Year of the Dead (Book 2)

by Ray Wallace

  “Ready?” he asked when the three of them had gathered near the front door of the apartment, a bag filled with necessities slung over his shoulder.

  “Ready,” Amanda said.

  Her belief in him, in this crazy idea of his, lifted his spirits and fueled his courage.

  “All right then. Let’s do this.”

  He opened the door and stepped into the hallway beyond—the real world version of the hallway in his dreams. Making their way through the building, Eric expected to run into one of the guards or maybe even Buck himself. But they reached the second floor without incident. Eric had decided that descending all the way to the ground floor would have been too risky. They entered an apartment he knew was unoccupied. In the bedroom, he set the bag he had brought with him on the floor, retrieved a flashlight from among the canned goods and bottled water stashed inside, turned it on and handed it to Amanda. The makeshift rope he tied to a leg of the bed. Then he went to the window, opened it, and popped the screen out. Snow and freezing wind swirled into the room, giving them a taste of what awaited them beyond the protective confines of the building. Pushing aside the feeling of doubt welling up inside of him—

  This is nuts. We’re going to die out there.

  —Eric tossed the bag of supplies and the bed sheet out the window, let Amanda and Mitchell climb down first. Shortly thereafter, he stood beside them, the two people he cared about more than anyone else in the world. Then they were off, leaning into the wind, Eric leading the way.

  No guards on the roof tonight. And the zombies all frozen stiff.

  Eric knew he would do anything within his power to make sure Amanda and Mitchell did not end up the same way.

  Wednesday, December 16th

  When Barry came to, the room was cold, the fire nothing more than a smoldering pile of embers. He forced himself to sit up straight in the recliner where he had been dozing for…

  How long have I been out?

  He looked toward the window overlooking the street outside the pawnshop where snowflakes lazily descended through darkness.

  A few hours? he surmised as he let his gaze travel to the coffee table in front of the couch, the two candles burning there, flames casting their wavering light about the room. The candles were noticeably shorter than the last time they had caught his attention. Next to them stood a half-empty bottle of whiskey along with an assortment of empty beer bottles.

  How much of that did I drink?

  He found it difficult to concentrate, his thoughts slow and fuzzy as the alcohol he had consumed worked its way through his system. A sour taste filled his mouth. He felt nauseous, the beginnings of a headache.

  Why the hell did I drink so much?

  Simple question, simple answer:

  Because Stephanie had wanted him to.

  Over the past few days, her attitude toward life and—more importantly, as far as Barry was concerned—him had seemed to undergo an encouraging change. She had stopped talking about how he should have let the zombies kill her, had started behaving in a much friendlier manner.

  She’s finally coming around, Barry had thought, delighted. Just like I knew she would.

  Earlier in the evening, Stephanie had sat next to him on the couch and said, “We should get drunk together.”

  Being that close to her, looking into her eyes—how green they were!—Barry had felt some rather intense emotions stirring inside of him. After a long pause, he managed a witty reply:

  “Yeah… Drunk. Together. Sounds great.”

  The apartment contained more than enough alcohol to get a couple of people properly inebriated. At Stephanie’s insistence—“It’s the least you can do!”—Barry had brought back as much of the stuff as he could find whenever he went out. And, for a while, she had done an admirable job of making her way through all of it. More recently, however, her penchant for drunkenness had mellowed in much the same way as her attitude, to the point where she had spent the past few days completely sober. And so it had actually come as a bit of a surprise when she suggested they tie one on. But with the way she had asked, and the fantasies taking shape in Barry’s mind…

  Who was he to say no?

  An inexperienced drinker, it had not taken long before he had a nice, warm buzz going. Then, with Stephanie’s encouragement, he had started throwing back shots until…

  I passed out on the recliner.

  As for Stephanie…

  She was nowhere to be seen.

  Maybe she’s in the bathroom. Or went to bed.

  Noises rising up through the floor caught his attention. A crash. A shout.

  Springing to his feet, Barry nearly lost his balance. When the world stopped moving around him, he grabbed one of the candles and crossed the room, staggered along the hallway to the staircase at the back of the building.

  Downstairs, Barry discovered the zombies he had been housing in the main area of the pawnshop had been spurred into action. Crowded together in a tangled circle of emaciated bodies, they moaned, grunted, and growled.

  From somewhere inside the circle: a muffled scream.

  Barry issued a silent command. Stop! But the zombies refused to obey. In his half-drunken state, it required a nearly superhuman effort on his part to take control of the situation. When the zombies finally untangled themselves from one another, Barry was able to see what they had been feeding upon.

  Stephanie—or what was left of her—lay on the floor of the pawnshop, eyes wide with shock, whites gleaming in the light of the candle flame. Her clothes had been torn off, the meat of her arms and legs mostly consumed, her torso ripped open and hollowed out.

  “Why?” he whispered, wondering if she had decided to kill herself after all. Or had she thought that she might be able to get away? “Was it really so bad? Being here with me?”

  He expected no answer and got none.

  Releasing his hold over the zombies, Barry watched, heartsick and disgusted, as they closed in once again, eager for every remaining scrap of meat.

