Jenna slowly lowers herself from the tree and strides over to me. She grabs my hands. “Are you sure? Maybe we can—”
“There’s no cure. The longer I’m around, the more dangerous it gets. I could snap at any moment.” I pull my hands away and start unwrapping the makeshift baby sling. The wind shifts and the scent of blood wafts past my nose. I can’t move worth a shit, but I damn sure can smell. They’ve already taken down some other prey. I simultaneously shudder and salivate.
Jenna makes a small sound of protest.
“Go!” I say as I hand Benjamin to her. My face is turned away and my eyes are squeezed shut. Then another gust of wind, another whiff of…meat. Fresh and tasty. Slippery Slidy. I push down the urges and curl my nails into my palms, practically through my palms as the skin sloughs away. “Go now!”
The ATV starts up as another smell drifts in on the breeze, this one ripe with decay and rot. Another infected, heading in this direction. They must have finished their meal and are on the hunt for more. Disappointment and longing fills my body—none for me? Greedy greedy—and my stomach rumbles.
Pain rips through me, doubling me over. It’s an all-consuming hunger that can no longer be denied. I’m so fucking hungry. So hungry. Hungry. Hungry. Hungry.
I move, quicker now that I’ve given in to it and let the need take over. Still not quick enough to grab at the…the…the…loud thing carrying my meal away. I groan and gnash my teeth in rage as my empty stomach twists.
My thoughts are fleeting, jagged things that my scrabbling mind can’t grasp. But a subtle sense of relief still registers.
Looks like I don’t have to worry about making it to day six after all.
DAY ???
Hungry.
Hungry.
Hungry.
So hungry.
There. Meat. Fresh. Fresh fresh fresh meeeeat.
Snarl, growl, and push my way to the front. This one’s almost picked clean.
A sound, the snapping of a twig. The others too involved with the meager feast to hear. But I do. My head comes up. Swivels with my body toward the woods.
Creeping. Sloooooowly.
Brown hair. Smells so goooood. The noises of the others hold its attention. It doesn’t see me.
It takes a step back, turns, prepares to run. But I am already there and in its path.
I grunt and grin, imagining the slip slide of the hot fresh meat in my hands, in my mouth, and down my throat.
Eyes widen. “Sarah?”
It’s so familiar, that name… my name. I shake my head. Nonono. My gaze flies in the direction of the other body. Is that…? Who is…? How could…? Where is…?
“Ben…ja…min?” My voice a rusty croak.
Its hands are up. It…he… Lee backs away. “He’s safe, Sarah. In the stronghold. With Jenna.”
“Saaaafe?” That word is good.
He nods.
“Safe.”
“Yes, safe. Benjamin’s safe.” One hand rises slowly, holding tightly to black metal.
I’ve seen things like that. They’re bad. I growl and swing an arm out to smack it away. But too slow.
“I’m sorry,” he says.
A crack. A flash. A force that knocks me backward and to the ground. Yes…a gun that thing was. And this is death. The true release I’d forgotten I craved.
“Thank…you…” I stutter.
A Word from Theresa Kay
Horror has always been one of my favorite genres. I read my first Stephen King book when I was eleven and devoured everything else he’d written over the next few years. One of my favorite things about his books was how he takes ordinary people and puts them into extraordinary situations that, more often than not, scared the crap out of me.
My early attempts at writing were mostly about monsters, ghosts, and other things that go bump in the night— including zombies. I haven’t had much of an opportunity to write horror now that I’m an adult, so when Samuel Peralta announced the theme of this edition of The Future Chronicles I was ecstatic and I hope you’ve enjoyed my take on zombies.
You can find more of my writing on Amazon in the form of Broken Skies, a YA post-apocalyptic sci-fi novel with aliens, and Bright Beyond, a space opera novella serial with a free prequel short story (Dark Expanse).
