Planet of the Dead (Book 2): War For The Planet of The Dead

by Flowers, Thomas S.

  Finished, Ray heaved his bag on the table next to Tom's. Peeking inside his brother's bag, he giggled and danced a bit with thoughts on the nights drunken debauchery. He giggled and then froze.

  Muffled sounds from the back room.

  "Easy, man," Tom's voice said through the wall.

  "Tom?" Ray called, his smile now completely gone. A cold chill gripped his spine. "What's going on? You okay?"

  Slowly, Tom shuffled into the store from the back room, his hands in the air, teeth bared. His skin was pale and sickly--the way he always got when he was about to barf.

  Leading him out was an older man, the owner, Ray assumed, dressed in blue jeans and a strangely bright, white tank. He was all bald but for the sides of his head. He wore square-framed glasses. A week's worth of stubble grew on his face. And in his arms, he aimed a double barrel shotgun at his brother's head.

  "Oh shit!" Ray blurted.

  "Oh, shit is right, boy," the old man grunted, still walking Tom out to the center of the store. "Thought you could rob me, huh? Dumbasses didn't think to check the backroom first? Idiots!"

  "Fuck you!" Tom snarled. His fingers twitched in his still raised hands.

  Ray glanced at his brother, Tom still had his pistol tucked in the front of his pants.

  "Fuck me? Son, you may want to watch your tone with a man aiming a twelve-gauge at your melon. Just a little more of a squeeze and your mama won't get no open-casket funeral for you."

  Glass crunched at the front of the store, followed by a slow methodical moan. Ray didn't need to turn around to know who; what it was--even if he could turn, he was frozen, for fear or whatever that feeling is that's worse than fear...dread perhaps, or terror.

  "That's just great. You dumbasses shot out the window--now those things are gonna get in here. You break in to my place--my place, not yours. Looters is what you are."

  Tom danced a bit on his feet. Nervous maybe, or desperately wanting to go for his piece, or both. "Yeah, what you going to do about it, call the cops?"

  The old man licked his lips, glancing across the store at the shambling thing making its way farther inside. "I suppose there's no point in that, is there, not with the world coming to an end and all. I suppose with Martial Law in effect, I could just--"

  Tom went for his pistol.

  The old man pulled the trigger on his shotgun.

  A thunderous blast filled the store.

  Bells rung.

  Stars filled Ray's eyes.

  Tom flew through the air--forever it seemed. When he landed, he landed with a wet thud. Ray glared down at what had once been his face. Tom had never been much of a looker, but he sure wasn't one now; now there was nothing but bloody pulp and peeled purple flesh and broken shattered teeth that bloomed outward like some strange alien flower. The shuffling dead thing that had come in, fell to its knees and starting scooping handfuls of souped brain and mushed skin, bone, and blood, eating as if it were a toddler digging into a birthday cake.

  "Dumbasses," the old man said. "Sorry, son..." He aimed the twelve-gauge at Ray, "but in this crazy world, its survival of the fittest. You or me."

  Ray swallowed. Warmth flooded his groin, running down his pant leg.

  All he saw was a blinding flash as the old man pulled the trigger--and nothing else.

  Polk

  Part I

  Shoreacres, Texas

  She kept to the dirt pathway that ran along the main road on business 146, heading north towards Broadway. It was safer to keep off the road. Less of the walking dead, but also less of everyone else. In the weeks that had passed since this all started, since the day Karen told her that her best friend and battle buddy--her brother in arms--Jonny was dead, the world, day by day, didn't seem to be taking this whole apocalypse thing very well. People, everyday normal civilians weren't accepting that nothing was going to be the same again, they held on to some sliver of hope that the powers that be were going to put the world right again. But Polk knew better--there was no resetting the apple cart when the cart was engulfed in flames.

  Who was she to judge?

  It wasn't as if she had taken things rationally.

