The Undead Chronicles_Book 1_Home and Back Again

by Patrick J. O'Brian

  Metzger approached the graveyard with Jillian a few paces away. Just under a hundred tombstones lined the hill, and it was easy to distinguish the older stones from the more recent ones. What caught the attention of both Metzger and Jillian, however, was the presence of eight markers consisting of manufactured wood in the form of crucifixes. Each of the markers contained a name, but no additional information, appearing very recently placed.

  Thinking perhaps some of the congregation simply died on the grounds, or requested to be placed near their loved ones in death, Metzger passed the markers without much further thought. Most of the group began splitting up, looking for windows in the church or the residential area connected to the building that might offer them a view inside. Metzger, however, grew curious when he looked to the gray building that housed livestock and something upstairs.

  Sutton looked at him curiously and Metzger motioned that he wanted to take a look inside the building while they conducted surveillance outside the church. Four of them could easily handle the spy work while he discovered what, if anything, awaited him in the upper floor of the barn.

  All the way to the barn he kept looking over his shoulder toward the church, trying to make certain no one stared at his movements. Seeing no lights on inside the sanctuary, he carefully removed the bar and opened the doors to the building, slipping inside to find it almost completely dark in the lower level. The horse grunted a bit upon seeing him, possibly thinking it might get fed. He scratched its head when it drew near, but wasted little time making his way around the pens to the stairs that led upward.

  Hearing no screams or gunfire as of yet, he hoped his colleagues were being careful while approaching the church. He trusted Sutton’s instincts, and the man tended to err on the side of caution when entering dangerous situations. The incident at the restaurant nearly got Sutton killed, but it wasn’t due to anything he personally did wrong. A brilliant, insane man had gotten the better of him for a few seconds, and nearly finished him off before help arrived.

  Slowly climbing the stairwell, Metzger craned his neck for a look into the room that awaited him, almost expecting something out of a horror movie like a skinned body, or a collection of permanently dead zombies. Unable to see very well, he pulled his small flashlight from a pocket and switched it on. No foul odors reached his nostrils, however, and when he finally broke the plane of the second level he saw crafted tables holding dozens of plants. Above them, the glass panels allowed all kinds of natural light to enter during the day, and Metzger immediately felt a sense of relief seeing only plant life around him. Although he didn’t dare linger long, Metzger wanted to know he’d inspected everything before returning to the group. Due to the caretaker’s strange behavior, he felt the need to solve the mystery before determining what actions to take inside the church.

  Every instinct told him to move on and leave the man and this strange church behind, but it wasn’t truly his nature to turn his back on others, and the group decided they wanted to help.

  Metzger hoped they didn’t live to regret that decision.

  He quickly discovered the upstairs in fact acted as a greenhouse, containing tomatoes, cucumbers, onions, peppers, and a few other vegetables that grew as though the season meant nothing to them. Every plant was arranged in rows along the tables, providing easy navigation as Metzger walked between the rows, not sampling the plants because it would be rude. As he reached the far corner a different set of plants with strange leaves of a purple color and no buds or fruit visible caught his attention. All around the isolated square table that occupied this corner were signs reading “Danger” and “Poison” to warn unsuspecting pickers of the plant’s hazards.

  A desk near the table contained paperwork about gardening care for the plants within the greenhouse, but a file caught his attention, separate from the other papers. Metzger picked it up, opening it to find a recipe of sorts. Several ingredients were listed, along with the procedure to properly mix them. Certainly no alchemist, Metzger thought the potion created by mixing the ingredients didn’t sound very inviting, or healthy. As though to confirm his thoughts on the matter, the title at the top of the paper struck him squarely, particularly considering the fresh graves lining the cemetery.

  “Slumber Mix,” he read the words aloud, his mind requiring only a few seconds to piece together what might have really happened on the church property after the fall of civilization.

  He dropped the file, taking the stairs down two at a time in his rush to prevent another tragedy from transpiring on the grounds. Halfway down, he switched the flashlight off, pocketing it when he reached the solid ground below. Bursting through the barn doors a few seconds later, he found it nearly dark outside, but he could see Sutton and Gracine just outside of the church doors about to force their way inside. If that happened, he could picture any number of disastrous scenarios unfolding.

  Unable to yell because he might endanger them, Metzger broke into a dead sprint toward the church, hoping to prevent any new wooden crosses from being placed in the cemetery.

  Twenty-Four

  Luckily the distance between the barn and the church building wasn’t far, so Metzger waited until dashed nearly halfway before giving a stifled yell to Sutton and Gracine.

  “Stop!” he cried, fearing that Sutton was about to bust down a door and march inside.

  “What is it?” Sutton demanded with a whispered hiss when Metzger finally drew near them, wearing a scowl as though he’d been interrupted before getting to kick some ass.

  “I don’t think any of this is what it seems.”

  Metzger glanced at a plaque mounted beside the side entrance of the church that contained a dedication. He didn’t have time to read it thoroughly due to the circumstances surrounding him, but he did notice the recent year of the building’s dedication.

