Contents
Seven Days to Brooklyn
Author
Copyright
Dedication
Foreword
Introduction
Map
Part I
The Aviator
Out of gas
Better times
The Machinist
Long shot
They meet
Trio
On the road
Roswell
Part II
Vaughn
Acquisition
Test subjects
What happens in Vegas
Stays in Vegas
Traveling north
Reno
Brooklyn
Bio
Seven Days to Brooklyn©
A Sara Robinson® Adventure
by
CHRISTOPHER WESTLEY
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental. For information about bringing the author to live events or for information on booking an event, contact us at the email below.
[email protected]
Burnt Ridge Publishing†a CM Westley Affiliation
Manufactured in the United States of America
Copyright © 2015
10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
SEVEN DAYS TO BROOKLYN©
A Sara Robinson® Adventure
by CHRISTOPHER WESTLEY
Cover by Marika Kraukle 2016 asRAVENINK©
Latvia
Cartography by Jaime Buckley©2016
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission.
First Edition:April 2016
Printed in the United States of America
ASIN: B01BZJC6UG
For my wife, Traci.
In memory of
Elizabeth, the consummate horror novel reader.
Foreword
If we consider how far we could walk, we might be truly amazed at the human body’s endurance and the perseverance of the human mind. Sara Robinson will embark on a journey of epic proportions that will take her across a vast, barren wasteland toward her final destination. Although the events that unfold in the following pages may be considered a work of fiction, in reality, the world is just a minor incident away from the eventuality of real-world zombies. Epidemic infection rates and the downfall of society as we know it will prevail. After a natural or manmade disaster, it takes between one and four days for most major cities to descend into chaos. First the infrastructure will fail. With no one to repair the electrical lines, water lines, and sewer lines, citizens will resort to cannibalistic self-preservation in order to survive. The would-be preppers will try to defend their locked down hideouts only to be ousted and killed by the most demure citizen who has gained their trust. The governments, local and national, will cease to exist following the mass exodus of the military members who abandon their post in droves as they return home to find loved ones. Only the lucky will survive such an existence. Are you prepared to fight for survival and to kill indiscriminately? Can you survive even one night in the wasteland? I challenge you to take the trip Sara is about to embark on, to see if you can make it. Travel across the wasteland, if only by modern means, or are you worthy of making the journey on foot?
Christopher M. Westley
Let me know if you make it. If I don’t hear from you, I will consider you left for dead.
Introduction
PRESENT DAY
Standing in the middle of the road, with the world at my feet once again, I am not sure where I will go from here. The last few years have been idyllic, if not very good. I have learned a lot about myself, more than I would have ever wanted to know, more than I ever needed to know. At nineteen years old, I am alone and on my own again—destination unknown. I cannot begin to tell you of the horrors I went through those many years ago, the years before I came home, found my respite from a hostile, upside down world. A young teenage female should not have to live like this. Nor should I have to travel across the wasteland alone. But maybe I am getting ahead of myself. I guess I should start at the beginning, at a time when things were much worse and I much younger. This was a time when most of the United States was in utter chaos and turmoil, devoid of civilization as we once knew it, a time before I knew my role in all of this and why they are after me. I’m not worried now and know that wherever I go, there will be those out there that need me: small groups of survivors who lack the skill and knowledge to resist the last hordes of infected people, if we can call them that. They are more like animals, really—animals that need to be exterminated. One town at a time, one by one, they must be laid to rest so the survivors can live peacefully. But I’m getting ahead of myself again. This is how it all started.
Part I
SEVEN YEARS EARLIER
NEAR UVALDE TEXAS
1
A YOUNG LADY, who appears to be no more than eleven or twelve, sits on the floor of the kitchen, inside a 1950s single story rambler, digging furiously into a can of mystery meat. Her long, blonde hair is matted and requires continuous strokes from her hand to brush it away from her face as she eats. It’s evident she has not taken a bath in some time and is in desperate need of a manicure. Her dirty fingers protrude from wool fingerless gloves followed by a ragged leather coat. On the left breast of the jacket is a patch, tattered and worn, with the name Sara embroidered on it.
Looking down into the empty can of food, she lets out a loud belch and then wipes her mouth with the side of her arm. A pair of size six boots sits in front of her. The right shoe has a leather lace that has been tied in knots two or three times, while the other shoe is freshly laced to the top eyelet with a pink shoelace. The boots were scavenged a few weeks earlier in another deserted town from an army–navy surplus store, the looters not paying attention to the scrawny girl, more concerned with their own survival. Sara pulled her socks on, her left toe going through the end of one of them.
“Dang it, that was my best pair of socks.” Sara slips her feet into the black boots and quickly laces them up, finishing the job with two very neatly tied bows. Rolling her tattered blue jeans over the tops of the boots, Sara folds the excess three inches of pant up in a roll. On the side of one pocket are the remnants of wording that are printed with a once well-known designer name. They were her favorite jeans, and her only jeans now; everything Sara owns, she carries with her in the backpack.
