Seven Days Dead

by Christopher Johnson

  PRAISE FOR SEVEN DAYS DEAD

  “ The city of Jerusalem comes alive, only to be torn asunder. Landmarks found crumbled. Holy buildings left abandoned and burning. Set in a foreign land plagued by a familiar infection: the undead. All told from a character with deep conflicts from past military involvements. If you like a good story where beauty gets destructed and zombies dismembered, look no further than Seven Days Dead.”

  - M. Robert Randolph author of The Dark Mountain

  “ If you have any reservations about zombie fiction, push those feelings aside now and check out Seven Days Dead. Christopher Johnson provides a unique take on the zombie genre by placing his story in an unexpected location, and skillfully weaving in details of the location’s rich history. You’ll immediately be invested in the journey of the book’s authentically flawed and capable protagonist - who doesn’t make clichéd, stupid decisions. The action is grounded in reality with precise depictions of military operations and equipment. The unavoidable ‘gore’ involved in any zombie tale is handled in a tasteful way. It’s like the Walking Dead meets Black Hawk down. This book deserves your support, so be sure and grab a copy. You will be entertained.”

  - P.H. James author of The Seventh Aspect

  “Chris' commitment to a realistic setting is what set this book apart from other zombie novels. A war zone is already a place of horrors, imagine throwing zombies in the mix.”

  – Ricardo Henriquez author of The Catcher’s Trap, Bad Medicine, and Worlds Walker

  “ A beautiful woven tale of zombies, middle east conflict, and enough suspense that not only takes your breath away, but refuses to give it back. I could easily see this one on the big screen some day! Brilliant work”

  – Joshua Griffith author of In a World of Darkness: The Yonuh Trilogy

  Author’s Note

  While the events contained herein are clearly fantastic and fictitious, and any

  similarities to actual persons or operations is purely incidental, my goal with this book was to inject a sense of realism into the zombie genre. I had grown tired of the movies, books, and comics where the survivors had miraculous luck, or the chance combination of the most

  complementary skill sets. I learned to expect the most unlikely of scenarios. With this book I wanted more.

  All of the places named in this book are real places, and great lengths have been taken in order to try to maintain their actual condition. The roads, buildings, and landmarks in Jerusalem are really there. You could follow along the route with our survivors if you have one of the current map programs or the internet. The military units, equipment, and weapons mentioned are all as accurate as can be made with current publicly available information. The history of the land and its people is accurate. Even the character’s names are ethnically identifiable. Military tactics are as true to form as possible, many of them coming from my own experience in the American military.

  I also chose the location to showcase the history of conflict in this region, and hopefully, to show how very pointless it all is. I wanted to create characters that did not simply “toe the company line” as it were, but were intelligent enough to know that, deep down, we are all the same while still maintaining their faith.

  At the end of this book, my hope is that your take away is something like this: I hope you had an adventure. One fraught with action, emotion, suspense, fear, and hope. One where you get to see people of disparate (and often mutually antagonistic) cultures and faiths transcend the boundaries of man-made differences. One where people learn that every life is worth saving. One where, even though the premise is farfetched, the responses to it are real, gritty, sometimes dirty; but real and realistic none-the-less.

  Lastly, I have represented the cultures in this book as accurately as possible, I hope to help break some stereotypes. Not all people from any culture or religion feel particular way about any other, and we each have our flaws as well as our strengths.

  And, of course, I hope the zombie fans enjoy the zombies.

  Seven Days Dead

  By

  Christopher Johnson

  Chapter One

  Ughhh….Fuck.

  It was always the same with the dream.

  Well, the nightmare really.

  His eyes were bright, the afternoon sun

  reflecting in his irises. He was welcoming,

  smiling even.

  No.

  A sudden surprise. Not surprise that he'd

  been stabbed. He was expecting that; he'd told

  Tal as much just before the blade slid home.

  Surprise that it hurt, maybe…or that it didn't

  hurt more. They'd always said it was a quick

  and relatively painless way to kill a man. I've had enough already.

  Sadness. And a strange look in his eyes.

  The sun was still reflecting in exactly the same

  place as before, the act itself only taking

  moments, but the light…the light…faded from

  those eyes never the less.

  I'm not proud of it Goddamnit! I was

  following orders, it wasn't my choice!

  Of course it was a lie, one he’d told

  himself so often that by now it was just this side

  of truth. We all have choices. And that made

  the last thing he saw in those eyes, those ever

  present be-damned eyes, all the harder to bear. Forgiveness. Pure and unmistakable. Full consciousness slowly began to return,

  his body’s nervous system vibrating like a

  plucked guitar string. The urge to puke rose up

  in Tal Barzani's throat from deep down, deeper

  than just his stomach. If a soul could vomit, this

  was what it would feel like. He leapt out of bed,

  or rather his scotch pickled mind mistook the

  stumbling shamble his body performed for a

  leap, and he staggered into the bathroom. The

  dream had been much sharper this time, and

  he'd made it to the bathroom leaving little

  disturbed in his wake, which could only point to

  one obvious thing.

