by Annie Walls
Taking
on the
Dead
By Annie Walls
The Famished Trilogy Book One
Copyright © 2012 by Annie Walls
Cover Art by Stephanie Mooney
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by and means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system without the written permission of the author, except where permitted by law.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or events is entirely coincidental.
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Acknowledgments
I’ve rewritten this page on account of it sounding like an Oscar speech.
Thanks to everyone who helped me, and most of all, supported me. You know who you are.
Special thanks to my editor. She’s put her blood, sweat, and tears into this book right beside me. Tammy Parks, I don’t know what I’d do without you.
Super thanks to my family, friends, and my son.
Loving thanks to my husband, Stephen. My writing affects you the most, so thanks for only threatening to throw my laptop in the pool once. Okay, maybe twice.
Dedication
You once told me, “Life is like a road. What you want out of life is at the end of it. You can take the straight road to get there, but it’s a hell of a lot more fun on the curvy road.”
Sometimes I talk to you, sometimes I dream of you, and life isn’t the same without you. That’s why I dedicate my first published novel to everyone you’ve left behind.
Prologue
Some people say you can’t change overnight. I’m sure this is true. Most of the time. In my case, I changed within seconds. Never to be the same. Within those seconds, most people in the world changed as well. Just not in the way I did.
I’ll never forget my first zombie. Malachi and I wandered the small carnival as the sun set. The glowing lights of the spinning rides replaced the fading sunlight, the smell of funnel cake in the air. I could still feel Malachi on my skin. It wasn’t surprising since we just had a spontaneous tryst in the parking lot. At twenty, we had our whole lives ahead of us.
I remember grabbing his hand, my mind still with him in his car. Radiating affection, he looked down at me, our shared secret reflected in his big, brown eyes, his messy brown hair glinting auburn from the sparkling lights all around. He dressed like he always did, whatever was comfortable – a yellow Nashville Predators T-shirt and denim shorts. All his life, he played hockey, from peewee to amateur. He loved the game and continued to play as an adult.
Thrilling sounds of the carnival carried on the wind. I complained about how much we paid for the all-you-can-ride bracelets. There were only a few rides to enjoy, but the carnival charged too much. Some people did pay an arm and a leg. The carnival was just that, a carnival. Overflowing with people scurrying about the massive Ferris Wheel, and Tilt-O-Whirl. Children laughed and chased each other with innocent, painted faces – dancing, and skipping along with the carnival music.
Malachi made a beeline for a cotton candy booth. After the purchase, he put a big piece of pink fluff in my mouth. I can still taste the sticky sweetness melting on my tongue. Although he did it quite provocatively, it wasn’t until later I grasped his motivation, which was to keep me from complaining. He was subtle that way.
Sometime later, we got off the Ferris Wheel, both heated, clinging to each other, and ready for another tryst when we went off the beaten path to use the foul port-a-potties. When I think about it now, I know the outbreak began early in the day. We passed several wrecks, heard many helicopters and sirens, and probably saw a few zombies, but were too wrapped up in ourselves to notice. I blame it on being in love, but I swear to myself now if I saw a person walking down the street covered in blood or eating someone, I would have paid attention. Maybe.
We definitely did when we saw a zombie attacking a frizzy, red haired woman next to an old rusted bike rack.
Only, we didn’t know it was a zombie. The woman’s shrill screams were like something from a horror flick. My blood curdled when I saw a man biting into the woman’s forearm. Blood leaked down her arm and dress. Her shriek pierced my soul.
Malachi pushed the man off, trying to be a hero. “Kansas, call 911!” he screamed, turning to help the woman. I trembled slightly, pulling out my cell phone and dialing, only to hear a busy signal.
When the man regained his stature, I caught sight of him. He was crazed, eyes bloodshot, the front of his thigh gone. Muscle tissue hung from the stark white of bone. Blood covered his face, neck, and clothing – some kind of uniform – USPS which was weird and out of place on a Sunday. His stare drifted to Malachi. A ferocious growl came from his mouth before it clamped onto Malachi’s shoulder. Malachi’s face flashed pain, but he still managed to hit the jaw of the man, loosening the grip of the bite. Malachi’s blood dripped down his arm, dropping from his fingers onto the concrete. I swear I could hear the little splatters.
A scream erupted from my throat, freezing me to the spot. My trembles changed to full-on shakes while Malachi grappled with the mailman, who, in my mind, had obviously eaten some bath salts. It was then that the shouts from the carnival no longer sounded like amusement park screams. I saw a kid, no older than eleven or twelve, limping toward me. His dirty blonde hair went straight into his eyes. One of his feet bent awkwardly. Blood covered his face, neck, shirt, and hands.
Something serious was going down. Malachi was still fighting off the hyped up mailman. I was in some kind of shock, but told myself to get a grip.