She pilfers the cabinets of the home, shoving a few cans of food into her backpack. From the interior of the house, a faint thumping noise catches her attention, causing her to reflect on a simpler time.
“Sara, what will it be today, young lady?” the maid asks as she hurriedly squeezes fresh orange juice from a pile of oranges sitting on top of the massive granite counter top. Sara stares at the many rows of cereal, oatmeal, and gourmet cans in front of her.
“Mm, cereal.” The memory fades quickly, and she is brought back to reality in the bare, foreign kitchen, the thumping jarring her alert again.
Sara moves past the refrigerator, throwing a jar of pickles into her backpack as she steps into the living room, giving her eyes a moment to adjust to the dim lighting. Continuing down the hallway toward the thumping sound, her ears strain as they adjust to a woody scraping sound.
Her chest starts to tighten as her heart rate increases, pounding harder and harder with every step. While reaching down with her le
ft hand, she wraps it around the .38. Reaching over with her right hand, Sara slowly pulls the trigger back to cock the weapon. The .38 is well used, and the patina on the barrel shows its age. The front sight is missing as well as one of the handgrips. Duct tape is strategically wrapped around the grip and is hand formed from hours of the tight grasp of the twelve-year-old. The .38 is her favorite pistol, given to her by her father a few years ago. Sara steps forward onto glass, the audible crunch filling the hallway. Slowly moving her foot to the right, she continues down the hallway, to a closed door on her left. She can feel the pulse of her arteries on the side of her face strengthening; the carpet below her feet feels spongy, the padding bulky. Reaching down to the knob, she slowly starts to open the door with her right hand while still holding the revolver in her left. The door swings open with a creak from the hinges, revealing the contents of the room.
Peering into the room, the small bed in front of her is unoccupied. Princess sheets and girly stuff are scattered around the room. Sara steps a few feet into the room, and the scratching and thumping noise starts again, coming from the other side of the bed. Barely five foot six, she has trouble seeing over the bed and is forced to walk around the other side to see what is making the noise. Kneeling down to look under the bed, she slowly raises the corner of the flower printed bedspread. Her hair is blown back as the furry object flies past her. Sara jumps back just in time to see a raccoon scamper by her and out the doorway.
She would not have believed it possible to have a heart attack at such a young age, but the sound of her heart beating rapidly in her chest makes her think otherwise.
As her racing heartbeat subsides to a slow beat, she composes herself and gets up to leave the room. The adrenaline rush has heightened her senses even more than before. Sara catches movement behind the partially opened closet door, spurring her to walk to the door and reach up with her right hand to slide the door open. The door starts to move to the right and is thrust open from the inside. A stranger lunges at Sara, grabbing her by the throat and lifting her off her feet. The aggressive action knocks the revolver out of her hand, sending it sliding across the floor and out into the hallway. With her feet dangling above the floor, the stranger’s grip around her neck is quickly choking the life out of her. Still gripping her tightly, the stranger steps forward and out of the shadows, revealing his face. Disfigured, the face of the man is oozing fluid from open wounds as his flesh is sloughing off onto the floor. His foul breath hits her in the face through his rotted teeth. With one quick thrust, he throws her across the room and out into the hallway. She lands against the far wall and sputters, gasping, spitting out blood before whispering out a single phrase.
“You want to battle, huh!”
Wiping blood from her mouth with her right hand, Sara jumps up on her feet, then reaches down to her right side and unsheathes a bowie knife. The blade is razor sharp from hours of tedious work and glistens even in the shadowy darkness. The stranger lunges forward, dragging a useless right leg one step at a time. Bracing herself for the incoming attack, Sara waits for the precise moment to strike back. With three quick steps and a high jump, she squares off eye to eye as she flies through the air, swinging the knife in a roundhouse-style swoop.
The knife plunges deep into her attacker’s head, knocking him off his feet, the sound close to a watermelon being smashed open. He slumps to the floor with hardly a whimper, and apparently he will suffer no longer. As Sara pulls the knife blade out of this animal on the floor, she is aware of another presence in the hallway. Looking down the hall, she sees a shadowy figure emerge from an open bedroom. Still gagging from the initial attack and rubbing her throat, she slowly squats down to pick up the revolver. Raising the revolver as she stands up, Sara squeezes the trigger as the next assassin races to her.
The gun misfires, making a sharp click.
“Crap.”
Spinning around in the direction she came in, Sara grabs the backpack, slinging it over her shoulder, and runs out the front door. Close behind and on her heels, the fiend is closing in on her as she reaches a wood swing set that hangs from rusty chains, a large weeping willow towering above. He reaches out to grab her but misses as she jumps onto the swing, standing up to swing it forward. With her momentum and speed, she swings it forward in a huge arc skyward. As the swing reaches the top of the arc, she spins it around to face her attacker. With maximum momentum, she is flying back down to the faceless fiend, throwing the solid wood two-by-six bottom board of the seat into the stomach of her assailant.