  Gracine looked through the window right beside her with a look of growing concern.

  “I think we’re about to deal with whatever it is.”

  Before any of them could truly prepare for the confrontation heading their way the closest door opened and a young man aimed a pistol at none of them in particular. All three of them already had their weapons prepared, however, and pointed them at the young man who wore an expression as though he figured visitors were coming.

  In the room behind him within the church, Tom Alderson and a woman sat atop a bench, huddled together, and shivering from fright.

  “I see Tom duped you into helping him,” the young man said with an unwavering expression, refusing to lower the gun.

  “Maybe you should tell us why you’re holding him and his wife hostage,” Sutton suggested, taking aim at the stranger’s forehead.

  “We’ve all had a long day,” Metzger said, quickly trying to broker some peace. “Why don’t we help you figure this out so we can be on our way.”

  Before speaking, the man provided an insincere smile.

  “Help me figure it out? These two callously murdered my family and you think you have all the answers?”

  Sutton was about to say something, likely offensive, so Metzger cut him off and spoke first to enlighten everyone about his find.

  “I saw a recipe for some kind of dangerous potion in the greenhouse. Does that have anything to do with what happened here?”

  Standing still momentarily, the man’s reasonably neutral expression turned to anger as his face reddened.

  “There are eight fresh graves out there,” he said with seething anger. “These two shitty excuses for human beings are responsible for all eight of them. And the only reason they’re still alive is because I haven’t decided what’s a fitting punishment for them.”

  Metzger already felt more involved than he cared to be in this situation. He believed they were returning to free the couple from the clutches of some random drifter, and now he needed to rule in some sort of informal court. To decide fairly and impartially, he needed more information, which required additional time he couldn’t spare. Still, he inevitably decided
to go with the original wishes of the group and stay until a resolution was reached.

  “Let’s take this one step at a time,” Metzger suggested, sensing something wasn’t quite right about this young man.

  His dark hair was disheveled and he wore an expression of slight uncertainty about him, as though questioning some of his own actions or motivations. He wore clothing too warm for the early fall weather, and nothing even remotely matched between his salmon-colored pants, combat boots, and a dark pea coat that looked as though it had seen better days. While fashion wasn’t a priority in the apocalypse, most people dressed in reasonable, conventional, if not comfortable, clothing. Anyone suffering loss, however, might lose all sense of everyday normality, even more so than usual.

  Metzger guessed him to be an older teenager, possibly twenty at the oldest.

  “What’s your name, kid?”

  “Graham. Graham Holcomb.”

  Holcomb took a few steps back, diverting the aim of his gun toward Tom Alderson and his wife, who both cringed at the action.

  “Who were your parents?” Metzger further inquired.

  “Robert and Julia. They’re buried on the hill with the other church members these two murdered.”

  Vazquez and Jillian joined them momentarily, not presenting themselves visibly at the front of the door when they heard the ongoing conversation.

  Metzger stepped aside to Jillian when Holcomb shrunk back into the room where his hostages continued to huddle together.

  “Can you check and see if there’s a Robert Holcomb or wife Julia in the cemetery?” he asked of her just above a whisper.

  “Sure. And it’s technically called a graveyard since it’s on church property.”

  “Thanks for the history lesson,” Metzger said insincerely.

  Jillian flashed him a knowing smile before leaving to check the grave markers.

  Metzger decided to try a different tactic to break the ice, and perhaps engage with the hostage couple a little bit.

  “What kind of church has animal pens and a greenhouse?” he aimed his question at Alderson and his wife.

  “We have,” Alderson caught himself using the wrong tense, “had members who rode their horses to church from nearby farms.”

  “Tom, is that young lady your wife?” Metzger asked, possibly trying too hard to involve everyone in the conversation.

  His flattering words drew a roll of the eyes from Sutton.

  “Her name is Melissa,” Alderson said meekly.

  Metzger felt as though he was being played from all angles. None of these strangers seemed completely genuine to him, as though each harbored secrets of some kind. He wasn’t sure he possessed patience enough to solve the puzzle laid before him because the Atlantic and Norfolk felt so close.

  “Tom, can you tell me what the deal is with the poisonous plant upstairs?” Metzger pressed, still not lowering his gun completely from the man creating the hostage situation.

  “Isn’t it obvious?” Holcomb blurted out. “They killed everyone here.”

  “That’s not what happened,” Alderson said vehemently.

  Holcomb stepped back, placing his gun dangerously close to the older man’s head.

  “That’s enough!” Sutton barked, obviously fed up with Holcomb’s aggressive behavior since the group wasn’t proving themselves a threat to anyone present. “Son, it’s time for you to put the gun down or you’ll be joining your folks out there.”

  Sutton used his own firearm to point the direction of the graveyard.

  Growing irritated again, Holcomb took a step forward before returning to the older couple, waving the gun dangerously near them.

  “Graham, let’s talk this out,” Metzger suggested, trying to be the voice of reason before the church became the site of a shootout. “We aren’t here to hurt anyone, or we would’ve made our move before letting you see us. We just want to sort this out and go on our way to Norfolk.”

