Year of the Dead (Book 2)

by Ray Wallace

  After some minutes had passed and the surface of the river remained unbroken, Nadine cast her line again with a sense of relief, sat down, and got back to enjoying the afternoon.

  Thursday, October 15th

  Simon still found it difficult to believe the good citizens of New Hope had managed to survive as long as they had.

  They’ve been lucky. Plain and simple.

  The town stood all but defenseless, ready to be overrun and devoured by any sizable zombie horde that paid it a visit. Like most people, Simon had heard the rumors regarding the hive mind the zombies supposedly possessed, the way they organized themselves into packs, the way they coordinated their attacks. How else to explain the downfall of the Zone, the area comprising much of the state of Michigan, cordoned off by a sizable military presence? If the zombies could wreak such havoc there, somewhere like New Hope stood no chance at all if and when the army of the undead arrived.

  Only a matter of time. Their luck will eventually run out.

  Simon knew that many of the New Hope natives did not regard themselves as lucky at all. “Blessed” was the word they used—as in protected by some higher power.

  We’ll see about that.

  These thoughts and more ran through Simon’s head as he got out of bed, pulled on a pair of pants, a shirt, and a pair of shoes, as he slipped from the room as soundlessly as he could manage. Wandering through the darkness pervading the house, he made his way down the hallway before crossing the living room where someone lay snoring on the couch. Outside, he followed the road in front of the house for a few blocks then cut through one of the yards, heading for one of the denser sections of woods. Just past the first line of trees, he stopped and stood perfectly still, let his hearing become accustomed to the minor but myriad sounds of the night. A few minutes later…

  Footsteps.

  Simon watched as a silhouette moved passed him in the darkness, less than twenty feet away. Tall and thin, he knew to whom the silhouette belonged: a young man here to meet a young woman. Simon had observed the couple over the past few nights, listened to them conversing in low tones then passionately kissing one another in a small clearing a little further into the woods. On more than one occasion, they had made love on a blanket beneath the pale, watchful eye of the moon, oblivious to the fact that an observer of a more sentient nature stood nearby.

  Tonight, he promised himself. Tonight I will kill one of them. Whoever arrives first.

  Silent as a shadow, Simon moved among the trees, stalking the tall, dark figure.

  “Liza?” whispered the young man as Simon sneaked up on him from behind, wrapped an arm around his neck and dragged him down to the ground. After a brief struggle, the young man lay motionless. Simon thought about the hunting knife strapped to his calf, about the places along the young man’s body he would open with it.

  Not here, though.

  He knew the girl could arrive at any moment. And so, taking the man by the wrist, Simon dragged him deeper into the woods. As it turned out, not a moment too soon.

  “Brian? Where are you?” he heard the query, sotto voce. Then, a little louder: “Brian?”

  He’s closer than you realize, thought Simon, standing deathly still, waiting for the woman, Liza, to go away. You shouldn’t be out here, he silently chastised her. You have no idea what dangers await.

  He counted the seconds… Fifty-three… Fifty-four…

  With a curse, the woman left.

  The young man groaned as Simon began dragging him once again.

  “Don’t you worry,” he whispered. “Not much further now. Then we can have our fun.”

  True to his word, Simon stopped a short while later, removed a handkerchief from his pocket and stuffed it into the mouth of his victim, gagging him. Then he pulled the hunting knife free of its sheath and let the hunger within him have its way.

  It had been easy. Almost too easy. Hardly any sport in it at all. Lacked the thrill of the chase. Which meant that Simon experienced only a minor rush when he watched the life pour out of his victim. He would take it, though. Because the hunger inside him demanded it. And a little bit of sport was certainly better than none at all.

  Friday, October 16th

  Barry stood on the rooftop of the strip mall, directly above the hardware store from where he had grabbed the ladder used to attain his current vantage point. The store had been fairly well ransacked and, as a result, the majority of the tools—hammers, wrenches, axes, and the like—were missing along with most of the lumber supplies. A couple of ladders had been left behind, though, and Barry had whistled a jaunty tune as he lugged the taller of the two out of the store.

  From the edge of the roof, he gazed upon the parking lot below. Dozens of zombies roamed back and forth across its black surface, some of them among the collection of vehicles that had been left out near the road. In the distance, he saw a thick pillar of smoke reaching upward into the sky. Brush fire? he wondered. It was just as likely some large structure had spontaneously combusted or been set aflame by arsonists. Not that it really mattered to Barry as he had more important matters on his mind.

  Rolling his shoulders as though loosening up for a fight, he cracked the knuckles of both hands, pulled in a deep breath then let it out slowly. Curling his hands into loose fists, he squinted his eyes in concentration. For a little while, nothing seemed to happen. The figures below continued to wander about aimlessly, paying him no heed whatsoever.

