Year of the Dead (Book 2)

by Ray Wallace

  Through some twisted sort of alchemy that involved eating human flesh.

  The zombie currently being used by Rachel shuffled over a couple steps and pointed at the question mark. She wanted to know how his “recruits” could be counted on.

  Howard shrugged. “The promise of plunder—weapons and whatever else they can get their hands on. Also… They want this, something to distract them from simple day-to-day survival. Something to look forward to.”

  When he fell silent, the zombie pointed at the Stop sign meaning Rachel had to end the conversation on her end.

  Probably got a visit from that Major Daniels she hates so much.

  Which was okay with Howard. He had work to do, needed to check on his recruits—many of whom had taken up residence in the hotel—see how their various assignments were coming along.

  I need to find more people, too, convince them to join our mission.

  Before he knew it, D-Day—as he and Rachel had taken to calling it—would be upon them.

  Howard walked away from Rachel’s zombie, headed to the hotel entrance. He would check back with her in a few hours. They needed to stay in touch, make sure everything went according to plan. At the moment, Rachel had no idea how much intelligence Major Daniels and her cohorts had at their disposal, whether or not the area surrounding the base was under satellite surveillance, if they knew what was headed their way.

  If so, we may be well and truly fucked.

  All Howard could do was prepare himself as best he could.

  When going into battle, that’s all you can ever do.

  People would be depending on him, people he had sought out among the ruins of this once-bustling city, whom he had convinced to help out with this crazy—

  And possibly suicidal.

  —endeavor of his.

  I won’t screw this up. I can’t.

  Because, yes, people were counting on him but more importantly…

  Rachel is counting on me.

  For her, he would go into battle all by himself if he had to.

  Sunday, November 15th

  Somehow, they had not been seen. They had left the road, hurried down the embankment and hid beneath the overpass.

  “It’s okay, girl. As long as we’re quiet, they won’t know we’re here.”

  At first, the man had not been convinced as to the veracity of his words. But as the zombies continued to trudge by, moaning and growling and stumbling across the expanse of concrete overhead, as the minutes crawled by and none of the creatures came to look for them, the man had begun to feel more confident that he and his faithful companion had managed to evade detection.

  He thought about the mansion where he and Goldie had resided for those few days, surrounded by all of that lavishness, relaxing in comfort.

  We should have stayed a little longer.

  But a little longer could have led to a lot longer, he knew. And a lot longer would have been unacceptable. It was not for him to linger.

  In recent months, a certainty had taken hold of him: that when so many others had perished, he had been spared for a reason. Maybe not some lofty, heroic reason the likes of which some ancient wordsmith would have crafted an epic poem. But a reason nonetheless. And he would never discover what that reason might be if he stayed put, if he lingered, if he did not push onward through the nightmare realm the world he once knew had become.

  Or maybe I’ve just developed an over-inflated sense of self-worth.

  Whatever the reality of his present situation, he was glad in at least some small way to have found a purpose, however nebulous, one that kept him going when it would have been so much easier to lie down and give up.

  Or let the zombies have me.

  As if sensing his thoughts, Goldie emitted a low growl from deep in her throat.

  “Don’t worry, girl,” whispered the man. “I don’t intend to give up. Not now. Not ever.”

  On and on the zombie horde continued its slow, relentless march over the place where man and dog remained hidden. The man considered making a break for it, setting off along the stretch of interstate before him, running north and south beneath the overpass, perpendicular to the roadway above. To the south, not far enough away for the man’s liking, a vast, gray curtain of rain hung from the sky, lightning flickering in the dark clouds from which it descended. And to the north, a trio of thick, swirling columns of smoke ascended high into the air.

  We’ll wait, he told himself, confident that as long as he and Goldie remained silent they were in no immediate danger. Much like the long, slow march of zombies past the house in the woods he had once inhabited, he knew that this one, too, would eventually end.

  Sooner rather than later would be nice.

  Deciding that he might as well take advantage of the downtime, the man eased the backpack from his shoulders, removed some stale crackers, a bottled water, and dried dog food from within. After he and Goldie had finished eating, he reached into the backpack once again and produced a book: The Alienist by Caleb Carr, found in a bedroom of the mansion where he had been tempted to linger. The novel—a historical thriller set in early 1900’s New York—had hooked him, pulled him into its world, one he had no trouble returning to even with legions of the hungry dead in such close proximity.

  After reading for about half an hour, he became aware that the moaning and growling and scraping of feet across the overpass’s rough surface had stopped. Returning the book to the backpack, he stayed where he was for several more minutes, making sure his ears did not deceive him, that the zombies had well and truly moved on. When he felt satisfied he and Goldie were all alone, he moved out from the protective cover of the overpass, raising his head high enough to peek over its edge and confirm his suspicions.

  “All clear, girl,” he said.

  With the sun behind them and thunder roaring in the distance, the man and his dog continued their journey, traveling one step at a time toward whatever awaited them.

