Nurse Alissa vs. the Zombies | Book 3 | Firestorm

by Baker, Scott M.

  Nurse Alissa vs. the Zombies III:

  Firestorm

  Scott M. Baker

  Also by Scott M. Baker

  Novels

  Nurse Alissa vs. the Zombies

  Nurse Alissa vs. the Zombies: Escape

  Shattered World I: Paris

  Shattered World II: Russia

  Shattered World III: China

  The Vampire Hunters

  Vampyrnomicon

  Dominion

  Rotter World

  Rotter Nation

  Rotter Apocalypse

  Yeitso

  Novellas

  Nazi Ghouls From Space

  Twilight of the Living Dead

  This Is Why We Can’t Have Nice Things During the Zombie Apocalypse

  Anthologies

  Cruise of the Living Dead and other Stories

  Incident on Ironstone Lane and Other Horror Stories

  A Schattenseite Book

  Nurse Alissa vs. the Zombies III: Firestorm

  by Scott M. Baker.

  Copyright © 2020. All Rights Reserved.

  No portion of this publication may be reproduced, stored in any electronic system, or transmitted in form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopy, recording or otherwise, without written permission from the authors.

  This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to any actual person, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Cover Art © Christian Bentulan

  Table of Contents

  To xxxx

  Chapter One

  The small town the convoy entered seemed like so many others they had passed through during the last two months – either quiet and desolate, or overrun by the living dead. Those in the convoy would find out in a few minutes whether this town was clear or infested. Chances were fifty-fifty which, for Todd Dickson, were good odds. If a deader town, they’d plow right through. If vacant, they’d stop and replenish. The same procedures his team had followed since leaving Buffalo.

  Nora Robbins watched the scenery pass from the passenger seat of their Hummer H3. “Where are we?”

  “How the fuck do I know. What am I, a fucking GPS?”

  “You don’t have to be a dick about it,” Nora huffed. She took the radio off the dashboard and keyed the microphone. “Jack, what town are we in?”

  “Waitsfield,” replied Jack Carter from the lead vehicle, a red Silverado 1500.

  “Are we still in Vermont?”

  “As far as I can tell.”

  “Give me that.” Dickson grabbed the radio, twisting it out of Nora’s hand, and keyed the talk button. “What’s the fucking deader situation like?”

  “Nothing so far.”

  “Good. If you see a good spot to pull over, do it.”

  “Roger that, boss.”

  Dickson tossed the radio back on the dashboard.

  Nora massaged her fingers. “That hurt.”

  “Don’t be such a bitch.”

  “You know I hate it when you call me that.”

  “You’re welcome to switch places with Diana if you want.”

  “That’s okay.” Nora lowered her head and focused her gaze out the window.

  “I didn’t think you would.”

  Nora had been more of a pain in the ass than an asset. They had picked her up a week or so after the clusterfuck in Henrietta when he needed new people, no matter who they were. He didn’t expect much from her at first. She was only five feet two inches, in her early twenties, and a bit of a princess. Though not unattractive, she had that rough appearance of someone who has lived a hard life. She caught on quickly, learning how to use a firearm and a bladed weapon, how to effectively take down a deader, and how to be cold and hard to survive. Still, Nora remained the least capable of the team and constantly mouthed off, but she would do until someone better came along.

  As the convoy entered town, it passed by the usual: residences, a florist, a cable company, an elementary school. But no humans or deaders. They hadn’t come across anyone in several weeks. The living had either been eaten, become deaders, or, most likely, gone into hiding, which sucked. His team could always use more people. He couldn’t blame them, though. The deaders were fucking horrendous to deal with. They had learned that the hard way outside of Rochester.

