by Spell, David
CONTENTS
Title Page
Chapter One - A Dark Road
Chapter Two - Savior
Chapter Three - Heart Issues
Chapter Four - Survival
Chapter Five - Home
Chapter Six - Evil Intentions
Chapter Seven - The Plan
Chapter Eight - Revenge
Chapter Nine - Recovery
Chapter Ten - Preparation
Chapter Eleven - A New Journey
Running Towards the Abyss
By David Spell
Volume Four of the Zombie Terror War Series
This is a work of fiction. Any similarities to events or persons, living, dead, or fictitious are purely coincidental. Some actual locations are used in a fictitious way and the descriptions included here are not meant to be accurate. No part of this publication can be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, without permission in writing from the author.
Copyright ©2018 by David Spell. All rights reserved. Published in the United States by DavidSpell.com.
To my grandchildren: Micah, Lyla, and Knox
You are each my favorite and I’m excited to watch your lives unfold!
CHAPTER ONE
A Dark Road
Sixty miles Northeast of Atlanta, Monday, 1700 hours
The tall, muscular man in dark clothing, clad in tactical equipment, moved quickly but cautiously down the deserted street. The winding, two-lane road ran parallel to Interstate 85. Chuck McCain had found a trail that led from the interstate into the woods, dumping him out at the empty street he found himself on now, heading north. He had been eating up the miles on I-85 throughout the day, but night was falling, the temperature was dropping, and it was time to find a place to bed down for the night. The clouds had been progressively getting darker and he knew that rain or worse was coming.
McCain hadn’t seen any moving cars or any other signs of life all day, but he had seen plenty of signs of death. He’d shot a group of eight decaying, infected people who had been lingering around a car crash on the interstate a few hours before. Bodies, blood, and gore littered the scene, most of the destruction caused by zombies and not the vehicle accident itself.
Further on, he had entered the woods next to the highway, skirting around two other car crashes. A few more zombies had been standing in the roadway, not moving. Thankfully, Chuck was able to get by these undetected. His right hamstring was still bothering him and he didn’t feel like running.
A large red-brick house with white columns appeared as he rounded a curve. He left the roadway for the cover of some trees, pulling out his binoculars. The front door stood open, an invitation and a threat. All of the windows were covered with plywood and the grass was over a foot tall in the front yard. There were no vehicles in sight, but it looked like the garage was on the other side of the house, out of his view.
Chuck moved deeper into the woods, parallel with the two-story residence, until he could see the backyard. A swimming pool sat unattended, full of green water. The windows on the back side of the house were also boarded up and the back door was closed, probably secured from the inside.
McCain knew that he only had about half an hour of daylight left and it looked, and felt, like it was going to start raining, maybe even snowing, any time now. He checked the flashlight mounted underneath his suppressed Colt M4 rifle. He flicked it on and off, confirming that the batteries were still strong, and moved towards the open front door. He paused at the dark entrance, listened, and sniffed. Nothing. He moved the fire selector on the rifle to “Auto.”
Chuck was a federal police officer and, until recently, working for the Centers for Disease Control’s Enforcement Division. He and his men had been on the front line of the fight against both terrorists and zombies. When confronting the infected, all of their shooting was done in the “semi-automatic” mode to help them accurately make head shots, the only way to ensure a zombie was stopped for good. Here, trying to survive by himself and not knowing what dangers might be inside, however, he wanted to be able to get a lot of rounds downrange, depending on the type of threat he encountered.
He entered the house quickly, moving to the left so he wouldn’t be silhouetted in the doorway, scanning over the top of his rifle, and finding himself in a small corridor. A large formal living room ran off of it to his left. A stairway to the second level was up ahead on his right. McCain moved through the living room, using his gun-mounted light to illuminate the dark house. The living room connected with the dining room and then a big, open kitchen back to his right. A large patch of dried blood was visible on the tile floor where it looked like a body had been dragged to the back door.
Chuck continued through the kitchen, the rifle still at eye level, and into a small sitting area with a large window that would have overlooked the backyard if it hadn’t been covered with plywood. A leather arm chair was laying on its side, while more dried blood stained the hardwood floor. A small bar in the corner beckoned him to come back for further investigation after he finished clearing the house.
The rest of the lower level was empty and he started up the stairs to check the second floor. His ears picked up the sound of movement and something thudded to the floor in the first room on the right, just at the top of the stairway. The floor creaked and whatever or whoever was inside was coming towards the door. Chuck raised the rifle to his shoulder and sniffed the air but didn’t pick up the smell of death. He hadn’t heard any growling yet, either. Maybe it hadn’t smelled him. The floor creaked again and a large black cat’s eyes glowed yellow in the light from the flashlight as it padded into the hallway.
Seeing the intruder, the cat hissed, running down the hallway, away from him. McCain let out his breath and took his finger off of the trigger of the M4.
“Your lucky day, kitty."
