SANCTUARY
SURVIVING THE ZOMBIE APOCALYPSE
Joshua Jared Scott
This is a work of fiction. All of the characters and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
SANCTUARY: SURVIVING THE ZOMBIE APOCALYPSE
Copyright © 2012 by Joshua Jared Scott
All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions therein in any form.
ISBN 13: 978-1-475-15100-8
Chapter I
This is something I should have done much, much sooner. It’s not that I’m a procrastinator or that I’m lazy. Rather, there simply wasn’t the time. Actually, that’s not entirely true. There were always free hours, spread about here and there, when I could have put everything down on paper. In the interest of full disclosure, I should state that I’m not writing in the traditional sense so the preceding statement is also false. You see, I remember high school and the tedious, handwritten essays which always left me with unpleasant cramps. No, this is being typed into my laptop, much faster and far easier on the wrist. The important thing, however, is that I have decided to go ahead and compose the story, guaranteeing a record is preserved. I’m even going to print multiple copies for when the computers finally break down. Who knows, maybe there’ll be someone left alive when that happens. It’s possible.
That was pessimistic. I know. Yes, I really do. I’d even apologize for my negative emotions, but let’s face facts. The world has gone to Hell. Not literally of course, although with all that’s happened that might not be too far a stretch. But figuratively, the world is not at its best. The vast majority of the human race is dead, and civilization has collapsed. Only the barest fragments of what we once were, what we’d accomplished, remain. Yep, pretty damn depressing.
Enough with the pointless editorials and on to the central matter. Are you ready for it? Can you guess what I’m going to say? Can you? Probably, yes. There is an ongoing zombie apocalypse. Actual, real, no kidding, zombies. I’m sure you guessed correctly. It would be pretty hard not to since the entire planet has been affected. Oh, I suppose some castaway trapped alone on a tropical island, or possibly a hermit living in a cave, might not know about it. It’s feasible. Being alone though… No, there are too many gone, too many dead, and so many memories. I’ve found the desire to be among the few still breathing somewhat overwhelming. I need to speak with others, to carry on conversations, to stay sane. That’s one of the reasons we banded together in the first place. Humans form communities. It’s what we do. It’s the way we’re wired. Then, there’s the desire to survive, to not end up shambling about as a mindless cannibal. This second factor is why I put up with so much crap and chaos and stupidity regarding the first.
My plan with this composition, this glorified essay, or series of essays as the case might be, is to tell my story. The key words are MY STORY. The capital letters should assist in getting this point across. It is about me. Me. Me. Me. And, no, I’m not a narcissist, not the in clinical sense, but let’s face facts. I know my personal story better than any other. I may mess up some dates and minor details – the memory isn’t perfect you know – but it will be accurate enough.
I’m also going to include narratives about individuals I’ve met along the way. These interludes will relate their personal stories of survival, focusing on how they made it through the early days of the zombie uprising, and they will be provided in roughly the order I learned them, injected into my own tale at appropriate moments that are close to when I obtained the facts. That may seem a bit confusing now, but it’ll make sense as you read along. Or not. Who knows? Doesn’t matter though. If you don’t like them, just skip on by. But be warned. You will be missing lots of sex and violence and gore – this assumes I’m not lying to entice you into reading the interludes – and you won’t learn the reasons why I adopted certain strategies and techniques regarding my own efforts at staying alive.
And yes, I know that whomever is reading this has experienced his or hers, maybe its, own horrors. It would be difficult not to considering the whole worldwide zombie apocalypse thing. You know, I’ve discovered that hearing about people who had it worse than me is quite refreshing. Realizing your life isn’t nearly as bad as it could be tends to cheer one up. It also makes a person, me at least, feel a bit guilty. But human psychology is what it is, so maybe my horror story will cause you to reflect and feel better about your own situation. Of course, if you had it worse than me that probably won’t be the case. In such instances my tale might even make you jealous. I apologize for that in advance. Sorry.
One last thing. You may be thinking this has been really wordy thus far, and to a degree it is. I’ll even admit the paragraphs are somewhat long. You may also be praying “don’t let it be in this format, not the entire thing, please God please, nooooo!” It won’t be, so no worrying. Most of this tale will be based on the events and dialogue as I remember them. Only a few sections, most notably the beginning, will be my straightforward recollections provided in the first person.
Now it’s time to get started with the actual story. First of all, my name is Jacob Thornton. I am thirty six years of age. I’m in good health with no significant medical issues, aside from some minor allergies, for the most part. I have no significant mental issues, although some have commented that my personality is somewhat off kilter. I live, lived, in Denton, Texas – that’s at the north end of the Dallas-Fort Worth Metroplex – when the outbreak occurred. I had my own house without any family, girlfriend, or pets to share it with. As you know, being alone at the outset was generally a very, very good thing.
My alarm went off at 6:00 AM, and I dragged myself out of bed. Switching on the computer, which was standard practice, I left it to boot up and went downstairs to get some breakfast. There, I turned the kitchen television on, again a routine of mine. A cable news channel came up, and I realized right off that something was dreadfully wrong. It was near impossible not to, with a continuous flashing message advising everyone to remain indoors and to avoid the infected at all costs.