  Not with an AR15 slung across her back, a decent piece of hardware Polk had found looting around the neighbor's houses in Shoreacres, now riding up a dirt pathway along business 146, heading towards the Shell on the edge of town based on information her dead friend's girlfriend gave her about the guy who was involved in Jonny's death. This--Taj character, who's family ran a franchise of Shell's in the area, including this very one right down the street.

  Oh no, Polk was taking things very rationally.

  Survival or revenge?

  Seems she made her choice, but then again...the fucker had it coming. For what he did--or what Karen thinks he did. They'd all gone to that medical center together. Shit was hitting the fan. People were getting sick, real sick, and there was no sign of any help coming, no help as the CDC had promised. Taj had stupidly gone off to search for his father in the men's restroom in the chaos. And Jonny went after him. What happened next was uncertain. Only that after minutes that Karen described as hours, Taj emerged alone and covered in blood. His eyes, Karen had said, were full of guilt, sadness and fear. He had bolted from the emergency room without a word and when Karen had checked on Jonny to see what was going on, she found him--not quite dead; not quite alive.

  "Shit!" Polk steadied the bicycle with her one arm, with the other she used her spiked prosthetic to help keep the handle bars from wobbling. A car would have been easier, faster. But cars made noise, fuel was unreliable. It was better to be quiet. Draw less attention from those festering shambling dead things. And besides, there were too many of them on the road as it was. Too many people unsure of which direction they were going. Staying or going--always the two. Couldn't there be a third option? Searching, perhaps?

  She turned off the dirt path and onto the main road. As one car nearly clipped her, Polk tried to better keep her head on a swivel, as her team leader had told her countless times on deployment in Iraq. As much as she didn't like making noise, she equally loathed being exposed. On the road like this, especially a main road, there were too many pockets of shadow, too many oncoming panicked people, distant screams, and the growing number of undead to contend for her attention.

  Ahead, she could see the orange and red sign of the Shell gas station. At the pumps, nozzles had been left on the ground. Desperate looters hoping to make a quick exit from the city, she guessed. Polk glided her bicycle into the lot and stopped by the dumpster on the right side of the building. Inside she could see the lights were on, but no movement from within. Unsaddling the bike, she unslung her AR15, keeping the stock braced on top of the prosthetic, the butt of the rifle propped up between her shoulder and arm pit.

  Taking one final look around the lot and pumps, Polk started for the door. The front entrance was one of those electronic sliding doors that opened automatically. Someone must have shoved it open. The electronic gears were humming and clicking as it unsuccessfully tried to close itself. Inside, the store was a wreak. Most of the isles had been looted, bags of various chips, nuts and popcorn lay strewn on the floor. The register lay broken on the floor as well, only pennies remained, like a splatter of copper waste.

  Polk eased toward the counter.

  She didn't come to loot.

  She came for something specific.

  Peering over the edge, satisfied there was nothing hiding on the other side, Polk slung her rifle, hopped up on the counter and jumped down into what would normally be the area clerks stood, ringing up weekend beer drinkers and folks passing through to fill up their tanks and maybe their stomachs with Twinkies or Bugles, or maybe even an ice-cream cone.

  There were discarded scratch-offs and cigarette packs. Kneeling, she pocketed two packs of Camels missed when someone had smashed open the glass case. Still crouching, she glanced over the bottom shelves behind the counter.

  And there it was.

  Her eyes
widened.

  A smile crept over her face.

  She reached for the messenger bag. It was filled with books, Chemistry, mostly. All stamped with Property of UHCL. Tossing the books away, Polk dug deeper, growing more frustrated and impatient by the second. Until finally, stowed in one of the inside pockets, she stopped.

  Pinched between her index and thumb, she stared into the student ID of a tan skinned, dark haired Taj Singh.

  "Fucker..."

  She turned the card over, her smile widening.

  "...I've got you now," she whispered.

  ***

  The ride back to Shoreacres Boulevard was not as uneventful as Polk would have liked. Her typical tactic of keeping quiet was cut short by a passing Chevy who nearly forced her into the bayou. She could only imagine what horridness was floating in there. The pickup was full of half-drunk rednecks, passing through the area most likely as she did not recognize any of the faces that blurred by. Just a pack of assholes looking for a good time. Nothing she wished to find herself a part of.

