Epidemic of the Undead: A Zombie Novel

by P. A. Douglas

  “Then what is it?” Brady asked.

  “Along with me and Jesse, a few of us are planning to go out first thing in the morning.” Phillips set the map down and sat against the desk. The sound of hard rain finally coming down against the trailer’s tin roof reverberated inside its four walls. “We need someone we can trust to keep everyone calm. We have already talked this over with Father Clark and plan to have a meeting in the morning before we leave. We want to know that it’s okay to syphon gas from your car as backup fuel and that you can hold down the fort. You would be introduced at the meeting tomorrow as the man in charge.”

  Phillips eyed Brady with hard glare. The room grew quiet while everyone waited for Brady to speak up.

  Brady nodded. “And weapons…What ya’ll plannin’ to take? We gonna get left with somethin’?”

  “We will leave enough firepower. No need to worry with that. There are only four of us going out. Based on what the transmissions have revealed, the National Guard isn’t that far away. If we can get in one of the cars and outside without letting to many of those things get in here, it should only take an hour at best to get to the National Guard. They are somewhere on the other side of Beaumont, currently helping clear out one of the malls. It sucks that it’s raining, because the big issue is getting the main gate thinned out before we drive away. That was something we planned to do tonight. We hope to try corralling most of their numbers around the school grounds to the rear of the property.” Phillips looked at Chris. “Father Clark told me about how you got Brady off of his roof, and it worked when we let you guys in, so we plan to try it now.”

  The room grew quiet. The sound of rain began to pick up outside.

  “So can we count on you, Brady?” Phillips leaned forward to shake Mr. Bingham’s hand.

  “I don’t see’s much of a problem with it, I guess. All’s I got to do is keep the peace. I can manage. I’d just ask that you fella’s get back to us soon.”

  “Then it’s settled,” Phillips said. He shook hands with Brady. “I knew you would come in handy, Mr. Bingham. It does mean a lot that you are willing to work with everyone. Honestly, at first, I thought you guys were going to be a bit of trouble.” Phillips smiled at Brady and Chris.

  “Same.” Chris mumbled with a grin.

  “What’s that?” Phillips asked.

  Jesse laughed. “He doesn’t mean anything by it, Phillips. You aren’t the best with first impressions.”

  “Nah . . . you seem cool or whatever,” Chris grinned. “I just don’t much care for the lack of weaponry. You do recall taking away my gun, right?” Chris’ voice had a hint of sarcastic annoyance as he sat looking up at the red headed cop.

  “Now, son.” Brady patted Chris on the knee. “I don’t like it much either, but Phillips here is on our side.”

  “I know,” Chris said. “I’m just stressed the hell out with everything going on. You can ignore me. I’ll get over it sooner or later. Just restless thoughts and nerves.”

  “Yeah, I think we all feel that way,” the man standing next to Jesse said. Chris had never met this guy and didn’t remember seeing him at the meeting. It was clear as day that he was one of the cops working with Officer Phillips. He wasn’t dressed in blue like officer Irish-freckle-face, but something about the way he carried himself just screamed cop. Moreover, that ridiculous goatee he had, said nothing but inexperienced police.

  “Never did get your name,” Chris said, as he stood up to shake the unfamiliar man’s hand.

  “Names are irrelevant. I’m like everybody else. Just trying to stay alive.” The man scratched his dark chin hair. “You can just call me Gil, though.”

  Before the introduction could get any deeper with Gil, a loud thud jolted everyone attention toward the front door of the trailer. It startled them all.

  “What the hell was that?” Jesse said.

  The noise happened again. Everyone in the room watched as the door jitter from the sudden bump. Brady and Jesse reached for their guns. Chris suddenly felt the need for a gun more than ever, but Phillips seemed unalarmed.

  “Should be Father Garcia. Told him we would be talking with you,” Phillips said, looking over at Brady.

  Phillips walked over and opened the door. The sound of rain became much louder and it was no longer muffled by the closed quarters of the trailer. Even though it was still about an hour before full sundown, it was almost pitch black outside. The rain came down heavy, the shadowy figure standing before Phillips right outside the door was drenched. Chris was sitting on the couch and saw the man at the door looked as if he were injured.

