The Undead Chronicles (Book 1): Home and Back Again

by O'Brian, Patrick J.

  Nerves crept into Metzger as he carefully opened the door of the middle room, discovering a spacious bathroom that appeared to be the only clean room in the entire house. He stepped inside only to whisk the shower curtain aside, finding nothing except a white tub and shower combination within the otherwise blue-toned room. With nothing else left to examine, he swallowed hard, prepared to see what horrors awaited him in the room that continued to emit groans and thumps that sounded through the walls.

  Now thinking more rationally, he decided to slide the gun into its holster and draw the shorter sword once more. Short of a bedroom packed with zombies that could overrun him, he figured the sword would be enough to help him euthanize any undead that stumbled forward. Studying the door as he walked across the upstairs floor, Metzger accidentally made a board creak along the wooden floor, which seemed to draw the interest of whatever awaited him inside the room. He sincerely knew what awaited him, but the question of how many bothered him a little bit. Several times during his travels he avoided large packs of undead that simply roamed highways and city streets together. Although their primitive mindset likely failed to comprehend that their strength came in numbers, Metzger knew all too well.

  Licking his bottom lip in anticipation, he opened the door and immediately backed away, holding the sword in a ready position to stab or slice, depending on how the undead approached him. When the door opened fully, two zombies presented themselves, backlit by the daylight from the window. Unable to see details, he prayed the duo wasn’t his parents, but he couldn’t make out any details except that they both appeared thin as they headed toward their new freedom beyond the threshold.

  He spent a few precious seconds trying to study their faces, but the entire upper floor was too dark, save what little daylight pierced the covered windows. Metzger wanted to try identifying them before going to work with the blade, but once through the doorway, they both ambled in his direction without hesitation.

  Groaning outwardly, he kicked the one on the right side away from him, which he believed to be female, allowing him to swing the sword smoothly at the head of the taller one, flooring it instantly once the top half of its skull tumbled to the ground. By this time the second zombie grabbed for him after recovering from a complete fall, but Metzger used both hands to grab it by the sides of the head and study its face. Even in the dark he knew it wasn’t his mother, and this woman wasn’t older than forty in life. Without hesitation he thrust her head into his raised knee, which didn’t finish off the undead assailant, so he did so repeatedly, losing count after the sixth escalating violent reaction.

  “Fuck you!” he shouted repeatedly with each knee thrust, his anger once again boiling to a dangerous level that might be considered temporary insanity by a psychiatrist.

  If any shrinks even remained on the planet to analyze him.

  Throwing the zombie to the ground by the hair, he took up the sword and stabbed her through the already caved in skull for reassurance, his breaths coming in heaves.

  After waiting a few seconds to make certain neither of them moved, he knelt down beside the deceased male and plucked his wallet, finding the name and license photo both unfamiliar. Tossing the wallet aside, he wondered how many people Charles Garvey put up when the world went berserk, and why so many folks flocked to this particular house. Upset, but calming down more quickly than before, Metzger walked down the stairs and gave the house a final glance before stepping outside.

  No new surprises awaited him in the great outdoors, though the sky transformed from blue and partly cloudy to deeply overcast during his short stint inside.

  Taking a moment to observe his surroundings, Metzger began walking back to his parents’ house without even meaning to. Perhaps a sense of safety and serenity drew him back to the familiar house as he made certain all of his weapons were sheathed. He took notice of how strangely quiet the cul-de-sac became without anything trudging across the colorful fallen leaves. The seasons failed to take notice that the human population declined by better than ninety percent as the days grew colder and the weather carried on like always.

  When he reached the driveway this time he paid more attention to the detached garage at the end of the blacktop. His father waited several years to cover their gravel driveway with concrete when he received a promotion at work, eventually coating it with blacktop to protect it from the elements. No longer supporting either of his sons, he began upgrading his new, downsized house a little bit each year. A longtime engineer for the railroad, he happened to be home between runs when the world fell apart. Part of Metzger felt glad his parents were together when the dead began roaming the streets, but he wanted more closure than a disconnected phone call from them.

  Answers continued to plague him, even as he stood at the end of the blacktop, staring at the garage, wondering why he bypassed it so quickly before.

  Naturally the house and the mysteries awaiting him inside distracted him the first time through, but now he wondered if the small one-car garage held any answers or useful items. Fingering the gun at his side, Metzger slowly walked to the yellow garage that matched the house. For some unknown reason his father painted the house and garage in the same shade of yellow as their old residence. Most of the houses in the neighborhood seemed to keep their original vintage tints, giving the area some character, particularly since mostly older residents resided within them.

  His father’s pickup truck remained parked in front of the garage door, which led him to initially believe his parents might still be in the area. When he approached it for a glance inside, he found no keys, and no evidence that anyone had tampered with the four-wheel-drive vehicle. Harsh Buffalo winters made durable vehicles a must, and owning a personal snowplow was a perk that a number of residents, including his father, rather enjoyed. Not only did owning a plow guarantee one made it to work, but it also provided extra income from neighbors who gladly paid to have their driveways cleared.