Increasing the volume, it only took a few minutes to grasp the essential details. There were zombies all over the world, and they were attacking the living, eating their flesh. Acceptance was more difficult to come by. It had to be a hoax of some sort. This couldn’t be real. It was an impossibility. Yet, the other stations confirmed everything. Running upstairs to check my computer, I found the Internet news sites and blogs, even those overseas, telling the same story. The zombie apocalypse had begun.
Returning to the television, I watched intently, learning what I could. At 3:15 AM, local Texas time – that’s the central time zone for those who don’t know – approximately a quarter of the Earth’s population went into convulsions. There was no pattern regarding race, gender, or age. It seemed to be completely random. The effects were nearly identical however. These unfortunate souls suffered horribly, screaming in agony before they collapsed and died. Seven minutes later they rose once more. This was recorded so many times on film, cell phones, digital cameras, etc. that there was no reason to doubt the reports. Likewise, footage of the infected continuing forward after being shot or severely injured eliminated any doubts as to their condition. The segment I remember most vividly was of a man whose heart dangled outside the chest, held in place by a few shredded arteries. These were not living creatures. They couldn’t be.
The media, being sensationalists – as if they had any other mode of decorum – were using the term “zombie” from the very beginning. I saw nothing to indicate this word had been accepted by the
government or its agencies, but that didn’t matter. Upon the initial utterance, it went viral and became the default moniker.
With no experts to put on the air, the news stations instead gathered up authors, producers, actors, anyone associated with the extremely popular zombie genre. This was not at all helpful. These individuals dealt with fantasy. They didn’t know what was going on. Most hadn’t even seen one of the things firsthand, not at that early hour. So all they did was quote or reference pieces of fiction. It was totally, completely useless. In some cases it was even detrimental. I mean, really, having a man say zombies craved brains and to throw animal brains in their direction to distract them was not only bad advice – it won’t work – it was also just plain impractical. How is the average person going to get hold of animal brains? It’s not like there are slaughterhouses conveniently placed on every corner. Besides, zombies don’t eat brains. I’m sure they would if they could get to them, but the skull, being composed of fairly thick bone, does tend to be rather difficult to bite through.
More annoying was the fellow who kept swearing that the living dead did not and could not exist. He was certain that these were human beings driven insane, along the lines of those in the movies Zombieland or 28 Days Later. The man even found ways to discount the extensive evidence to the contrary, mostly by claiming the virus resulted in incredible endurance and the ability to keep moving after suffering extreme injuries. It was nonsense. Remember the zombie with the heart on the outside of its body? I don’t care how insidious a virus is. No one can survive such trauma.
A few things matched up with the bulk of available fiction however. As already stated, damage to the body would slow a zombie, knock it down, even cripple it, but would not kill one. That requires destroying the brain, either by a gunshot or through some good, old fashioned bludgeoning. It wasn’t clear how much damage was needed. I still don’t know the answer to that one, and I’ve killed hundreds of the things. Usually a good whack will do it. Other times, the skull needs to be really, really crushed. There’s probably some specific portion of the brain that needs to be targeted. I can’t say for certain, but it’s a valid assumption.
It was a bit after 7:00 AM, an hour after I woke, that the power went out. Poof, just like that it was gone, never to return. I don’t know why it went off so quickly. Maybe the people at the power station were zombies, and the machinery shut down from a lack of monitoring or maintenance. Perhaps someone crashed a car into a power line near my house. Whatever the cause, there was no more television, nothing on the desktop upstairs, and no more air conditioning. Like all others living in the southern portion of the nation, I didn’t think of that issue right away. A few hours later, as the temperature inside went into the 80’s and then 90’s, I began to grow concerned. This was Texas in the summertime.
Once everything went dark, I realized, consciously, that I had to act. First, I checked to ensure all the doors were locked. Then I closed the shutters and blinds in every room so no one, or nothing, could see inside and notice me. The faucets were still working, but I didn’t know for how long. I filled every available container with water, including both bathtubs with plastic wrap placed over the drains to ensure a good seal.
Guns! I was unarmed, not to mention still in my robe. Going back upstairs I got my .40 caliber automatic – it’s technically a semi-automatic, but I will be referring to pistols from now on as revolvers and automatics for convenience – and slid it into a pocket. Then I peeked out all the windows again. It was pretty quiet, but I lived at the edge of town. I wasn’t isolated, exactly – I had a sprawling residential neighborhood to one side and open fields on the other – but I saw little traffic. Unless you lived nearby or were visiting someone, there wasn’t much point in driving down my street.
Feeling safe, I went ahead and took a shower, using the walk in so this didn’t dirty the water I was storing in the bathtubs, and got dressed. This was followed by yet more peeking out the windows, quite a bit of it, and a great deal of pacing about as I tried to decide what to do. Then I had a revelation and grabbed my iPhone. The wondrous device still had an Internet connection, and the bigger news sites continued to be updated. I was thus able to gather some more information, the most startling of which was that nuclear warheads had been detonated in both Pakistan and India. The details were sketchy, and neither government had issued any statements, but there was no doubt that several cities had been destroyed.