The upstairs was clear of both the living and the dead. If he could secure the front entrance, this would be a good place to spend the night. With both small and large groups of infected wandering around, along with the human predators, you didn’t want to get caught outside after dark.
A closer check of the front door revealed that it had been kicked in, the frame shattered. The good news was that the hinges were still intact. Chuck took off his backpack and was about to pull one of the heavy leather couches over from the living room. It would keep the door closed against all but the biggest groups of infected and it would slow down human criminals long enough so that he could deal with them, too.
The dark clouds blocked out the moon and the stars. It was cold and Chuck knew the temperatures would be below the freezing mark tonight. January in Georgia could mean sub-freezing temps for a couple of weeks or just as easily have spring-like weather. The approaching winter storm looked like it was going to be nasty and he was thankful that he had found this house to pass the night in.
As he started to drag the sofa across the floor, the sound of voices came from the street. It was almost completely dark by now and McCain stepped closer to the door to listen. A woman’s and a man’s voices were moving down the road, back the way that Chuck had come. They need to shut up, he thought, or they won’t get to wherever they are going. And where could they possibly be going in the dark? He hadn’t seen any survivors in days. And the survivors that he had encountered were as dangerous as the zombies. Good luck, whoever you are. He quietly closed the door.
A baby’s cry made him open it again. He didn’t want to get involved. In this strange, new world he was hesitant to trust people or to try to help them. The woman
tried to quiet the baby, but the crying only got louder. It sounded like they were right in front of the big house.
McCain slipped out the door and used the darkness to sneak up on the people. It was tricky because he didn’t want to surprise them and have them pull a gun on him. At the same time, he wanted to check them out before offering to help them. As he approached, he realized that they had stopped and appeared to be debating whether or not to seek shelter in the large structure. The rain started and helped them to make up their minds. They turned and started in the direction of the front door.
Chuck illuminated them with his gun light. “Stop,” he said, softly. “Keep your hands where I can see them."
The woman screamed, jumping backwards at the sight of the big man pointing a rifle and shining a light at them.
“You need to be quiet,” McCain said, quietly. “I heard your voices and the baby crying as you were coming down the street. You're welcome to join me in the house. It’s pretty big and I think we’ll be safe for the night."
As a career policeman, Chuck knew how to read people. He was already getting a bad vibe off of this couple. The tall, skinny, white male had the pock-marked face of the meth users he’d dealt with over the years. A black duffel bag was slung over his shoulder.
The girl was tall, as well, and had probably been attractive at one time. Judging from her looks, Chuck assumed her parents had been a mix of black and Asian. Her eye sockets were hollow and she also had the appearance of a drug user. Maybe a prostitute? he wondered to himself. But she was holding a baby carrier containing a crying baby with a diaper bag draped over her shoulder.
The man spoke up. “We don’t know you, man. How do we know we can trust you?"
Chuck kept the rifle pointing down but left the flashlight on so that he could see them. The big man shrugged. “You can keep walking and try to find another place to spend the night. But I came from the way you’re going and there isn’t a lot to choose from."
The woman spoke up, looking at her companion, “I think we should stay here. We can’t be out walking around at night. It’s too dangerous."
“What are your names?” McCain asked.
“I’m Tonya. This is Greg,” the woman answered.
“I’m Chuck. You guys are safe with me, but I’m going back in and securing the door so you need to make up your minds fast."
Suddenly, loud growling came from nearby. Infected had either been following Greg and Tonya or had just heard or smelled them.
Greg swallowed hard and looked at Chuck. “Thanks for the offer. We’ll stay here, too."
“You guys go on in. I’ll take care of these before they can alert any more of their friends.”
The couple hurried towards the front door, the growls closer now. McCain’s rifle light illuminated the four zombies, just twenty yards away. Chuck left the flashlight on and let the rifle hang from its sling across his chest. He quickly drew his 9mm Glock 17 pistol and pulled the suppressor off his belt, screwing it onto the threaded barrel. The suppressed 9mm was much quieter than the M4. The pistol was also equipped with a flashlight mounted under the frame.
He thumbed that light on, also, and saw that three of the four infected were badly decomposed, a light breeze hitting him in the face with the nauseating smell of death and decaying flesh. The fourth one must have been recently infected. She had been an attractive twenty-something girl, wearing sweat pants and a Clemson t-shirt at the time of her infection. She suddenly began to sprint towards McCain, snarling at what she hoped was going to be an easy meal. The pistol coughed and a 9mm hollow point bullet punched into her left eye, spinning her around and dropping her onto her back.
The three decomposing zombies kept shuffling forward, growling and snapping their teeth together. Chuck made three more quick head shots, and then shone the light on the four bodies to make sure they were all down for good. He did a three hundred and sixty degree scan, making sure the area was clear, reloading his pistol with a full magazine. McCain stood in the light, icy rain for another minute, listening. Satisfied that these were the only zombies in the immediate area, he retreated to the safety of the house.