  Dickson tried to repress those memories, which was futile. He’d never forget their attempt to escape the nightmare that engulfed Buffalo. Sure, they had planned on taking advantage of the situation. Why not? No one had ever given a shit about them, so now they looked out for themselves. But first, they had to make it to safety. Dickson thought he’d been smart by avoiding Rochester, the next big city east of Buffalo. However, not smart enough. He had chosen a major road that passed south through Henrietta, the bed and breakfast community for the city, and a location swarming with deaders. Twenty of them entered Henrietta. Four came out. Deaders got the rest: eleven friends, his two brothers and sister, his mother, and his fiancée. He would never forget their screams as the living dead tore them apart and devoured them alive. The arrogance of the two cops who drove by and didn’t bother to help. And that fucking bastard who stole the Jeep from his younger brother, making his own escape and leaving Tommy behind to die. Since then he had played it safe, staying on back roads, avoiding cities and large towns, and always planning for the worst.

  The lessons had been learned -- the hard way. Their numbers had fluctuated since Henrietta, never coming close to matching the original twenty. Only himself and his best friend Stratman remained from the original group. They had survived and would eventually find a good place to settle down, somewhere isolated, defendable, and well stocked. Then he could concentrate on building up their ranks and making sure that, whenever this fucking apocalypse ended, he’d be in a position where no one would be able to push him around again.

  The Silverado pulled off the road and into the parking lot of the Mad River Valley Ambulance Service. Dickson chuckled to himself. Damn, how appropriate.

  Dickson pulled up alongside the Silverado. Carter climbed out of the pick-up. A burly guy, he stood six feet two inches in height and weighed close to two hundred and forty pounds, all of it muscle. With his curly red hair and beard, and the flannel shirt, Carter reminded Dickson of a lumberjack. Except a lumberjack didn’t carry an AK-47 and wear a .357 Magnum and a hunting knife on his belt.

  From the passenger seat, Tom Williamson came around the front of the Silverado and joined Carter. Dickson didn’t want to bring Williamson along. The kid was a scrawny punk, not even twenty years old, who used to bully the other kids in high school, thinking that made him tough. They ran into Williamson hiding out in an abandoned truck stop in upstate New York. The kid gave them shit about how he owned the place and warned them to fuck off or else. The “or else” wound up being a fifteen-minute ass kicking by Carter. After that, the kid became more cooperative. Carter had taken a liking to him because the kid took his beating like a man, never once crying or begging Carter to stop. Afterwards, he asked that Williamson be allowed to join the gang, and Dickson reluctantly agreed. Williamson wasn’t tough, smart, or useful in any way, but he was pliable, and as such agreed to do a lot of the dirty work for Dickson, which made him handy to have around.

  “Why’d we stop?”

  Carter motioned toward the service center. “I saw three ambulances parked behind the building. I thought there might be something worthwhile in there. Besides, I need to take a leak.”

  “Do what you have to.” Dickson nodded. “I’ll get our little gophers.”

  He and Nora strolled across the parking lot as the last vehicles in the convoy pulled in --
a black Mercedes-Benz Sprinter cargo van and an old, rusty, banged up 1999 Chevy 2500 pick-up truck with a decrepit cap covering the bed and a mismatched right front fender still coated in primer. Elaine Vasco climbed out of the Sprinter. They had picked her up five weeks ago handcuffed in the back seat of an abandoned New York State Police car, malnourished, dehydrated, and wallowing in her own piss and shit. She had claimed the cops had arrested her for turning tricks to support her drug habit and then, in transit, left her when the deaders attacked. Dickson didn’t buy it. Elaine did not act like a strung-out junkie. Besides, so many weeks into the apocalypse, the cops wouldn’t be wasting their time on a street whore. It didn’t matter. Elaine wanted to join, and he needed an extra body. They got her a shower, a new change of clothes, and nursed her back to health. Elaine waited by the van. She stood five feet six inches, now a little paunchy around the waist and face, with short dark hair and a face and body that wouldn’t turn many heads.