I love chatting with readers and I’m fairly active on social media. You can connect with me on Facebook, Twitter, Instagram and Goodreads. Even if it’s not about my books, I like chatting about my (many) fandoms, books and reading in general, or just about anything really.
www.theresakay.com
Kamika-Z
by Christopher Boore
There was only one wave. One highly effective attack. It was all that was needed to topple an arrogant giant, ignorantly blind to the outside world. No one saw it coming. Eyes focused inward. On June 7th, 2015, the clear, blue skies over the land of the free bled black. There had been countless escalating conflicts between the US and China over the years, but none came close to this. Cyber-attacks, petty attempts to knock out each other’s knees, were common leading up to the day of silence.
China struck hard; we couldn't recover.
We securely hold the East, West and Southern fronts as of 2025. The North is lost. Everything has changed. What's left of America cowers in the ruins of the once great empire. There is one thing common to all, it crosses every survivors mind in every waking hour, violates their tormented sleep– Will they attack again, and when?
- Jackson C. Phillips, Field Commander, Southern Defense.
LUNCH
“HONEY, YOUR LUNCH IS ON THE TABLE." I hear her loud and clear, but I don't budge. I just keep scrolling through my Instagram explore feed. He's out there, I can hear him. Big Dave, the reason I don’t feel like leaving the safety of my bat-cave. In his gross, flirty deep voice he's hitting on Mom again. Hard. It's getting more and more annoying every day. I feel my stomach retch, breakfast trying to exit through my throat. If I stay in my room just a little longer, he'll head outside and gear up to cut the grass.
I hope.
Again, "Honey, move it, your food’s going to get cold." I don't hear Dave anymore, but I didn't hear the much anticipated closing slam of the door to the garage either. Maybe he went to the bathroom. A king on his throne. I'm beginning to think he lives in there surrounded by the “rose-like” smell of his nasty business. Heavy footsteps echo down the hallway. Boots, not mom’s flip-flops slapping against the tile. Crap. I launch my phone to the desk across the room hoping it'll stop and settle in its little cubby under the built in bookshelf. My Jedi powers fail me. Epically. The phone makes contact perfectly with the edge of the desktop, and it bounces to the floor with a thud. I couldn’t have done that if I’d tried.
Shit. I pick up a Deadpool comic and try to act innocent. I'm a terrible actor. A faded brown steel-toed boot comes around the corner. It’s showtime, baby.
I mentally prepare to endure the verbal slaughter about to rain down on me. "What the hell? Your Mother's been calling you for half-an-hour. What are you...?” Oh man, he looks down and sees the phone lying on the floor. I forgot to hit the off button to send it to sleep. Alicia Moss, a vision of perfection, is looking up at him over her shoulder all sexy-like in a blue thong bikini bottom and nothing else. Traitor. There's no way I'm getting out of this. Death of a fourteen-year-old, incoming. I’m sure to wind up in the obituary section of the local paper this time. Dave's face is intent. His eyes squint and lock in on my destruction. His face turns deep red. One purple vein bulging in his forehead threatens to burst.
Here we go.
"Get out to the table NOW! On that damn phone again. I've a good mind to give it a bath. How many times..." My eyes glaze over. Listening to the same spiel over and over again loses its oomph. I zone out, which just makes him more upset. I can't stand it when he gets pissed off at me for stupid stuff. I know I've been told a million times, but what's the big deal? It’s just a phone, and I’m destined to sit on it all day. I’m a teenager
damn it. Dave should just give in, it’d be easier for both of us. The evil part of me wishes I could sprout claws, like the poster of Wolverine beside my bed, and stick them deep into his fleshy face. Slowly of course, no rush. Feel some of my pain, Dave, you POS. It's like he's always hiding right around the corner waiting for the chance, daily, to light me up.
I miss Dad, bad, especially right now. He never pulled this macho, I'm better than you ‘cause I'm a man and you’re just a pantywaist-kid attitude. This douche slid into the hot spot the second they lowered Dad into the ground and threw dirt over his casket two years ago. Dad was part of the US Army’s cleanup crew in Afghanistan. Stuck over there training security forces and establishing a safer way of life for them. Until the country’s ungrateful natives decided to destroy his convoy with a roadside bomb. A hometown tragedy. He was shipped back to the states in pieces. Mom was devastated. She didn't even get to see him one last time. The service was closed casket for good reason. Pieces.