In the White-Columned House, 60 miles Northeast of Atlanta, Monday, 1900 hours
Chuck got Greg to help him shove the sofa against the front door. They dragged another couch over and placed it long ways to the entrance to the living room. If any infected managed to get inside, this barrier would give McCain a few extra minutes to pick them off.
Tonya pulled a plastic yellow flashlight out of the diaper bag she was carrying. She sat on the floor nursing the baby with Greg sitting near her. Chuck held a small flashlight of his own that he carried on his belt. Between the two of them, they had enough light so that they could all see each other.
McCain took off his plate-carrier and eased himself to the floor with his back to the wall and looked at his three guests. “So, where are you guys coming from?” he asked.
Greg looked at Tonya. She answered for them. “We’re trying to get to some friends’ house a few miles further down the road. Our car broke down earlier today so we’ve been walking.”
“Where are you from?“
Chuck saw her glance at Greg again.
This time, Greg answered, “We live up near Carnesville. It’s a small town, maybe twenty miles north of here.”
Chuck nodded. “These must be good friends you’re going to visit. It’s really dangerous to be out moving around. Do you guys have any guns?"
The couple looked at each other. It was clear to McCain from conducting so many suspect interviews over the years that they were not being truthful. They kept looking at each other to make sure they didn’t contradict the story they were having to fabricate in the moment.
Greg answered, “No, but we need some. We need to be able to protect ourselves."
“Where do your friends live?”
“They’re on the other side of Braselton,” Tonya said, looking down at the nursing baby. “How much farther is that, Chuck?”
“At least fifteen miles. That’s a lot of walking with a baby.”
Tonya started crying and looked at Greg. “What are we going to do? We’re almost out of food. That’s a long walk and I’m scared.” She wiped her eyes with her hand. “Sorry,” she said, making eye contact with Chuck so he could see her tears.
“I understand,” said McCain. “These are tough times for all of us. So, do you know that your friends in Braselton are OK? The zombies came right through there.”
They both shrugged. “We hope so. We don’t really know if anyone’s still alive or not with the phones being down,” Tonya answered.
Probably the first thing they’ve said that was true, Chuck thought. But why would they be making this trip into such a dangerous area?
“I’m just glad we found this place where we could hole up and ride the night out,” added Greg. “Thanks for letting us share it. The biggest problem for us is that we don’t have many supplies, and without a car, we’re in a bad spot.”
“Well, I’ll be leaving in the morning so you can keep the house,” McCain answered. “I can’t help you with supplies, though.”
“What about you?” Tonya asked. “Where are you going?"
“I’m trying to find my daughter. With the power grid and satellites down, I haven’t heard from her in months."
“Where’s she at?"
Without getting too specific, he answered, “Up near the South Carolina line, maybe another thirty or thirty-five miles.”
Greg nodded at McCain’s rifle, leaning against the wall, next to the former CDC officer. His eyes looked over the big man’s helmet, armor and attachments laying on the floor, and then his backpack and holstered pistol. “That’s some nice gear you have."
“Yeah, it is.”
They chatted a bit more and McCain sensed that there was a lot more to this young couple that they weren’t telling him. No problem, he thought. Everybody is entitled to their own secrets.
C
huck decided to take his things upstairs and turn in for the night in one of the bedrooms. In the low light, though, he noticed that Greg and Tonya appeared to be having a conversation with their eyes. The baby was finally asleep and she gently laid him in the carrier.
The two of them made eye contact again and Tonya took a deep breath, nodding almost imperceptibly to her companion. Greg nodded back at her, and glanced at Chuck in the dim light. McCain knew then that things were not going to end well. Let’s go ahead and get it over with, he thought.
“I’m going to scout around a little bit and see if there’s anything valuable in the rest of the house,” McCain said, climbing to his feet.
“Good idea,” Greg nodded, a little too enthusiastically.
McCain picked up his rifle and left the room. He had wanted to check out the bar that he had seen earlier, anyway. When he got out of sight of Greg and Tonya, he set the rifle down on the floor, quietly drew his pistol, and screwed the suppressor back on.
Behind the bar, besides cobwebs, he found a number of empty bottles. He got down on his hands and knees and shone his light on all the shelves. God loves me, Chuck thought. In a dark corner, hidden behind several empties, was an unopened bottle of Evan Williams Kentucky Straight Bourbon Whiskey. He sat it up on the top of the bar, picked up an empty Jack Daniels bottle, and walked back out to the living room.
“Look what I found,” said McCain, holding up the empty bottle in his right hand.
Chuck’s pistol was in his left hand by his side, concealed behind his leg. In the light of Tonya’s flashlight, he saw that she was standing with her back to him. She spun quickly, pointing a small revolver at McCain.
Greg was still seated on the floor but his hand was under his shirt, near his waistband. This wasn’t going the way that he’d pictured it. McCain never imagined the woman would be the one to try and rob him.
