Z Walkers: The Complete Collection

by Luke Shephard

  Z Walkers

  The Complete Collection

  By Luke Shephard

  © 2015

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other non-commercial uses permitted by copyright law.

  Z Walkers: The Complete Collection

  Hank, Collin, and Sara. A janitor, a thief, a personal trainer.

  Three strangers in an increasingly strange city come together in an attempt to survive. With the infected crawling out of every crevice, they need to get to safety--now. Each wants a different direction: Hank still waits for his lady love to arrive so that they can head north, while Sara wants to get on a boat and get out onto the open waters. Collin...well, Collin just wants to be the aloof dangerous guy in a zombie apocalypse.

  Little do they know, each of their best-laid plans is going to hit a rocky detour, and there's no telling just who will get out of everything alive.

  Will any of them make it to safety before it's too late? Or will they end up just like the other mindless zombies beginning to fill the streets…?

  Discover more books by Luke Shephard by visiting his Amazon Author’s Page

  Collin– Episode 1

  Why is it that people in the suburbs feel confident enough to leave their fucking windows open? Was there something in the air that made them inherently stupid, or had all the open spaces and kids parks and ice cream trucks lulled them into a false sense of security?

  Whatever the case may be, Collin wasn’t complaining. If idiots, like the ones who lived at 11 Maplewood Drive, didn’t leave their windows open, his job would have been a lot harder. He’d have to bust a window or break the lock on the back door instead, thus leaving an incriminating trail behind as he cleaned out their “secret” cash jars and gaudy jewelry boxes. He didn’t want to do any of those things. He’d already been to juvie, and he wasn’t about to face the big leagues now that—as of his last birthday—he was old enough for a real prison sentence.

  Gripping his bike’s handlebars, he inhaled the warm spring air as he whizzed down the quiet suburban lane. A backpack sat squarely on his shoulders—empty. A Knicks cap hid his face from curious onlookers. He wanted to look ordinary, like he belonged in any one of these cookie cutter houses. Most people remembered a strange car cruising their block, but no one paid attention to some kid on a bike. He looked young enough to be mistaken for a high school kid. Anyone who saw would probably think he was a local senior cutting class on his few final days.

  High school was a distant, unpleasant memory. Collin had been decent at shop and math, but nothing ever held his interest. College was out of the question—like he or his parents could afford to put him through a couple extra years of education. The job market was tough. Everyone was looking and nobody was hiring. Flipping burgers was degrading.

  Robbing houses was quick cash. Easy money. He never took stuff that looked sentimental. Old jewelry wasn’t a big hit in pawnshops anyway: people would rather have new, expensive-looking pieces on his end of town. Cash and gold, those were his targets. The cash he kept, the gold he sold, and he hadn’t had to flip a single burger all year.

  There was this girl, Claire, who worked at the pharmacy up the road from his apartment. She was pure class, a real lady, on two long beautiful legs.

  Or so he assumed. He usually only saw her on the other side of the counter. But she had a killer smile and always laughed at his jokes, and he was this close to getting her to agree to go out with him. He’d spent most of the last haul on a new gaming console, and when Claire finally agreed to let him take her out, he wanted to spoil her.

  11 Maplewood Drive looked the same as three other houses on alternating streets. Most of these places were replicas of one another, just scattered at intervals to give some semblance of variety. This one, his target for the afternoon, was a two-story home with a single garage and a fenced-in backyard. He’d biked passed it dozens of times in the last week. Lots of windows. A flimsy screen door. A gate into the backyard that was both hidden from the street view and on the verge of falling apart.

  It’d be a breeze. Leaning to the right, he eased his bike off the road and up the driveway, slowing his pedaling and fingering the brakes to cut his speed. He’d leave his bike by the back gate, and his entryway would be the propped open kitchen window overlooking the backyard.

  He listened the axels and wheels clack as the bike finally slowed to a stop, and he climbed off gracefully, purposefully. He’d learned a long time ago to move like he belonged somewhere, even if he didn’t, and he always had a story.

  The family that lived here, with the parents and two kids, were on vacation. He’d figured that out when the mail started to pile up on the front stoop, and, on the few runs he’d made by the place over the last week, Collin had brought it inside. If anyone asked, he’d been hired to bring in the mail and tend to the plants. You know, like a real job.

  Why these people would take a vacation in the middle of the school year, around a time with no holidays or special events, was beyond him. But if they had the money to bounce out of the suburbs for a week, they could probably spare the few hundred bucks Collin anticipated finding inside.

  Although the fence was high, he was more than able to reach the lock on top. A few wiggles later, Collin had flipped the thing open and could push the gate open like he owned the place. His bike found a home against the light, glossy wood, and he left the gate slightly ajar on the off-chance that he’d need to make a hasty retreat.

  There it was, the kitchen window. Must have been a nice view to do the dishes in front of. He’d never had a backyard, but if he ever did, he’d want it to look like this. Manicured lawn. Garden greens in the far corner. A covered patio made a grey slate, each stone fit perfectly to form some intricate design. Patio furniture that wasn’t plastic.

