Table of Contents
Dedication
Acknowledgments
Author’s Note
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
About the Author
Epidemic of the Undead
P. A. Douglas
To my grandma, who I look up to every day. We love you Lena Mae.
Acknowledgments
For this 2nd Edition release of Epidemic of the Undead, my thanks go to everyone at Severed Press, W. F. Morrison IV, Dane Hatchell, Tim Curran, and Sarah Vonkain. With your help we have made this edition something that I can really be proud of.
Author’s Note
Although Beaumont and the Golden Triangle near Orange, Texas are real places, I have taken certain fictional liberties with them. If you live there, don’t look for your favorite downtown bar or the safety of a familiar coffee shop. The world is changing and you won’t like what it brings…
Chapter One
He didn’t come down with the first heavy swing until she’d taken a chunk out of Mark’s neck. Before this thing went down, he had never harmed another human being in his life. He had never even considered it. With a metal bat covered in blood and rank chunks of meat, Chris had committed the unthinkable, the unimaginable, act of violence against another human being.
She deserved to die. But wasn’t she dead already? Did she even have a soul? Was there anything behind those ravenous cloudy eyes that contained a spark of her previous humanity? How was he supposed to prepare for something this horrendous? The world had changed so fast, so unexpectedly.
This disease, plague, or whatever label man would put on it, was reanimating its victims into an endless cycle of cannibalistic fury. Where did the insatiable drive come from? Nothing seemed to slow them down. It had to be a part of the virus, or some dormant gene that activated within the body brought about from the bites. These people, these dead creatures who returned to life, had changed. Everything had changed, not only for those who had succumbed to death, but for everyone who had remained alive. For Chris Commons and his friends, life would never be the same. Nothing would ever be the same… for anyone.
Chris Commons was known for being level headed and calm under pressure. He was a little heavy in the midsection and definitely overweight for his height. Chris stood at a measly 5' 5". His dark brown eyes and scruffy completion matched the name. He was an average looking guy, common. The naturally curly hair didn’t help his appearance either. Although, he had a girlfriend or two in his time, at twenty-three, he found himself too busy for one now. Touring full time was a lot of responsibility, especially when it was all on one person to handle the band’s business. That person was him. The woes and surprises of touring trained him to be resilient when situations changed abruptly. He didn’t allow it to distract him, because he knew better than to have unrealistic expectations. If he found a problem, he easily stepped in the role of the fixer. At times though, even he had to admit, it left him wearing more shoes at the same time, than he cared to. That may have been why he didn’t see it coming, or why he wasn’t ready when it did. He was so wrapped up in the band’s business that he had missed all the warnings along the way.
The first sign things were going awry was with the phone reception. Not long after that, television and radio interference became just as annoying. It didn’t get serious until the real calamity spilled out into the streets. It became the dead against the living, and brother against brother. Chaos clamped down on the cities in an iron grip. Some called it the end of the world. It was Judgment Day and God himself was the one who had thrown the curve ball this time.
“Hey man, what the hell is the big idea here?” Mark waved his arms in the air. “Where the hell is everybody?” He said, shoving both fists into his hips.
“Hey dude, I don’t recall being the one who booked us this gig. You did,” Chris said.
Chris stepped down from the side door of the converted cargo van onto the parking lot. He and his cousin, Mark, shared the vehicle that was used as a home away from home for the band. The insides had been gutted and a foldout bed installed. This still allowed for plenty of storage for gear and clothes. It even had a working sink and a window a/c unit that came in handy for those hot summer nights. Sure, the van had its unreliable moments, but what 1991 GMC didn’t?
“Mark, are you sure you talked to the promoter and got us on the right date?” Chris asked, as he approached Mark. “Look dude, if I’m going to start delegating some of the band responsibilities like you wanted, you’re going to have to start getting us real shows. We spent at least . . . .” Chris looked back toward the parked van. “Hey . . . Steve!”
Steve’s head popped out of the window, his face still tight from a rough sleep. He rubbed his eyes with one hand and made a wide animated yawn. He had slept most of the drive, which was par for the course. His long brown hair stuck to his warm drool covered chin. Steve was tall and thin, and had just turned twenty-two. The jeans he wore were form fitting. Others had accused him of wearing girl jeans, but they weren’t. To complete his look, he wore thick-rimmed glasses that appeared rather big for his head. Steve was too cool for school. All of the band members were. It was what was expected from musicians. The First Rule of Tour was, ‘Always Keep up Appearances.’
“How much gas did you put in the tank this morning, Steve?” Chris yelled across the empty lot.
“I don’t know, man. I think it was like a hundred bucks or something.”
“Did you at least get a receipt?”
“A what?” Steve began slipping on his shoes, and then stepped out of the van still half-asleep. “We early or something?” he asked, looking around. The van was the only vehicle parked in front of the venue.
“Never mind, man! And yeah, we’re early,” Chris said. Stepping past Mark, and using a sarcastic tone, he said, “A hundred bucks, Mark! A hundred bucks! The gig is barely going to cover our travel expenses.”
