The Sven the Zombie Slayer Trilogy (Books 1-3): World of the Dead

by Guy James

Milt was infuriated at the invasion of privacy to which he’d succumbed while unconscious, but that didn’t stop him from grabbing the inhaler and puffing on it.

  The cold, medicated puffs felt magnificent in his lungs. The seditious alveoli unfurled and relented. Milt kept puffing as he turned back to the implausible sight in the parking lot.

  It couldn’t be! How could it? They were moving, grasping, clutching at the air, kicking their legs, and contorting their faces into masks unseen even in hell’s lowest rungs.

  He could even see the faces of the decapitated zombies twist and warp and snap their teeth as if chomping on imaginary hunks of human flesh.

  Suddenly cold, he looked with surprise at the inhaler he still held in front of his face. His hand was pumping it violently, and Brian was clutching at his hand and the inhaler, trying to wrestle it away.

  The squire was saying something, but the churn of the zombie parts had jolted Milt out of his regular bodily awareness, and so the squire’s voice was far away and hard to make out, if it was there at all.

  Then Brian wrenched the inhaler free, and Milt snapped back into himself at once.

  “Take it easy on that thing,” Brian said. “You’ll OD.”

  “Th—th—they…”

  “Yeah, they’ve been doing that for a while. I think it’s got something to do with the rain, but they haven’t put themselves back together or anything like that. They’re just moving in their broken pile.”

  “They w—won’t ge—get us?”

  “No, they haven’t come any closer. Pretty damn creepy though, huh?”

  Milt made a gurgling sound.

  Brian pointed up at the sky. “At least the rain stopped.”

  “M—may I ask why you s—said the thrashing had t—to do with the rainwater?”

  “Because it didn’t start until the rain began. Then the more rain there was, the more violently the parts moved. It was a lot worse than this while you were passed out. Then, when the rain began to let up, the thrashing let up too. Now the rain is gone, and the movement is dying down. I think maybe the rain feeds them. You see how dry they were before, the way their heads exploded when I hit them? It’s as if they’re made of sawdust. I bet they’re not as dry now, I bet if we go over there and prod at the parts or hit them, they won’t turn to dust, they’ll be more like regular people parts.”

  Milt calmed, and his sense of self returned. “Preposterous. Truly and undeniably outrageous. How could you have seen or measured the degree of their undead rattling from your position here, and through the substantial rain? I am afraid it is impossible.”

  Brian looked crestfallen. “No, no, I’m pretty sure I saw it. The rain was thick, but that kind of thing is unmistakable. I’m not seeing things, no, I’m not.”

  Milt felt a pang of regret for ridiculing Brian. He had to admit that Brian had played a role in his revival, and in the prevention of a possible Ventolin overindulgence, sweet though that may have been.

  “Although I am certain there is no relationship between the bizarre thunderstorm and the twitching parts, I commend you on your creative vision.”

  Brian shrugged, looking even more dejected. “I’m gonna check it out, and see what’s going on in the store. I’ve had enough of sitting out here. I can’t see any more zombies around, and you shouldn’t worry about those dead ones, I don’t think they’re gonna put their heads back on and come after you. Try not to faint again, okay?”

  “I did not faint, and you are not to leave at this moment, I forbid it. The time has not yet come for reconnaissance.”

  Milt wasn’t going to admit as much, but he was fearful the zombie parts would reassemble, and begin to make their way toward him. Though he still looked forward to more zombie slaying in his immediate future, he most assuredly did not want to deal with any kind of zombies that could reconstruct themselves after being hacked to pieces. That was not a fair zombie game at all.

  “Hey man, I’m hungry too, and I’m way too anxious to sit in one place. If you need me, yell.” Brian began to walk away, carrying the baseball bat.

  Milt felt his control over the squire slipping. That wasn’t how the day was supposed to be going. “Wait, if you must leave on your wayward quest, please fetch Coca-Cola and Snickers and deliver the same to me, while I keep watch here.”

  Brian gave a wave without turning around, but didn’t respond.