  Monday, November 16th

  The fence surrounding the convent was solid and sound. Pastor Lewis found no weaknesses in it as he followed it around the perimeter of the property, reaching out and grabbing random sections of it, trying to give it a shake. He wondered how many other people across the country found themselves similarly enclosed, lives dependent on such a simple but effective line of defense. The gate allowing access to the convent grounds also appeared to be impenetrable as far as a zombie attack was concerned. No way they could climb over it. The only way the undead could force their way through and onto the grounds, as far as Pastor Lewis could imagine, would be to arrive with enough numbers to overwhelm the gate with sheer mass.

  He knew how fortunate the good, God-fearing women had been, located out here, far from any major population centers. The plague had still managed to find them, however, the row of graves near the back of the property attesting to this fact. As he walked, the pastor’s imagination wandered. He found it easy to picture the steely-eyed Sister Margaret putting a final and proper end to the nuns who had succumbed to the superflu only to rise from the dead, eyes red and filled with an unholy and undeniable hunger.

  At the gate, he stood with his fingers wrapped around one of the bars, staring out toward the lake a short distance away and the badly paved drive running past it, disappearing into the woods. He thought back to the moment he had first laid eyes on the convent, the building emerging from the darkness and the rain like something out of a dream, the conclusion of a delirium-fueled journey that could have ended anywhere at all.

  But it didn’t end just anywhere. It ended here.

  Throughout his travels, there had been a divine plan at work, he felt sure of it.

  The Devil can make plans, too.

  He half-expected to see a large group of zombies emerge from the woods, stumbling and limping toward the fence. Or vehicles to appear along the drive leading up to where he stood, armed maniacs hanging out the windows.

  “A beautiful day, pastor. Is it not?”

 
Startled, he turned to see Sister Clara standing next to him, dressed as usual in her nun’s garb. So caught up had he been in his contemplation, he had allowed her to sneak up on him.

  Casting a glance to the cloudless sky above, he inhaled deeply of the cold, clean air imbued with the scent of the surrounding wilderness. The black thoughts keeping him company receded but did not abandon him completely. They were never far from his mind these days, not since his failure at Tampa and his subsequent descent into despair. A descent that had been halted, in no small part, by the charity and ministrations of the young woman beside him.

  “Yes, I suppose it is,” he had to agree. “A day blessed by God.”

  “Amen to that.”

  “By the way,” said Pastor Lewis. “I’ve been meaning to thank you for smoothing things over with Sister Margaret, for getting her to agree to let me stay here.”

  Sister Clara shook her head. “She is not one to be swayed by the likes of me. It was a decision she reached on her own, I assure you, entirely for reasons of her own.”

  “Then I thank you for everything else.”

  After assuring him that no thanks were necessary, she informed him that lunch would soon be ready. “Vegetable stew and dumplings.”

  Not for the first time, the pastor marveled at the sisters’ ingenuity, at their level of preparedness for the disaster no one had seen coming.

  They are nothing if not resourceful.

  Anticipating the meal that awaited, Pastor Lewis followed Sister Clara along the stone walkway leading to the convent’s main entrance.

  Tuesday, November 17th

  “Tell me the truth. How close were you to putting a bullet in my brain?”

  Eric sat on a folding chair in the basement of the apartment building where an electronic dartboard and an air hockey table were located. Both were pretty useless without electricity to power them. The building had several generators used for “necessities only” which included refrigeration, lighting, and heating as the nights grew continually colder. Eric stared upward at the man sitting on the edge of the defunct air hockey table next to a battery-powered lamp, tennis shoes dangling half a foot above the floor.

  “About this close.” Eric lifted his hand, thumb and index finger held less than an inch apart. “Any closer and…”

  “Bam!” said the man, laughing. “I would have been a goner.”

  “Yeah, you would have,” Eric agreed. “I’m glad it didn’t go down like that.”

  “Makes two of us.”

  The very idea of shooting the man seated before him, putting a bullet between his eyes, murdering him… It gave Eric a queasy feeling every time he considered how close he had come to doing just that. And it was more than the idea of killing someone that bothered him. He liked this guy, this Tory Henderson fellow who had approached the apartment building, soaked through from the rain, weak with fatigue. Eric had already come to regard him as a friend, this in spite of his more than passing physical resemblance to Simon.

  Eric was drunk, had lost track of the hour. He knew it was late, though. The mostly empty bottle in Tory’s hand testified to the extent of their shared inebriation. He hoped Amanda would not be too angry with him. Because he needed this, had a hard time recalling the last time he had really tied one on. With everything that had happened, who could fault him for getting fall down, stinking drunk once in a blue moon?

  Eric laughed, got a strange look from Tory.

  “What’s so funny?”

  “Nothing.” He laughed again. “Everything.”

  Tory offered him the bottle. Eric took it without hesitation.

  “I mean, can you believe this shit?” He went on. “Zombies? The dead eating the living. Seriously?”

  “Damn, you’re pretty drunk.” It was Tory’s turn to laugh.

  “Yes, I am.” Eric raised the bottle in a salute. “And proud of it.” He took a swig of booze, exhaled loudly in satisfaction. “So I've been wondering…” He handed the bottle back to the other man. “What did you have to deal with? Out there, I mean.”

