by T. W. Brown
Dead: The Gruesome Tale of Garrett and Kirsten
2012 May December Publications LLC
The split-tree logo is a registered trademark of May December Publications LLC.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons living, dead, or otherwise, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
This book is protected under the copyright laws of the United States of America. Any reproduction or unauthorized use of the material or artwork contained herein is prohibited without the express written permission of the author or May December Publications LLC.
Printed in the U.S.A.
SMASHWORDS EDITION
The Dead series by TW Brown is gaining fans. Perhaps you have missed out so far...or maybe you are considering the possibility of seeing what the fuss is about. This is one of the Vignette story lines that generates the greatest response from readers. It is a gruesome little tale, and not for the squeamish or easily offended. Remember, this is but a taste. So much more await you in TW Brown's DEAD series--Dead: The Ugly Beginning; Dead: Revelations; Dead: Fortunes & Failures; Dead: Winter. And book 5, Dead: Siege & Survival is scheduled for release on December 15, 2012.
Introduction:
Let's face it...zombies are here to stay. There are a lot of titles out there to choose from. To stand out from the crowd requires that you offer something special. To that end, my DEAD series is slated to be twelve books. Eventually, the story has to be more than just the standard rending of flesh and head shots. DEAD serves up characters--some you will like...and others...well...you will understand when you meet Garrett.
The DEAD books are presented in three rotating chapters: Steve's story, The Geeks, and Vignettes (where this story first appeared over the course of the first three books in the DEAD series; Dead: The Ugly Beginning, Dead: Revelations, and Dead: Fortunes & Failures). As I mentioned, these books are character-heavy. I invite you to check the first book out for yourself. If you are not willing to risk the price, then email me and ask when the next time is that it will be offered up for free via the KDP program. I have enough confidence in the series that I am confident you will be hooked...if this little taste has not done so already.
If you like what you see, then I welcome you to my little world. I hope you will spread the word...and if you feel so inclined, I hope you will leave a review on Amazon, Goodreads, Shelfari, or any place you see fit. I realize you have many choices when it comes to zombie fiction and I thank you for selecting DEAD.
Please return all seats to the upright position...
TW Brown
Charleston, SC—“Garrett!” the raspy voice barked, followed by a series of shredding coughs. “Git yer ass in here and stop gawkin’ at that whore!”
Looking over his shoulder into the dark, smoky house, Garrett McCormick tipped the half-empty bottle of beer, draining the contents in three huge gulps. Not for the first time today, he allowed the private reel in his mind to spool. Several possible death scenarios played in his imagination; each one ending with Patty Garrett meeting her end at his hands. Nothing as quick and impersonal as a gun would do. He wanted to feel her physically leave her body; breathe her final, tobacco-fouled breath into his face. He wanted to see the light fade and finally extinguish from her eyes.
“You hear me, boy!”
“Yes, mother.” Garrett walked back into the house, letting the screen door slam behind him.
“Dammit! How many times do I have to tell you ‘bout lettin’ that door slam?” Patty Garrett scolded.
“Sorry, Mama.” Garrett opened the fridge and grabbed another beer. He closed the door, twisted the cap off, tossed it on the counter and lumbered into the living room.
Patty McCormick’s obscenely obese form took up well over half of the sofa. A tray table sat within reach, scattered with full and half-full ashtrays, an old one gallon plastic milk container of sweet tea, and an empty box of Little Debbie Nutty Bars. In one hand, the woman clutched the television remote, in the other, the ever-present cigarette.
“Warm me up that macaroni and cheese from last night and check my jar of sun tea on the front porch.” Another series of painful sounding coughs tore from the woman. After a few wet, hawking convulsions, she swapped the remote for an old faded Double Gulp cup and spit a dark wad that seemed reluctant to completely free itself from her pursed lips.
“Yes’m.” Garrett trudged back to the kitchen and pulled the casserole dish out of the refrigerator. He shoved it in the microwave and pushed a few buttons.
