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

by O'Brian, Patrick J.

  “Are you from around here?”

  This time the man moved his head from staring at the floor to staring at the wall, but without a look of confusion. Perhaps, Metzger thought, he was making some headway. He wondered if there was any saving this man, bringing him back to reality over time.

  Time he couldn’t particularly afford at the moment.

  “Look, you’re going to have to talk to me if you want me to let you go, or help you,” Metzger offered. “My friends aren’t going to be as patient, and they really didn’t want to bring you along.”

  “Then leave me.”

  Metzger paused, thinking of how to frame his next sentence without being too cold, or showing weakness.

  “That’s not an option, I’m afraid. Whether you meant to or not, you brought harm to a number of people back there.”

  “They were my family,” the man said softly before staring at the far wall, likely seeing something beyond the paint and drywall.

  Uncertain about what the man meant, Metzger decided he wasn’t getting any answers from the basically one-sided conversation, so he opted to turn in. He walked into the other bedroom, fluffing the pillow and pulling the sheets back when he heard the man speak from the other room.

  “Thank you.”

  Metzger wasn’t certain what the statement was for, exactly, or why the man waited until he left to utter the words, but felt assured the words were meant for him. He climbed into bed, pulling the sheets and blanket tightly over his upper body, knowing the night was going to get chilly at some point. Silence filled the cottage, and as he detected no activity from the main house or the garage, which meant everyone else was likely climbing into bed after experiencing a long day.

  All of his worries and cares vanished once his head hit the pillow, and he was out like a light less than a minute later.

  ***

  During the early morning hours the cottage grew chilly, and Metzger subconsciously tucked himself into a fetal position for warmth, trying to avoid the inevitable task of getting out of bed to use the bathroom. Wishing he had searched for an extra blanket before jumping into bed, he finally threw back the covers, shuffled to the small bathroom, and urinated to the point that his body felt incredible relief.

  Stepping from the bathroom, he took a second to stare out the front window, realizing a dark purple sky gave way in the distance to a sliver of orange, indicating dawn drew near. He didn’t hear the clanking or jingling of the handcuffs, so he decided to check on his prisoner in the other bedroom.

  Metzger didn’t even reach the doorway to the room before noticing the two pairs of handcuffs still secured to one another, and to the bed’s frame, but no wrists secured within their curved metal. He couldn’t imagine how the man escaped the cuffs, because even the best magicians manipulated their shackles or surroundings in some fashion.

  “Shit,” he muttered under his breath, figuring he might be attacked out of the blue any second.

  He dashed into his room, grabbing the flashlight and his .357 from under his pillow to quickly examine the rest of the cottage, finding no sign of the older man. Throwing on his clothes, he stepped outside, finding no trace of the engineer inside the garage when he shined his light through a window to light the open space.

  Next he tried all of the doors along the house, finding them locked and secured as he’d requested of Gracine. All three vehicles remained in the driveway, leaving only one realistic possibility in his mind. Every facet of the man’s world remained at the restaurant, even if the security measures now lied in ruins around the building. Although he couldn’t justify his actions in the least, he wanted to track down the man, even if it meant driving all the way to the diner. He knew the group planned on looting the building later that morning when everyone was up, but he felt responsible for the man.

  And the man’s escape.

  He tucked the revolver into his belt and finished dressing himself quickly as he jumped into the truck where his other weapons remained in the jump seat behind him. As quietly as possible he backed out of the driveway once the truck was started, trying to avoid waking anyone. He didn’t want them to think he’d abandoned them, figuring most of them knew better if they understood him at all. Still a bit groggy, it took his mind a moment to focus on his location and remember the turns to the restaurant.

  What seemed like an eternity at dusk felt a little quicker to him now as he gained focus, searching left and right for the older man on the way to the restaurant. Most of the fields yielded crops that weren’t very tall, so he was able to see across them for what seemed like a mile in any direction. He spotted nothing, and began to doubt his intuition about the crazy man’s agenda.