  Thursday, December 17th

  “This one… I don’t know… It just feels different.”

  Trevor and Nadine sat on the folding chairs at the edge of the river, fishing poles in hand. During the hour or so they had been there, they had pulled a trio of fish from the slow-moving water. Conversation had covered such topics as favorite books, movies, and fast food places before making its way, rather inevitably, to Trevor’s most recent “vision.”

  Last night, the dream had visited him once again, revealing the same imagery as the first time: the windmills… the faceless man… the army of zombies… and that lone word… Deadhaven. In the past, when the dreams had recurred, they had done so on a nightly basis, driving home the sense of urgency they wished to convey, the imminent nature of their prophecies. The gap of several weeks’ time between these “Deadhaven dreams,” as he had come to think of them, seemed to impart a different message.

  “Like all the other ones, I don’t doubt that what I’ve been shown will happen if something isn’t done to prevent it,” Trevor said, staring intently at the undulating surface of the river. “But this time, I feel as though I really can do something about it.”

  “Why do you think this one’s different?” asked Nadine.

  “No idea,” Trevor told her in all honesty. “Since the outbreak, the world has changed in so many ways. Maybe I’m changing, too.”

  They fell silent for a while, sat there listening to the river, the rustling of the trees.

  “I’m going to miss this place,” said Nadine.

  “Me, too. It’s why I haven’t been in a big hurry to leave. But I’m going to have to…”

  “No. We’ll have to.”

  Silence again. Then Trevor’s fishing line went taut, the pole nearly slipping from his hands.

  “Looks like a big one,” said Nadine, laughing.

  Trevor spent the next couple minutes reeling it in. When the struggle was over, he and Nadine could see that, yes, it was indeed a big one,
the biggest of the afternoon. Trevor teased Nadine about who was the real fishing pro around here, until she threatened to make him do all the gutting, cooking, and cleaning on his own.

  “Okay, okay… sorry,” he said, raising his hands in mock surrender.

  Trevor put a fresh worm on the hook, something he had learned to do in recent weeks. He found no joy in it, though, felt pretty certain he never would.

  “Oh, damn,” said Nadine, distracting him from the task at hand.

  Along the river’s far bank, a pair of zombies had emerged from the trees in that drunken way of theirs. They went to the waterline and, without hesitation, into the river itself.

  “Think they’ll make it across?” asked Trevor, not relishing the idea.

  “None of them have so far,” said Nadine, cool and collected. “A first time for everything, I suppose.”

  Trevor set his fishing pole on the ground, stood up and reached for the handgun tucked away inside the jacket he wore. There had been snow flurries in recent weeks, followed by a mild warming trend over the past few days. In the event they were unexpectedly snowed in, they still had enough supplies to keep them fed for a while. A prolonged storm would render the solar panels useless, however, leaving them without electricity or hot water. An inconvenience, to be sure, but one that should not prove life threatening.

  The zombies are still the greatest threat we face, Trevor knew. If enough of them were to show up, catch us off guard…

  “Maybe we should move on sooner than later,” said Nadine, apparently having similar thoughts of her own.

  From somewhere behind them, a large bird cried out, sounding to Trevor like the call of approaching doom.

  He continued to watch the river, waiting to see if the zombies would emerge from its tranquil waters. Unbidden, parts of the dream—the vision—popped into his head. That name:

  Deadhaven.

  “Yeah, maybe we should.”

  Friday, December 18th

  As Susanna drove, her mind drifted, inevitably conjuring images of the Farm. She thought about the cage some of her fellow prisoners had been forced to enter, how none of them had survived their five minutes with the zombies. Knowing what she knew now, she realized that the creatures, due to the cold, should have moved slower than they had. Meaning, they must have been kept indoors, somewhere warm so they could remain mobile, effective killers. So they could corner and consume their unfortunate prey.

  The sick bastards.

  A part of her wanted to go back, to load up on as much ammunition as she could find and lay waste to that awful place, to those who operated it. Also, there existed a community somewhere nearby, or so she had been told, whose members benefited from the suffering of the Farm's prisoners. A quick visit would do. But it was not meant to be for she had more pressing responsibilities.

  The children.

  Recalling the night of their escape, she knew how fortunate they had been to get out alive.

  She had parked her stolen truck next to the building where she had seen Dominick a few days earlier. When the door to the barracks refused to budge, she shot the lock. Once she had gained entry, she found the light switch on the wall, flicked it and took in the sight of the mattresses lining the floor, the children lying on top of them. They stared at her in confusion, blinking away sleep.

  “Dominick!” she had shouted.

  “Susanna?” He was near the far end of the building.

  “We have to go. Now.”

  He got dressed in a hurry.

  “Lisa and Eddie?” she asked him.

  “Next building over.”

  Outside, a man bundled against the cold had approached them, a shotgun in his hands.

  “What are you two—?”

  Susanna had raised her pistol and pulled the trigger. The man went down.

  Without needing to be told, Dominick went over and grabbed the shotgun. By the time Lisa and Eddie were free, several guards ran toward them through the fury of the storm.

