Year of the Dead (Book 2)

by Ray Wallace

  Sheila had jumped, trying to grab the ladder. “I can’t reach it.”

  Joey had put his hands on her waist and lifted her. Moments later, she was scurrying upward as quickly as her exhausted body could manage. Meanwhile, Charlie had gone to one of the doors set into the building across the alley, opened it then backed away as the first of the zombies emerged from behind it. By the time the first of their pursuers had arrived on the scene, Sheila had reached the top of the ladder and pulled herself onto the building’s rooftop. More gunshots could be heard, a few of them aimed her way, a lot more of them at the zombies now pouring through the doorway.

  “The building’s full of them,” said Charlie after joining Sheila and Joey on the rooftop. “Came across them while doing a little scouting the other day.”

  Joey had laughed when the shouts coming from the mob below turned into screams. A steady flow of zombies had continued to fill the alleyway, the all-too-familiar growling and moaning increasing in volume. Not wanting to watch, Sheila had taken a seat, put her head in her hands and breathed deeply of the cool, evening air.

  They had left town an hour or so later, hitting the road once again. And though she had told herself she was done with the Gatner boys, that they would be parting ways, she had not gone through with it.

  Not yet.

  “Sheila!”

  The voice was louder now. Closer. While Charlie and Joey continued calling her name, Sheila took another swig of whiskey then lay back on the roof and stared at the stars, glimmering across the black veil of the sky above.

  Tuesday, November 10th

  “Pure luck, that’s all there is to it.”

  When Jocelyn said the words, Simon could hear the acid in her voice, the hatred. Had she always been this way? Or had the end of the world changed her, turned her into this? He did not know, did not really care, either. She was here, now, this version of her. A version that wanted chaos, wanted to see New Hope destroyed. Once she had planted the idea in Simon’s head, it had grown like a poisonous flower. He wanted to see it, too, the downfall of this town, the ruination of the oh-so-fortunate ones who lived there. The hunger that had driven him for so long, for just about as long as he could remember, wanted it, too, as badly as it had ever wanted anything before.

  “They haven’t earned it,” she had said on more occasions than he could remember. “Right place, right time, nothing more. They didn’t have to fight for it. Didn’t have to suffer for it. Fate or God or whatever just up and decided the people of New Hope would be spared when so many others were not.” She would shake her head, the fury evident in her eyes. “I say bullshit to that. This is a world of suffering. No one should be spared. No one…”

  In those moments, Simon had to wonder: Maybe we really are the same. The thrill that came with the knowledge of secrets shared—the deepest and most dangerous secrets of them all—would rise up inside of him, send a pleasurable tingle throughout his body. And the long-familiar hunger would become all but impossible to ignore.

  He knew that what she said was not entirely true. There were those residing in New Hope who, much like Jocelyn and Simon, had not lived there when the outbreak occurred, who had faced adversity comparable to or perhaps even greater than what either of them had gone through. Not that it mattered. Jocelyn’s words and her dark passion had sparked his imagination, had lit a fire inside of him that would not be quenched until the images filling his mind—so alluring, so vivid—found their way into the outside world and became a reality.

  According to Jocelyn, tales of the zombie “hive mind” only further demonstrated just how lucky New Hope had been. “All it would take is for one of those things to show up and let the others know what it had found.” She said this from the passenger seat of the van Simon had been driving for the past fifteen minutes. “It’s like the town has a circle of protection around it.”

  A little while later, they saw a small group of figures stumbling and staggering across the road in front of them. Night had fallen. They watched as the emaciated creatures turned to regard them in the beams of the vehicle’s headlights. Simon slowed the van—he had found it abandoned outside of town a few days earlier—and pulled over near the side of the road.

  “How many should we take?” asked Jocelyn. “Two? Three? The more the merrier, I say.”

  “No.” Simon’s tone left little room for argument. “Grabbing one is risky enough.”

  “Aw, you’re no fun…”

  Leaving the van idling, Simon got out and went around back, opened the rear doors and grabbed the device lying on the floor there. It consisted of a long, wooden handle—formerly part of a shovel—with a length of twine looped through a hole at one end, a replica of the device he had used to capture zombies while sharing a house with Eric, Amanda, and Mitchell. Moving toward the front of the van, he and Jocelyn let the zombies approach, the reds of their eyes gleaming in the headlights.

  “That one.” Simon indicated a female zombie that appeared to be marginally healthier than the others.

  “Looks like a winner to me,” said Jocelyn. Using the gun she carried, she put down the less desirable specimens in short order. Then she backed away as Simon put his “zombie catcher” to use, lowering the circle of twine over the dead woman’s head then guiding and coercing her to the back of the van. Earlier, he had bolted a section of metal fence to the inside walls of the van, creating a barrier between the spacious, rear section of the vehicle and the seats at the front.

  Once Simon had the van turned around and headed back the way they had come, Jocelyn laughed and slapped her hands on the dashboard in front of her.

  “We’re doing it,” she said. “We’re really doing it!”

  Yeah, I guess we are, Simon marveled as he drove through the night.

