The Zombie Awakening (Complete 6 Volume Series, plus prologue)

by Melton, Cynthia

  In the world they now lived in, they couldn’t even go to the bathroom without taking their gun or running the risk of a zombie attack. Had they broken through the glass because they’d seen her or did zombies not recognize glass as a solid substance? She kicked the shower stall wall.

  Who knew what zombies thought or if they were even capable of coherent thought? Why were some people eaten and mangled beyond all recognition while others wandered in an undead state with wounds that maimed and should have killed, yet they still they got up and roamed?

  Tears streamed down her face. Maybe if she cried hard enough, she could erase the horrors of the last few months. Have them disappear down the drain with the soap and scum.

  She rubbed the burn scars on her wrist. Oh, mama, how I miss you.

  *

  Colton waited for his turn in the shower, watching as the Bill and George hammered in the last nail. Blood ran from George’s hand, bright red against the darker blood of the zombies’. Colton’s stomach turned, and he forced words past a lump in his throat. “You’re bit?”

  “Yep. Got an idea, but needed that barrier up first.” The older man sagged against the wall. “There’s a small hand axe hanging on the wall behind you. Grab that for me, will you?”

  “What are you going to do?” Colton grabbed the axe.

  “Nothing. You’re going to.” George moved into the kitchen and laid his arm across the chopping block. “Make it fast, okay?”

  “What? Seriously?” He couldn’t mean it. Colton’s blood rushed to his head. Stars blinked in front of his eyes. Would it work? Could they stop the advance of the infection by cutting off George’s hand? It’d been fifteen minutes or longer since he’d gotten bit. How fast would the virus travel through his blood stream?

  “Today, son. Otherwise, my idea has less of a chance of working. Bill, hold me steady.”

  Bill wrapped his arms around George and pressed the man against the counter, using his body as leverage. “Hurry, boy.”

  Closing his eyes, Colton took a deep breath and raised the axe. He counted to three, opened his eyes, and thrust downward. George screamed and crumbled to the linoleum beside his hand.

  Bill grabbed a dishtowel and tied it around George’s wrist. “Light the stove, Colton.”

  He didn’t think his stomach could take anymore. He turned on the nearest gas burner.

  “What’s going on down there?” Grandma peered down from the attic. “Can we come down?”

  “Not yet, ma’am.” Bill put his arms under George’s and struggled to get the unconscious man to his feet. “A little help, Colton and Mychal. You two hold him up, and I’ll cauterize the stump. Ready?”

  Colton glanced into Mychal’s wide eyes and nodded. Mychal’s face paled.

  “We’re ready,” Colton said.

  George screamed again, the sound high and piercing, as Bill held his arm to the blue flame until the bleeding stopped. The old man grew heavier as he went unconscious again. The odor of burning flesh filled the kitchen. Colton struggled to hold him upright until Bill said it was okay to let him down. “That’s it, boys. Either he’ll make it or he won’t. Grandma!”

  Grandma climbed down the ladder. She caught a glimpse of George’s still form, then his hand. Understanding dawned on her face. She nodded. “Put him in my bed and tie him to the bedpost.”

  Tension released, Colton snickered.

  “Not funny, young man.” Grandma waggled her finger. “Now is not the time for gutter jokes.” The corners of her mouth twitched. “But it is good to find a reason to laugh, no matter how absurd. Hanna, bring the little ones down and clean up the blood by the kitchen sink. Mychal, please get rid of George’s hand. Have that other boy help you. Toss it on the pile of parts on the mud porch. We’ll burn it all in a bit. If the coast is clear, start dumping it all out by the fence.”

  Colton laughed at the disgusted look on the younger boy’s face. He’d fought like a trooper but looked like he wanted to hurl at the thought of picking up a severed hand.

  Eddy didn’t look much better as he stared at the mound of what were once humans. “How are we supposed to move all this?”

  *

  Mychal stood next to him. “By touching as little as possible.” How were they supposed to know whether anyone was outside if the door and windows were boarded? He opened the door as little as possible and waited for the familiar shuffling and groaning noise. Nothing. “Looks like it’s clear.”