  Stratman leaned out the window of the pick-up. Six feet in height, Stratman sat crammed in behind the wheel of the Chevy. Clean shaven, close cut blonde hair, and sporting handsome features and piercing blue eyes, he had been a ladies’ man in school, even with a few bitches who didn’t want it. Not that Dickson cared. Stratman had always been loyal. They had been through a lot of tough times together and would see this one through as well.

  “Everything okay?” Stratman asked.

  “No problems. Carter found some ambulances he thinks might contain some useful supplies.”

  “Let me guess.” Stratman opened the door and slid out onto the pavement. “You want the gophers.”

  “Just the asshole. We’ll let the bitches and the kid get some air.”

  Elaine rushed over to the back of the pick-up. “Can I get him out? I still owe him for mouthing off to me last time.”

  Stratman tossed her the keys. Elaine unlocked the cap, raised the lid, and lowered the tailgate. She leaned over and smiled. Dickson could only describe it as malevolent.

  “Morning, dickless.” Reaching in, Elaine grasped onto something and dragged out a man in his thirties by his leg. She pulled him off the truck and let him fall. He hit the back of his head on the tailgate and landed hard on the pavement, moaning in pain. Elaine leaned over again and motioned with her hand. “Come on. You, too.”

  A woman in her thirties crawled out next, sliding along the tailgate and carefully lowering herself to the ground. Once out, she helped her two children, a young girl no more than nine and a boy almost fourteen. The woman went to help her husband, but Elaine pushed her back against the pick-up. Reaching down, Elaine wrapped her right hand around the man’s handcuffs and yanked him to his feet, ignoring his cry of pain.

  “Stop whining. No one likes a snowflake.”

  “You could be more careful.”

  “Shut the fuck up, dickless.” Elaine moved her hand as if about to punch the man.

  “That’s enough.” Dickson walked up to them. Elaine backed off. Dickson removed the key, undid the man’s handcuffs, and slid both into his pocket. “There are some ambulances behind the building. I need you to rummage through them for supplies.”

  “You promised to take care of us.”

  Dickson ignored him, not even bothering to face the man as he talked. “When you’re done with the ambulances, check out the building itself and see if there’s anything there we could use.”

  “My family hasn’t eaten in days and we’ve not had anything to drink since yesterday morning. My family have peed themselves because you won’t let us out to go to the bathroom.”

  “After that’s taken care of, we’ll stop for a short break.”

  The man said nothing. Dickson met his gaze. “Why aren’t you moving?”

  “I’m not going anywhere until my family gets—”

  Dickson removed a Colt 1911 from his shoulder holster, placed the barrel against the man’s face, and fired. The round ripped off the top of his head. His family gasped but did nothing, staring in shock at the upright body. It teetered a moment before collapsing, the wound gushing blood onto the pavement. The young girl held her older brother, averting her eyes away from the scene, wailing. The woman rushed forward and knelt by the body of her husband, caressing his chest and sobbing.

  “No, Bobby. No.”

  Dickson reholstered the Colt. “Mrs. Taylor, I hope you were listening to the instructions I gave your husband. I don’t like repeating myself.”

  “You didn’t have to kill him, you fucking bastard!” she screamed, spittle and snot flying from her lips.

  Dickson grabbed Diana by the ponytail, yanked her away from her husband, and slammed her against the side of the pick-up. Before she could respond, Dickson shoved his right knee between her legs, pushing them aside, and pressed his body against hers. He still clutched the ponytail. Leaning close, he whispered in her ear.

  “You don’t want a recurrence of your first night with us, do you?”

  Her hands covered her groin and she mumbled, “No.”

  “And you don’t want the same thing to happen to your daughter, do you?”

  Diana shot her head up, her eyes pleading. “Please don’t.”

  “Then what is it I need you to do?”

  “Y-you need me to check the ambulances for supplies.”

  “And?”

  Diana tried to think. Dickson yanked on her ponytail, causing her to gasp.

  “And?”

  “And you want me to check inside the building.”

  “Good girl.” Dickson let go of the ponytail and lightly patted her cheek. He stepped away. Diana slid down the side of the pick-up and cried.