  “Who is it?” Jesse asked.

  “Father Garcia, are you all right? Come in, come in! You’re soaking wet.” Phillips stepped back to let the priest in. The room was already a snug fit, but could hold one more body, at least for a minute, while they went over what they planned to do to corral the dead to the back of the school.

  Father Clark’s black clothing was soaking wet and covered in mud. As he staggered into the trailer, something was very wrong. Something red pooled the carpet as he stepped in. It was leaking from his hand, or what was left of it. It was mangled into minced meat. It was as if something or someone had gnawed it to the bone. Water from the soaked priest’s clothes quickly drenched the trailer’s carpeting. The rain outside was still falling heavy. The crash of thunder kicked in the distance. The priest let out a guttural moan that alarmed everyone in the room. His head reared back with white milky eyes and snarling, blood covered teeth. Red pulsated in a watery cascade of chunky pus from a very wide-open gash on the holy man’s throat. Blood was smeared all over the Hispanic man’s clean-shaven face. A deep scratch type laceration bled from his left ear down to his chin. The wounds were fresh. The white clerical collar was no longer white, but a dark crimson.

  The priest was dead.

  Chapter Ten

  Whoever had killed Father Garcia Clark definitely did a number on him. Although his wounds were fresh, he already reeked from the stench of iron-filled blood and mutilation. His head swayed limply with each step forward. Something was wrong with his neck. Contorted, it bent at an odd angle. Drool and a mixture of blood slurped down from his busted, raw lips. Chris’ first reaction wasn’t to react at all. Instead, his first thought was something green. The green jacket Nan was putting on in Mr. and Mrs. Bingham’s master bedroom sparked in his head like a faint light memory bulb. Chris glared at Brady with shock. Chris could see in Brady’s face that the old man was not at all thinking the same thing. He hoped with all he had in him that Mrs. Bingham was simply sick and nothing worse had happened to her. Then again, if it wasn’t her that had done this to Garcia, then maybe the dead had finally found a way in, which definitely would be worse.

  “Phillips!” Jesse shouted from across the room.

  The undead holy man reared his head toward Jesse from the doorway and snarled with rage.

  Officer Phillips jumped away from the door, hitting his back against the wall as the dead priest shuffled all the way into the trailer. No one did a thing. They all just watched in horror as the florescent lighting overhead illuminated the slumped, stiff corpse. His undead presence shocked everyone into utter disbelief. The dead Hispanic man was missing his right ear. That side of his face and head was covered in his scarlet plasma. Matted black hair, some of which had been pulled free from the scalp, stuck to his cheek and chin. On the opposite side of the missing ear, the wide gash reaching down to his chin leaked red liquefied chunks. His features were grotesquely distorted from whoever had attacked him. It was to the point that he was almost unrecognizable. His head cocked back in a violent contortion of the fractured neck. His eyes went wide as a brutal grunt bellowed forth from his undead lips. His arms stretched out toward Phillips, who was still pinned against the wall.

  “Fucking shoot him!” Chris shouted, as he jumped to his feet starting to back away. His footing felt soft against the fluffy couch cushions as he climbed over Brady to get away.

 
; Philips reached for his side arm, but it was too late. The priest lunged toward Officer Phillips and grabbed hold of his arm and the front of his blue police uniform. Phillips screamed, falling to the floor against the wall. He tried to wrestle his sidearm free. Garcia in all of his undead glory went down with the officer snapping his teeth with eager anticipation. The sounds of grunting and gasping protest quickly swallowed up the room’s fluorescent hum. Phillips’ scream turned into a rasping wheeze. Blood from the priest’s mangled hand smeared across the officer’s face as the zombie continued to wrestle him on the ground. Phillips couldn’t get his gun free, because reaching for it would risk letting the ghoul’s teeth get too close for comfort.

  “Somebody! Snap the fuck out of it and shoot his ass!” Chris grabbed Jesse by the arm and shook him hard. If Phillips hadn’t taken my damn gun from me, this would be over already. Chris looked back to see Phillips still thrashing on the floor with the zombie.