  In the early days of the plague, Barry had been elated to discover that the zombies had no interest in eating him. He had fallen ill but had somehow avoided death and subsequent reanimation: a fate forced upon so many millions of others, including the bullies who had once humiliated him, the girls from school who had ignored and rejected him. In the plague’s aftermath, he had seen a number of his former tormentors stumbling and shambling through the streets of his hometown, possessed with a terrible hunger it seemed they would never be able to satisfy. Each time he saw one of them, he would laugh and express sentiments like “Karma’s a bitch” or “Who’s the loser now?” Of course, they said nothing in return, would only growl or groan as they walked by, red eyes hardly giving him a second glance.

  The girls I used to dream about, still ignoring me.

  Only now he had the ability to make them pay attention to him, an ability that had been strengthening, slowly but surely, the more he used it.

  Focus.

  What he attempted today went beyond anything he had tried before. By sheer force of will, he maneuvered seven of the zombies milling about the parking lot into position, forming a letter, the first letter of the word he wished to spell.

  S.

  Seven more zombies for the second letter.

  H.

  By now, his body had broken out in a light sweat despite the cool weather. As he moved on to the third letter, the first two started to come apart.

  Hold.

  They held.

  He only needed three zombies for the third letter.

  I.

  Just a little more effort and the word was complete, spelled out across the parking lot below. He said the word aloud:

  “Shit.”

  The creatures he had mentally coerced into doing his bidding stared up at him. Barry felt a sense of elation at what he had been able to accomplish here, eliciting a laugh as he uncurled his fingers, the tension flowing out of his body. Relinquishing his control over the zombies, he watched as the word he had created gave way to randomness. Feeling the onset of a headache, he whispered to no one but himself:

  “You did it. You really did it.”

  Making his way over to the ladder, he wondered where all of this was going, imagined what he might be able to do next.

  Saturday, October 17th

  Pastor Lewis lay wrapped in his raincoat, shivering on his bed of leaves beneath the makeshift roof he had made out of tree branches. A roof that had done a poor job of sheltering him from the storm.

  The damned storm.


  It had settled in with varying intensity throughout the day, offering a steady downpour since nightfall a few hours past.

  If I don’t catch my death out here, it will be a miracle.

  He should have left this place, he knew, followed the road back through the woods, tried to find somewhere to hole up until the inclement weather finally moved on. The nuns had shown little interest in him or his well-being. The young sister who had originally spoken to him remained the only one to do so. She continued to bring food on occasion but very little in the way of actual conversation. Despite everything, he felt reluctant to leave, almost superstitiously so, afraid that some terrible fate might befall him—far worse than what he had already experienced—if he were to turn his back on the convent.

  I’ve been brought here for a purpose. My real purpose this time. God has a plan for me yet.

  One he could only assume did not include him catching a cold and dying. Although, he had more than a passing suspicion that some sort of illness had begun to settle into his sizable frame—a little less sizable than it had once been given the scarcity of food in recent weeks. He was tired, could feel the cold and the wet deep down in his bones. Job endured much worse, he reminded himself. So that’s what he would do. Endure. If that was what the Lord required of him.

  The rain continued to fall as he stared at the convent, watching the shimmering lights in two of the windows, beyond the bars of the fence protecting those who lived there—so far, at least—from harm. His eyelids grew heavy. He found it difficult to keep them from closing. If he slept, he had a feeling he would awake within the grip of a full-blown illness, a different sort than the one which turned those infected into red-eyed, demonic creatures.

  God has not brought me all this way to let me succumb to the Dark One’s designs.

  But even if it was only a common cold—where he may have contracted it, he had no idea—being out here on his own in such a state could become problematic. He would weaken. Slow down. Fighting off any of the undead would prove much more of a challenge than usual. What sort of protector would he be then? It was the reason he had been brought here, was it not? To serve as protector for the women living within the walls of the convent? If only the nuns could understand this, could see the Lord’s hand at work here. And how could they not? he had to wonder. For they, too, were God’s servants. How could they not discern His mark upon the stranger who had found his way to their door?

  They will, the pastor assured himself. Be patient.

  Finally, he gave up the fight and let his eyes remain closed.

  Only for a little while. Long enough to get back some of my strength.

  Despite the wet and the wind and his overall discomfort, the pastor felt himself falling into the dark and deep well of sleep. Until…

  He felt a touch upon his shoulder, someone gently shaking him, heard a woman’s voice calling him back to wakefulness.

  How much time had passed? Minutes? Hours? The pastor had no idea.

  When he opened his eyes, he saw that darkness still covered the world and the rain continued to fall. A black-clad figure knelt before him, a kerosene lamp held in its hand.

  “Please, come inside,” said the nun who had visited him several times before. “You shouldn't be out here, not on a night like this. Even Sister Margaret agrees.”

  Pastor Lewis felt as though he was in a dream, the woman a ghostly spirit conjured by the storm. But she felt solid enough as she helped him to his feet, as she allowed him to place an arm across her shoulders and guided him toward the open gate. He was tired and weak, nearly slumped to the ground when the nun disengaged herself from him to close and lock the gate. Then she was there again, helping him along the stone walkway to the gloomy but welcoming entrance of the convent. Once inside, the door clanged shut behind them, locking the wind and the rain outside along with any other nastiness that may have wanted to get its claws—

  And teeth, can’t forget about the teeth.