Chris Commons loved playing music. He loved doing it for money even more. This band wasn’t working out anything like he expected. It was a folk band made up of his cousin and slacker best friend. It would have been bad enough if Steve’s lack of productivity was the only problem, but he had to deal with his braggart cousin too. He couldn’t remember the last time Steve did anything other than just play the drums.
Mark proved to be a real piece of work. All talk with no real results. Mark bragged continuously that he had some great gig coming together with a bigger band. A record label friend was working up a contract and he was just waiting for that to be complete. It was all just talk. This unoccupied parking lot was a prime example of Mark’s real contribution to the band. His so-called connections had fallen through once again. Chris wondered why he ever agreed to put up with those two.
“At least, the place looks sweet. When’s load in?” Steve asked, as they all stood at the venue’s front door, looking in through the windows.
“Yeah… when is load in, Mark?” Chris glared at his cousin.
Today was Friday for crying out loud. If there was anything, they should have learned in the last three years playing countless shows, hopping state to state, was to never bust on a Friday. Friday was always a major payday that all bands counted on. Funds were getting low and gas prices in the summer were never friendly.
The three just stood there, faces pasted to the windows of the bar, straining to see any s
ign of life. The sun was beginning to fall in the horizon to signal it was getting closer to show time. If this gig was going to happen, load in should have already been going down. Where were all of the other bands or the people to open the bar? Where were the bartenders? Chris knew better. This show was a bust!
“Well, are we just going to stand here or are you going to call the promoter?” Chris sighed, stepped away from the building, as he scanned the surrounding structures.
Yellow and purple hues bled into one another among the clouds, the day had finally started to cool. Today had been a record book scorcher. Across the street from the venue sat a ghetto looking gas station with ridiculous tiger posters plastering the windows. A slightly smaller building called, The Beanery, sat next to it. It appeared that the coffee shop was open twenty-four seven. Mostly parking lots and bars were around the corner, lining the street, as far as he could see. What Chris found odd was how quiet and almost empty the street seemed. Where was everyone? He knew that Beaumont, Texas, wasn’t the most bustling city on the map, but it was Friday. The bars should be teaming with activity. Instead, it looked as if maybe one out of the dozen hole-in-the-wall pubs was lit up. Four cars and a few motorcycles sat parked in front. A large man at least six foot tall, covered in tattoos, stood by one of the bikes having a smoke.
Steve and Mark walked over to Chris.
“Well?” Chris said.
Mark put his phone into his pocket, and then replied, “No signal.”
Chris pulled his phone out and smirked. “Would you look at that? Full bars!” Chris shook his head at Mark. “What’s the promoter’s number?”
“I’ve got full bars too, retard! It’s giving me a weird busy signal or some stupid shit.”
“Yeah, man, me too,” Steve sighed, waving his phone.
“Well…” Chris said, putting his phone away. “Our next show isn’t ‘til Sunday, and it’s really not much of a drive. I’m going to see if that coffee shop has Wi-Fi. I say we just crash here tonight. I’ve done enough driving for one day.”
“So, when is load in?” Steve wondered, scratching his head.
“It’s a bust show, Steve,” Chris said, watching his cousin’s gaze drop to the ground. What was the point? Chris just let it slide.
“Hell, man, that sucks. You don’t bust on a Friday.” Steve said, following Chris back to the van. It was time to retrieve the laptops and backpacks before heading to the coffee shop across the street.
“Yeah, tell me about it.” Chris glared at Mark. This was the third show this month that Mark had botched.
* * *
The coffee shop was a small vintage style building displaying numerous antiques and old timey black and white photos of the local downtown area. The rustic brick interior was remnant of the late 1940’s and the faint scent of sandalwood drifted in the air. A large color poster of Marilyn Monroe stood out of place on one wall next to a sixty-inch flat screen TV. Aside from the three man band, a cute cashier sat behind the bar watching the local news. The place was deader than the proverbial doorknob. Food was a little pricey and the coffee was liquid crap, but at least Wi-Fi was available. If he had his way, the guys would be chilling here for the rest of the night. There was plenty of time to kill between now and the show on Sunday.
Sitting back and enduring his not-too-great cup of Joe, Chris took the opportunity to create a Facebook Event on his laptop and to send out a few tweets. Oddly only about one-third of his over 10k friends were logged in on the internet. He had never seen that before. Thinking it strange, he posted the events to Facebook in hopes that it would help promote the next show. Sunday’s show was a sure thing. He knew that because he was the one that had booked it. Although, he wondered now, if the attendance would be as great as he had hoped. No one seemed to be online.
“Dude, are you guys hearing this shit? Check out the freaking tube, man.” Steve was sitting at the bar, doing his best to score a few points with the cashier and watching the news. He had a knack of getting what he wanted in life. To Chris, it had always seemed that way. Steve grew up under the right roof with the right parents, who spoiled him from day one. That only blurred Steve’s expectations of the real world. It was as if he expected everything handed to him on silver platter. Chris noticed that behind Steve's ridiculously oversized spectacles, he was getting irritated at the cashier's lack of interest in him. She hadn’t even told him her name yet, which made Chris laugh.