  Before Jesse had time to snap out of it and react, Brady was up and at the ready. His bulky rifle was hard to swing into position in the small confines of the cramped trailer, but he made do and knocked the radio off the table. The receiver crashed to the ground with a jarring thud. As Brady raised the rifle to fire, butt of the gun to his flannel covered shoulder, Phillips cried out in pain. Something snapped inside the red headed Irishman and everyone heard it. It was as if a twig broke in two. The strength of the dead priest’s jaws was such that it had snapped the officer’s boney hand.

  Hearing that sound made Chris weak at the knees. His heart felt like someone suddenly reached in and squeezed it with his bare hands as hard as he could. The creature’s teeth had met flesh. Just as Garcia violently ripped free a large portion of the Irish officer’s right hand, a single shot rang out. The rifle’s report sounded much like the thunder that was beginning to roar outside amongst the falling rain. Except this was much louder. In the confined trailer space, the blast was deafening. Blood and loose black hair slapped across the wall beside Phillips with the rifle’s loud report. The ghoul slacked limp on top of Phillips from the direct shot to the side of head. The bullet went through the gaping hole that had been Father Clark’s missing ear. The close range encounter sent the bullet out the other end of the priest’s head. The holy tissue that exited with the bullet was soft and rancid with red solid lumps. Chunks of meat and matted black hair that had splashed and stuck like wet noodles against the wall and the floor.

  “What the fuck?” Chris screamed. “Have you all lost it?” He shoved Jesse on the arm. “I want a fucking gun right here and now! What the hell were you doing just standing there like that? Phillips needed you!”

  “What the hell just happened?” Jesse whispered under his breath, still in disbelief.

  Phillips was in such a state of shock that he lay there bleeding from the bite. That one chomp had been all it took. Garcia’s dead body still lay on top of his chest as he sat shaking with fear. With his bloodied fingers in the air, he cradled his arm with his good hand. Blood freely ran down his arm as he lay trembling against the wall next to the couch. Three of his fingers were missing. Chris imagined that some of the missing meat was still sitting in the dead priest’s mouth, but it was pointless now. Phillips was a dead man and everyone knew it. One bite is all it took.

  “Fuck me,” Gil said, stroking his goatee with one hand. “Please tell me those things didn’t break in!” He frantically eyed everyone else in the room with concern. “Shit…those things, got in here. Shit man, what are we going to do…what are we going to do?”

  “Be quiet!” Brady whispered.

  Brady kicked the dead priest off of Phillips, then immediately went to the open door, his rifle at the ready. He stuck his head out for a second to look around. He must have been pleased with what was outside, because he turned back, looked at Chris and nodded. There was no other threat out there.

  “Grab him, Chris.” Brady pointed at Father Clark’s cold and lifeless corpse.

  Chris walked over, helping Brady drag the dead wet body across the floor to the door. Chris did most of the lifting, but the short Hispanic holy man wasn’t all that heavy. They tossed the body outside and then both stepped back into the trailer quickly. Brady shut the door. His gray hair was already wet from only the few seconds in the rain.

  “It’s comin’ down out there.” Brady ran his fingers through his wet hair.

  Chris stepped over to help Phillips. The cop was still awake, but he was definitely not with them. His eyes drifted. “Shit, man…is there anyone else out there?” Chris looked up at Brady, then back to the dying cop.

  “I didn’t see nobody else.” Brady double-checked, as he bent back the blinds on a window next to the front door. “Nothin’ that I can see. It’s pretty dark out there.”

  “Somebody, give me something to wrap his hand with,” Chris demanded. “He’s bleeding to death!”

  “Like that matters now,” Jesse argued. “He’s done for!”

  Brady glared at Jesse, pulling a thin white hanky from his back pocket giving it to Chris.

  “Well, he’s right,” Gil said between biting his fingernails.