  “Jim, go with her and provide cover.”

  “Why me?” protested Stratman. “I need to go take a shit.”

  “Fine, let Williamson do it.”

  Williamson moved up beside Diana and urged her to come with him. She had her head bowed, sobbing into her hand, and didn’t see him. He reached down and gently touched her shoulder. Diana slapped his hand out of the way. Williamson grabbed her jacket and dragged her to her feet, ripping the fabric in the process. Shoving her in front of him, he placed his hand on her back and pushed.

  “Hurry up, bitch.”

  The two children called out and went to follow their mother. Elaine placed herself in front of them. “You stay here and don’t give me any trouble. Got it?”

  The teenager hugged his younger sister and protected her, but backed off, leaning against the tailgate.

  Dickson smiled. He’d let the others handle things for the next few hours. For now, he would grab some lunch and maybe take a nap before they hit the road again.

  Chapter Two

  14 February

  What a wonderful surprise this morning! For Valentine’s Day, Kiera and Little Stevie gave each of us hand-made cards. I knew they had been making them for their parents because they had been asking me for supplies for the past week. I hadn’t expected to get one myself, and neither did Nathan. They also made one for Chris. We’ll deliver his later today. When I asked Kiera why she and Little Stevie had given us one, she replied, “Because you’re family now.”

  Steve’s wounds are healing. He’ll have reduced mobility for a while but, within a few weeks, will be up and about again. One good thing is that Steve, Miriam, and the kids have come closer together as a family. They play board games each night after dinner, Miriam reads to Little Stevie every day, and they both make the kids keep up with their learning, though it’s difficult without textbooks. They seemed to have dealt with the trauma in their own way. It’s so good to hear them laughing, joking, and having a good time.

  Nathan and I have gotten a lot closer. We have late night talks, usually involving wine, where we reminisce about Nahant when we were kids and tell each other our life stories after graduation. If I had been this close to Nathan in high school who knows what would have happened.

  Chris has become a regular visitor, which none of us mind. He’s even spent a few nights sleeping
on the couch. We all like Chris. He’s great with the kids and tells funny stories. Shithead is still terrified of Archer. I’m hoping after a bit they’ll start to get along.

  When I started writing this journal, I thought I’d be writing in it every day, recording daily adventures. The Chronicles of Apocalypse Alissa. It would have made a great movie. Instead, I experience brief moments of intense violence and terror that, afterwards, are too emotionally upsetting to put onto paper. The rest of the time we sit around battling boredom and cabin fever which, in their own way, can be as dangerous as a horde of deaders. My grandfather served as a marine during World War II. I remember him telling my father one night that he didn’t know which was worse, the few days or weeks of combat when they stormed a Japanese-held island or the interminable months in between waiting for the nightmare to begin again. Now I understand what he meant.

  Nathan has been doing a good job keeping us ready for what’s coming next. Every day he trains us, including Chris, in the things he learned at the police academy: target practice, hand-to-hand combat, and how to strip and clean our weapons. Steve participates only in the firearm training. Nathan’s not doing it to make us soldiers, which is never going to happen. He’s doing it to make us confident and to keep us geared up for whenever we run into the living dead again.

  The hardest part is dealing with the changes in our day-to-day lives. I know that sounds petty. People, families, entire generations are being eaten alive. Society across the globe has collapsed. Every individual has been impacted by this outbreak. Yet here I am whining about how the apocalypse disrupts my daily routine. What a pathetic bitch, right? But anyone who survives this crisis will understand what I mean. Sure, there have been natural disasters and pandemics that have disrupted the lives of millions of people before – Chernobyl, Hurricane Katrina, Ebola outbreaks in Africa, tsunamis in Thailand and Japan. Those were localized events that had little impact throughout the rest of the world. Nothing on this scale has taken place since the flu pandemic of 1918 to 1920. It happened before. We should have realized it would happen again. We should have learned from the past and been prepared for something like this.