  Tonight, I’ll have to drink a lot more. The nightmare had dogged his days and

  haunted his nights for well over two years now,

  ever since he'd been discharged from the

  Maglan. If he was honest, the pain and guilt was

  most of the reason why he hadn't stayed in any

  longer. But he felt he'd done his duty and his

  superiors had not failed to notice his record, and

  they were not entirely unsympathetic in private,

  even if they were entirely business on paper.

  Hence his "pension", modest but enough to pay

  the bills and keep him in scotch. At least it’s

  kosher. And they’d given him the plaque. Oh, how he hated that plaque. It was a

  constant reminder of the life he'd left behind,

  like a dark spot on a white wall or an oil stain on

  concrete. It was a millstone around his neck;

  which, if he was honest, is exactly why he had

  kept it. Tal had long ago learned that a soldier's

  lot was to do the deeds that no one wanted to

  do, the ones that had to be done regardless of

  their distastefulness, but just because they were

  for God and country didn't mean you should

  ever be excused for them. He knew he had no

  right to forgiveness, whatever he saw in those

  spectral eyes.

  As if on cue, the heaving stopped and his

  gaze was drawn to the plaque on his living room

&nbs
p; wall, beyond the bathroom door. Quickly, his

  eyes dropped and the old shame and familiar

  anger roiled over him in waves. He hated that

  plaque, and he knew every inch of it. Every

  knot and grain in the wood backing was

  mapped in his mind. The blued steel of the

  Jericho pistol, covered with a fine sheen of dust,

  hanging over the built in drawer with its single

  magazine and 16 rounds. The magazine only

  held 14 at a time plus one in the chamber, but

  they always gave you an extra one. There was a

  message in that, and if you ever failed to

  remember it, the Maglan was kind enough to

  burn it in the wood above the pistol.

  התא רצו ק תא המ התאשערו ז

  We reap what we sow

  War soaks into your bones, drills down

  into the marrow like a parasite. It blots your life

  like ink spilled on snow white paper, and it has

  its perils even long after you’ve given it up. So

  when you leave, after you sign the paper

  forfeiting your life if you ever talk about the

  things you saw or did, they give you a pistol and

  16 rounds. 15 of them are for the enemies that

  might find you; because no matter how careful

  you are, all it takes is one village kid, or chance

  picture, or some other shitty luck and your face

  is known in a place where anonymity was as

  important as any piece of body armor. The extra

  one was for you. They figure you'll either go

  through the first 15 on your assailants and if you

  run through all those, well…you'll know what to

  do with the last one. Better than the most likely

  alternative. Or you'll use the last one first, as

  had been known to happen from time to time.

  We reap what we sow, after all, and some men

  aren't up for such a harvest. Today, however,

  Tal was only up for one thing - buying a few

  more bottles to shore up his much depleted

  stock.

  Moving slowly toward the window, so as

  not to overly upset the headache that he felt he

  had no right to have, given the apparent efficacy

  of last night's drinking, Tal began to pull aside

  the curtain to look out over King George Street,

  seven stories below his one bedroom apartment.

  It was always good policy to see what you'd be

  walking out the door and in to, after all, and

  besides he had no idea what time of day it was.

  Probably getting toward midday, by the look of

  the sun through the part in the curtains.

  Shouting and noise assaulted his ears as his eyes

  tried to adjust to the light and his brain tried to

  kill itself at the blinding pain the process caused.

  Figuring his current state would make every

  falling leaf sound like an elephant stomping, by

  and large he ignored the cacophony from below.

  Until his window shattered and a bullet buried

  itself, without so much as a 'by-your-leave' in his

  ceiling, missing his head by an inch or two. Instinctively, Tal dropped to the floor and

  rolled away from the broken window as though

  his military training had ended only yesterday,

  suddenly feeling as sober as a judge. Creeping

  through the shards of broken glass in a tactical

  crawl, he lifted himself slowly up over the

  window sill to see just what the bloody hell was

  going on down there. A moment later, all

  thoughts of scotch and oblivion were dashed

  from his head by the vision that greeted him.

  The unthinkable had happened.

  Jerusalem is burning.

  **********************

  As the flames that Tal had mistaken for a midday sun raged through the Great Synagogue of Jerusalem, backlighting Leonardo Plaza, every conceivable possibility flashed through his head.

  Terrorist attack. No, that's not right, there are people firing guns down there…it'd have to be an invasion. Invasion? No…no one could have gotten one underway without the Mossad knowing, plus Israel had powerful allies. Riot? But why? And how did it get so out of hand? Natural disaster? Gas pipes exploding, starting the fire? Stupid. Maybe I did drink too much. Why would they be firing guns, then? Get it together. Doesn't really matter what or why, just gotta get out before the fires get here. 7th floor. Bad place to be if the lobby catches.