  Shocked by Brian’s rude temper tantrum, Milt clambered to his feet. The cut behind his ear throbbed slightly, but the throbbing wasn’t nearly as bothersome as the bandage, which made Milt feel like he was trapped in damp fuzz.

  He picked up his sword and sheathed it. Then he narrowed his eyes and watched the disobedient squire saunter off toward Wegmans, walking in a wide arc around the jumble of zombie parts.

  The thrashing of the zombie parts was diminishing, and Milt’s initial astonishment at the sight had passed. The zombies’ death throes were markedly different from those of humans, but that was all the thrashing was—the dead zombies’ equivalent of human corpses’ twitching.

  Milt continued to watch as Brian circled back to the center of the parking lot, now beyond the untidy heap of dead zombies. Brian was tiptoeing now, and he continued tiptoeing all the way up to the Wegmans entrance and stopped.

  The doors slid open. There Brian stood for a few moments, peering into the store’s entryway. Then the doors slid shut, and Brian must have been startled because he jumped backward a few steps, still on the tips of his toes, like a tap dancer doing an awkward jig.

  The doors slid open again. This time, Brian quickly tiptoed inside, and then he was gone.

  Milt harrumphed. The birds were starting to sing again, and there were now small patches of blue in the sky, letting in too much sunlight for his liking. He wanted to get inside too, but he would let Brian come back with his scouting report first.

  Hungry though he was, Milt wasn’t ready to go venturing into a sprawling supermarket, where zombies no doubt hid in dark corners. He decided that the shade of the trees in the parking lot outskirt where he sat would have to do for the present.

  Milt got up and circled the car once, performing his own brand of reconnaissance. He looked in all directions and listened in all directions.

  Nothing—nothing except for the light scraping and tapping of the zombies that were trapped in their cars. It was an odd thing to ponder: humans had climbed into the cars, and then, as if by some magical action of the cars, the humans had been transfigured into zombies, as if the car were some kind of zombie-producing device—a zombie-chamber of sorts. That would make an interesting comic book.

  Then Milt slowly rumbled around, throwing pudgy-handed karate chops in all directions, to ward off any undead that might be stealthily advancing toward him.

  Satisfied that he was alone, Milt walked over to the car’s hood and scrambled up on top of it. Given his large frame and ample accoutrements, it was a challenging feat for Milt to accomplish.

  When he had conquered the hood, he sat atop it, beaming with a plump pride that he was certain would strike fear in the undead hearts of zombies the world over. The world over? That was something else to ponder.

  How far did the outbreak extend? Based on the state of the facts before him, could Milt reasonably conclude that the outbreak was confined to this strip mall and its immediate surroundings? In that case, what if Wegmans were the source of it all?

  Milt shook his head. No, that can’t be it, he thought. That scenario assumes too much—that for some reason Brian and I are not affected, even though we were here when it began. Would that make us immune? Why would that be?

  He shrugged, gave a moment’s thought to tuning Brian’s car radio, then dismissed the thought. That would require climbing down from his regal roost, and that was no frivolous undertaking. That is quite a nice turn of phrase, Milt thought, complimenting himself.

  The term “regal roost” was quite worthy indeed, and Milt was impressed with himself for coming up with it. The zombie a
pocalypse seemed to be making his mind sharper.

  There will be plenty of time to determine what is happening, he thought. Knowing the cause wouldn’t change what had already happened, and if he hadn’t caught the undead influenza already, he was confident that it wasn’t going to happen at this point.

  The zombies had come, and it appeared to Milt that the outbreak wasn’t localized. He didn’t have proof of that, and he wasn’t going to go adventuring outside of the strip mall yet, but he had a feeling that this type of event couldn’t be localized.

  Milt pushed the investigative thoughts away. He cleared his mind, and sought a state of battle-readiness. He closed his eyes and let his awareness spread through his expansive body, now resting on the slick hood of Brian’s car. The car emitted intermittent groans under Milt’s weight as he sat. Milt felt his body find a point of balance, and he brought his plentiful legs up to sit like a Buddhist monk in meditative repose.