The board makes solid contact with his chest, with sufficient force to completely knock him off his feet, sending him flying across the yard, landing on top of a concrete planter next to the house. Sara jumps down and starts running to the front gate of the yard. Reaching the gate, she swings it open and glances back to the once lifeless heap.
“Damn it, don’t you things ever give up?”
The feeder starts to move again, working himself into a standing position. Looking straight at her, he snarls. It’s a low, guttural growl that reverberates from the pit of his stomach. His face is as disgusting as the last guy’s face, and it is apparent to her that he is in the late stages of infection.
Sara closes the fence and runs up to the road. A short distance away sits a vintage airplane in the middle of the country road, its white and red paint job faded but its fabric wings still in good condition for its age. As Sara reaches the airplane, she removes the wheel chock from the tail wheel, throwing it and her gear into the backseat. Climbing inside, she quickly sits down, turns on the power switch, and pumps the primer a few times with her left thumb.
“Ignition, start position, check.”
The engine slowly turns over and sputters, failing to start.
“Come on.”
She turns the key to the start position again, and the engine coughs, sputters, and fires up with a large cloud of black smoke. As she shoves the throttle knob all the way forward, the plane begins to move slowly down the road, the propeller blur disappearing into a single blade in front of her. Sara glances over her shoulder, noticing the zombie closing in on her. Just as he reaches the back of the plane, the tail lifts off the ground, gaining enough speed to leave him behind.
A dull thud emanates through the plane as a mailbox that was sticking out next to the highway is sheared off, damaging the fabric on the right wing in the process and spoiling some lift. Sara pays no attention to the damage as she slips a pair of goggles down over her eyes while simultaneously pulling the plane into a climb. With one hand on the stick, she turns eastward. The engine settles into a rhythmic rumble as she reduces power and levels off at 500 feet. Glancing out of the cockpit at the damaged wing, she watches the torn fabric flutter in the wind, wondering how long it will last before she starts losing altitude.
2
GLANCING AT THE fuel gauge, it reads a quarter tank left. She was sure she had more fuel than that when she took off, coming to the realization that the damaged wing was also leaking fuel, the vapor trail invisible to her inside the cockpit.
“Looks like we will need to find some fuel soon.” She mumbles.
THREE MONTHS EARLIER
“Okay, baby, just ease back on the throttle and add some left rudder.”
“I know, Dad! I got this.” Sara loves her father but hates it when he hovers over her. She can fly, among other things, and is almost a teenager.
“She’s all yours; take us in.”
Sara strains to look over the dash at the runway ahead. Lining the nose of the airplane up at 700 feet while letting the ship gently glide down until 10 feet above the ground, the plane seems to float on the heated air above the hot landing strip, its white markings at 1000 feet from the end of the runway growing larger in her vision. Pulling back on the stick, Sara executes a perfect landing as she gently touches down.
“Good job.”
“Yesss!”
Sara shuts the engine off as they roll up in front of the hangar.
&
nbsp; “I think you will be ready for solo after a few more flights.”
“Awesome! I can’t wait, Daddy!”
“Well, as soon as you can nail a few more landings like that one, then maybe we will think about it.”
He is just buying more time. Mark Robinson is well aware that her skill level is exemplary and that she would do quite well flying solo. But he is still reluctant to let his little girl fly off alone at such a young age. She is growing up too fast for him. Growing out of the young child into a young woman.
“So what do you think, pizza? Or hamburgers?”
“PIZZA.”
“Pizza it is.”
Her father throws his arm around his daughter, a doting father cherishing the moment. He is quite proud of her accomplishments as a young aviator and wishes time would slow down. Leaving the airplane sitting in front of the hangar, Sara and her father walk across the estate and into the large dining hall where a freshly baked pizza sits awaiting them. Mark grabs the spatula and serves up two large pieces for Sara, on fine china that is inlaid with gold. Setting the plate down in front of her, Sara quickly works on devouring the pizza, followed by two more pieces before going up to bed. Closing her eyes, she drifts off to sleep.
Inside the cockpit, Sara refocuses on the fuel gauge. As she taps on the instrument with her left index finger, the gauge drops just below the quarter tank line. Sara reaches between her legs and feels for the fuel lever. Twisting it, she switches it from the on position to reserve. The cockpit is sparse, built in a time when accessories included an airspeed indicator, a turn slip indicator, and a compass. The radio was an afterthought and is quite useless now since there is nobody to call and no one to respond to your calls. It was built in the golden years of aviation and is over forty years older than Sara.
Seven Days To Brooklyn: A Sara Robinson Adventure Page 1