  Apprehension filled his mind when he drew near the property, immediately seeing something different about the setting.

  No longer did the sign bear the weight of two zombies kicking to get down from their sad lots after life, and the scarecrow zombie wasn’t tied to his crucifix along the side. Instead, he saw three members of the undead knelt down in the parking lot area, greedily stuffing their mouths with something fresh and red. Even in the minimal light that dawn provided, Metzger saw a shimmering along their hands, knowing that blood appeared black in the moonlight, and crimson at this very moment.

  He pulled the truck to the edge of the dozen undead killed by his group the previous evening, slowly stepping from the vehicle to find the trio paid him no attention at first. Reaching behind the seat, he pulled his short sword, sheath and all, out of the truck. Only now did one of the zombies turn to see him, the lower half of its face covered in blood and small chunks of flesh. It showed its teeth, beginning to stand, thinking in its one-track mind that new prey had arrived. Voicing a hissy growl as it drew near, the zombie that once hung from the large front sign reached for him when it was about two feet away.

  Metzger swung the sword horizontally with practiced ease, severing the head cleanly in two, not even watching the top half bounce atop the blacktop before he stepped forward to dispense more damage. Neither of the other two zombies ever looked his way, allowing him to slice the female cleanly through the skull and stab the scarecrow zombie through the temple, into the brain, rendering it entirely devoid of life.

  A few times Metzger had cut the heads clean off, thinking it might be a neat theatrical trick like the movies until he realized the heads remained animated, even after separation from the body. So disturbed by this revelation was he that Metzger made certain his attacks always reached the brain, causing physical trauma that shut them down for good.

  With the threats out of the way, he stepped over to the body they’d been feeding on, confirming what he already suspected. Much of the man’s stomach and chest had been ripped apart, exposing shiny organs like the liver and the intestines, which remained covered in blood. He couldn’t help but run through the scenarios in his mind, wondering if the man released the undead on purpose, trying to tame them, or converse with them on some level. Perhaps he considered them part of his family and wanted to reach them, or maybe he saw the remains of his world lying atop the blacktop and simply wanted to be gone from the world, or join their ranks.

  Suspecting he must have escaped fairly early in the morning to travel on foot to the diner, Metzger wondered why the man hadn’t attacked him, or stolen a vehicle. He obviously intended malice when he made a stand at the restaurant, but something about him changed when he was removed from the setting. The last words the man spoke the previous evening still echoed through his mind.

  “Thank you,” he said under his breath, wondering what the hell that meant, or why this man believed Metzger deserved any sort of praise.

  Taking up his flashlight, Metzger switched it on as he walked to the front door of the restaurant, still unlocked from the skirmish. He suspected the man had undone the trap latch along the outer set of doors, trying to sic the hoard of zombies upon Metzger’s group in a last ditch effort to defeat the invaders. In a way, Metzger wished they hadn’t stopped at the diner, looki
ng to the man’s bloodied corpse behind him, knowing Sutton might be permanently damaged from the attack.

  Aspects of the new world befuddled him, and Metzger didn’t always know how to act, or whom to trust in some situations.

  He thought about stepping inside momentarily, but didn’t dare because he knew additional traps might be awaiting trespassers. Without the benefit of natural light, such a move didn’t seem prudent, so he backed away from the main entrance, hearing a throaty growl behind him, wondering how any of the three zombies could have endured his sword attack.

  Turning his head to see what awaited him, Metzger discovered the undead form of the older man now attempting to stand from a horizontal position, stepping on his own intestines because they unraveled like a thread from a sweater.

  If the thread from sweaters was entirely coated in clotting blood.

  “No,” Metzger muttered sadly, wondering if the older man who fiercely defended a building that shouldn’t have held any emotional ties had finally reached his objective.