  Well...not exactly a Buddhist monk—a Buddhist monk probably wouldn’t be clutching a sharpened replica sword that was now tinged with fetid zombie flesh. That was where he transcended the ordinary Buddhist monk. Milt knew that once a sword had been used to slay the undead, it instantly became more valuable, and more venerable.

  Yes, Milt thought, the sword is a thing to be worshipped now, as am I.

  The car’s suspension let out a creak, and the hood dipped suddenly under Milt, before settling into a lower equilibrium with a clatter. Milt didn’t lose his balance though, no, he was in the zone, and remained in position atop the car, with his sword piously laid out across his lap.

  The rain was good, he decided, refreshing. It helped take the heat out of the air, and Milt felt rejuvenated, in preparation for the next round. There would certainly be a next round, a next chapter in all of this, he knew that.

  For a brief moment, Milt was so at peace with himself that he didn’t even want a Snickers bar, whether in standard form, miniature form, ice cream form, frozen standard form, or frozen miniature form. He didn’t even have Coca-Cola on the brain.

  In the perfect serenity of his repose, Milt recalled how he loved basements. It was the dankness of them, and the darkness too. If storm clouds could always be in the sky the way they were now, reminding him of his basement lair, he would venture outside more often.

  That was a completely reasonable, normal thing—his love of the dank. It was cool and nice and he needed the dark humidity to think. Other people didn’t understand it. They thought it was weird.

  Well, the other people, they didn’t matter now, because the world was changing for Milt, not for them. They were gone, they were zombies now, a throng of carnivorous sheep...and Milt…he stood alone, unique, the hunter, the predator…the zombie slayer.

  83

  An other-worldly groan floated up from the back of the car. Jane was frozen in place by its ghostly tenor, and she had to will her body into action. She had been expecting this moment, trying to prepare herself for it, visualizing how she would react to it, but now that it was happening, she was locking up, just as she had with Vicky earlier in the day.

  That’s no way to be, Jane told herself, that’s no way to be on a day like this, that’s exactly the kind of thing that spells the difference between life and—

  She jolted herself into action, making her muscles move by sheer force of will. Of course she knew he was only a boy, an innocent little boy who liked to play chess and probably never hurt any—

  She pulled hard on the gun, pulling it clean of its holster. By the time she realized that it was the .460 XVR, it was too late.

  In one swift motion, Jane had cocked the revolver, twisted her body, and extended the revolver at Evan.

  The boy made a noise, and Jane thought it wasn’t quite right, there was something off about it but she—

  The large gun obscured most of Evan’s head from Jane’s line of sight, but she knew that shooting him in any part of the head, from this distance, with that gun, would be fatal.

  “Jane!” Sven shouted as he hit the brakes, jerking the car to a stop. Jane’s body hurtled against the dashboard, but she kept the revolver trained on the boy’s head.

  “Jane!” Sven shouted again. “What the hell are you doing?”

  Out of the corner of her eye, Jane was aware of Lorie moving deeper into her corner, but of staying very focused on the action, readying herself to pounce.

  Then the boy made a noise, the same noise that he had made before, and Jane realized that it was a scream, not a zombie moan. He was still screaming. Zombies didn’t scream, did they?

  “Jane,” Sven said in a calm, slow voice, “it’s okay, it’s just Evan. Let’s put the gun away.”

  Jane’s finger quivered on the trigger, if she only pulled it a little farther, then...

  The boy began to cry, his tears adding some streaks of color to the pallid skin of his face.

  “Please don’t shoot me,” he said through trembling, tear-soaked lips, “please, please.”

  The boy covered his face with his hands and began to sob.

  The gun stayed where it was.

  Jane was appalled at her next thought. To her own disbelief, she found herself wondering about the splatter of blood and brain matter that would soil the car’s interior if she did pull the trigger, and now that the boy was covering his face with his hands, pieces of his hands and fingers would be among the mash of blown up flesh.