  —into him.

  Sunday, October 18th

  Amanda sat on a lawn chair near the pool, listening to the women talking and gossiping as though it was another ordinary day in an ordinary world. The illusion would falter, though, each time their conversation was interrupted by the crack! of rifle fire, causing the women to pause in their ramblings and smile nervously for a second or two before resuming whatever it was they had been talking about.

  “So I told Jonah,” said Jackie, a bleach blonde wisp of a thing, wearing over-sized hoop earrings and bright pink lipstick, “if you want this relationship to go any further, you might want to start thinking about putting something shiny on this.” She held up her left hand, gave the ring finger a wiggle.

  “What did he say?” asked Sandy, at nineteen years of age the youngest member of the group.

  Jackie smiled. “Girl, what do you think he—?”

  Crack!

  The gunshot came from above and close by, echoed into the distance. When it had faded away, Jackie continued:

  “He said, ‘Sure baby, next time I go on a run, I’ll see what I can find.’”

  “That’s right,” Veronica, the third member of the “unholy trinity”—as Amanda had started to think of the three women—chimed in, “he can’t sample the goods forever. At some point, he’s got to make a purchase.”

  Jackie and Sandy laughed at this.

  Amanda tried to tune them out, keeping an eye on Mitchell as he played with some other kids along the far side of the swimming pool. When they had first arrived at this place, Mitchell had refused to leave her side, holding her hand and shaking his head “no” when any of the children had asked if he wanted to join them in their games. He had gotten over his shyness, however, had taken to wearing a sullen look whenever Amanda announced that playtime was over, that it was time to go inside for the evening.

  She let her gaze travel across the walls of the three-story apartment building that surrounded her, enclosing the courtyard where the residents liked to gather when the weather permitted. The building had a rectangular design, the main entrance at the front reinforced and guarded against zombies or threats of any other kind. A defunct soda machine, a metal shed, and randomly placed patio furniture loosely surrounded the pool occupying the center of the courtyard. Amanda’s gaze settled on the window of the third-floor apartment she, Mitchell, and Eric shared, the very same apartment in which Eric had spent most of his time recently, “nursing his ankle.” It had become obvious, though, that some other reason lay behind his reluctance to venture outside. He would toss and turn at night, often crying out in his sleep. When asked about it, he would say that he was fine, deny remembering any dreams that may have haunted him.

  Amanda worried about him. She also felt more than a little ashamed that after all he had done for her, she had no idea how to help with whatever he was going through.

  “Earth to Amanda…”

  She blinked, focused her gaze on Jackie’s smiling face, her too-bright lipstick.

  “Oh, good, I thought we might have lost you there.”

  Crack!

  The smile dimmed before returning to its former glory.

  Amanda thought about the men and women patrolling the rooftop of the apartment building, taking shots at the zombies that got too close. They liked to brag about their kills when their shifts were over, treated the whole thing like it was some sort of game.

  Whatever keeps morale up, I suppose.

  Mitchell chased a little boy past the soda machine, the two of them grinning ear to ear.

  This place has been good for him. He needed this, to be able to act like a kid again.

  As for Eric, though… She wondered what it would take to have the man she once knew returned to her, if there was anything anyone could do to make him feel better.

  He just needs time.

  Amanda thought about the boat, the days spent on the open water, the memories already suffused with the glow of nostalgia.

  Crack!

  With a sigh, she
returned her attention to the unholy trinity, waited for them to resume their conversation, forced herself to at least pretend she had any interest at all in what her new neighbors had to say.

  Monday, October 19th

  The road is no place for children, Susanna knew. Then again, was there a good, safe place for anyone anymore?

  She wanted to find somewhere they could stop and settle down for a while. Instead, they kept moving, looking for places to hide at night, scavenging food and supplies, siphoning gas for the jeep when it was needed. For the most part, they had avoided towns and even more so the cities, crossing their borders only when absolutely necessary, leaving in a hurry at the first sign of trouble. Of course, any sizable gatherings of the undead were avoided at all cost. The same went for large groups of the living, too. These tended to frighten Susanna more than the zombies did. People were unpredictable, their motivations unclear. And they could use weapons. At least with the zombies, a person knew exactly what she was getting herself into. They were not your friends, would never even pretend to be your friends. They wanted to kill you, plain and simple.

  Like they had killed Zander.

  Which meant you killed them first, an act done out of necessity, with no guilt or remorse.

  Simple.

  Susanna and her three young charges had recently crossed the border into Kansas, found themselves following a long stretch of road with fields of wheat standing to either side, the occasional barn and grain silo coming into view, wind turbines spinning lazily in the distance. Tornado country, Susanna had mused, taking in the sight of all that flat, open land in every direction. She imagined a funnel cloud descending out of the sky, touching down and whisking the jeep and everyone in it away to Oz.