Dead World (Book 1): Dead Come Home

by Nathan Brown

  Dead Come Home

  By Nathan Robert Brown and Robert Fox

  Cover art

  By James L. Grant

  SHRIEKBACK

  Oil and Gold

  “Nemesis”

  …

  Priests and cannibals, prehistoric animals

  Everybody happy as the dead come home

  Big black nemesis, parthenogenesis

  No one move a muscle as the dead come home

  …

  Dead Come Home

  PROLOGUE

  Cold Blood

  Nicodemus didn’t consider himself “homeless,” so to speak; he, unlike many forced to sleep on concrete pillows, considered the streets to be as close to home as one could get. His parents had raised him entirely on the road, from the day of his birth until he was thirteen. Even living out of a van, they managed to bathe in truck stops or public beach showers, when they were available, at least once a week. This was necessary to avoid being kicked out of stores and fast food places. These years of blissful poverty ended shortly after Nicodemus turned thirteen, when some “good Samaritan” threw a dollar at him and asked why he wasn’t in school. “The world is my school,” Nicodemus had told him, an answer that was usually charming enough to send people walking away chuckling. This time, however, the charm of it was lost on the Samaritan, and soon Child Protective Services showed up to “do what’s best” for Nicodemus—which, apparently, meant tearing him away from a loving family and the only life he’d ever known.

  The four and a half years Nicodemus spent living under a roof with foster parents was awkward and forced. He slept on the floor because the cushy pillow top mattress was not only uncomfortable, but also a bit frightening. The young man escaped, running away at the first opportunity he saw. He’d searched for a several years, traveling the routes he remembered from his childhood in the hope that he’d run into them. However, he never again saw his true family. Eventually, his body grew old and could no longer sustain a life of wandering, so he settled into the back alleys in the downtown district of Dallas, Texas.

  Nicodemus also didn’t beg or spend his nights at the shelters with the rest of the “bums.” In fact, he only went to soup kitchens and shelters on “special occasions,” like holidays or his birthday. His parents had shown him the ins-and-outs of making enough money to survive, without a mailing address or “real” job. He used the lessons his parents had taught him about making and spending money, as well as finding and using resources, to keep himself warm, fed, healthy, and reasonably clean.

  Nicodemus did, however, lay claim to an old shopping cart, though he hated the cliché, in which he kept his meager yet life-sustaining possessions. His cart was loaded with plastic trash bags, a decent set of blankets, a change of clothes, three one-gallon water jugs, a week’s worth of canned goods, a functional hairbrush (when he’d found it, only a few of the bristles were missing), a half-empty bottle of shampoo, his day’s “collection,” and about one hundred dollars cash for emergencies (which he concealed in a mason jar that he’d spray-painted black to avoid being robbed).

  Normally, Nicodemus spent his days collecting all kinds of cans and refundable bottles. If it could be recycled, he would snatch it up. First thing every morning, he took the previous day’s trash bags of aluminum and tin cans, plastic and glass bottles, and flattened out bottle caps to the downtown recycling center. He saved the money as best he could and used it to feed and clothe himself.

  All in all, Nicodemus had nothing to complain about.

  That is until noon rolled around. During the city’s lunch hour rush, a group of punk kids had stolen his cart. One of the punks hit the aging homeless man with what looked like the bottom half of a pool cue, nearly knocking Nicodemus’s head off in the process. They threw his morning’s work off the edge of a freeway overpass without so much as a second thought.

  As Nicodemus caught up to them, the fashionably clothed pack of little bastards scurried off with howls of arrogant laughter, pushing the cart along with them. Breathing heavily, he looked over the side of the railing just in time to see an unsuspecting semi-truck collide with the can-filled bag as it fell. The black, well-sealed trash bags hit the grate of the truck’s front end, bursting open like a pile of large plastic-skinned watermelons. There was nothing he could do about that now, he knew. His only hope was to take off after them and try to retrieve his precious cart, which held within its aluminum cage everything that Nicodemus owned in the entire world. That cart was his survival. Without it, Nicodemus knew that he may be good as dead.

  Out of breath, with steam rising off his beanie-covered head, Nicodemus caught up with what was left of his cart almost two hours later. He began routing through the mess, trying to find his black money jar.

  If the jar’s still here, I’ll be all right, Nicodemus thought. I’ll just have to break down and get a cheap hotel room for the night. I’ve got more than enough for that. Just survive the night, Nic ol’ boy. You can figure things out in the morning. Just start again and keep on truckin’ like always.

  When he realized that the black jar was, without a doubt, gone, he cursed out in such new and creative ways that his tirade would have made the most hardened of Marines sink quietly into a corner, thumb in mouth.

  Taking a couple of deep breaths, Nicodemus steadied himself and began taking inventory of what remained of his stuff.

  The water jugs weighed nothing when he picked them up. With a sort of odd reverence, Nicodemus ran his fingers over the skin of one of the jugs, hoping it would still be intact. He threw it to the ground when his fingers caught on the edge of a cut in the bottom, tearing painfully at the surface of his frost-stung skin. He grabbed the topmost blanket, held it up for inspection, and let fly with another river of raging curses. The blanket was shredded and already becoming heavy with ice.