Shrill laughter drifted in on the warm spring air. Garrett glanced out the grimy window as Kimmy Vanderwall and April Williams emerged from the Vanderwall’s in-ground swimming pool, each girl tilting her head to the side, wringing out their long, wet hair.
He stared at their bikini-clad bodies, unconsciously wiping at his mouth with the back of his hand. He felt a stirring, and then the awkward strain of the growing bulge in the crotch of his jeans. He reached down, adjusting slightly to ease the discomfort. It took him a moment to realize he’d been holding his breath. It was startled back to a regular rhythm when the microwave screeched to announce that the macaroni and cheese was ready.
The two girls both shot glances over their shoulder. They’d heard. They knew. Kimmy whispered something to April who responded by making a face. The two girls burst out laughing, then vanished through an open sliding glass door into the Vanderwall house.
“What’s keepin’ you, boy?” Patty Garrett croaked from the living room, the metallic ratchet of the wheel of her lighter signaling the start of another cigarette.
Spooning the gummy, orange-yellow mixture onto a plate, Garrett grabbed the bottle of ketchup from the counter and brought lunch to his mother. He set the plate down on the tray table and grabbed the fuller of the two ashtrays. He emptied it and replaced it on his way past as he headed out to the front porch to check the sun tea.
The street was quiet for a Saturday. Usually, on a sunny spring day like this, kids were riding bikes, playing basketball in the Gibson’s driveway, or mowing lawns. The annoying tone of the Emergency Broadcasting System snapped Garrett out of his stupor.
“We interrupt this program to bring you the following bulletin,” a baritone voice blared from the television. Garrett turned, still standing on the porch, his hulking frame keeping out all but the smallest slivers of light. “Center for Disease Control spokeswoman Doctor Linda Singh has released the following statement.” The photo of a conservative looking woman with pinched features appeared on the left of an all blue field. White letters appeared and the voice announced them verbatim.
“Continued claims of the dead reanimating are being investigated. While it is doubtful that this is true, citizens are advised to remain indoors while response teams in your local area can coordinate with national officials in order to contain this—what is now being officially labeled a pandemic.”
Garrett listened to the words, but they just didn’t make much sense. It sounded bad, that was certain. Also, he became aware that he was hearing an echo of sorts. He turned, looking up and down the street. The same broadcast was pouring from every other open door and window on the block, creating an eerie reverberation.
“These statements seem to counter, at least somewhat, the complete denial made by Doctor Singh yesterday. While still not validating the claims of the dead rising, becoming what millions are now referring to as zombies, she has conceded that the CDC is investigating the possibility that these rumors are true.”
/> “Quit standin’ there lettin’ all the flies in!” Patty growled through a mouthful of macaroni and cheese.
“Yes’m.” Garrett took the step inside, letting the screen shut against his back.
Meanwhile, Patty McCormick was busy flipping through channels. Each one carried the same story in one form or another, she paused on one and a flood of gibberish blared from the tiny speaker. “Even the damned spics are babblin’ about this nonsense.”
“Don’t seem likely,” Garrett scoffed and headed up the stairs to his room, leaving his mother to her macaroni and cheese, television, and chain-smoking.
He walked down the gloomy hallway to the last door on the right, his bedroom. Closing the door behind himself, he mashed a button on his CD player. The intro to Blue Oyster Cult’s, Burning for you began. Garrett climbed across his bed and sat on the edge, peering through his partially open curtains. He could spy perfectly down onto the deck and swimming pool in the back yard of the Vanderwall residence.
Just as he hoped, a moment later Kimmy and April came back out. They were looking back over the fence. Don’t worry, whores, Garrett thought, I’m not in the kitchen anymore. Apparently satisfied, April unclasped her bikini top and stretched out on her stomach on a towel; Kimmy was a time-delayed mirror image. The two girls lay head to head, resting their chins on their hands. Most likely engaged in useless chatter about which boy they’d be letting finger bang them after school.