  Wednesday, November 11th

  Barry had spent the last three days on top of the local medical center, the tallest building in town. It was only four stories high, but it gave him a mostly satisfactory view of the area in all directions. Directly below lay the town’s main thoroughfare, a strip of roadway with a number of businesses lining either side of it. He figured if anyone decided to stop by in search of supplies or survivors, they would more than likely take this route, the one that cut through the heart of town. So far, though, he had seen no one. Not that he found this in any way surprising. He had seen a grand total of five moving cars over the last few months. Having no idea what the people driving them may have wanted, he had stayed out of sight, thinking it best to play it safe. But after the discovery and strengthening of a certain power within himself, he had decided upon a different course of action.

  Despite the cool weather and the ever-diminishing daylight, he had gotten his share of sun over the past few days, made a point of slathering sunscreen on his face and neck. He wore a baseball cap, jacket and jeans, passed the time reading and relaxing on a lawn chair he had grabbed from somebody’s back porch. Somebody who doesn’t need it anymore. He also drank plenty of Gatorade, having found an entire truck full of the stuff parked behind the local supermarket, packed floor to ceiling with just about every flavor imaginable.

  Sitting on the lawn chair near the front edge of the roof, Barry tried to stay positive, having no way of knowing how long he would be up there.

  Maybe today’s the day. If not, there’s always tomorrow.

  He could feel the power he lorded over the living dead coursing through his body. Or was that a figment of his imagination? Not that it mattered.

  Before long, I’ll have an entire army of zombies under my command.

  The thought made him smile as it always did.

  I can rule the world if I want to. His heart started to race at the thought. What’s left of it, anyway.

  Taking a deep breath, he settled into the chair, forced himself to concentrate on the book in his hands: A Fire Upon the Deep by Vernor Vinge. As an avid science fiction reader, he could only wonder why it had taken him so long to get around to it. One of the benefits—and as far
as he was concerned, there were more than a few—of civilization’s collapse was all the time he now had for reading.

  Immersed in the book’s far future universe, he failed to immediately notice the distant whine of the car engine calling for his attention. When he did, he set down Mr. Vinge’s novel and got to his feet, scanning the road below in both directions. Not a single zombie could be seen anywhere along its length. To his left, coming out of the east, he could see a blue muscle car heading his way at a steady clip.

  Here we go.

  He lay flat on the roof, peering over the edge. And there he waited.

  Come on. Just a little bit closer…

  When the car reached the block where the medical center was located, he gave the silent command.

  Go. Now.

  And just like that, scores of zombies emerged from the buildings along either side of the road, blocking the way forward and back. The driver of the car slammed on the brakes, bringing the vehicle to a dead stop. Within moments, the zombies had it all but completely surrounded. The car’s driver side door flew open and a man got out, opening fire with a handgun in a desperate attempt to destroy his attackers. But there were just too many of them. The zombies swarmed the man, silencing his screams along with the weapon he carried. When a woman threw herself out of the car’s passenger side, the zombies went for her, too.

  No! Do not harm her.

  Getting to his feet, Barry headed for the staircase that would take him down to street level, all the while trying to think of a way of properly introducing himself, not wanting to screw it up.

  Thursday, November 12th

  Dear Diary,

  Total disaster!

  As I write this, the woods are still burning and eight of us are still missing. There doesn’t seem to be much hope at this point that any of them are alive. Those of us who are have gathered at the nearby school where it looks like we’ll be spending the remainder of the night. Who knows? Maybe some of the missing will show up and surprise us. All we can do is hope things turn out that way. Hope and pray…

  The fire started just after midnight. I was awake, lying in bed next to Luke, trying to imagine what the rest of our lives were going to be like together. Also trying to get used to the way he talks in his sleep, the way he mumbles in a way I can’t quite understand. Ever since I told him I was pregnant, we've been sharing the same room, the same bed. That’s how I became aware of this weird little habit of his. I asked him about his dreams, if he ever remembers them. He said that he doesn’t.

  “I guess they’re not very memorable.”

  The whole talking in his sleep thing makes me think otherwise.

  But I’m getting off track here. The fire…

  When I heard somebody shouting from one of the other houses, I went out onto the porch. That’s when I saw it. A bright, yellow glow, like spirits dancing in the forest. I could hear it, too, a crackling whoosh that turned into a roar. I hurried back inside and woke everyone up, grabbed a few of my belongings (including you, Diary). By the time we were all outside, people were shouting from all directions. You could feel the heat by then. There was a moment when I felt certain I was going to die. That my unborn baby was going to die. That we were all going to die. But we didn’t, thank God. I felt so relieved when I saw Roger, Gina, Mandy and some of the others at the school. Luke and I held each other for a long time, watching the flames leap toward the sky.

  Of course, the question everyone wants answered is how did the fire get started in the first place? It snowed a few days ago, most of it melting as soon as it hit the ground. But enough, people were saying, to make the fallen branches and dead leaves too wet to catch fire on their own. Which could only mean one thing…

  Somebody started it. Was it an accident? A discarded match or cigarette? Or had the fire been set on purpose? Once that idea was out there, it wasn’t hard to find someone to blame.