  When Nicodemus finally tried to pull his cart out of the ditch, he found the front wheels bent and contorted in torturously awkward angles. He kicked the disabled cart, then turned and gave what for to the worthless water jug as the curses continued.

  Nicodemus pulled the hairbrush out of the ruined mess of the cart and plopped down on top of the other two water jugs, crushing them. For an hour he just sat there staring at the brush, trying to figure out how he was going to make it through the night alive. His head hurt where one of the punks had clubbed him. Those ten one-dollar bills wadded up in his pocket weren’t going to carry him too far. His cart was a complete wreck, a lost cause if ever he saw one. His nose and ears were numb from the cold and, worst of all, every one of his precious blankets were all but useless now. To make matters worse, the sun had dropped toward the horizon and the temperature began dropping even further.

  Experience told him that any available space at the shelters would be filling up soon and, by the time the sun completely disappeared, there certainly wouldn’t be any beds left. A piece of advice from someone his parents knew in New York came to him through the fog of desperation.

  Who needs a shelter when ya got all these old buildings what have radiators that put out excess heat? You just gotta be smart like me, Nico-mi-boy…gotta know how to find ‘em.

  Nicodemus walked along the older streets of Dallas, looking down the alleys for any sign of old, outdoor radiators. If he could find one that was still in use, he could sit against it and at least keep himself from freezing to death. He was still searching by the time the sun was nearly set. It wasn’t precipitating, he was happy to notice, so snow wasn’t a problem. However, the north wind had picked up, causing the already bone-chilling evening to turn unbearably cold.

  At a small roadwork site, a dump truck roared mercilessly thr
ough a puddle, soaking poor Nicodemus through his jacket layers. The cold water said “HELLO!” to his skin. Ice-cold water pressed down into his overalls, into his long-john skivvies. The water soaked further, pushed on by gravity, matting the newspaper that was stuffed in his shoes, shirt, and pants, destroying the only remaining insulation that might have kept him alive. The discarded rags of parchment pressed between his underclothes and skin were Nicodemus’s last defense against the oppressive cold.

  A ray of hope emerged when he finally found a building that had an old-style radiator, which lay huddled against the back of the building. He was relieved to find the coils still hot to the touch; they hissed upon contact with the man’s wet, cold skin. Nicodemus settled in, crouching into a ball and resting his soaked back against the very hot coils. He ignored his body’s urgings to back away from the heat, knowing it would be better to nurse some minor burns than risk going to sleep and never wake up again. To brace himself against the minor complaints of his body, he gripped his hairbrush tighter.

  The narrow alley turned into a wind tunnel, forcing the temperature down even further. Dripping water quickly turned into growing icicles. Inside, a young pizza chef, spurred by his boss reading the riot act for forgetting the night before, turned off the old heater as he closed up for the evening. At the same time, Nicodemus’s eyelids closed. Three hours into the moonless night, exhausted and unaware that he was in danger, Nicodemus stopped shivering completely … and the cold, harsh world around him faded into nothingness.

  Dead Come Home

  Chapter 1

  The Grind

  Ryan Sheller was in one hell of a rush. The young, well-dressed, clean-cut yuppie-hopeful moved with the purpose of a young man fueled by ambitions that may have exceeded his abilities. He hurried down the crowded sidewalk of the morning-rush-hour-congested street.

  Today is going to be a long day, he decided, checking his watch for what seemed like the fifteen-billionth time since he’d left his studio apartment.

  With his free hand he buttoned the second to top button on his black trench coat, as much to ward off the bitter cold as to protect the appearance of what was his very best professional suit.

  Ryan turned sideways in order to squeeze his torso between two people coming from the opposite direction, nearly knocking an elderly woman down in the process. He may have been in a hurry, but Ryan was not the kind of jerk to rattle an old woman without so much as saying he was sorry. He slowed down and began to apologize when he suddenly backed squarely into someone else. The painstakingly polite young man turned yet again to apologize to the second person. However, before he could say anything, he found himself being grabbed him by the lapels of his coat.

  Ryan put one gloved hand on the person’s chest and pushed. He looked down to see an old man in a drenched overcoat, his beanie covered head surrounded by a halo of quasi-frozen hair. He thought it was odd that the old fellow’s hair was such a mess … he was gripping a hairbrush in his hand as though it was all he had in the world. Ryan reached into his pants pocket and pulled out some money for the poor old guy.

  “Jesus man, if I were half as cold as you have to be, I’d probably be mugging people unsuccessfully too,” he said, reaching out to hand over the money. “I know it’s not much, but it’s all yours. Sorry, I’m really running late.”

  Ryan’s blue eyes went wide when the man, now on his knees, clumsily advanced once again, within an uncomfortable range of closeness. The bum’s mouth was wide open, letting out a monotone groan that made Ryan’s skin crawl. The up-and-coming MBA intern yelped loudly as the strange homeless man bit down his exposed wrist instead of taking the money Ryan was holding out for him.

  “Yipe! Ow! What the fuck are you doing?! Get off me, you crazy old bastard!” Ryan yelled, swinging his briefcase at his attacker’s head. The excellent imitation leather (even Ryan didn’t know it was fake) connected to the side of the man’s beanie-clad head with a dull slap-thud.