  Suspecting he had freed the three zombies intentionally to let them take him down, Metzger felt sorry for the man, and disappointed at the same time. The man had shown signs of humanity the night before, along with glimpses of sanity, but his more recent actions provided Metzger with proof that the man was indeed too far gone.

  Now he finally stood erect, dripping intestines and blood, gnashing his teeth like any other member of the undead community. Metzger couldn’t imagine the suffering that accompanies being eaten alive, and perhaps on some level the man’s lack of sanity prevented him from understanding, or even feeling the pain of fingers digging beneath the layers of his skin and into his insides.

  Allowing him to draw closer, Metzger dared to examine the man’s hands more closely, finding both thumbs broken or dislocated, which explained how he slipped out of the handcuffs. The self-inflicted injuries only added to the evidence that the man wasn’t in his right mind, and never could be again. Somewhere deep down, perhaps he knew so, and took his own life with the only beings familiar to him.

  “Why?” Metzger asked the walking corpse, pushing it back with one arm, careful to avoid being bitten or clawed too deeply. “Why do you get to give up so easily?”

  If he thought the obstinate man was ignoring him in life, he proved worse in death, ignoring the words and the shove, almost tripping over his intestines, which dragged afoot like a tail stemming from the wrong side of the body. In no hurry, he staggered toward Metzger, keeping his eyes on the prize, baring his teeth to accompany a body that looked to be in complete shambles.

  “You lied,” Metzger said, thinking back to the comment about slitting throats in the middle of the night. “If this was your backup, you really were fucked up.”

  Having wasted enough time, and feeling emotionally spent after seeing his efforts squandered, Metzger held the sword, pulled it back across his left shoulder, and let it fly through the center of the man’s skull. Fragments of bone and hair flew through the air, along with the top half of the cranium, and when it struck the ground the darkening gray brain popped out of the protective skull. The body collapsed in a messy heap as well, and Metzger stayed clear of any projectile fluids.

  Only when he was assured of tranquil surroundings did he kneel down to dig for the man’s wallet inside his pants, wanting to know a little something about the man. He found it surprising how many people actually kept wallets and cards with them, even though such things held no value. He felt as though people wanted to maintain their identity in case death came for them unexpectedly so they wouldn’t be forgotten. Burial in the apocalypse was a luxury few people afforded in death.

  “Frank Robertson,” Metzger read the man’s name aloud as he pulled the driver’s license from the wallet.

  He stood there feeling somber a moment until he decided to return to the bed and breakfast, wondering if he’d been missed.

  ***

  When Metzger returned to the rural homestead he found only Jillian walking around the driveway as though waiting for him to return. He soon discovered why as Vazquez and Luke cooked some breakfast while Gracine waited beside Sutton’s bed to see if he regained consciousness.

  “I saw your guest wasn’t in the cottage,” Jillian revealed before the pair stepped inside. “Did he escape, or did you take him for a ride?”

  “Let’s just say I know exactly where he is,” Metzger answered ambiguously, not wanting to discuss specifics.

  Jillian didn’t press the issue, but when Metzger walked inside he felt all eyes upon him as though they suspected him of some heinous crime, or conducting some misconduct behind their backs. They would know the truth soon enough, he figured, so he quietly ate some breakfast in the form of cream of chicken soup and walked outside to double-check that everything was packed into the truck. While placing some canned goods he’d found behind the seat he noticed the short sword sticking out of his pack, a few droplets of blood remaining along the tip of the handle.

  After pillaging what they could from the three buildings and loading their finds into the vehicles, the group set out to carry Sutton from the bed to the box truck. Metzger felt a bit surprised that no one even mentioned the notion of staying an extra day. The group had numerous options, including splitting up, waiting a day or two, or looking for supplies that might better help with Sutton’s condition.

  It seemed a foregone conclusion that they were going to inspect the restaurant after enduring such a ferocious battle, and they were going to continue moving south. Metzger didn’t know whether the camp was still a possible stop with Sutton’s condition, or if they were going straight to the Navy base. If the decision was his, and quite possibly it was, he would take Sutton to the base hoping to get the man true medical attention.

