This is a work of fiction. The events and characters described herein are imaginary and are not intended to refer to specific places or living persons. The opinions expressed in this manuscript are solely the opinions of the author and do not represent the opinions or thoughts of the publisher. The author has represented and warranted full ownership and/or legal right to publish all the materials in this book.
Z1N1: The Zombie Pandemic
2012 Was Just the Beginning
All Rights Reserved.
Copyright © 2010 Mitchell Layne Cook
v2.0
Cover Photo © 2010 JupiterImages Corporation. All rights reserved - used with permission.
This book may not be reproduced, transmitted, or stored in whole or in part by any means, including graphic, electronic, or mechanical without the express written consent of the publisher except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.
Outskirts Press, Inc.
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ISBN: 978-1-4327-5923-0
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PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA
For my Dad, the Chief – your boys miss you so very much…
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Interlude
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Epilogue
Chapter 1
November 28, 2013: Thursday, 1:30 AM - an old barn five miles south of Hot Springs, Arkansas…
Earlier in the evening, Kara Mayer had positioned herself in the hayloft on the second floor of the cranky old barn. She hid just out of sight from any unwanted onlookers; however, she had a clear view of the entire field below her. For more than an hour, she had sat in the same uncomfortable position watching for trouble. As she stood up to stretch her complaining legs, she saw the first sign of movement on the edges of the old man’s property. What she saw wasn’t new to her; she quickly knelt down behind the bales of hay for cover as she steadied her weapon.
“We’ve got incoming!” Kara yelled as the sound of her high-caliber rifle fire fractured the nighttime silence.
An obese, lustrous moon hovered silently in the starless sky. With its theater-like spotlight, the celestial body illuminated the somber world below. The frigid November night reluctantly shared its morbid secret; ten shambling horrors marched erratically towards the barn. Their moans and scraping feet in the leaves sent a chill down Kara’s spine. The creatures moved in awkward unison and soon clawed their way through the old wooden fence on the very edges of the farm. She knew it was only a matter of moments before the undead reached her position.
Kara’s battle cry from the loft above was all Nikki’s subconscious mind needed to rouse her from her restless slumber and set her into motion. She was accustomed to limited and sporadic sleep cycles with her fourteen-month old baby. Eyes wide open and adrenaline pumping, she knew this situation would play itself out like it had done many times before during the past few months. Soon their hiding spot would be infested with zombies.
Had anyone told her at the beginning of the year that she would be trapped in some violent, bloody video game or that she would be fighting against the undead in some tacky, B-movie horror show - she would have laughed at the mere ludicrous suggestion. Now, the thought wasn’t so funny. Not only was she surviving the worst human disaster since biblical times, she was also trying to raise a baby! Nikki prayed silently for the strength and wisdom to make it safely through another night.
“James, grab what you can!” Corbin yelled. “We’ve got to get out of here!”
Megan began crying, startled by Corbin’s gruff voice. Nikki tightly wrapped the frightened baby in her favorite pink blanket as she comforted the child; the thundering gunfire from above only exacerbated the situation. The small, rag-tag group of survivors had been found by a ravenous mob of the living dead and time was quickly running out.
“Nikki, will you please shut that damn kid up?!” James snarled menacingly.
Nikki ignored the old war vet’s callousness; she had to focus on preparing for the escape. She securely fastened Megan into the baby carrier ensuring the warm, pink blanket completely covered her child. After the baby was situated, Nikki focused on her gear. The young mother struggled momentarily, but eventually coerced the zipper of her leather jacket to its midway point. She slung her cumbersome backpack over her shoulders fastening the clasps for additional support. She dragged the ill-fitting cap down over her ears; the dark blue hat was as ugly as sin, but it kept her head quite warm.
She double-checked that her 9mm pistol was tucked into the back of her waistband. The cold steel pressed into the small of her back felt “normal”, whatever that word meant these days. Most of her life she had shied away from guns of any sort, even more so recently since her mom’s suicide at the onset of the zombie infestation. Now it seemed that the firearm was almost as necessary to her survival as food and oxygen. She had quickly overcome her lifelong disdain for weapons, doing whatever was necessary to keep her and her family safe.