  As the Chevy passed, kicking up dirt from the bank of the bayou, Polk swerved hard, nearly losing control, but righted herself back on the road.

  Hooting and hollering, the truck of morons skidded to a halt and started to turn about.

  "Shit," Polk hissed, glancing back. She pedaled hard, pushing on the pedals faster and faster, trying to gain speed. All she needed was to make the turn. After that she could ditch the bike behind one of the neighbor's houses.

  She could hear the truck revving, not far behind her.

  They were teasing, calling out.

  Suddenly, tires squealed.

  The Chevy was bounding toward her.

  Polk kicked and pumped her legs.

  Faster and faster.

  But they were gaining.

  "Shit, shit, come on!" Polk sneered. Sweat beaded and ran down her face.

  "Hey there, little girl," one of the assholes cooed.

  Rocks and beer cans pegged the road around her.

  Polk pumped harder, turning with the street.

  The Chevy revved again, inching closer and closer.

  "Where you going, sweetness?" whistled another.

  Ignoring the shambling dead thing in the lawn, Polk leaned hard to her left and jetted the bike across the grass, heading to the back of one of the neighbor's houses.

  "Fuck. Stop. You missed her!" one of the drunken men was yelling at the driver.

  Knowing she was going too fast, Polk laid the bicycle down and rolled off. She lay in the grass, feeling the tumble in her knees, and listened. Waiting to see what they were going to do. Take chase? Or move along. She prayed for the latter.

  The engine was roaring nearby, though she couldn't see them, Polk guessed they were in the driveway, easing down towards where they last saw her.

  "She's down there, in the grass. I can smell her," one of the men were saying to the others.

  "Creep," Polk whispered hotly into the grass.

  The Chevy engine stopped.

  Dead silence.

  All but for the moaning of that shambling dead thing Polk had passed by.

  "Someone kill that, will ya," one of the men ordered. "Jimmy, you get down there and take a look. Hurry up too, I betcha she's already on the other side by now."

  She could hear the springs of the Chevy whine as someone jumped down from the bed of the truck. A round went off and a body crumpled in the grass in front of the house.

  Slowly, Polk unslung her AR15.

  "Hurry up, man. I don't wanna waste the daylight chasing one piece of pussy, you hear me!" the same from before yelled.

  "Yeah. Yeah," another man snorted. She assumed this was Jimmy.

  Polk rested the butt of the rifle between her armpit and shoulder. The stock rested on her prosthetic spike. With her other, she flicked the safety off, aiming at the corner of the house. Listening to the thumping of boots in the grass.

  Closer.

  Closer.

  She rested her finger on the trigger.

  Breathing deep and calm.

  Jimmy turned the corner, looking but not really.

  Polk exhaled and pulled the trigger.

  The report was loud.

  Her ears rang with a sharp bell.

  In front of her, Jimmy collapsed backwards. Itching. And then not moving at all.

  "Holy shit, that bitch shot Jimmy!" a man at the truck screamed.

  More whining from the Chevy's springs.

  More sounds of boots on grass coming closer.

  And closer.

  Someone rounded the corner, a little .38 aiming high.

  Polk exhaled again and pulled the trigger.

  This one whipped around and fell against the house--part of his brain matter sprayed on the once white paneling. His face lay open for the world to see, bloomed outward with puss, blood, and teeth.

  More boots in the grass.

  Shadows encroaching towards the corner of the house.

  Polk lay prone, waiting for a clear shot.

  "Lay off, you dumbasses. Come on!" the man shouted.

  "But she killed Jimmy and Frank, Vince, she's gonna pay," someone near the house shouted back.

  A horn blared. And the man started shouting again. "You ain't gonna get her like that, you fucking retard. You'll end up with a bullet in your head like them fucktards. Now, get your asses in the truck or I'm leaving you behind."

  Some grumbling, but they started back for the truck.