  When they loaded Sutton into the passenger’s seat of the box truck, they provided several pillows to keep him comfortable, and to prevent him from striking his head on the side window or other unforgiving surfaces. Even in the light of day his face didn’t look much better. Swelling and general redness had replaced blood and open wounds, but the most concerning aspect was the fact that he really hadn’t regained consciousness for more than a few minutes at a time.

  “What’s with all the dirty stares I received?” Metzger asked Jillian once they were halfway to the restaurant.

  “They think you set him free,” Jillian answered rather bluntly.

  Metzger immediately understood their legitimate concern, though it disturbed him that they thought he was that much of a softy.

  Saying nothing, Metzger waited until they approached the restaurant because he only wanted to relive what little he planned to say about the ordeal once. When the vehicles approached the diner this time they parked a little differently because of the mess in the parking lot and the fact that the scenery had changed. Almost as though she sensed no danger remained, Gracine parked at the edge of the road, slowing to look at the old and fresh carnage before stopping.

  “Dare I ask?” she inquired of Metzger once everyone except Sutton stepped from the vehicles.

  Even Buster jumped out, immediately turning his head in every direction, attempting to detect any undead in the area.

  Metzger narrated the morning’s events briefly to the group, skipping over the parts where he tried to connect with the older man before he went on his suicidal mission. The version he spun left a little more mystery because he didn’t speculate on the man’s motivations, or the depths of his insanity.

  Everyone in the group seemed to believe his story, and understood how the man broke his own thumbs to escape the handcuffs, which in itself meant he was crazy or some trained operative for the government, which sounded implausible. Soon enough they cautiously stepped into the building, finding no armed traps awaiting them, leaving Metzger to wonder if the man disarmed them, or there weren’t any others beyond the double entrance.

  While the others foraged for food and supplies, Metzger located personal items he assumed once belonged to the li
ne of undead bodies outside. Wallets and purses were neatly organized in one corner of the desk inside the manager’s office, and as he quickly went through them he wondered if some of the people died inside the diner originally, or if they came seeking shelter later. It took a few minutes, but when he found two identifications inside clutch wallets, he pulled them out for a look.

  Terri Robertson.

  Brie Robertson.

  Indeed the older man’s wife and daughter of nineteen died at the diner, likely sending him into a spiraling depression among other undiagnosed conditions. As far as driver’s licenses went, they looked like normal, well-adjusted people, but some families hid secrets well. He didn’t want to dwell on what might have been, so Metzger reached into his pocket and pulled out a third laminated driver’s license.

  Metzger had pocketed Frank Robertson’s identification earlier, and considered keeping these as well, but ultimately decided he didn’t want to drag along any physical or emotional baggage. Placing the identifications together, he stacked them neatly along a clean spot on the desk. There wouldn’t be a burial, at least not by him and his companions, but maybe someone else would come along and give the small group of unfortunate souls a proper sendoff.

  Wasting little more precious time, Metzger left the office to help the others collect goods from the store. The gift shop held little more than trinkets of local sports teams, T-shirts, and cheap plastic replicas of known Virginia landmarks, including a military ship inside a snow globe. Metzger picked it up, smirking at it before setting it down and grabbing the nearby packets of sunflower seeds, potato chips, and other bagged snacks. Gracine and the others were beyond the kitchen, grabbing what few bulk cans remained of food that the restaurant once planned on serving.

  Not much was left, indicating at least some survivors had once made a stand at the diner, but Metzger felt as though none of them lasted nearly as long as Frank Robertson. He wondered when the man’s wife and daughter died, and exactly how that altered his mental state. Perhaps the others wanted to put down Terri and Brie for good, but Robertson would have none of it. Maybe he fed the other survivors to them instead, accidentally forming his undead watchdog regime.