  The blow to the head didn’t knock the bum out, but it seemed to stun the maniacal fellow for a moment. Ryan seized the opportunity to yank free his wrist from the grip of the bite. Somewhat panicked, Ryan scrambled away from the scene with an even greater sense of urgency than he’d begun the day with.

  A block later, he slowed down briefly to take a quick look at the bite on his wrist. The teeth-marked punctures were discolored and bleeding, but the injury didn’t look too serious. Certainly not serious enough to put his internship in jeopardy by making himself any later than he already was. Ordinarily, Ryan might have hurried to the emergency room for a tetanus shot or perhaps even stitches, but at the moment, he simply couldn’t afford to spend the hours that such a trip would inevitably take. He glanced at his watch once more and started running again … this time at a near sprint.

  This is definitely going to be a long day, he thought, sighing loudly as he glanced at his watch.

  It was now unavoidable and quite painfully official. Ryan Sheller was going to be late to the first day of what was a very competitive internship. Not a good way to start. He pulled a well-ironed kerchief from his coat pocket without so much as slowing down. Not wanting to alarm or concern his superiors at their first meeting, he wrapped it around his injured wrist and secured it tightly with a clumsy knot with his free hand and his teeth. His head not pointed in the direction of his motion, Ryan bounced off a number of fellow pedestrians in his haste. No longer able or willing to slow down, he overcame his conditioned need to be polite by simply grunting out “Shaw-ry” from behind clenched teeth.

  Yeah … you better HOPE it’s going to be one helluva long day, Ryan. You better move your ass! There won’t be a long day to have if I get fired on the first day!!

  Dead Come Home

  Chapter 2

  The Nostoi of Mike

  Wolfe was wrong when he said “You can’t go home again.”

  Mike knew it. Wolfe had to be wrong. In fact, he’d spent the majority of his flight from North Carolina to DFW airport convincing himself of this one thing.

  You can go home again, can’t you? Where else does a man return to after the smoke clears? Hell … if you can’t go home again, then what the fuck was Odysseus doing all those years?

  Mike wasn’t much for Wolfe, anyway. Although, he had to hand one thing to the guy … he sure knew how to turn out some really zippy one-liners. After all, a line doesn’t gotta be true for it to sound cool.

  Of course, Odysseus had Penelope waiting for him. But the poor guy’s Ma was already takin’ a dirt nap with Baby Jesus, now wasn’t she? Not my Ma, though. Nah. Might even say I got the opposite problem that the old “O-Man” had. Ma’s waitin’ for me … but my Penelope took off a long time ago with one of the suitors, now didn’t she?

  Mike’s “Penelope” had been a voluptuous and quite beautiful blonde number by the name of Kerry Taker. If only he’d known how appropriate that last name of hers would turn out to be. Hell … a six-week saga of epic sex and the next thing Mike knew he was walking blind down the aisle in his dress blues. When the wedding pictures were developed, more than one person had made the comment to him that (in most of the photos, anyway) he looked a lot like a deer in headlights. And their statements weren’t too far from the truth.

  Blinded by the immensity of Kerry’s DD cup size, the flexibility of her former-gymnast body, and the curvy smoothness of her tiny little waist, he hadn’t even hesitated when she demanded that he marry her. Shit … when Kerry’s pretty blue eyes started twinkling and the word marriage had come out of her mouth, Mike had felt like the luckiest guy on the planet. Unfortunately … it was a feeling that didn’t last too long once they got back to his new duty station at Camp Lejeune.

  Had there been any red flags in the relationship? Sure there had been. But the life of a Marine grunt can be a lonely one, and the idea of having a warm soft body at home had sounded a hell of a lot better than the alternative to Mike. As he reached the baggage claim, he wondered if it was possible that she’d gone bac
k home in the last few years since running off with another man. It would be nice if she was there, though Mike well knew that it was somewhat unlikely. It would be nice because … well … after all, they never had gotten that divorce.

  She’s long gone by now … no way she’d come back home. Death first, that’s what she always said. Can’t say I blame her. I’ve got Ma … all she’s got is a useless, cheap-wine guzzling, old man and a mom living off of lawsuit after lawsuit. That ain’t no life … not for a pretty thing like her. Hope she’s doin’ alright.

  Mike didn’t hate Kerry for the way their marriage had turned out. After all, in the eight months she lived with him in that cozy little trailer just outside Camp Lejeune, he’d only been home for a total of five. She was young, vivacious, and free spirited. Sitting at home waiting for some war-dog Marine was no place for a thing like her. No. Mike didn’t hate her. If anything, he wished her the best and hoped that she had found someone who could make her happy in a way that he’d never seemed able.

  I wonder if she’s still with that busboy with all the tattoos. He seemed to make her happy.

  Well, made her happy all but that one night when she showed up at the barracks all hot and aggravated, because apparently the old boy had done so much blow that he couldn’t get it up for her. Mike gave her what she came for … and got a VD for his troubles. No one would ever accuse of him of having good judgment when it came to Kerry.