  “I’m sure a lot of the same stuff as everyone else. The world ended. I somehow managed to avoid getting myself killed. And here I am.”

  “That’s it? No details?”

  Eric had told his story back when the bottle had been nearly full:

  Leaving his sister’s place in Florida. Returning too late to save her. Getting shot by a soldier with an itchy trigger finger. Running into Amanda and Mitchell. Their time on the ocean. The days spent trapped in the van, certain he was going to die…

  Tory stared at the floor. “I had a wife. A son.” He shook his head. “I don’t really like to talk about it.”

  “That’s all right,” Eric told him. “I get it. I understand.” The last word he pronounced “undershtand.”

  I’m slurring, he realized. I should go home. But he did not want to go home. Not yet.

  Tory lifted the bottle of whiskey, drained the last of the brownish liquid sloshing around in the bottom.

  “You’re gonna feel that in the morning,” Eric informed him.

  Before long, the two of them were laughing again, all thoughts of zombies and dead family members forgotten for the time being.

  “I think I’ve had enough of the hard stuff,” Tory said, standing up from the table a bit unsteadily. “They got any beers in this joint?”

  “They do. Brew it themselves. We’ll have to go upstairs to get some.”

  Tory held out his hand, helped pull Eric to his feet.

  “Lead the way, my good man.”

  Eric was only too happy to oblige.

  Wednesday, November 18th

  “How you doing back there?”

  Charlie glanced at the rear-view mirror which he had adjusted so he could see Sheila in the seat behind him, staring out the window. In the weeks and months since the dead had risen, Charlie had driven any number of vehicles—he thought it had to be at least a dozen by now—either by finding the keys or hotwiring them. Their latest mode of transportation, a black, American-made SUV, counted as one of the more appropriate choices given the circumstances. It did pretty well off road and had plenty of room in back for supplies. Of course, it was not nearly as much fun to drive as the Mustang had been. Charlie had to fight the near constant itch to trade the SUV for something sportier, with more get up and go under the hood.

  You’re doing this for Sheila, he told himself, keeping the SUV at a safe and steady thirty miles per hour. Remember?

  She had told him how close she had come to leaving him and Joey.

  “And why would you do that?” he had asked, anger and fear at the thought of losing her welling up inside of him.

  “Because I’m afraid.”

  The conversation had taken place the morning after he and Joey had found Sheila drunk on the roof of a house, wrapped in a blanket. They had been cruising around, shouting her name, mindless of any unwanted attention they may have been drawing to themselves. Charlie had been sick with worry that something had happened to her. Something bad. That she had run afoul of a pack of zombies or a roving psychopath, free to do as he pleased in this dark new age of theirs. Just as he had become convinced he would never see her again, a whiskey bottle had slammed down on the hood of their car, exploding and sending shards of glass flying in all directions.

  “What the hell?!” Joey had shouted as Charlie stomped the brakes.

  Within seconds, the brothers stood outside the car, pistols drawn, looking around for the person responsible for the attack.

  “Fuck you!” a woman shouted, her voice reaching them from somewhere close by. “Fuck the both of you!”

  And there she was, standing on the roof of the house next to where they had stopped, swaying back and forth, obviously drunk.

  Joey had laughed. “Told you we’d find her.”

  Charlie had yelled at her to sit down, that if she lost her footing she would fall and break her neck.

  “I don’t give a shit,” came the response. �
��We’re all going to die anyway.”

  Charlie had run toward the house, went in through the open front door, climbed the stairs to the second floor, and found the window that gave access to the roof. Sheila had struggled against him when he went to her and put his arms around her, tried to pull her toward the window.

  “Stop it or we’ll both fall,” he warned.

  “No. That’s not the way this works.” She had shaken her head. “You’re the one who’s going to get me killed.”

  As he drove the SUV, Charlie recalled the conversation that had taken place the next day.

  “You and Joey, the way you behave… The crazy antics… I used to like it. But not anymore. Now I’m just scared I’m gonna die.”

  He remembered promising her that he would do better, that he would make sure Joey did, too.

  “I love you,” he had said. “So does Joey. We would never do anything to hurt you.”

  She had given him a sad smile. “No, I guess you wouldn’t. Not on purpose.”

  In the days that followed, she had become quiet. Withdrawn. Spent many of her waking hours at least mildly intoxicated.

  But she’s still here. Still with us.

  “Sheila?” he said once again. “You okay?”

  This time, her gaze met his in the mirror.

  “I’m fine,” she told him.

  You don’t seem fine, he almost said but left it alone. Don’t worry. She’ll come around. Everything will go back to the way it used to be.

  “What have we got here?” said Joey from the passenger seat, focusing Charlie’s attention on the road. The SUV had been climbing a gentle rise at the top of which a pair of zombies had come into view. Then several more appeared. Charlie thought about jamming his foot down on the accelerator and plowing through the group of undead creatures. How much fun would that be? Instead, he brought the vehicle to a stop, put it in reverse, turned around, and headed back the other way.

  “We’ll take a different route,” he said.

  Looking into the rear-view mirror again, Sheila gave him a nod then went back to staring out the window.