  The hanky was instantly soaked red from Phillips’ gnashed and tattered hand. Phillips’ eyes were wide with terror. He looked down at the bloodied extremity. Chris could only guess what the man was going through emotionally and mentally. Chris was scared enough for the cop and knew it couldn’t compare. He didn’t even want to think about how scared he would feel if it was him sitting there with missing fingers. Just dwelling on the fact made him queasy. It was only a matter of time, though. He couldn’t run forever. As he tried what he could to comfort Phillips, he thought he saw Mark looking back up at him, and not the red headed officer.

  I’m sorry, Mark. I didn’t know. I just didn’t know it was going to be like this. Chris’ thoughts were shaken into reality when his hands started to soak with blood. The cloth was soaked and the blood was starting to get all over his hands.

  “This isn’t going to do the job,” Chris shouted.

  As he sat there making demands to help the officer, he realized that something. When he needed to act, he did. He wasn’t flipping out or anything. He was doing was needed to be done.

  A shirt hit him in the face right after he said that. Chris looked up to see that Jesse wasn’t wearing his shirt. His tribal ink covered arms weren’t the only tattoos that the brute of a man had. His chest was also covered with the same crazy designs of black sharp swirls and spikes. Chris thought of that silly vampire movie called Blade. He just shook his head and returned his attention to the injured officer. The cop was losing it. His head cocked back and his eyes began to roll back in his head.

  Phillips fainted.

  Wrapping the shirt as tightly as he could around the wound, Chris got the bleeding to stop. He didn’t know why he was even trying; he knew better. Phillips was a goner. It would only be a few minutes before he got up and started attacking everyone else in the room.

  After a moment, everyone stood together, looking down at Phillips in silence. Between Brady, Chris, Jesse and a frightened Gil, everyone was stunned. It had all happened so fast.

  “What the hell do you think happened?” Jesse asked finally breaking the silence.

  “The fence . . . they got in! We are so screwed!” Gil looked like he was ready to start pulling out his hair, because he was so stressed.

  “Calm down, dude. I sure as shit hope you’re wrong, but I seriously doubt it. Their numbers out there are off the chain. In the hundreds. If they had gotten in, we would already be blocked into this stupid trailer waiting to die.”

  “Chris is right,” Brady said. “Somebody who was already inside the school may’a been infected when they came in. Could’a finally turned.”

  “Well, I hate to break it to you, but you guys were the last ones to get here!” Jesse pointed at Brady and Chris. “So with that, explain this to me then!” Jesse looked down at Phillips and the bloody mess that was the priest’s splattered
brains. There was blood everywhere. “One of your people is the infected. That’s how it goes!”

  Gil was still pulling at his hair and nibbling on his fingernails with agitation. Chris had just met the man and already hated him. The guy was freaking Chris the hell out. Sure, things were not looking good at all, but at least Chris was trying to keep a level head. This guy was freaking out, which raised the stress level in the place and nobody needed that right now.

  “Sounds like the only other plausible explanation,” Jesse continued. “If it isn’t the two of you . . . then that leaves the blonde, the injured kid and your wife, Brady.”

  Chris sighed heavy, looking at Brady. For the first time, he felt like the old man knew it was true, but didn’t want to admit it. Something in the redneck’s eyes came across defeated, useless. Maybe he had known all along that it was Nan. There was only one way to find out and Chris knew they were about to have to do that very thing.

  “If those things haven’t gotten in, we know for sure that Father Clark wasn’t sick more than an hour ago. So that tells me that there are going to be other un-friendlies we need to worry about. If we are going to do something about it, we need to act fast before things get out of fucking control.” Chris spoke with confidence. He even surprised himself. This wasn’t the same Chris from only a few hours before. Maybe he did have what it took to be a winner, to stay alive. Perhaps Father Clark had been right. In tight situations, he was destined to shine. He wanted more than anything for Garcia to have been correct in all of that. Last thing he wanted was to end up like the holy man. He thought of Stephanie and Steve. Surely, she was with Steve at the far side of the school. Where else would she have gone?

  “Well, what the hell we waitin’ on?” Brady cocked another round into the chamber, his rifle firm in both hands.

  “Oh, shit . . . No thanks! I can’t go out there, knowing those things are loose inside the schoolyard,” Gil whimpered. He slumped down on the couch. “I just can’t do it. I’m sorry.”