I tried calling some friends, but no one answered. In most cases I couldn’t even get their phones to ring. Telephone service vanished soon after, and the Internet was gone by the time lunch rolled around. It was frustrating, but realistically it didn’t much matter. The news sites had begun to disappear, one by one. I’m guessing most went offline due to power outages. As you all know, those were almost universal.
* * *
The early afternoon was spent checking my food stores. I placed the tastier perishables in a cooler, filling it with ice. That would keep things fresh for a little while. The canned and boxed goods I left in the pantry, along with the bottled water. I didn’t have much of that, preferring to drink from the tap. Thinking on it as a survival matter, after the fact, it would’ve been better to have several cases on hand.
The gas was still on in the kitchen, so I grilled up a nice filet for my midday meal. This made the room unbearably hot and rather smoky since the exhaust fan ran on electricity, but I saw no reason to abstain. Besides, if I didn’t use the beef quickly it was going to go bad, and now was not the time to be wasteful.
Anyway, after finishing and putting the dishes in the sink, I again peeked out the windows and spotted one of my neighbors. I’m a bit ashamed to say that I have no idea what his name was. We hadn’t really talked, other than saying hello in passing, but then he’d only moved in a few months earlier. Now he was on the lawn, his front door wide open – it had been closed the last time I looked – shambling about. Like all zombies, he moved with short, awkward steps, not stumbling or falling, but certainly lacking any sort of grace.
What I found most disturbing was his general appearance. He looked like a normal human being. There were no marks on him, no injuries, nothing to indicate he was dead save his behavior and the glazed look. I noticed that right from the start. Along with the funny gait, all of them have a weird grayish film over their eyes, reminiscent of a thick layer of mucus. Less important, but still blatant, was the fact he was wearing a very tacky set of blue pajamas.
I then checked and double checked my guns – I owned quite a few – and kept a look out through the windows. More zombies appeared. A few even set foot in my driveway, but none approached the door or the windows. I had initially thought to stay in the house, but I began to think it might be best if I relocated to a less crowded region of the country. Fortunately, they didn’t know I was there, so I had time to make some plans.
* * *
It was just before sunset when I finally saw a living, breathing person, three of them in fact. A pickup came barreling down the road, bouncing off curbs and parked cars, with two men sitting in the back, both of whom were holding rifles. It ran down one zombie, a woman in a silk nightgown – most of the zombies were wearing whatever they slept in, meaning a good percentage were completely nude – which turned out to be a less than optimal strategy. The body was crushed and mangled, quite extensively, but the impact also dented the front of the truck. Something important was damaged, and the engine smoked and sputtered briefly before it died. It reminded me of the time a deer leapt in front me, resulting in the near destruction of the rental car I was driving.
The men got out and promptly began arguing. I decided then that I would stay put and offer no assistance, nor would I allow them to take shelter inside my house. They did not appear rational, and judging from the bottle the driver was holding, along with their tendency to sway back and forth, they were somewhat intoxicated. Definitely not the brightest individuals.
They did react when my neighbor, along with the
other zombies in the immediate area, started closing on them. They began blasting away, hollering, whooping, yelling, and acting like fools who were having the time of their life. And they were lousy shots. It might have been the alcohol or a lack of talent. Either way, most of the rounds they fired missed, and those that hit tended to be in the torso which did little good. This trio was the polar opposite of what zombie hunters should be.
I believe they fired off a hundred bullets within a minute or two and failed to slay a single zombie, excluding the woman they ran over. Embarrassing. Then one, the driver I think, had his rifle jam. He began cursing as he fiddled with it, and a buddy even stopped shooting to help him out. More foolishness. A zombie approached, undetected, from their rear. Its arms reached out, and, grabbing the man, it bit deep into the flesh where the neck and shoulder met. As you all know, or should know by this point, zombies generally target the nearest piece of exposed skin, meaning a lot of bites are on the arms, face, and neck.
He screamed loudly enough that I was able to hear it from where I watched. Then he collapsed. The companion who had been helping him with the rifle swung it up and slammed the weapon into the zombie’s face. This knocked the monster back a few feet. Meanwhile, the third man had turned to see what was happening. He spent too long watching his friends though, and the zombies reached him. With their little shambling steps, they moved slightly faster than a normal person walked. That seems slow, and it is, but even at such a pace it doesn’t take long to cross a few dozen yards. By the time this fellow realized his extreme danger, he was encircled. He got it in the neck as well.
The last of this less than heroic trio attempted to flee, leaving his friends to fend for themselves. He didn’t get far. Drinking and running isn’t any easier than drinking and driving. He tripped on the curb, landed in someone’s front yard, and was swarmed.
Surviving The Zombie Apocalypse (Book 1): Sanctuary Page 1