  Grabbing a shovel that someone had leaned against the wall, he started scooping. “You grab the pieces too big for the shovel.”

  “Then I have to touch them!” Eddy frowned. “I’m not doing that. Push it all out.”

  “Wait.” Mychal reached down and grabbed the scabbard for his sword. “I need that. Look, that zombie has a gun belt with a rifle and ammo.”

  “This is real sick, scavenging zombies for weapons. Why didn’t the people use them?” Eddy yanked the gun belt free of the body. “Can zombies sneak up on you?”

  Mychal shrugged. “They must have been overpowered or took sick while carrying their weapons.”

  Strange that the man hadn’t had time to draw his gun or the other man his sword. Had they taken ill from the virus instead, falling asleep with their weapons? Did that mean that any of the survivors could take sick at any time? He started to pull his shirt over his nose and mouth, then stopped when he realized what covered him.

  They couldn’t take sick now. The airborne part of the virus had to have run its course. He wouldn’t think anything else. He couldn’t. Not unless he wanted to go crazy.

  By the time they finished scraping body parts out to the lawn, nothing was left but a rank-smelling stain on the floor. Mychal sighed, knowing Grandma would ask him to scrub that when he was finished burning the pieces. Oh, well. At least he had his sword. Once he got it and the scabbard clean, he’d be well-armed with a pistol, sword, and bow. No zombie would ever catch him off guard. He’d shoot himself before being turned into one of ‘them’.

  He glanced toward the front of the house. How was George? Mychal didn’t think he could survive if he had to chop off a limb. Now, the man couldn’t fire a gun, at least not easily. The group needed able-bodied fighters, not invalids.

  Grabbing the water hose, Mychal turned on the outside faucet, leaving Eddy to stand guard. He hosed down the stain until no smell remained.

  “Was that your mother your sister shot?” Eddy asked.

  Mychal shrugged. “I don’t know if it used to be or not, but that thing was not my mother.” But the woman had been horribly burned, same as Mom. If that woman could come back as a zombie, maybe Mom could to. The thought scared the crap out of him. He didn’t know if he could shoot her or not.

  “I hope I don’t see my parents wandering around. Trinity will flip out.” Eddy crossed his arms and leaned against the house. “Thanks taking us in. We’d be goners out there alone.”

  “You’ve proven your worth.” Mychal took a deep breath to rid his lungs of zombie stench. “Let’s burn this pile of trash and get cleaned up.”

  He glanced at the sky, bright blue after so many months of gray. How many survivors were there, standing as he was, staring into a sky that once promised hope? There must be some in every city, every state, headed toward a safe zone that might not exist. Had the virus reached overseas yet or were those people happily going along with their lives, repairing their homes after the meteor shower?

  Sighing, he grabbed a box of matches off a shelf and headed to the pile of undead. A can of lighter fluid and two matches later and the sky filled with black smoke. “That’s going to attract every person living or dead for miles around. We should have buried them.”

  “Sure, if you want to dig a grave for that many bodies.” Eddy tossed a severed foot onto the pile. “I don’t.”

  Faith, Alyssah, and Hanna came around the house, their arms loaded down with supplies from the motorhome. Hanna had several ammo bags slung over her shoulders and carried a box of food
stuff. Looked like they’d be staying a while.

  Mychal glanced around the farm. He couldn’t think of a better place to bug-in. They had food, a well for fresh water, propane tanks for heating and cooking, plus the house sat high on a hill, giving a hundred and eighty degree view. They might not be able to stay forever, but he was happy for the time they could.

  A growling came from the mudroom. Mychal whirled, hand on his sword in time to see Colton shove the zombie cage in a corner on the mud porch.

  “Why can’t you keep that thing outside?” Mychal shuddered. “We’ll have to pass it every time we go to the bathroom, and she makes the dogs nervous.”

  “I want to see whether zombies can be acclimated to people. Whether that insatiable need to eat will pass, or if she’ll die without food.” Colton stepped back and wiped his hands on his pants. “Call me, stupid, but there has to be a way for us to exist alongside them. If the zombies eat or convert all the living, they will die off from lack of food, I hope. At least that’s my theory. I’m wondering whether we, as in non-zombies, can corral them all in concentration camps.”