  These things are better done outside, she thought, the gun trembling in her hands. These things are better done outside? What kind of person thinks that when she’s holding a gun to a boy’s head?

  He’s a boy, she told herself, not a zombie, a boy, just a sick boy.

  Jane made herself open her mouth, letting the air flow in. Her face was hot and she felt like something was sticking up into the back of her throat.

  She pulled the gun back, emptied the cylinder into her hand, lowered the hammer, and put the gun away. She put the four live rounds into one pocket and the empty shell into the cup holder beside her, watching her trembling hands as she did it.

  Ashamed and disgusted with herself, Jane said nothing, and thankfully, the unease in the car was so great, that no one else said anything either.

  Jane was incredulous at what had just happened—she had felt so sure, and yet she had been so wrong.

  Sven eased his foot off the brake, and they drove away in silence.

  Some minutes later, when Jane had her breathing and mind under control, she turned to Evan. “I’m really sorry Evan. I was just startled that’s all.”

  Evan nodded meekly, his tears still drying on his cheeks. “I know.” His voice was snuffled.

  “Are you feeling better? Your cold?”

  He wiped at his nose. “I feel about the same. I had a bad dream I think.”

  Jane got a napkin out of her pack and handed it to him. “Here, use that.”

  “Thanks.” He took the napkin and blew his nose.

  “Soon we’ll have a place to rest, to sleep, and no more bad dreams.”

  Evan nodded, but Jane didn’t think he believed her. She didn’t believe it either.

  84

  Milt heard a fluttering, and he looked up to see four little birds alight on the branch above him.

  Damn that Brian, Milt thought, parking under a tree into which birds eagerly flutter.

  Milt hated birds. He didn’t know what kind these were, but he knew he despised them. He had no doubt they were the ones that snuck up to his tiny basement window each morning to wake him with their terrorizing chirps and cheeps.

  The chirps and cheeps were already beginning, and Milt felt the throbbing in his head instantly increase.

  But I’m the zombie slayer now, he encouraged himself, surely I can take care of a few little birds.

  Milt drew his sword from its scabbard and raised it, pointing it directly at the birds. They stopped singing and regarded him in a way that he interpreted as bewilderment, followed rapidly by cool indifference.

 
; The birds resumed their song.

  Thoroughly brimming with anger, Milt waved the sword at the birds, hoping to frighten them out of their perch.

  The twittering birds refused to budge, and seemed to Milt to twitter with more resolve each time he whirled his sword at them. There was only one thing he could conclude—they were mocking him, and the birds, unreachable as they were, quite literally had the upper wing.

  Milt continued to wave the sword about his head until his arms grew tired. He stopped, not having waved the sword for very long, and jammed it back into its scabbard.

  Frustrated and out of breath, Milt decided to rest for a few minutes before continuing with his bird-flushing.

  He was catching his breath from the sword-waving when the birds’ chirruping took on a more frantic tone, and Milt was convinced the sound was hell-born. He had no doubt these creatures were harbingers of the damned: perhaps they themselves were the very cause of the zombie plague.

  Milt decided to throw something at the branch, and not having anything suitable within reach, he would have to climb down from the hood of the car to find a throwing object.

  He began to mentally prepare himself for his dismount, and he knew that even if he didn’t find anything to lob at the birds, he would have to get off the car anyway, for he had to escape the infernal birdsong one way or another.

  As he was sliding his great rear toward the front of the car, Milt lost control of his jiggling body and slid forward on the hood’s slippery surface. He landed painfully on the car’s front bumper, then toppled to the wet pavement.

  The sword clattered to the ground next to him, and he jerked away from the noise, trying to avoid being sliced.

  The car made several clanging noises, and Milt was uncertain whether they were noises of gratitude, defiance, defiant gratitude, or just a vehicular death rattle.

  Milt got up onto his haunches, slamming his lower back painfully into the car’s bumper as he tried to balance himself, then struggled to his feet.

  He picked up his sword and cursed at the birds. The four little birds drew themselves up, flapped their wings at Milt, and flew away.