Siren Songs: Sirens of the Zombie Apocalypse, Book 2

by E. E. Isherwood

  Siren Songs:

  Sirens of the Zombie Apocalypse, Book 2

  Copyright 2016 and Published by E.E. Isherwood

  In a multiverse of infinite possibilities,

  divine intervention is indistinguishable from dumb luck.

  What if that's intentional?

  Table of Contents

  Table of Contents

  Prologue: Parents

  Chapter 1: Somewhere in Suburbia

  Chapter 2: Phil

  Chapter 3: Interchange

  Chapter 4: Home

  Chapter 5: Melissa

  Chapter 6: Checkmate

  Chapter 7: Breakfast in Afghanistan

  Chapter 8: Elk Meadow

  Chapter 9: Containment Failure

  Chapter 10: Interludes

  Chapter 11: Camp Hope

  Chapter 12: Along The Watchtower

  Chapter 13: Maskirovka

  Chapter 14: Eurydice

  Bonus: First 2 Chapters of Book 3 Stop the Sirens

  Stop the Sirens: Prologue: Shush!

  Stop the Sirens: Chapter 1: Exodus

  Acknowledgments

  About E.E. Isherwood

  Other books by E.E. Isherwood

  Connect with E.E. Isherwood

  Prologue: Parents

  Three days since the sirens.

  The pair of figures moved silently through the night. They stuck to the darkest shadows and stayed far away from anyone—living or dead—they encountered on their journey. Presently they were in an urban residential neighborhood, very near their destination. They were trying to stay focused as they neared their target.

  Jerry was in the lead; Lana was twenty feet behind. It was enough space to avoid both of them being hit at once in an ambush, or both fall under attack from one of the infected. They'd survived shades of both in their mission over the past twenty-four hours.

  They were dressed in black tactical gear—long pants, long sleeved shirts, each reinforced with extra padding—nearly identical except Jerry also had ballistic armor on his chest and back to give him extra protection in a gunfight. Lana chose to forgo the armor in exchange for increased dexterity. Her slight frame made the choice almost a necessity.

  They each carried highly modified AR-15 rifles. Long lamented by what Jerry was fond of calling the “propaganda media” as weapons of war, they were in fact nothing more than glorified hunting rifles. That didn't mean they weren't deadly, but in a real war these weapons would be laughed off the battlefield. This wasn't a real war. Not in the traditional sense. This new reality was much more complicated, with all kinds of nasty surprises. Having an AR-15, or something like it, was as much a survival tool as any shovel. These AR-15s had all the accessories favored by the mall ninjas such as flashlights, rails, slings, as well as something uniquely suited to the new reality—the bayonet.

  Their kit was rounded out with backpacks, webbing to hold extra magazines on their person, and even head mics so they could whisper to each other at twenty feet. They had some food and water, but those were easy to find in the city. Their most precious commodity was ammo. They'd blown through half of it getting to this point. They encountered lots of infected roaming the city. The remaining living people were either cowering in fear inside their homes waiting for help that would never come, or they were out and about causing trouble in the chaos while there was still time. They'd run into some of those as well. Most who were able had left the city over the past few days. They'd also heard the stories about the battle at the Arch—which took place earlier that day—from survivors who'd made it out. The whole city was spiraling into oblivion, not even sparing the crown jewel of the city.

  These two weren't just depending on their “tacticool” gear to get them through this challenge, they had each trained on their guns in the months and years leading up to the collapse. Jerry wasn't ex-military, but he had studied military history all his life and had striven to emulate the excellence of the men and women in uniform. Thus he and his partner—his wife—were well-prepared for what they were doing.

  They were on a rescue mission. They were inside a dying city, under constant threat from tens of thousands of infected men and women, and an equal number of criminals, gang members, and the insane who couldn't handle what was happening to their world. It was literally the last place on Earth they wanted to go, except it was where they hoped to find their son.