My insides hardened as time slowed down, and narrowed my idealistic world into a vast tunnel. I clenched my fist to keep them from shaking. That’s when I saw the bell. Over the bushes in the next section of the park, the “High Striker” game – the one with the hammer to strike and ring the bell – was brightly lit with the colors of the rainbow, flashing trails up and down the length of the game. I ran straight through the bushes to find the game deserted. Plush bunnies still waited to go home with a lucky ringer. I found what I wanted – the sledge hammer.
The bushes scratched against my legs as I jumped out of them to find more crazy people closing in on Malachi. Ice seemed to spread through me.
“Malachi! We have to go. Now!” I yelled. He looked ghastly pale.
Gripping the sledge hammer like a baseball bat, I hit the mailman in the head. Malachi grunted as he kicked and shoved more people out of his way.
I bashed as many as I could. Most went down still twitching and moaning. The mailman crawled back toward us, his head bent at an odd angle. My stomach turned, but I swallowed the extra saliva
as I slung the hammer down to finish the job. His head split wide open, spilling things onto the sidewalk that should never be seen.
I glanced at Malachi to find him looking at me oddly, as if he didn’t know me. With my free hand, I grabbed him and we ran. I tripped on my cute wedge sandals, cursing myself for being vain enough to wear them. He just helped me up, and we continued running around game booths. I gripped the sledge hammer like a life line, taking in the horrid sights before us.
A child ripped into water bags in a booth, devouring the little fish inside, all the while the man running the booth feasted on another person. The taste of sweet acidic bile came into my throat. The carnival had become a scene of macabre lights, blood, and screams. People were getting attacked and eaten alive all around us. Kids with face paint eating their parents. The parents screaming for help. Panic filling their brains when they noticed it wasn’t just them, unable to comprehend what was happening, as if they would wake up from their nightmares. Fear dawning in their eyes as they realized they wouldn’t wake, that this was real.
I stopped to help a woman and her baby, only to see her tearing into its tiny body. Gore splattered the baby’s stroller. When its little cries ceased, the lady looked up with baby bits stuck to her nose and chin. Malachi grabbed me, spun me away to protect me from the unbelievable scene, but it was too late. The lights blurred with the tears filling my eyes, only to stain my cheeks as we ran. The carnival music seemed to slow to a drone, and skip beats. Malachi never made it back home.
Yes, you can change overnight. In seconds, and no, you never forget your first zombie. Mine wore a USPS uniform. He killed Malachi. No, I killed Malachi.
Chapter 1
Four years later…
Time slows down as the wooden floor protests beneath my boots right before it collapses. I let out a hoarse scream on the way down into the unknown, reaching out for anything to hold. Sharp boards scrape down my arms, confirming my failure. My fall ends in a crash as something pierces the back of my thigh. My body is buried in debris. Boards clash as I kick them away. The heaviness on my back is soothing. My big army pack broke my fall. I let out a sigh and relax my body as I take heed of my unexpected situation.
Squinting, I study the hole my body just made. The sun streams in from the first floor of the old house I, unfortunately, chose to loot. Motes of dust float like magic orbs around me. As it settles and reaches my nose, so does something else.
Death. Death so thick I can taste it. Searching for my crossbow through broken wood, I stop when a mud like substance covers my hand. Bringing it into the stream of sunlight, a maggot wiggles around in the decaying blood. Nausea rumbles, flooding my mouth with saliva. I gag and lean sideways, releasing the contents of my stomach. Knowing it was my last jar of summer tomatoes does not help. Swallowing back another heave, I shake my hand to fling off whatever coats it. Kicking and pushing debris, I stand so I can get the hell out of here, but not before sticking my hand back into the source of death.
“Mother fuck!” I hiss at the dead body through clenched teeth. I can barely tell it used to be a person. I’m not a forensic scientist or anything, but this person just died. With the heat, I’m guessing between two and four weeks ago. At this realization, heavy melancholy settles over me.
Wiping my hands on my ruined jeans, I glance around, looking for a way out. I want to get out of here, and fast. I’m not so much irritated I’m covered in dead person, as by the fact I’m a three hour walk from home. I’m not looking forward to it because my thigh throbs.
Happily, my crossbow didn’t land in any decomposition, and I grab it from where it settled from the fall. After checking the wooden stairs for damage, I make my way up. The machete hanging from my pack hits my injured leg. I can safely assume the machete sliced my thigh during the fall.
Coming into the sunlight, I look at the back of my pants. They are soiled with foul smelling matter. The cut in my thigh needs some attention. It won’t last a three hour hike without being highly bothersome or getting infected.
I skirt around the big hole in the living room floor. Closer inspection tells me the sub-flooring is rotten – the cause of collapse. From the look of newer wood pieces, the owner had been trying to repair it. Everything in the living room seems in a state of decay, from the low hanging ceiling, to the moth eaten curtains and furniture. I check for weak spots in the warped flooring as I head into the kitchen. Smiles in multiple picture frames catch my eye. Old pictures of children in mid-play. Adults with the same smiles as the children. Newer pictures of babies, and kids with their proud grandparents. My throat constricts as I’m reminded of what the world has lost.