  "We gonna get you, you fucking bitch!" someone shouted, and then the Chevy engine roared back to life. She could hear them backing down the driveway. The driver was honking the horn, over and over. Laughter from what remained of their group, and then they peeled out and drove off down the street.

  Polk remained in the grass for a moment, taking in deep breaths. Her hand started to tremble, the spasm working up her arm and into her body.

  She breathed deep and exhaled.

  Moaning nearby.

  She looked around.

  More of the walking dead shuffled in her general direction. Drawn, she guessed, from the sounds of the gun reports and the truck honking.

  "Noise," Polk groaned, pushing herself up off the grass, "those things follow sound--like some kind of slow moving predator. Hungry. Always hungry."

  Standing now, Polk slung her AR15 across her back. Wishing she hadn't run into those rednecks. The catalyst for all the racket. Not just because of the death, forced into a situation where she had to kill, but also who knew how many of those damn dead things were drawn by the sound of the gunshots?

  One of the shambling things was getting closer. Some man she'd never seen before. Could have been someone in the neighborhood. Shoreacres was isolated, blocked by one of those massive concrete sound dampening walls on one side, and bayou on the other.

  As if smelling the air, smelling her, the dead man groaned. Gnashing his putrid teeth. Just looking at him, Polk estimated he must have been one of the early ones, one of the first that turned in the last couple weeks. Already his skin was starting to show signs of decay, bloating and waxy bluish green. And the smell...the smell was horrid, like rotten eggs. He had a bite mark on his forearm, swollen and dark green. Red puss oozed and dripped on his bathrobe and slippers.

  Holding her breath, Polk stepped forward and impaled her spiked prosthetic through the dead man's face.

  He spasmed, and then fell as she retracted her arm.

  Polk stared at the motionless dead man for a moment, and then upon hearing the others looming closer, she picked up her gear and trotted across the backyards towards home.

  ***

  1017 Forest Avenue looked nearly the same as it did weeks ago when Jonny was still alive, and Polk was just "crashing" for a spell. At least, from the outside. Anyone curious enough to take a closer look would see the windows had all been covered with thick blankets and from the inside visitors would find that all the lower windows had been boarded shut. As well as the doors. To get in, there wa
s a series of climbing, from the AC fence against the house to a brick windowsill to the awning that covered part of the lower deck to one of the sliding windows closeted to the edge. From there, anyone who wanted entry would need to know the special knock.

  Exhausted, Polk rapped her knuckles three times in rapid succession and then gave one final loud knock.

  Nothing.

  No movement from within.

  Polk repeated the practiced passcode.

  Again nothing.

  She looked around.

  At the edge of the property, there were two shamblers moving towards the house. She wondered if they would join the others in the pool--the once crystal blue inground swimming pool that was now dark green with about ten or so of the moaning, gnashing undead. None of them had figured out how to use the steps. Despite the stink, they were a good case study. The turned, these nasties didn't think, driven by baser instincts, unable to solve any sort of complex problem.

  Still, though they couldn't climb to get into the house. Polk hated the attention. The dead may not be able to get inside, but the more of them that herded together on the outside the harder it would be to leave, or worse...they could draw the attention of curious looters passing. Early on in the first week, screams followed by gunshots was not uncommon. There was little doubt in her mind that not all of those were from the walking dead.

  Polk rapped on the window again.

  Finally, the curtain was drawn from the inside. Karen's lined aged looking face glared stoically at Polk. She stood there, just staring.

  "Karen, open up," Polk demanded, trying to keep her voice low.

  Blinking slowly, Karen obeyed and unlatched the window.

  Sliding open, Polk let her AR15 through the window first before climbing in herself. Angling backwards, she stepped down the short ladder and then closed the window and pulling the curtain back together. It was darker inside. Not much natural light was allowed to penetrate the safe place she had tried to make for them.

  Polk paused to let her eyes adjust to the gloom.

  Karen had already retreated to her room--the room Jonny and her shared. Polk followed slowly, approaching the door carefully.