  2

  Under the light of a partial moon, they approached the target building they'd been searching for on this street. As with the rest of the city, there was no municipal power supplying this block. Earlier they'd observed looters tearing up a dead power transfer station. They were also working on stripping the dead transmission lines, perhaps thinking they'd be worth something when the recycling centers opened again.

  Jerry approached the back door of the target house first. He noted the rear screen door was mangled and lying on the ground. The rear wooden door was still closed. Lana joined him, both focusing their lights on the door in front of them.

  “What happened with her door?”

  “Doesn't look good. Maybe an infected tried to get in. Let's hope it failed.”

  Before either could make an effort to open the door, they were attacked from out of the darkness by a plague victim. Clad in a light-colored nightgown, she was easy to see once she was out of the shadows. The sick woman fell upon Jerry and pushed him over.

  “Get her off!”

  Lana was quick. She managed to hold onto the nightgown of the woman and ensure she couldn't get a solid purchase on her husband. At the same time, Jerry was able to keep his chest armor facing the teeth of the zombie. They had a temporary stalemate.

  “I'm going to roll over and push her off. You know what to do!” It wasn't the first time on this trip they'd had this exercise.

  “Go!”

  Jerry used all his strength to push the thrashing woman over to his side and scrambled away. Lana raised her rifle, intending to skewer the zombie—and she hesitated.

  “My god. This is Angie.”

  The nurse was an absolute wreck of her former self. Once a well-manicured sixty-something-year-old friend and nurse for Jerry's grandmother living inside this house, she was now covered almost head to toe in blood. Her nightgown was especially filthy with blood, dirt, and god knows what else. Her eyes were blood-red in their sockets and her hair was well matted and mangy. Her skin was ashen gray, where it was exposed. It was amazing they could recognize her at all, even though the couple had known her for decades.

  The shock and surprise and resulting delay gave Angie the chance she needed to pull herself off the ground, gain her feet in a crouching position, and begin rising—

  —only to be forced back down by Lana's steel bayonet.

  She grunted hard as she shoved it in as far as she could. The blade sunk until the point of her barrel was inside the infected's skull. Both stared at the dead body in stunned silence, given the identity of this dead woman.

  “Angie. I'm so sorry.”

  Jerry said nothing. Frozen in place.

  Lana broke the trance, pulling her blade out with effort. “Let's get inside. Now!” she ordered.

  Jerry had a key. As he rifled through his many deep pockets, he happened to notice a flash of light inside the house. At first he thought it was Liam or his grandmother, but caution nagged him. He stood still, indicating Lana should also be quiet. Though it had been there the whole time, the noise of gunfire around the city came reminded Jerry of the worldwide pandemic beyond this yard. He couldn't risk losing focus on the moment.

  “What is it? You see Liam or Grandma inside? D
o they need help?”

  Jerry turned off his light, and Lana followed suit. Instead of pushing the door open, Jerry backed away, drawing his wife with him. They moved to the narrow walkway between the two red brick structures. At the first window he paused, and peeked into the glass frame. Inside he could see a light bobbing up and down, very slowly. It was difficult to make out details, but it looked like someone was standing around with a flashlight, though it was pointed down at the floor.

  Lana took a turn at the window and came to a similar conclusion. They also both agreed it was a large man, not their son, and certainly not their hunched-over 104-year-old grandmother.

  “So who is it?”

  3

  They went from window to window, trying to glean intelligence on the figure standing in Grandma's kitchen, but the farther forward along the house they went, the less they saw of the mystery man. Standing at the front door they whispered their next moves.

  “Whoever is in there is apparently sick. No one normal would stand there so oblivious. He had to have heard us fighting Angie.”

  “Yeah, and if Liam was inside, he would be standing out here with us already.”

  Jerry began to lay out his plan. “You stay up here and knock loudly on the door in sixty seconds. That should get his attention. I'll be at the back door, so when he walks away I'll enter and then see what I can see. You run back and watch my behind.”