  Passing the truck after a cursory examination of the contents, Metzger walked to the side door of the garage, stopping briefly to examine it. The door appeared locked, but he pounded it with a closed fist anyway, hearing nothing from inside after he waited several seconds. He tried the knob, finding the door locked, as his father often left it due to all of the tools and seasonal decorations left inside. Metzger remembered springtime when his father dragged out his push mower for the first time, changing the oil and filter before knocking any clumps of grass from the underside of the mowing deck. The smell of freshly-cut grass filled the air surrounding the garage before the yard was even ready for mowing. Most years the yards remained tan and muddy for what seemed like months after the snow finally disappeared. Summer was often a two-month season with only a few warm months for swimming and outdoor activities before school and football season rolled around again.

  As Metzger raised his foot and kicked in the door to the garage he thought of how much he missed simple childhood years and throwing baseballs and footballs to his brother.

  A single window within the garage provided little illumination because dust covered the single pane that his father refused to replace for some reason. The garage wasn’t heated, but the window endured a misfired tennis ball that produced a crack, and a piece in the corner fell out completely a year later for reasons unknown. Donald Metzger refused to replace the window, even at that point, despite his sons telling him it compromised security to his precious garage.

  Dust floated through the air like miniature snowflakes once the door flew open to disturb it from otherwise eternal rest on the car and across the workbenches. Metzger blew into the air to keep from breathing excessive amounts of the dust, but it couldn’t be helped as he stepped into the center of the dusty snow globe. It looked exactly as he remembered with tools hanging everywhere and his mother’s car perfectly centered. His father hung tennis balls from the ceiling as markers to help park the vehicle correctly each time so enough room was left for the lawn mower, his snowplow, and a few other seasonal items.<
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  Cracking a grin as he panned the garage, seeing childhood items like his old baseball mitt and a box of old comic books Bryce left behind when he joined the Navy, Metzger walked directly to the workbench that held those items. Even after his parents sold their house and downsized, they brought items that belonged to their sons with them.

  Strangely, Metzger didn’t remember his father leaving anything on his bench, much less sentimental items. He kept the garage organized in such a way that only he knew the layout, and when he finished any project his tools all went back to their respective areas.

  After his folks sold his childhood home, Metzger stayed in the new house when he visited, but he never gained complete familiarity with the place. New surroundings truly made him feel more like a guest than a family member, although his parents never treated him any differently. His mother still cooked him breakfast each morning, and he helped his father with chores and repairs around the property.

  He wondered if his father took a stroll down memory lane after things went bad, or if he came to his garage with one last purpose in mind. Metzger walked over to the car, hoping his parents hadn’t decided to gas themselves as a way out of the madness that likely consumed their little corner of the world.

  Wiping a thin layer of dust away from one of the side windows, he peered inside, seeing nothing unusual. He breathed a sigh of relief, knowing his parents hadn’t committed suicide together as a final act. With the property fully explored he felt a little bit better knowing they might always be alive in the possibility, if not reality.

  It occurred to him that he hadn’t found a few items around the property that he expected to locate at some point. His mother’s purse was missing, along with her cell phone and a few family photos he felt certain he remembered seeing on the refrigerator the last time he visited. As for his father, there was no wallet, no cell phone, and a few knives and guns were missing from the collection. The weapons were all things that could be carried during a quick escape because they weighed little, and extra rounds were plentiful. But if they left, why hadn’t they taken one of their vehicles?

  Perhaps they found someone to carpool with, which might have been a best case scenario. One of the train engines his father worked on would certainly provide a safe haven from the undead, considering their construction and the fact that virtually nothing could stop them once they gained momentum. Modern engines lacked the exaggerated cow catchers of their ancestors, but they still had enough solid metal up front to turn most zombies into fleshy goo upon impact.

  Numerous times Metzger tried calling both of his parents on their cell phones but each time after his last conversation with them he received generic operator messages about cell phone service being disrupted. Cell phone coverage proved spotty at best, and it was certain to fail completely over time when all forms of power to cell phone towers came to an end. Unfortunately utilities required maintenance, replacement parts, and manpower to continue functioning, and all of those were jeopardized now.

  Walking over to the main workbench beyond the car, he picked up the baseball glove, surprised his father kept it after both of his sons moved out. He used the extra bedrooms as specialty rooms and storage areas, but seemed to find room for keepsakes that stirred good memories. The trinket reminded Metzger that he wanted to gather some photographs and familiar items from the house before moving along. Traveling light proved a must in the new world, but Metzger wasn’t sure he’d ever see his parents or the last home that still held memories for him again, so he decided to take the risk.

  As he went to set the glove down a piece of paper fell from it all the way to the ground. He felt a hint of excitement, thinking it might be a note from his father about their whereabouts, hidden where only he might find it. His hopes were quickly dashed, however, when he unfolded it to find a list of things to do from his mother to his father that apparently got stuck to the underside of the glove at some point.