Out of nowhere the charming and dashing Dave popped up. The old high school friend, along with his chubby in his pants, moved right in on her during her weakest moment. I'd never even heard of the guy until he showed up at the funeral. Soon after her very short-lived grieving span, he slid in there like swimwear and has been up my ass ever since. I can't even breathe without him questioning my every move. I put my comic down and push past him, making my way to the kitchen. Not making eye contact fuels the rage. I can feel the heat of his anger behind me ready to let loose and rip me a new asshole.
"I'm not done with you." Mom's coming towards me to intervene. She always knows what to say to calm him down. I look at her, my eyes heavy with apology.
"Get back here, you little punk."
"Dave, calm down. Cut him a break." She puts a hand on his chest.
"He doesn't listen..." His anger fades with her touch. I'm sitting at the table watching the whole freak show. Bile threatening to rise again. I burp to relieve the buildup. She turns on her magical anti-dick-Dave superpowers, and he begins to melt. I have no clue what she mumbles to him. Probably better not knowing. I'm purposely intent on my tuna melt, now cold because of my unsuccessful standoff.
"Are you going to eat something?" she asks him.
Hurricane Dave's calm for now. "No, thanks. Grass ain't gonna cut itself. I've got to get out there. Sky’s supposed to open up this afternoon." I hear the slap of his hand on her backside and her playful yelp as he walks around her to the laundry room then on to the garage. SLAM. Good riddance. Gross. I push my sandwich away. I'm not even hungry anymore. He's such a frigging perv. Hopefully the mower flips, crushing him. Ending my torment.
I put my baseball hat on backwards, far cooler that way, and tie my DCs to my feet. Grabbing my Alien Workshop deck by a truck, I head off to the garage. My escape is close. Freedom. I just have to get past Dave.
Mom cuts me off.
"Please take the garbage out with you, and don't go far." Ugh. Worry wart.
"K, mom." I take the plastic bag from her hand. She holds on to it, not letting go right away, looks me in the eyes, "Be careful." Her look is serious. It's been a year since I broke my wrist after a horrible attempt at riding a rail in the infamous Sunshine Bank parking lot, but she's not letting go. Her baby got a boo-boo.
"I'm good mom, let it go." She releases the bag letting me take it, a tear in her eye. I feel a bad about arguing with Dave. Not so much because of Dave but because it upsets her every time. He's not the worst; he's just not my dad. I kind of get why mom got together with him after dad was killed. There's no way she could do this all alone. Despite the settlement she gets from the government, she still has to pull a full-time job to make ends meet. Dave is a necessary evil. If not this Dave, then it’d be another.
I put my skateboard down at the door to the garage and pop in my earbuds, reach into my pocket, pull out my iPod, and thumb some good old punk rock to life. NOFX is blaring hard and fast, lyrics about our failing government. Drums are slapping, strings are howling. The music's tight, but the words don't mean too much to me. Who gives a crap about government at fourteen? Time to forget. Picking up the board, I turn the knob to the garage and head out to the danger zone.
I see Dave’s blue jean covered legs sticking out from under the red ride-on Toro. I smile. It’s a glimpse of my wish, kind of. Man, I’m messed up. Thanks Dad, for bailing and leaving me all screwed in the head. I don’t want to have to deal with the man-of-the-house again so I beeline for the garbage can sitting just outside the rolled up door. I flip the lid to the can and toss the garbage inside. With half an effort, I kick up the lid with my foot, catch it in my hand and put it back on, where it belongs. I can hear Dave calling me through my tunes but I ignore it, launch my board wheel side down at the driveway and hop on. Pushing off hard with one leg I’m rolling, fast, faster. Gravity’s my best friend, dragging me down the driveway. I slap the blazing hot hoods of the cars with my hand as I pass by and take a wide turn into the street.
FREE!!