  She gave him a wry smile at the innuendo, despite the seriousness of the hour. She disappeared into the night.

  Their plan worked as expected. The knock on the front did indeed coax the big man into the front of the house. Lana walked in the open back door and was hit with the stink of death. It wasn't overpowering, especially since they'd been passing badly mutilated bodies for the past two days, but it was present.

  She moved up to be with Jerry, slipping on something—blood. She couldn't see it in the darkness, but she knew what it felt like to slip on it. Jerry was looking up the hallway deeper into the house. The mystery man was somewhere in that direction.

  He turned around and gave her the “shush” symbol across his lips. He had his rifle out. He flicked on the flashlight attached to the barrel and then turned around and yelled up the hallway. “This is Jerry Peters. Identify yourself!”

  He saw the flash of light in the front room. A sign the man was moving.

  The big man lumbered into view.

  “Stop or I shoot!”

  Jerry knew the man was infected. The small flashlight revealed all the blood on his face and neck. It was an unmistakable indicator he was already dead from the Ebola-like plague ravaging the city.

  The gunshots were loud inside the tight apartment.

  The infected man fell over and slid a short ways on the slick floor. He came to rest not far from Jerry's feet. He shone his light down at the man—revealing a wrecked skull, heavy bulletproof vest, and the same type of black tactical clothing Jerry himself was wearing. The flashlight was attached to the man's shoulder with a thin rope, as if he wanted to ensure he was never separated from it.

  Jerry's light also reflected into a nearby bedroom. From his vantage point he could see the leg and shoe of someone lying on the floor in there. His heart choked and fluttered; the shoe reminded him of the style Liam wore.

  “Lana, I—” He couldn't say the words. Instead, he moved rapidly to the bedroom. “Cover the hallway dear, while I check out this first bedroom.”

  He entered to find a veritable morgue. A dozen bodies were tossed into a pile, all with bullets to the head. They'd been murdered—as healthy people—because none of them were bloody like the infected. He knew who some of them were. He scanned the bodies, but didn't see his son—that was his only focus. The person on the floor with shoes like Liam's was...someone else. The piece of Jerry's brain taking care of emotions clicked off. He closed the door to the bedroom as he left.

  “Lana, don't go in there. We have to keep looking for Liam.”

  Room after room was empty. He walked beyond the dead—contractor? He didn't know how to describe the man. They went upstairs to Angie's apartment and found another dead contractor inside a pile of bloody clothes in the middle of her apartment.

  Still, no Liam.

  They finally went into the basement. Liam had his room down there, but other than the dryer sitting in front of the rear basement door, the entire level seemed undisturbed. They both returned to the main floor, heading for the big dead man.

  Jerry searched the body, but found no identification of any kind. He had numerous pockets in his tactical vest and pants, but those were mostly filled with rifle magazines and various types of knives, batons, and handcuffs. Not a contractor, a policeman?

  He did find one clue. Several sheets of paper stapled together and folded multiple times—beyond what any normal person would have folded them. Jerry unraveled the papers and spread them out on top of the dead man's chest. Using his light both he and Lana were able to scan the names typed in three neat columns. A few were crossed out with a pencil. He knew many of them. Actually—

  “Oh no. This list has most of our family on it. What he hell is this?” He scanned the names, finding one he recognized. “No. No. No. This is a list of people someone is trying to kill.” He scrunched up the paper with his hands, wrinkling it into a little ball with a primal grunt.

  “Why? How do you know that?”

  Jerry looked up with anger in his eyes. “Because my brother is in that room—dead. And his name is crossed off.”

  He held it out to her, and she walked into the kitchen. She unfolded the paper and spread it on the table where she could get a better look at it.

  “There's my name. Your name! We aren't crossed out. Nice to know we're still alive.” She let out a nervous chuckle. She read the names to herself—mostly family she recognized—from time to time lamenting those with their names crossed off. “Here's Marty's name. She's alive thank God! At least she hasn't been, what? Assassinated?”