  Tal shook his head, trying to dispel the cobwebs from his head. It was still dark, but the clock on the wall read 4:53 am so the sun wouldn't be long over the horizon. He was going to need to get out, grab a few essentials and escape the building before he ended up trapped. Thankfully he'd never really kept much, his time in the IDF stripping from him the need for creature comforts, and the Sayeret Maglan only beat the lesson in deeper.

  Tal low crawled from the broken window, keeping low should any further projectiles find their way into his apartment, and made his way to the bedroom. Which is pretty much all it was, a room with a bed. He really didn't spend much time in it, and rarely every passed out on the bed. In fact the sheets were still perfectly made as though he was awaiting morning inspection. Even after a particularly rough bender, he still maintained the habits he'd learned over 17 years in the Special Forces, cleaning everything up every morning. Or late afternoon, depending on how bad the nightmare was over the preceding week. Apart from appearances, he also kept a bag ready with a spare change of clothes, a couple of knives, a small first aid kit, some strike anywhere matches and a full canteen. After all, you never knew when or if those theoretical 'enemies' might find you. A little paranoia, he felt, could be forgiven.

  Enemies… The plaque… The Jericho… Shit…just shit.

  He'd hoped he'd never touch another damned gun ever again, but with the sporadic small arms fire he could hear on the other side of his recently broken window, now was hardly the time for an existential crisis. He could throw the damn thing in the desert once he was clear of whatever fresh hell was outside in the street and this…whatever it was…calmed down. Tal reached under the bed, grabbed his bag and threw it on with the ease of years of familiarity. Now, backpack on, he found the Jericho in his hand almost before he'd realized he made the decision to take it. Tal opened the drawer below where the gun had hung, grabbed the magazine and loaded it. He left the extra bullet. No matter what, he had to believe that God might one day forgive him, but there are some sins even he won't overlook, and that last bullet represented one of them.

  Tal moved to the door of the apartment, took a few deep breaths and chambered the first round before opening the door and plunging back into a world where cold steel and warm flesh would become as close as lovers. The hallway was empty; apparently the neighbors had been privy to the commotion long before it had woken him.

  Nice of them to tell me , he thought in a moment of bitterness, before he realized he never really talked to any of them.

  In fact, he couldn’t recall even having seen any of them, with the haphazard hours he kept, only really leaving to get food or booze. Maybe once…a dark haired girl in the too bright fluorescent hallway lighting… A small explosion from outside shattered the reverie he found himself in, a good thing too, because he could ill afford to be inattentive at a moment like this. After berating himself for a split second, Tal started looking for a means to get out of the building. No lights were on in the hallway, the unrest outside must be more wide spread than he thought, if it could interrupt the power grid in any significant way. Thankfully, the emergency lights were flashing at both ends of the hall, and the brief illuminations revealed the stairwe
ll door about twenty feet away. The elevator wasn't even a thought with no lights; there'd be no power to the elevator either. Moving swiftly, weapon in a tactical carry, Tal worked his way down the hall between flashes to the stairwell door. He opened the door and moved into the stairwell, searching for potential targets both up and down the stairs. Thankfully, the building's owners had installed a battery backup for the emergency lighting in the stairwell. Terrorist attacks being a constant source of anxiety, escape routes had to be safe and lit if power was out.

  After clearing the landing, Tal moved down the stairs, stopping at each landing and listening for a few moments at each door. Nothing moved or made any sound; either the other tenants were locked in their rooms waiting for this madness to subside and hoping no fires were imminent, or they had all gotten out already. Either way he moved the rest of the way down the stairs in a position of cautious anxiety, half waiting for crazed tenants to come screaming through the stair well. Once he reached the ground floor, Tal prepared himself for the probability of violence. After he broke the plain of that stairwell door, into the streets of Jerusalem, he would have to be ready to shoot if it came to that.

  God I hope it doesn't come to that.

  Firelight flickered on the other side of the frosted glass window, and the smell of smoke was starting to invade the stairwell. With one final deep breath, and an extra second to hesitatingly cock the pistol into double action, Tal Barzani pushed open the door and walked into the nightmare that was once the Holy City.

  Chapter Two

  Safety.

  Survival.

  Those were the only thoughts on Tal's

  mind, a revenant of his military training and for most soldiers second only to completing the mission. Moving up out of the concrete stairwell entrance and onto the side of his building, he looked into King George Street and saw that he was as far from safe as one man could be. Jerusalem burned in several places, firelight blazing from several points that he could see, and the synagogue across the street from the plaza was a veritable bonfire.

  Men, women, children, shadow people all, were running through the streets with no clear direction. Others were kind of shambling along; victims, Tal thought, of shellshock or whatever horrors they had seen. Until he saw a man try to run past one of the shufflers. The shambling person was mindlessly moving down the center of the street, wearing what could possibly have been a hospital gown, though the smoke and flames made details difficult to see.