Garrett chased that unwelcoming voice out from his head as he unzipped his pants and pulled out his already stiff member. His eyes locked on the deep crease in the girls’ bikini bottoms. It’d been a while and the act took less than a minute. Unsatisfied, he sat there for several minutes staring down at the two unsuspecting objects of his dark fantasies.
***
“No, daddy!” a voice begged, waking Garrett from a restless sleep full of unpleasant images of leering faces.
Garrett sat up, smacking his lips. He reached underneath his mattress and pulled out a pint bottle of cheap, knock-off bourbon. A scream pierced the air causing dogs up and down the street to begin barking. It was coming from the Vanderwall house.
Pulling the curtains open, he leaned forward enough so that he could get a better look. The scream changed register, and then faded into something that reminded Garrett of gargling…only different.
He craned his neck to try and get a clearer look. Kimmy Vanderwall’s bedroom window was on the second floor just like his. Her curtains were partially open, and he could see some movement. It looked like Kimmy’s dad had his daughter down on the bed. He saw hands drumming on Greg Vanderwall’s back, but they seemed to be losing steam. Hmmm, Garrett thought, maybe the little whore likes it.
As he continued to watch, aware of his own growing arousal, he realized something wasn’t quite right. Something dark coated Kimmy’s hands—which at this point had stopped moving. Then Greg Vanderwall stood up. The man was still wearing his postal-carrier uniform, but it was all torn up and stained with huge dark patches. His face was dripping with what looked to Garrett like blood.
“Y’all get on offa my porch!” Patty McCormick bellowed, causing Garrett to jump. It also caused Greg Vanderwall’s head to twitch and turn towards the sound. He seemed to have trouble turning, but in a few jerky steps, he was staggering out of Kimmy’s room, presumably on his way over.
“Go on now! I said gitcher asses off my property or I’ll call the law!”
Garrett heard his mother shouting. He also heard what sounded like somebody banging on the screen door.
And…moaning; like whoever was out there might be hurt.
Something brought his attention back to Kimmy’s window. The girl was standing there staring at nothing. She hadn’t changed out of her bikini, but only the bottoms were still on. That was because her upper body looked as if it’d been mauled by a bear. There were rips, gashes, and what looked like actual chunks torn out. The worst injury was just below the bottom of her pronounced rib cage. There was a huge hole torn into the no-longer-tan skin with what looked to Garrett like bloody sausages dipped in shit hanging out.
The screen door slamming brought him back to what sounded like trouble brewing downstairs. That also made Kimmy’s head snap around much like her father’s had a moment before. In the same jerky motions, the girl disappeared out her bedroom door.
“What the hell you think you’s doin’ just comin’ in my house?” Patty McCormick’s voice held something Garrett had never heard in his twenty-seven years from his mother.
Fear.
Somebody was in the house. No matter what else, that was something he could understand. Picking up the axe handle that he referred to as his “nigger beater”, Garrett headed for the stairs. He could puzzle out whatever the hell he’d seen at the Vanderwall house later. Right now, he had business to attend.
What he expected to see were a couple of coons from east of the river come around lookin’ to steal something to fence for a little drug money. That was not the scene that greeted him. Judy Vanderwall, Kimmy’s snobbish bitch of a mother was in the living room with Gordon Grace, the neighbor from across the way. Both looked like they’d had a fight with a meat grinder and lost. They were smeared and spattered with blood. Some of it looked dry like it’d been there a while. Both had faces dripping with slick, red wetness.
At over six-and-a-half feet tall and nearly three hundred pounds, Garrett McCormick wasn’t scared of much…other than his mother. Still, what he saw made him pause. Judy and Gordon were both pawing at his mama from the backside of the sofa. Both were snapping their teeth like they wanted to take a big bite out of the woman who was busy squirming and pushing the two away.