  Jerry grunted an affirmation as he stood up and moved next to Lana. He didn't want to know who else was on the list, and yet he had to know.

  Lana turned the page. Then she turned once more. On the third page she found her son.

  “No line! Liam has no line over his name.” Lana set the flashlight on the table, and turned to hug Jerry. “I'm so sorry about Craig.”

  “Thanks. Me too.” Jerry gently separated himself, and looked around. “Looks to me like these men were hiding in Marty's place, waiting for our family members to come collect her. When my brother arrived they must have killed him and tossed him into the room with the others I didn't recognize. If they were targeting our family, maybe these other people just wondered in.”

  “Friends and neighbors of Marty?”

  “Yeah, that would make sense. Who wouldn't come by to check on Marty if they knew her?”

  “OK, so this hit team, or whatever it is, is lying in wait for us. Somehow they got infected, so we just dodged that bullet. But now we have a list of our family members, all of whom seem to be the target of some criminal enterprise, and we have a son out in the apocalypse who has no idea he's on this list. Where the hell is he?”

  “If I had to guess, I'd say Liam took Grandma and tried to escape the city.”

  Lana raised her head so she could look at the face of her husband. “How do you know that?”

  “Because her guns are gone. I noticed when we searched downstairs they had been moved.” He pointed his light at the black box sitting on the stove top. “I left her two guns in that box, hidden in her rafters downstairs. Because they were so high, there is no way she got them herself. Since the house isn't otherwise looted, it means someone pulled them down who knew they were there and what was inside. That means she told Liam and he has them. And because they aren't here, it tells me they're armed and attempting to escape this town.”

  “I'm not sure if I should be jumping with joy or screaming in fear.”

  “Me either, my love. Me either. But
at least we know these creeps didn't get him.”

  Jerry didn't want to appear pessimistic, though he certainly felt it. Whoever made the list was still out there. That suggested Liam wasn't safe at all. But that wasn't even the dangerous part. Liam had gone off into the urban decay of St. Louis with his 104-year-old grandmother. At best he had a couple of little handguns to defend himself. The dead were walking, killing everyone left alive, and the police, fire, and other civilian infrastructure lay in ruins. If Liam could get out of the dying city, and if he avoided getting himself scratched off this list, and if he survived the other million dangers, where would he go?

  They only needed a few seconds to reach the same conclusion.

  “We have to get back home.”

  Chapter 1: Somewhere in Suburbia

  Fifteen-year-old Liam Peters had just survived the worst four days of his life. He'd killed zombies. Been shot at. Was nearly run over. Ran from gangs. Ascended one of the longest flights of stairs west of the Mississippi. Rode a train through swarms of zombies. Saw friends die. Dodged falling bombs. And, if he had to stretch things even a little to mimic World of Undead Soldiers—his favorite online game, he'd say he slayed the undead and other supernaturals to rescue a buxom maiden.

  Looking at her now, Liam admitted Victoria wasn't very buxom, and strictly speaking they rescued each other, but he allowed some liberties in retelling his own story. She was also a filthy mess. When he'd found her she was wearing an elegant black cocktail dress she'd worn since her survivor story began, and over the course of their escape from the city she'd gotten filthier and filthier. Now she was covered in black coal dust from their stint on the train, and it was nearly baked on from all the running and sweating they'd done to get away from the horde of zombies this morning. She wasn't much to look at right then as far as a damsel to be rescued. If he had a mirror he assumed he looked just as bad.

  Fortunately, he could overlook all those things and simply see the pretty young woman who captured his heart over the few days they'd been together. She was sleeping peacefully next to Grandma, both lying at the foot of a large sycamore tree on the near the bank of the river they'd just crossed. A large mass of zombies could still be seen on the other side, although a majority of them had wandered away since there were no easy pickings anymore.