I’m not the best at skateboarding. This is my first deck, and I only got it about a year and a half ago. Right before the wrist crack-a-lack-in. Zero kids live in the neighborhood so I have no one to play with. Mom and Dave never let me go anywhere anyways on my own, especially now. When I broke my wrist at the bank, I’d snuck out and met some of my friends from school. It was a blast, the most fun I’d had in a while until the snap heard round the world. I’ll never forget. Mom was so pissed. Dave lost it. Another day, I thought I was a goner. They’ve cracked down on me and I haven’t been allowed far from home since. Sucks big fat balls. I practice some low to the ground ollies and try my hand at a few unsuccessful kick-flips. My confidence is still in the pooper from the wrist incident. It hurt like a mofo. Sometimes I can twist it and it clicks. It drives mom nuts. She calls it a nervous habit. I have no clue what she means.
It’s insanely hot out. Every day the same. Florida in the summer is a pit from hell. Sweat pours off my face, and my t-shirt sticks to my back. It’s like running face first into a constant wall of wet air.
I look back at the yard as I turn in the street, picking up momentum for another ollie. It looks like a scene from Avatar. Everything is green and the weeds look like stringy alien overlords glaring down on the thick grass from above. The palm trees and bushes have grown out of control like they’ve become one with the house. Dave’s whipping around in a haze of dust and clippings. No mask on his face. We’ll all be sneezing for days. I stop the board and pull out the iPod; the music keeps cutting out. It’s getting annoying. Can’t find my groove. We’ve got decent Wi-Fi in the house and it usually reaches out here. Maybe it’s the weather Dave was talking about heading in. I look up and see nothing but white, thin clouds. Weird.
BEEP BEEP.
I jump, looking for the noise and just about crap my pants. The Dixons, from two houses down, are staring at me from behind their windshield. I didn’t see the silver SUV pull up, too busy looking at the sky. I back up, rolling my board with me, and mouth, “I’m sorry.” Another screw-up I'll be forced to eat. My apology receives dirty looks. Still no music, but now a bunch of static is screaming painfully in my ear buds, making me pull them out. I look at the sky again, what gives? I try to switch to my Amazon music. It’s usually a sure fire fix when Pandora’s hopping around. No better. I thumb Safari. Nothing. I wonder if mom forgot to pay the bill. From the open gate I hear yelling and see Dave on the mower swinging his arms in the air like a deranged monkey and pointing at me then the house, over and over again. He’s screaming for me to get inside. He looks up. I follow his eyes. There’s a black spot in the almost clear sky and he’s looking right at it. I keep my eyes on it even as he’s yelling at me again, ignoring his orders. I don’t see what he’s so nuts about, it’s gotta be a bird. A vulture, a hawk. We get all kinds of—
The emergency broadcast speakers dotting the coastline of Florida start raging with a high-pitched squeal. I cover my ears; it doesn’t help much. I look up again.
The shape is getting bigger; it’s moving pretty damn fast. It looks like a huge black missile. Closer now. Mom’s screaming my name.
Closer.
Whatever the hell it is, it’s heading right for the backyard. The speakers are still blaring.
Closer.
I see red marks on the side of the missile, too far to read or make out. Shit, it’s going to hit. I see Dave getting off the mower. Too late. Mom’s shaky hand on my shoulder. Her face red, scared. Tears streaming down her cheeks. She’s yanking on me, her face tight, eyes pinched in pain; I’m guessing from not cupping her ears from the speaker’s constant noise. I follow her, yell at her to cover her ears. She does now that I’m being cooperative. We run towards the front door right as the oversized bullet smashes into the ground, feet away from Dave, sending him and the mower flying in two different directions.
Inside, mom bolts the front door then runs to the garage and hits the button to close the roll-up door. I hear it clank and grind to life. She runs past me again, no explanation from her, just determination on keeping her nest safe from whatever is happening. I look around. The noise from outside dulled now from CBS walls, but still out there. Every device in the house that’s normally on still has power, but nothing else. The house is filled with white noise. I run to the patio doors to see Dave’s fate. Concern climbing to the top of my feelings.
The dirt shower is just starting to settle from the impact of the big black missile. Dave’s on his feet, the crotch of his pants dark with wetness. The lawnmower is on its back, dual blades spinning slowly to a stop. The safety feature sure paid off. I hear mom rustling around somewhere deep inside her bedroom, followed by a repetitive clicking sound. Metal on metal.
The Z Chronicles Page 6