  Deciding he wanted to search the house more thoroughly a second time, Metzger headed for the door, about to step through when a zombie surprised him from the other side. Because it made no noise while approaching, it caught him completely off-guard, causing him to stumble backwards and trip. Landing hard on the ground, Metzger immediately felt some pain in his lower back just before the back of his skull struck the rear fender of the car, causing him to see stars as the zombie dropped to its knees for the kill.

  Adrenalin and instinct took over almost immediately because he drew his left leg back before letting loose with a kick that struck the undead walker squarely in the forehead. Far from a killing blow, the kick hurled the zombie outside the door, buying Metzger some time to evaluate his ailments and draw his short sword simultaneously. His back hurt because he landed on a small rock along his backbone, and his head, despite the earlier injury from falling off the motorcycle, wasn’t about to send him spiraling into unconsciousness.

  During his first attempt to pull the short sword from the pouch along his back, Metzger found the weapon stuck due to his weight pinning it to the ground. Performing half of a sit-up, he forcefully pulled the sword from the pack as the zombie began crawling in his direction. Exercising caution at the last possible second, Metzger kept from cutting into his own flesh by turning to one side so the sword cleared the sheath as it pulled out cleanly.

  Metzger provided his assailant with a second swift kick to the skull, buying him enough time to regain his footing and walk over to stab the sword downward through the footprint he created on the skull of his attacker. Suddenly realizing he was breathing hard again, he no longer wanted to attract every zombie within earshot, so he looked around the area cautiously before walking toward the house. He hoped to search the house one last time and move on before dark to find the one last immediate relative in his life. Of course cousins, aunts, uncles, and even a few of his grandparents might still be out there, but he couldn’t exactly contact them with social media or phone calls.

  When he walked into the house he made certain to shut and lock the front door behind him, a bit worried that his earlier actions might have attracted more than the undead. With a makeshift plan in mind, he searched drawers and cupboards thoroughly, looking for any notes and family belongings he wanted to take with him. As he went, he boxed up every canned good he could find, whether the items were to his liking or not. He figured desperate times lay ahead when food became scarce, so he would either eat to survive or trade canned goods for other items.

  He visited the gray Prius a few times, loading boxes of food and gear into the trunk. In a world where vehicles became disposable transportation and occasional lodging when danger came along, Metzger made certain to keep the important items within an arm’s reach in the front passenger’s seat. With each piece of furniture and each room he cleared, Metzger felt a bit more depressed because his parents hadn’t left him anything.

  No note.

  No e-mail.

  No voicemail message.

  Before technology began faltering, he checked every outlet possible, but no reassurances ever reached him.

  After another two hours of scouring the house he felt his shirt drenched with sweat, and no closer to any answers about his parents. Four boxes of perishable goods remained secure in the trunk, and a smaller box of family items for Metzger and his brother sat up front with his weapons. Wiping the perspiration from his forehead onto the shoulder area of his shirt, he walked outside and stared at the front of the house, taking in the sight of it one last time. As desperately as he wanted to know what happened to Donald and Connie Metzger, he wasn’t going to search all of Tonawanda, staring at every undead face that crossed his path. Either his father was healthy and intelligent enough to get them to safety, or the worst possible scenario came to pass.

  If his parents were stumbling around his hometown with graying skin and pale, yellowed eyes, he decided he really didn’t want to see them again. He firmly believed in an afterlife, and though he questioned some of his maker’s recent decisions, Metzg
er hoped to find them again when his heart stopped beating in his earthly husk.

  Leaving the door as he found it, ajar just a few inches, he shuffled slowly to the Prius without looking back, afraid he might change his mind and stay the night. Already a tear formed in one eye when he slumped into the driver’s seat as another small hoard of the undead made their way onto the street. He couldn’t muster enough rage to exit the car and do battle again as his weapons sat in the seat beside him, already in storage for all intents and purposes. Instead, he shut the car door, glancing at the house momentarily as he closed the chapter on finding his parents, feeling lost.

  He hadn’t heard from his brother in days, and though he knew use of the satellite phone aboard the USS Ross was limited, he expected an officer to find a way to use it more often. In this case no news was bad news, because if the commander decided to take the ship somewhere other than their base in Norfolk, Virginia, Metzger might lose contact with Bryce completely. He wasn’t sure his brother might call his father’s sat phone again, although the phone indicated three missed calls during the past few weeks from the same number.

  Time slipped away from Metzger as he shed a few tears, trying to sever the emotional bond with the house where he last saw his parents. A few of the zombies began clawing at the Prius, knowing fresh meat awaited them on the other side of the window. Their tapping and pounding on the car didn’t faze him because for a moment he just simply did not care. Such mindless creatures no longer remembered their childhoods, or throwing baseballs with their fathers. The parts of their brains that once conjured images of Thanksgiving and Christmas surrounded by family, or childhood birthday parties, likely rotted soon after they fell over dead. Metzger closed his eyes, drew a deep breath, and realized he hadn’t put one foot in the grave just yet. He still cared for others, remembered what made him a decent human being, and never forgot where he came from, even if the neighborhood changed in degrees he never thought possible.