  “Okay, I’ll call you stupid.” Mychal shook his head. “We’re better off exterminating them before they kill us off.”

  6

  Chalice hung up the fifth pair of freshly washed jeans and scanned the tree line behind Grandma’s house. Three days after George losing his hand, and the man still showed no signs of being infected. Apparently, Colton’s quick thinking saved him. Now, they needed to come up with a way for the man to be useful, not that Grandma would agree. She’d say he was useful because of his wisdom and compassion. Chalice shrugged. Maybe he was, but she’d prefer someone who could handle a gun.

  The trees parted, and a woman stumbled out. Blood soaked her pink sundress. In her arms she carried a bundle. She froze when Chalice stepped from behind the drying clothes and grabbed her gun.

  “No!” The woman reached out a hand. “Please, don’t shoot. Please.” She fell to her knees.

  Chalice glanced around them, then, seeing no one else, ran to the woman. “Are you hurt?”

  Sobs shook the woman’s body. “Thank you, Jesus! I’ve been looking for help since yesterday. Please.” She shoved the bundle into Chalice’s arms. “Take my baby. I’ve been bitten.” She stood and turned, showing where a large chunk of flesh was missing from her back. “Her name is Angel. Take her. I don’t want to eat my baby.”

  “No.” Chalice shook her head as the baby started to whimper. “I can’t. I don’t know how to care for a baby.”

  “She was born on Christmas. Her father is dead.” The woman pulled a small pistol from her cleavage. “She has no one left.” Before Chalice could react, the woman put the gun to her temple and pulled the trigger. Blood and brain matter splattered the nearby bushes.

  The woman crumbled to the ground.

  The baby screamed.

  Chalice clutched the child to her chest and dashed for the house. The gunshot might bring the zombies, and she couldn’t shoot with a baby in her hands. “Grandma!” She would know what to do. She’d care for the baby.

  “What is it?” Grandma held open the back door. “Who shot the gun?”

  “This baby’s mother.” Chalice nodded over her shoulder. “She’d been bit and wanted us to take Angel before she turned and killed her.” She shoved the infant into her grandmother’s arms. “I couldn’t stop her.”

  “Of course you couldn’t.” Grandma cradled the infant close. “You sweet thing. Let’s check you over. I bet you’re hungry.” She rushed to the kitchen table and laid Angel on top. “This poor thing is covered in blood. There’s some wipes above the fridge, Chalice. Grab me the container, please.”

  By now, the rest of the household had gathered around the table, all eyes wide and focused on the baby. Chalice grabbed the wipes. What would they do if Angel was also bitten? She didn’t think anyone there was strong enough to kill a baby.

  She handed the wipes to Grandma and watched as she unwrapped Angel from the soiled blanket. “There now, little one.” Grandma wiped each limb before stripping off the dirty onesie and diaper. “She’s clean, thank God. No bites or scratches.”

  “We don’t have any formula.” Chalice ticked off the months in her head. “She’s eight months old. Doesn’t she need baby food?”

  “I can crush her food easy enough. Little darling will have to go on cow’s milk a little early is all. We’ll take care of the little angel.”

  “That’s her name. Angel.” Chalice collapsed in a chair. “Colton, Mychal, you might want to keep watch outside to make sure the gunshot didn’t attract any of those things.”

  Lady and Buddy nosed the baby and then laid under the table, obviously convinced the little person didn’t pose a threat. Chalice wasn’t so sure. A baby didn’t know when to be quiet, they ate special food, a whole lot of things had changed with the woman’s appearance behind the house.

  One more brick on Chalice’s back. One more person for her to be responsible for. Never mind all the times Colton told her she wasn’t responsible for everyone. That most of them could take care of themselves. That as a group, they could rely on each other. She rubbed the burn marks on her arm. No, she’d failed her mother, she couldn’t fail the others.

  But, Angel was one thing George could do. He and Grandma could care for the baby.

  Chalice went back outside to finish hanging laundry. With the older boys, not joined by Eddy, keeping guard, she should be safe enough.

