking. He wondered if that had been what attracted them, but none showed any interest in it, so he quickly dismissed the notion.

  The group had not lasted long, after a bunch of survivors tried to make a break for freedom. The scent of a fresh meal reignited their individual desires, and well, the kids never stood a chance. The stumbling, shuffling creatures were just like the monsters in the movies of old. They always caught up with you.

  “That’s the problem with the dead,” Henry had told his son, James, who had joined him for the scouting trip. “They might be slow, but they don’t stop. They just keep moving. Like one of those tsunamis, they just push and destroy.”

  Once again, he shook the image away. He needed to focus. They weren’t playing games anymore.

  With his sight set down the scope of his rifle, Henry waited. They would be back soon, then he could get back to his wife, his son. Despite the fact they were both hyper aware and well prepared for the new world, he did not like being separated from them. True strength was found in numbers, and between them, they each brought something to the table that kept them a fully functioning group.

  Henry sensed the movement before he pinpointed its location. Only a slight rustle, but it was clear. Henry watched the spot, his eyes keen, his finger ready to squeeze the trigger the instant one of them came into view.

  Killing the dead was a strange thing to experience. Those not too badly torn apart had not yet had the chance to rot. They still looked human, and while it was easy to distinguish between them, pulling the trigger still took an effort, a conscious moment of thought. Henry knew that needed to change.

  When the dead rose, killing became a much simpler act. To hesitate, even for a moment, could be the difference between their living or dying.

  The bushes rustled again, parting as the deer entered the cleared space around their shelter. The young doe was small, but she would provide enough meat to see them through for a while, not forgetting the rest of the body.

  Nothing goes to waste in the apocalypse. They had that phrase posted on the wall of the shelter. A basic rule, besides rationing, was taking every safe opportunity to bolster your supplies.

  Henry watched the animal. She stood perfectly still, studying the land, no doubt thankful to have found a patch not filled with the hungry jaws of the swarming dead. Henry knew he could take her out. A single pull of the trigger, a slight movement, given the sensitivity of the weapon, and it would be over. He also knew that it was not his prerogative right now. He had to watch for the others.

  He adjusted his focus once more, directing his eyes back toward the area where he expected Hector and Taron to appear, but not before the arrow pierced the doe’s upper thigh. The animal gave a shriek as it sank to the floor. The arrow had torn through the muscle, leaving the leg useless.

  A second arrow followed; a hurried and loose shot, it gouged open the creature’s flank before nestling into the trunk of a tree. The shot only served to heighten the pitch of the beast’s screams.

  “Goddammit,” Henry cursed under his breath. Turning his rifle, he fired a quick shot, the weapon issuing a quiet whooshing sound as it launched the projectile. The doe’s head exploded with a puff of red mist, silencing the agonized screams.

  Henry was only distracted for a moment, but in that time their two shelter mates returned, bursting into the clearing at a run.

  The first zombie came behind them, stumbling through the trees, a coil of razor wire wrapped around its leg. The wire was embedded in the former human’s limb, and with each lumbering step it took, more and more skin was gouged away.

  If the thing felt pain, it gave no outward sign of it. The creature just kept moving. Until the rifle round blew its rotting head apart. Puncturing it between the eyes, the round tore a grapefruit-sized hole in the creature’s skull.

  The dead man collapsed to his knees, arms outstretched as if somehow in his final moments, he beat the disease and was looking to give thanks for freeing him from his burden.

  Inside the familiar territory of the compound, Hector and Taron stopped, looking back behind them. Taron held his crossbow up, and stared into the woods, while Hector pulled a hunting knife from the sheath on his belt, the ten-inch serrated blade glinting in the sun.

  Inside the hide, Henry kept his focus on the trees, knowing that something else was coming.

  The first head bobbed into view and Henry fired. The spray of mist was enough to tell him the zed was gone. Outside, Hector turned and moved away toward the deer where another dead man appeared, crawling through the bushes, his face a mess of blood from where he had been bitten. His left cheek had been removed, causing his eye to dangle from its socket like a ball on a piece of string.

  It clawed at the carcass, tearing a deep gouge in the doe’s flank. It lowered its mouth to the blood that flowed from the wound, lapping at it like a man emerging from the desert. Hector was fast and slid the blade through the zed’s head, using his foot to push the creature away as he withdrew the blade.