  A frown crept across his lips. Cheeks sucked in, Collin cleared his throat and spat on the beautiful green lawn.

  Fuck you.

  He drew in a deep breath, cracked his neck, and then pushed the window open as wide as it would go. Once he was sure there were no eyes on him—the backyard ended where the ravine began, so he didn’t have to worry about neighbors from that direction—he hoisted himself up and through the opening. As usual, he climbed over a spotless sink and into an equally spotless kitchen. All the mail he’d collected sat next to the toaster. He’d only ever poked his head through that open window, getting rid of the mail to keep his story up, but never lingering.

  The adrenaline boost he got when he had both feet squarely on the ground of a house was better than any drug out there. When he was first starting, sometimes he thought the only reason he robbed uppity places like this was for the thrill of it. These people might be “better” than him in the eyes of society, but right now, right here, he had the advantage.

  Hanging baskets of fruit and stainless steel appliances greeted him, like most places in well-off suburbs. A decent kitchen table, one with a removable middle section to make it bigger, and a fridge littered with childish art and A+ reports stared back at him as he waited for his hands to stop trembling. His stomach rumbled. No one would notice if he grabbed a quick bite to each, but he knew better than to smear his fingerprints all over the place. Before he started, Collin pulled a pair of cheap plastic gloves out of his pockets, and then helped himself to the softly rumbling fridge.

  Humph. Basically empty. He briefly examined a hunk of cheese that looked like it was molding, t
hen swiped a chocolate pudding cup for later.

  When he was through, he went for the jewelry first: it was always the easiest to find. The house had a pretty basic layout. Easy to navigate. Living room, dining room, kitchen, and half-bath on the first floor. Four bedrooms upstairs, one of which functioned as both an office and, given the look of the couch, a guest bedroom. Another two bathrooms up here, one as an en-suite off the master bedroom. It was there he found the jewelry box, which he carefully opened and picked through in silence.

  Not a great haul, all things considering. He’d managed to take a few gold rings, a couple of necklaces, and some tucked away broaches that may have diamonds in them, but he couldn’t be sure. When he was finished, he closed the small brown box, which sat in its conspicuous location on top of the waist-high dresser. The husband had a few watches too—fancy ones at that—and Collin threw every single one in his backpack.

  Now, the cash would be a little harder to get at. He found piggybanks in the kids’ rooms, which combined had about a hundred dollars in coins. An hour of searching for some hidden safe proved fruitless, but he found a rainy day fund jar in the garage—five hundred dollars in bills.

  Guys who stole TVs were chumps. He had hundreds, maybe thousands, of dollars in his possession, and yet his backpack looked almost the same now as it did when he hoisted himself through the window.

  Still, the house had a couple of great TVs. A few of his friends were in the business of petty theft… Maybe he could convince them to come back and wait behind the fence in the ravine. It’d be a riskier steal, but if he and someone else could get the TVs over the fence, they could probably carry them out to a van parked at a safe distance…

  He ran a hand along the top of the flat-screen in the living room. It was mounted to the wall, he noted, peering behind it with a concentrated look. Might make it a little more difficult to move at first, but there were three other screens around the house that he and a few guys could easily take.

  Maybe. He wasn’t exactly keen on letting anyone in on his operation. People are idiots. They make mistakes. Partners talk. Friends bail. It was worth considering if he didn’t get as much for the cash and jewelry as he wanted—and it would have to be done at night. Anyone glancing into the backyard from a nearby window would definitely see a couple guys hauling TVs across the lawn.

  “Wonder what kind of picture this thing gets?” He posed the question to no one in particular, obviously, and searched the wicker basket on the coffee table for the right remote. Three remotes. Who the fuck needs three remotes for anything? The first turned on the ceiling fan, and the second brought the fireplace roaring to life. The third, thankfully, managed to get the TV going, but Collin immediately found himself faced with a blank screen and a hovering menu with various HDMI hook-up options. “What? Come on…”

  With a slight roll of his eyes, he started flipping through his options, eyebrows furrowed as he studied the various buttons on the black rectangle in his hand, then nearly dropped the remote when a bloodcurdling scream ripped through the air. He looked up sharply, expecting to find the screen on and playing some horror slasher flick, but there was nothing—dark, blank, mocking. Gripping the remote, he went for the window, creeping along the walls to avoid being seen. The floor-length green curtains were pushed back, revealing a fancy bay window with a reading bench built in.

  No sign of the source of the scream. He frowned: had he imagined it? Was the house playing tricks on him? Was someone fucking with him?

  A quick scan of the vacant downstairs living room, which opened up into the hall that led to the garage, plus the stairs, told him he was alone.

  Another scream. He dropped to his knees and peered out the window, remote forgotten on the ground by his feet. It had been a man’s scream this time, equally horrific and just as panicked. Collin swallowed down hard, pushing the fearful knot in his throat down as best he could.

  “What the fuck?” he breathed, fingertips pressed into the little cushion on the ledge. He peered through the pristine bay windows, his breath coming out in uneven stutters. Had he just heard a murder? A part of him wanted to call the cops, but they’d trace the call back to this house—the house he was currently in the middle of robbing.