  “Trade me,” she had said to Dominick, taking the shotgun and handing him the pistol. Susanna had opened fire, causing another man to fall. Dominick dropped one more by squeezing off a few shots of his own.

  Inside the truck—the extended cab offered enough room for them all to fit comfortably—Susanna had instructed the children to duck their heads, stay out of sight. And not a moment too soon as a bullet punched through the windshield, spider webbing the glass. Cursing, Susanna had put the truck in gear and stomped on the gas. Then they were off, nearly running down a few guards as they sped away, over-sized tires finding traction in the snow. Heart pounding, Susanna had done her best to stay on one of the whited out roadways before saying, “Aw, the hell with it,” and cutting across a wide field lined with rows of dead, brittle cornstalks.

  And just like that, their time at the Farm had come to an end.

  In the here and now, Susanna used the rear-view mirror to check on the siblings seated behind her, could see they had dozed off leaning against one another.

  “Not long now,” she said to Dominick who was relaxing in the passenger seat next to her.

  He said nothing, regarded her with the haunted look he had worn since leaving the Farm.

  The land through which they traveled had become increasingly familiar despite the changes rendered by the season. It had been a long, slow journey due to the weather, the downed bridges, the burned-out roads, and any number of other obstacles, man-made or otherwise. But they had pressed on, finding enough gasoline to keep them going, scrounging what sustenance they could until, finally…

  The turnoff she had been looking for came into view.

  They coasted down the long driveway, past the spot where Susanna had exited the helicopter what seemed like a millennium ago. Icicles hung from the roof of the guest house where she had stayed those first nine days, under quarantine. Drawing closer to the bridge and the frozen waters of the moat underneath, they passed a number of motionless, human-shaped figures shrouded in white, positioned haphazardly across the grounds. “The snow people,” as Eddie often referred to them.

  If only they were jolly, happy souls…

  The truck rolled up to the gate in the gray light of the afternoon, came to a stop amid a squealing of brakes. Susanna opened the driver side door, leaned out, and reached for the keypad mounted atop the metal pole standing there. She entered a string of numbers from memory then waited as the gate swung open, pushing back the snow that had collected at its base. Susanna remembered what her old friend Lawrence had said about the mini-nuclear reactor, located beneath the grand house standing directly ahead of her.

  It can power the place for centuries.

  All the while, thinking about Zander and the others, she fought the feeling of dread rising inside of her.

  For the children’s sake.

  Closing the door, she turned to Dominick, noticed an expectant look in his eyes.

  “We’re home,” she told him with a weary smile. Taking a deep breath, she let her foot off the brake. When the truck rolled forward, the gate closed smoothly, silently behind them.

  Saturday, December 19th

  In the days since Simon had been caught torturing the young man named Alex, the dynamic of his and Jocelyn’s relationship had changed. She had refrained from speaking to him as often, taken to responding in a perfunctory manner to any questions he might ask of her:

  “Are you hungry?”

  “Yes.”

  “Did you sleep okay?”

  “Well enough.”

  “How are you feeling?”

  “I’m fine.”

  He had used questions like these in the past to make himself appear normal, to give the impression that he cared just like everybody else. What he found mildly disturbing was that with regards to Jocelyn, it was not entirely an act. On some level, he really did care.

  I like her.

  This admission, as usual, prompted a response from the deeper, darker part of his psyche:

  Which make
s you vulnerable. All the more reason to get rid of her.

  Driving through the falling snow and the early evening gloom, the voice of his hunger spoke to him, cajoled him. He was returning from what had turned out to be a fruitless trip into town. The stores had been picked clean. A group of armed locals he encountered had made it abundantly clear that strangers were not welcome “around these parts.” And so, empty-handed, Simon was headed back to the townhouse where he and Jocelyn had been staying for a while. When he reached the row of two-story abodes standing next to each other like books on a shelf, Simon could see smoke rising from the chimney of the one at the far end. He had forbidden the lighting of a fire during the day. No telling who might see the smoke and come calling. The sight of the unfamiliar yellow car parked in the road made him realize he may not have been cautious enough.

  Parking well short of the other vehicle, he killed the headlights then sat there, wondering if he had been seen. A minute went by. He detected no movement in or around the yellow car. Pulling out the handgun he had brought with him, he opened the door and got out, went to the other car, used it for cover. Peering over the roof, he saw the front door of the townhouse hanging open, the warm glow of a fire filling the doorway. Then he heard a woman scream.

  Unbidden, a memory swam to the surface of his mind:

  Jocelyn had been seated at the townhouse's kitchen table, watching him warily as he entered the room. It had been the morning after “the Alex incident,” as Simon had come to think of it. He had returned Jocelyn's gaze, waited for her to say something.

  “Those fingers… The ones I keep in the box. The souvenirs…?”

  A pause. Then:

  “I lied to you. I didn’t take them from the men who hurt me. They were just… fingers. There was a house a few miles from New Hope, a bunch of bodies in there. Mass suicide, by the looks of it. That’s where I got them, from some of the corpses. I thought it would make a good story, make you think we were… you know… alike.”