  “Norfolk?” the young man inquired, perking up as though he hadn’t a care in the world suddenly. “You mean where the Navy base is?”

  “Yes. That Norfolk.”

  Knowing Sutton wasn’t laying down any firearms, Metzger holstered his sidearm when he felt certain Holcomb’s eyes were upon him.

  “Graham, I’m not going to hurt you. I just want to sort this out, and I can’t do that until you show me a little trust.”

  Although he didn’t put his pistol down, Holcomb retreated further into the room with the couple and took a seat in a chair set to the side. Metzger truly stepped inside the building for the first time, but the three people before him sat in a staging room of some sort rather than the main portion of the church where worship once took place. A door to his left led to that part of the church, barely ajar, teasing at the tranquility the other side might offer him. He saw a stream of light from the other side strike the door frame, wondering where such a beam might come from as though it were sent from above.

  It flickered momentarily, and he knew the light originated from a candle.

  “What’s going on here, Graham?” Metzger asked as he took the last available seat inside the room, his back now to the only people he trusted.

  “These two,” Holcomb said as he shook the gun. “Them and their ‘Slumber Mix’ killed what few church members remained. I remember coming to this church as a kid with my folks and I never trusted them, even then.”

  Alderson shook his head, either from disbelief of what Holcomb spoke, or denying that he and his wife had anything to do with sending church members to their deaths.

  “What was this place like?” Metzger asked, hearing a grumble from Sutton behind him because the man was ready to move on and leave the church in the rearview mirror.

  “It was a church,” Alderson answered before he could be denied. “Same as most, I suppose, but we had a lot of people come from the country. And people who were passing through and saw our signs on the highway.”

  “Not a church that hurt people, or meant any ill will?”

  “No.”

  “Not until you killed my parents,” Holcomb finally chimed in. “That was your biggest mistake.”

  “Why are you torturing them, Graham?” Metzger asked. “You’ve held them for two days according to Tom and you haven’t shot them or let them go. Why hang around?”

  “I have nowhere to go. They took everything from me.”

  “What if we offered to bring you to Norfolk?” Metzger asked, drawing an argumentative throat clearing from Sutton.

  “What?” Sutton asked incredulously from behind him a few seconds later.

  “I heard Norfolk might be protected since it’s right off the water and the Navy brought home all of their ships,” Holcomb stated.

  “That’s right,” Metzger said. “All of them.”

  Metzger studied the contents of the small room, seeing little of value or use. Alderson and his wife continued to shiver in the presence of the young man holding a gun near them. Melissa looked innocent enough with her gray hair cut in short curls and wrinkles etched along her forehead and beneath her eyes. He couldn’t imagine the couple simply murdering church members for no reason, particularly if they took the time to bury them in marked graves.

  “What is one of your fondest memories of attending this church?” he decided to ask Holcomb with good reason.

  “Pastor Townsend spoke a sermon about a family going to fetch the descendants of Jonadab for wine at a gathering. Hope I said that name right. The family declined to drink the wine because they were obedient to their forefather’s wishes. I want to obey the wishes of my parents now that they’re no longer here.”

  Metzger didn’t exactly consider that a fond memory, per se, but decided to press forward.

  “Would your folks wish for you to take hostages and threaten complete strangers in a place of holy worship?”

  Holcomb’s eyes fell to the ground before they ascended upward, as though looking for an answer.

  “Who was Pastor Townsend?” Metzge
r inquired, directing his question at the couple.

  “He was the senior pastor here,” Alderson answered quietly. “He’s buried in one of the new graves out to the side.”

  “I want to hear how he died.”

  “No,” Holcomb said firmly. “They don’t get to spill their lies on this holy ground.”

  “Graham, I have to hear both sides of this before I decide what to do.”

  “What to do?” Holcomb questioned as though Metzger should have automatically been on his side the entire time.

  Or he believed Metzger was on his side until this very moment.

  “These two committed murder and you’re going to let them tell untruths to lie their way out of it?”

  “Even trials hear both sides of a case, Graham. Unless they made a full confession to you when you stormed in here, I’m not sure you have much of a case. And while you may be holding a gun, you could kill both of them, or me, but my friends will put a dozen holes in you after that and nothing will be accomplished. I’m trying to end this standoff in a civil manner, but I need your cooperation to do that.”

  Metzger felt amazingly calm as he spoke. Perhaps the routine of constantly being in danger from literally everything around him provided uncanny nerves of steel, but he felt death was a certainty on any given day, and it was simply a way of life now.

  “This wasn’t a suicide pact, or anything like that,” Alderson answered after a few seconds of awkward silence. “Church members filed in a few at a time and we tried to make a go of it. At first, none of us knew exactly what was going on. We came here for strength and unity, but we didn’t have the internet or television to keep us informed. We kept seeing these sick people staggering around the church and the countryside, and we wanted to help them. It wasn’t until a few members were bitten that we saw them catch the fever and pass within a few days.”