  “Mom did that for us,” Mychal said pointing at the woman’s body.

  “How so?” Chalice stuck a clothespin in her mouth and lifted a shirt from the laundry basket.

  “She made sure we were safe by sacrificing herself.” Mychal grabbed a shovel. “And this mother needs a burial. Something ours didn’t get.”

  “She got buried by ash.” Chalice watched as Mychal dragged the woman into the pasture, then she followed. “There wasn’t a need to bury her further.”

  He shrugged. “Maybe. Sometimes, I wonder if she’s really under that ash by the house. We never checked for sure. She could be wandering around like that zombie woman.” He let the woman’s legs fall to the ground. “What if she isn’t even dead?”

  “She was on fire!” Chalice refused to believe her mother lived. “I saw her.”

  “You didn’t see her burn.” He stepped closer until their noses were almost touching. “You can’t say with one hundred percent certainty that she’s dead, can you?”

  Chalice shook her head. She couldn’t, but if she wasn’t convinced her mother died then she’d failed worse than she’d thought. Had her mother stood in the doorway of that old house and watched them drive away? No. If she’d lived, she would have knocked on the shelter and had them let her in. They could’ve taken care of her.

  “She’s dead. I know it.” Chalice turned. “Bury Angel’s mother here so I can keep an eye on you while you dig. I’ve got to hang the laundry.”

  *

  Mychal shoved the shovel into the soil with all the anger he could muster. Which was quite a lot under the circumstances. As he shoveled, he pretended he was tossing every death, every injustice, every walking dead over his shoulder to be done with.

  Finished, a fresh mound of dirt over another casualty of the war they found themselves thrust into, Mychal leaned on the shovel handle and stared at the house. The younger kids, Junior, Sissy, Faith, Caleb, and even Alyssah, ran around the yard like they didn’t have a care in the world. They shouldn’t have to worry over whether stepping outside would be their last breath, but they did. If they were going to run around screaming like kids on a playground, somebody had to stop them before they attracted attention. Mychal threw the shovel toward the house and stomped toward them.

  “Y’all need to be quiet. You’ll attract every zombie within five miles.” He tried to shoo the kids back in the house.

  “We’re only playing,” Caleb says. “The house is boring.”

  Junior laughs and grabs Sis
sy’s hand. “I’ll race you around the house.” They disappear around the corner.

  They should stay within sight. Mychal glanced for his bow against the pasture fence and moved to retrieve it.

  Sissy’s scream pierced the afternoon like a whistle.

  By the time Mychal had his weapon, Chalice and Colton bolted around the house, weapons in hand. Mychal pointed in the direction the two children had gone and sprinted after his sister.

  Three zombies, hidden only God knew where while the children played had come out of hiding. Two of them men, one missing an arm and it’s foot hanging by tendons, ripped into Junior like kids into a candy bag. The other, a woman, her right eye hanging on her cheek, bit into Sissy’s neck. Blood sprayed the side of the house, bright red in the harsh sunlight. Sissy’s eyes widen and her screams stopped. Gurgling came from her throat.

  Chalice and Colton fired bullets into the zombies’ heads. Knowing it was already too late to save the kids, Mychal sent an arrow into the one holding Sissy. The woman fell like a rag doll to the ground. The zombie toppled backward, straight as a board.

  Tears ran down Chalice’s face as she fired a bullet into Junior’s and Sissy’s heads. “Why weren’t they with the others? Where did these zombies come from?” She sagged against the house. “I thought we’d killed them all.” She eyed the still smoking pile of stench. “Why weren’t you watching them?”

  “I was burying the woman.” Mychal shook his head and dashed away to collect the other children and get them into the safety of the house. It was his fault. He should’ve watched them better. Made sure they didn’t leave his sight. He spotted Hanna watching out the kitchen window. How would he keep his sister safe? Silent Hanna, a girl already so traumatized she befriended a zombie pet?

  He sniffed and wiped his eyes across his sleeve. Grandma’s house wasn’t any safer than traveling from place to place. They needed to leave. Soon. He glanced at the battered motorhome. They also needed a new set of wheels.