  A woman’s scream echoed from the house next door, and he pushed himself even flatter when the source of sound came falling down the driveway. Bloodied. A wound on her neck was gushing red, painting her ivory skin and soaking her t-shirt. She almost made it to the curb before falling flat on her face, and then she was very still.

  “Jesus Christ…”

  He’d seen fights before, sure, but he’d never seen somebody walk away from one looking like that. Running for the phone seemed like a more pressing idea—she needed an ambulance, or she was going to bleed out on the street. However, before he could even try to use his wobbly legs, the woman was joined by someone else.

  Slowly, a shuffling figure stumbled toward the woman, arms limp and legs awkward. The guy looked drunk, but Collin cursed out loud and ducked down when he saw the guy’s face. Red liquid dripped from his mouth to his chin, and he looked a pasty yellow-green. Sick. The guy was sick—in more ways than one, apparently.

  Crouched down beneath the bay window, Collin shut his eyes tight when the screaming started up again, and he didn’t have the stomach to see what the guy was doing to her.

  He’d heard this kind of shit before, the stuff that sends people to psychiatrists and doctors later in life—the stuff that gives you nightmares. He’d heard a woman being attacked in an alley when he was ten, and he’d listened to a brawl in the apartment above him two weeks ago. He’d seen fights on TV. He’d beat the shit out of hookers in a video game.

  Nothing had ever sounded like this. Nothing could compare to the shrieks he heard at that very moment.

  Run. Get out of the house. Hop the fence in the backyard—who gives a fuck if they see you? These were all great suggestions, but for some reason, he couldn’t put any weight on his legs. His feet were numb, his palms sweaty. His whole body seemed to weigh a hundred pounds more than it should, and try as he might, Collin just couldn’t get himself moving.

  Not until the screaming stopped.

  And it did stop. Eventually. The woman’s voice probably gave out. She probably gave out.

  A string of expletives flowed passed his lips as he forced his body to move, peering up and over the window ledge. The guy was gone, and the woman was still on her stomach. Blood everywhere. Painting the white curb. It looked like he’d ripped a clump of her scalp off: there was a sizeable chunk of brown hair missing, though it could have been buried beneath the blood.

  Fuck. Okay. Okay. Just get out of here.

  He was about to make a beeline for the kitchen, grabbing his bag on the way and hopping out the back window, when something else caught his eye. Arms falling to his side, Collin stared, open mouthed, as a whole cluster of green-yellow-faced fuckers lumbered down the street. They too were bloodied, but they seemed unfazed by it. Slack-jawed and limping, they meandered aimlessly. Suddenly, there were more screams. A car raced out of a garage a few houses over, and queasiness took hold of him when it mowed down a couple of the sick guys in the street.

  He gagged when several got back onto their feet after the collision, walking on what were probably broken and shattered bones.

  Was this some kind of protest gone wrong? Had he missed a memo that psychos were staging a parade in suburbia today? Nope. Nope, not sticking around to see how it unfolds. He shook his head and staggered backward, nearly falling over the coffee table in the process. A sharp pain shot through his shin, and he ducked down and scooped up his backpack, flinging it over his shoulder.

  There was no need to be quiet now. The whole neighborhood was suddenly up in arms, and it sounded like a warzone out there—no one was going to give a shit if they saw some kid running out of a house that wasn’t his.

  The main road was out. Even if those sickies weren’t moving very fast, Collin wasn’t about
to risk weaving through them on his bike. Like breaking-and-entering, his escape needed to be unseen and unheard. Afterward, he planned to barricade himself in his apartment and drink until he couldn’t remember that woman on the driveway.

  Alcohol probably wouldn’t be enough to get those screams out of his dreams though. He shivered at the thought, then braced himself on the kitchen counter, ready to hop up and crawl out the open window.

  His arms buckled, however, when he saw several pairs of hands groping along the top of the fence. Bloody hands with pasty skin. A whole bunch of them. Damn it. They were in the fucking ravine too?

  He slammed the window shut and hastily did up the latch, something the owners of this house definitely should have done before they left for their stupid holiday. Then, just to be extra safe, he let the blinds cascade down and turned the little plastic rod to keep them shut.

  Okay. Okay, so they were in front of the house and behind it. Okay. He’d played enough apocalyptic video games to have some kind of idea how to handle himself in a situation like this.

  Right?

  Collin remained perfectly still in the kitchen for a long time, his feet numb and his breathing coming out in ragged gasps.

  Gotta call the cops. He didn’t want to, but the whole situation was getting out of hand, and there was no way any of these soft suburbanites could handle what was out there. After fishing his phone out of his backpack, he pinched himself a few times. Not dreaming, not high, and definitely not drunk.

  This was his reality.

  He punched in that three-digit number, the one he never wanted to call unless absolutely necessary, and held his phone to his ear. Ringing. Ringing. Did it normally take so long for someone to answer? More ringing. He bit the inside of his cheek, hard, and kept on waiting. What if people had a serious crisis? Say some asshole was beating some kid’s mom to death? Was he just supposed to wait on the line until someone at the police department decided to answer the phone?