  With the immediate danger taken care of, the two men gave the signal, and Henry left the hide. While he wanted to understand what had happened, he had other business to take care of first.

  With his gun slung over his back and his supply pack in one hand, he strode toward their main shelter and rapped on the door. Three heavy knocks and the door opened.

  “Go easy on him. He was just trying to help,” Vanessa Graham said to her husband, placing her hand on his chest.

  “Honey, I’m not mad, but he needs to understand that we are not playing games anymore,” Henry answered, his voice stern but calm.

  “He’s just a kid,” she said for good measure.

  “I know that, but the world has moved on, and there isn’t a place for kids anymore. If he is going to take a shot at a deer, then he needs to make sure he doesn’t miss, for a start, and to know when it’s safe to take it.” Henry hugged his wife, kissing the top of her head.

  “He’s in his bed,” she said, hugging him back.

  The shelter they had made was predominantly underground, buried within the hilltop. It had taken them years to get it designed and installed, let alone stocked. The shelter was tailor-made for the five of them, with enough room for two more if the two single men were willing to share their beds. While there were no individual rooms, the beds were separated into their own recesses in the wall, with a curtain that could be drawn, giving the illusion of privacy at least.

  James lay on his belly on his bed, a comic open on his pillow. He flicked aimlessly through the pages, certainly not reading, or even recognizing the images crafted onto the page.

  Henry knocked on the wall. “Hey, kiddo,” he said, taking a deep breath.

  “I thought I could take the shot, but … but it moved just before I fired,” James said without turning around.

  “I know you meant well, but you need to realize there’s a time and a place for hunting. That deer was not the priority, and now we wasted a bullet and lost the meat. One of the zeds came through the trees and took it,” Henry explained, keeping his voice as calm and cool as ever.

  A patient man, Henry had enjoyed a career as a psychologist before the world ended. He wrote a column for a national newspaper, not the agony aunt columns, but something far more substantial, both in terms of content and pay. His work regularly appeared in numerous magazines and scientific journals across the globe.

  “I’m sorry, I won’t do it again,” James said, rolling over to face his dad. At eleven years old, James hovered on the edges of puberty and had already started showing signs of the battle that was to come. His moods could change, and his morose back-chat fueled style of interaction with his parents only showed signs of worsening. But, he was a good kid and understood the world around him. As good as anybody could be expected to, at least.

  “No, don’t say that. This world doesn�
�t allow you to be apologetic, James. You make a decision and you move onward. It might be right, it might be wrong, but we do what we do, and the consequences are ours to bear. If you see a deer, I want you to think about taking the shot, and if it is safe, or if circumstances give you no choice, then I expect you to take it. Hunting, killing to survive is key now. Never forget that, all right?” Henry asked, holding out his hand for a high five.

  James obliged, but when the others began to scream, their usual ritual was cut short before they could bump fists.

  “Grab your bow, but stay back with your mother,” Henry ordered as they ran toward the entrance.

  A group of six zeds had made it through the perimeter and had infiltrated their camp. One already lay dead on the ground by the time Henry arrived at the fight. Its head had been split open by Hector’s machete. The man had a range of bladed weapons he was immensely proud of and knew how to use with deadly effect.

  Taron had engaged another, firing a crossbow shot that buried itself neatly between the post-human’s eyes. A doctor in his previous life, Taron was quick, accurate, and deadly.

  With two down, Henry made short work of the distracted zed he took out, evening the playing field. The post-human wore a suit, the expensive material tattered and torn, stained to a hardened crisp with blood. He was missing an arm, which certainly reduced its advantage in a fight, but Henry did not take any chances, stabbing with a quick striking motion. The blade went in and out of the creature’s head, making a sharp, almost crisp sound.

  Henry was away and after another one before the body hit the floor.

  Out of the three remaining, two were women, a fact they had all learned was important. The females, as in a great many species, were by far the more aggressive. There was a strength and ferocity to them that the male post-humans just could not quite reach. Not that any of them would be complacent with the males, they were just as likely to rip an arm off or tear open a body, it was just that the women had that extra edge when it came down to it.