With one big, meaty paw of a hand, Patty smacked the toothpick with tits that was Judy Vanderwall in the head hard enough to knock her down. The scrawny woman landed on her back at Garrett’s feet. The skirt—too short for any fifty-year-old woman to be wearing—hiked up. Garrett’s eyes went to the peach-colored panties. He was transfixed on the dark triangle that shown beneath the sheer silk.
Judy’s eyes, hideously filmed over in a pus-colored whiteness shot with dark traces, rolled up and fixed on him. Her mouth opened and a ghost-like moan wheezed out. She began to sit up, her hands reaching for him. Out of reflex, Garrett swung the axe handle. It came down hard against the temple of the woman, snapping her head violently.
Judy fell back, but only for a second before attempting to struggle back up, once again reaching for him. Garrett’s head tilted in confusion. At the least, that blow should’ve knocked her out. In reality, it should’ve killed her. The bitch hadn’t even cried out. He swung again, and twice more until the head broke open, spilling its contents on the cigarette-burn marred floor and splattering in an arc on the dirty, faded, peeling-in-places wallpaper.
He glanced over where his mother was wrestling with Gordon Grace. The diminutive man’s back was to Garrett, his bald spot looking strangely gray. The man’s long braid swung back and forth in the struggle like an angry cat’s tail.
“Quit standin’ there gawkin’, boy!” Patty yelped, doing her best to keep Gordon’s snapping teeth at bay.
Garrett stepped over Judy’s body, coming up behind Gordon. He snatched the man by the collar, tossing him across the living room. The body slammed into the wall and fell in a heap. Squirming and struggling, he knocked over a lamp.
Garrett set his feet and cocked back his arm, ready to wield the axe handle if Gordon Grace came at him. Then he saw the man’s eyes. They looked like Judy Vanderwall’s, but that wasn’t nearly as unsettling as the chunk of the man’s throat that was missing. Blood had poured down the front of his tie-dyed tee-shirt, adding another color to the pattern.
“That man tried to bite me,” Patty wheezed, hawking up more thick mucus from her lungs.
“How come you watchin’ that Jesus channel?” Garrett glanced at the screen. A sweaty looking man in a white suit was pacing a stage telling all the folks in the auditorium how wrong they were
living their lives. Most likely all their wrongs could be fixed if they put money in the baskets being passed around.
“All the other channels were talkin’ ‘bout that Blue Plague nonsense.”
“Might want to see what they’re sayin’,” Garrett studied Gordon as he slowly climbed to his feet. His face had a blue-gray tint which only made the eyes stand out all the more.
Patty reached her feet only a little more gracefully than Gordon. Her bloated hand fumbled with a new pack of cigarettes. She froze when a strangled sounding cry came from the man’s open mouth. Garrett moved in, wielding the axe handle without emotion, bringing it down again and again until the man’s head broke open just like Judy Vanderwall’s.
“Why don’t they cry out?” Patty’s voice suddenly seemed small.
“Don’t know,” Garrett shrugged, snatching up one of his work shirts from the unfolded laundry sitting in a heap next to the overturned basket, “but they didn’t seem to notice a thing until their head busted open.”
A scream from outside carried on the night air. Garrett walked over to the screen door and peered into the darkness. A lone figure was staggering along the sidewalk. It was Greg Vanderwall, but there was something wrong. Garrett already knew what it was now that he’d seen Judy and Gordon up close. Another series of screams and what sounded like gunshots pierced the night, drawing Greg Vanderwall down the sidewalk past the McCormick house. Garrett stepped back and closed the front door.
“Change the channel, Mama,” Garrett said, moving over to the curtains to continue peering outside. For the first time in as long as he could remember, he’d told his mama to do something; what’s more, she did it.
“…president and his staff were being moved to a secure location. Martial law is in effect, and all non-active military personnel have been recalled.
“FEMA centers have been designated, and should be displayed on the crawler at the bottom of your screen. Military transport vehicles will be sweeping neighborhoods as National Guard units muster. If you are able, get to a center in your area, please do so after 7 a.m.”