The news was reporting a sudden eruption of vandalism and looting in several rural and business regions of town. The television screen showed footage of a large mob of people storming a grocery store. Panicked looters flooded the streets. Vandals were leaving storefronts with flat screen TVs, groceries, clothes, and more. Fights broke out over the merchandise. The rowdier sorts busted in windows on buildings and vehicles. Some of the shops burned in the background. Gunshots blasted off-screen, sending a number of people scattering in the parking lot, amid the chaos.
“Hey guys, are you freakin’ seeing this shit?” Steve glanced over his shoulder, finding both Mark and Chris standing behind him, eyes on the TV.
“Hey, turn it up!” Chris said to the cashier.
“Some crazy shit,” Mark chuckled, eying the attractive blonde behind the counter, as she toyed with the remote.
She nodded, her bright blue eyes not leaving the flat screen. “Yeah, it’s airing the same stuff on all the channels. They’ve been talking about this mess all day long. Where the hell have you guys been, in a hole?”
“Something like that,” Steve said. “We’ve been on the road all day. We just came in from San Antonio.”
“And the roads weren’t congested?” she asked.
“Hell, I don’t know. I was asleep all day.”
“I didn’t notice.” Chris shook his head.
Truth was, he had noticed. The drive had taken two hours longer than it should have. But he thought nothing of it, too focused on finances and if tonight’s show was going to be any good or not.
As shots rang out again, the camera panned past the crowd to three odd looking people leaning over some poor unfortunate on the ground. There was blood everywhere.
“Dude, that guy got shot!” Steve burst out with a snicker.
“Steve, that’s not cool. That could be somebody’s dad or something,” Chris said.
“Somebody’s dad or something…” Steve mimicked with sarcasm. “Dude, sometimes you treat me like you’re my dad.”
“Sometimes, I sure as hell feel like I am,” Chris scoffed. “Occasionally, both of you act is if you are nine frickin’ years old.”
The bartender ran her fingers on the side of her head and moved her platinum blonde hair away from her ear. She grinned at Chris and gave him a casual once over. Her attention returned to the news.
He smiled back feeling a little flustered.
A gun discharging echoed out in the street near the coffee shop.
“Hey, did you guys hear that?” Chris looked over to the front window.
“Hear what, man?” Steve asked.
“It sounded like a gun went off.”
“No, you must be hearing things,” Mark said.
The roaring propeller of a helicopter hummed outside in the parking lot, pulling everyone’s attention from the television. More shots followed.
“I told you I heard something,” Chris said.
Outside, a middle-aged woman bolted across the parking lot, and left their view just as fast as she had appeared. It was the gas station attendant from next door, wearing a once green and white BP vest. Now blood splattered it from top to bottom. Moments later, four others rushed past, heading in the same direction.
Three unseemly characters shuffled into view with arms raised, their clothing covered in grime. They were in determined pursuit.
“What the hell is going on out there?” Steve hopped off the barstool and made his way to the window.
“Hey lady, how far away is that shit that’s on TV?” Chris asked.
&n
bsp; “I don’t know. A couple miles, maybe,” she said. Her long blonde hair shimmered under the overhead florescent lighting. “I’ve been debating closing up all day long. It’s been freaking me out all day.”
“I think it was a couple miles away, man!” Mark looked back at Chris from the window. Next to him, Steve stared in disbelief.
“What the hell do you mean, WAS?” Chris said, walking over.
Outside, the street began to fill with the same brutal scenes displayed on the news. Overhead, a helicopter drifted out of view, high in the distant night sky. A blue Sedan sped down the street squealing to a halt just past the gas station. The vehicle veered sharply, coming to a full stop at one of the service pumps. Then, an armed male and female couple jumped out with weapons drawn. The man disappeared from view and dashed toward the convenience store, while the woman ran around the car toward the pump.
With the moon still working its way to its peak, the night sky filled with the faint specks of distant glistening stars. Washed out by the looming streetlights on every corner, the night didn’t seem as dark. The coffee shop’s neon beer signs hung in the window, giving the sidewalk and beyond a red and green hue.
At the venue across the street, the band’s tour van sat untouched. From one corner of the venue building, several unarmed people shuffled into view. In almost a drunken stumble, they staggered out of the shadows. First, it was a few, but then more than a dozen gathered.
It didn’t take long, but Chris and the others watched from the coffee shop as the odd looking group made their way past the venue and out into the street, heading toward the gas station and the blue Sedan.
“What the hell is wrong with them?” the cashier asked, leaning over Chris’ shoulder by the front window.
Just as she said that, two motorcycles thundered by, passing right through the staggering crowd in the street. Several of the shambling people fell off balance. One of the riders fell victim to the mob, torn from his bike by outstretched hands. The motorcycle rolled unmanned out of view. The crashing screech of the Harley scraping across the pavement rattled the coffee shop windows. Following the crash a woman screamed. More attackers ambled in with the mob, following the bikers.
Epidemic of the Undead: A Zombie Novel Page 1