  Terrence.

  “We shouldn’t have exiled him,” said a voice in the crowd. “We should have killed him.”

  Someone else: “If I ever find him, I will kill him.”

  I’m tired, Diary. So tired. But I had to write this down, put it all on paper before I went to sleep, while it was still fresh in my mind. So I found an empty schoolroom, sat next to a window and started writing in the glow from the fire. Usually, when I’m sad or scared, if I write about whatever's bothering me I start to feel a little better. I just hope it works this time, too, but I’m not so sure. Because this is bad, Diary. Real bad. I just hope it doesn't get any worse.

  Friday, November 13th

  This is a terrible idea, thought Susanna as she slipped through the doorway and into the frigid, rainy darkness beyond. You’re going to get yourself killed. And what will become of the children then?

  “What will become of them if I don’t do this?” she whispered, her words swallowed by the steady hiss of the rain.

  An opportunity had presented itself and she had decided to take it.

  I have to do something. I have to try.

  Thoughts of Lisa, Eddie, and Dominick drove her onward through the storm, a flicker of lightning briefly illuminating the pair of figures some distance ahead.

  Where does he take her? Susanna wondered. I guess I’m about to find out.

  The guard, Benny, had been entering the women’s barracks on a near nightly basis, rousing his unfortunate victim from where she lay sleeping—or feigning sleep—on her mattress. Then he would usher her out of the building to wherever they ended up going, to do whatever it was he did to her.

  Not too difficult to figure out what that might be.

  The very idea of it caused the dull anger that had become Susanna’s constant companion to flare up inside of her, become something much more substantial, much more dangerous. The feeling had nearly prompted her into taking action on previous nights. But she had resisted the temptation, knowing that she had to be careful, that the time had not been right.

  When will it be right? the voice of her anger had wanted to know.

  She had been unable to give it an answer. Not until the storm rolled in. Not until she went to check the door and found it unlocked.

  Sloppy, she thought, shaking her head. Very sloppy.

  As she wandered past the barracks, she stayed close to the wall where the shadows were deepest. She had to be careful. It was a monster she tracked, after all.

  Susanna, the warrior queen, sent to strike the monster down.

  Silly, she knew, but the attempt at levity helped to alleviate some of the tension settling into her body. Following her quarry, she moved past the last of the buildings familiar to her, entered an area of the Farm she had never seen before. Not that there was much to see, especially under present conditions. Stretching away before her was an open field that made her feel terribly exposed despite the cover provided by the storm and the darkness. It felt strange being outside without the chain and manacles she had been forced to wear for so long now. Lightning raced across the sky, revealing a line of trees directly ahead. And just before it, a tiny structure of some sort.

  An old storage shed? The monster’s secret lair?

  As the guard and the girl reached the structure, Susanna stopped and lay down in the grass, stayed like that until another flash of lightning showed her there was no one waiting for her, that she had not been seen. Climbing to her feet, she folded her arms across her chest, shivering, the rain having long since soaked through her clothes. The chill seemed to get the best of her, freezing her in place where she stood.

  Keep moving, she chastised herself. You have to see this through.

  Seemingly of their own volition, her legs carried her forward once again. Before she knew it, she found herself standing next to the shed, near the closed doorway. Over the sounds of the storm, she heard a woman’s cry of pain. A man’s laughter. And just like that, the anger inside of her took over.

  She moved toward the door, all too aware that she had no weapon, hoping the element of surprise would be en
ough. Then her foot struck something hard, bringing her up short. Crouching down, she wrapped her fingers around a rock the size of her fist.

  Yes, this will do nicely.

  Susanna thought about the man—the monster—she had followed here, the recklessness, the stupidity he had shown in not bothering to lock the door to the barracks.

  He’s going to pay for that stupidity.

  Once again, lightning split the sky. As the ensuing thunder roared down from the heavens, Susanna hefted the rock in her hand, opened the door to the shed, and went inside.

  Saturday, November 14th

  Communicating like this was more than a little weird.

  And so damned slow.

  Using a can of black spray paint, Howard had written the alphabet—arranged in two rows of thirteen, one above the next—in six-inch-high letters on one of the outer walls of the hotel. Below the alphabet, the numbers zero through nine were listed. To the left of this was an octagon with the word “Stop” inside of it. To the right, the word “Space” enclosed by a rectangle. Next to that, a question mark.

  Sending information from his end was simple enough. He just had to speak to the zombie, make sure he did so clearly while standing uncomfortably close to the creature. As for receiving information…

  If only we could find a zombie that speaks.

  Wishful thinking, he knew.

  The undead thing would raise its arm and point to one letter after the next—or a number, if necessary—spelling out what Rachel wanted to say. Yes, it was crude and clumsy and just so… damn… slow… But it worked. And in this way, Rachel and Howard made their plans.

  “As for recruits,” he told her, “we have eleven I can count on.”

  The zombie stared at him with its red eyes, teeth bared due to the fact that it had no lips. No eyelids, either. How its eyeballs had not rotted away, Howard had no idea. As to how any of the creatures continued to function at all, he could only guess.