Being in my own state of grief, most of the time other people and their families are easy to forget. Especially when I am alone. How long had this person been here? Surviving? Like me. Alone. I catch sight of my reflection in a cracked mirror among the pictures. The girl looking back couldn’t be me. I wasn’t a girl anymore. My skin is darkened from working in the sun. My dark hair makes my hazel eyes stand out wide, bright, and alert. My light-blue tank top is dirty from the fall. The straps of my pack weigh on my shoulders. I can see how my once-soft body has hardened with muscle. The contours of my stomach and arms show just how much I refuse to give up. They show how hard I work to survive, to keep myself prepared for anything.
Sweat and dust smudge my face. I wipe at it absently, watching my bicep bulge. In my old life, I would have given anything to look like I do now. I hate my old self. The spoiled rotten, selfish old me never had to garden, chop wood, target practice, crank a heavy generator, or loot for the things she needed. She never had to look over her shoulder and sleep with one eye open, gripping a weapon.
The afternoon light coming from a window shines behind me, making my hair look ratty. My dark brown hair has, at some point, become a ratted, matted mess, creating thick dreadlocks falling down my back to my waist. They are tied back, away from my face. The woman looking back at me seems callous and impenetrable. My face is no longer pretty to me. I give myself a genuine smile to see if it will lessen the effect. Straight teeth flash white before the smile quickly fades to a grimace. I haven’t seen my reflection in a long while. Not since I busted my own mirror, resulting in ghastly scars across my knuckles.
Being alone has kept me alive. That, and being prepared for any disaster. I owe it all to my dad. I tear my gaze away from the reflection and fixed smiles of the pictures to keep from thinking of him, but the faces are still in my peripheral vision, haunting me of happier times.
I go through each kitchen cabinet. The deceased has their own stash of non-perishables. I stuff several sacks of rice and homemade canned food in my pack. In the last cabinet, I come across a gold mine.
“Well hello, old friend,” I say, picking up the first bottle of gold liquid. I blow at the dust, reading Jose’s name across the metallic label, glinting in the light. A second bottle of tequila and one of Jack Daniel’s go into my pack. By the time I’m finished searching, my pack is heavier and weighs on my leg. No way will I be able to walk the whole way back before dark.
I hobble to the old couch and begin removing my boots and jeans to clean the cut. I take a big swig of Jack and dump some on my cut, hissing through my teeth, more from the burn of my throat than the sting of the cut. It’s not deep and will heal without a scar. After a makeshift bandage is in place, I redress and take my leave.
***
I step down from the old, slanted porch, and hike into the vast farmland that makes up rural Tennessee. The heavy, overgrown brush skims lightly across my legs as I walk through a field surrounded by rusted, barbed-wire cattle fences. The late afternoon sun beats down on this hot, fall day. I hate to be so far from home, but looting is a necessary evil of winter gathering. Staying in one place during the cold months is a necessity. Zombies are most active at night and during the cold months. I don’t know why, but my educated guess would be staying out of the sun has something to do with their decomposition. It’s weird, becau
se when the outbreak occurred, they didn’t give a damn about the sun. They were just hungry for flesh, guts, blood, and bones. In the past few years, they started running in packs – only coming out in the cooler night. I guess everything adapts, but that usually pertains to the living.
An hour into my walk, sweat beads down my back and my thigh is at a steady throb, but I find a car with gas at a small house. I’m going to need it to get closer to home before nightfall. When the door won’t open through the rust, I bust the window with my double-sided hatchet and toss in my pack. After sweeping glass off the seat, I slip Bo Duke style into my newly acquired General Lee. It’s only a beat down Toyota, but one can dream. After all, it’s a stick shift.
In a movie, one would easily find the key stashed in the flip down visor. I’ve never been lucky that way. Instead of wasting time searching for an imaginary key, I jerk the necessary wires out from under the dashboard. After I strip the correct ones with my teeth, I hold the clutch and shift to neutral. Taking a deep breath and hoping this works, I touch wires. The engine turns and sputters. It is so loud it practically roars in my ears, but it dies. I have to give it more gas.
After a few tries and curses, it finally comes to life. I hit the gas and flinch from the loud backfire, and watch through the side mirror as smoke spits from the muffler. A smile spreads across my face as I shift to reverse to back out of the weeded gravel driveway.
***
I park about a half mile from my neighborhood – I don’t want to draw any zombies my way. It’s the main reason I like to stay isolated, getting very few of them, if any at all. To keep my home zombie-free, I’m very careful about the noise I make.
There are around a hundred houses in this rural neighborhood. They are isolated, well out of the city, down country roads, ranging from twenty-five hundred square feet to four thousand square feet, on an acre of land each. The huge yards are what attracted my parents, so they said. Now, the landscaping and grass are overgrown. It’s not really grass anymore, just excessive brush. Brush so thick, it covers the once trimmed and pruned bushes.