The not-so-agile interlopers persistently closed the distance between the felled fence behind them and the old barn in front of them. The creatures wobbled from side-to-side in their now familiar jerky fashion. The parcel of land between the living dead and the barn was short and flat; an almost empty canvass. In one Picasso-esque brushstroke, the moon once again lit the murky landscape, strange and grotesque shadows danced ominously about the farmland. With the use of her rifle’s scope, Kara could easily make out the tattered clothes and warped expressions on the creature’s faces.
The sniper fired three more times; most of her initial barrage did only minor damage to the wave of oncoming creatures steadily approaching the barn. Her aim was a bit off due to the fact that the cold night air had numbed her fingers. She lay the rifle down momentarily on top of a bale of hay next to her as she briskly rubbed her hands together. Once feeling returned to her hands, she raised the rifle again to her shoulder. The undead were now within two hundred feet of the barn.
Kara adjusted her scope for closer range shooting. The first and nearest zombie she targeted, Kara imagined that when the creature was human, it must have been a doctor or maybe a scientist based on the dingy, blood-stained white coat it was wearing. While she could not make out the first name, she could easily read the white stenciled letters of the last name on the dark blue nametag: “Clark”.
She fired her rifle again.
The creature’s head exploded violently spraying gory bits of flesh and bone in every conceivable direction. The malignant monster’s nametag simultaneously somersaulted off of its chest high into the air. In slow motion, the zombie’s body collapsed to the ground almost at the exact moment that the nametag made its perfect-ten landing. Th
e oblivious monsters lumbered ever forward towards the barn unaware or uncaring that one of theirs was now truly dead.
Another shot from the high-powered rifle violently kneecapped a second creature. It fell on its stomach and Kara could see that this zombie was wearing a dark blue biker’s jacket and a red, glossy helmet. She watched momentarily as the one-legged zombie biker began pulling itself towards the barn in hopes of its next meal. The irony was not lost on her.
“Stupid ass zombie,” she muttered under her breath as she aimed her rifle. “You can’t eat us with that helmet on.” She steadied the rifle taking her final shot. She watched as a kaleidoscopic explosion of safety plastic and rotten face erupted into the early winter sky - the high-velocity round had entered the visor and exited out a softball-sized hole in the back of the creature’s skull.
The sniper stood up from her concealed, crouched position behind the bales of hay; she slung the rifle strap over her shoulder and headed towards the small opening at the center of the floor. Kara began climbing down the rope leading to the lower level where the rest of the group waited. As she neared the ground, the moldy rope snapped giving way under her weight. She landed awkwardly on the side of her left foot, cursing and letting out a loud scream, but managed to maintain her upright position. “I’m OK,” she yelled regaining her balance, “but I think my ankle is sprained. We have to get out of here. There are too many of them!”
James’ past military training and experience in the US Marine Corp made all of his movements fluid and exact. He was a highly decorated war hero from two tours of duty in both Iraq and Afghanistan. More importantly, at least recently, he had killed more than two hundred zombies over the past six months – at least by his “unofficial” count. He was ready for this. He was always prepared. James slung the bandolier of shotgun shells over his shoulder and across his chest. Not even his sister’s scream broke his routine. Some killing needed to be done – he was just the man for the job.
James finished making final adjustments to his recently acquired 12-gauge shotgun; the powerful weapon had served him well since liberating it from the dead hands of a half-eaten county sheriff a few weeks ago. “Where the hell is Kevin?” James asked in a disgusted tone, barely taking his eyes off his gun.
The old farmer had left the barn over twenty minutes ago to check his house for additional supplies. James had argued with Corbin that no one should be allowed to leave the barn; the old man should stay put with everyone else. However, Corbin did not feel comfortable restricting the old man’s movements – they were, after all, in his barn on his family property.
As the group prepared for battle, Nikki thought back to the day’s earlier events when they had first met Kevin Greenwood.
Kevin was on his way back home from the city, driving his seasoned muscle car down the dirt road to his house as Nikki and her friends were walking up the same unpaved road. The group was bound for Maine where rumors had it that a safe haven existed, free of zombies. They were on foot since their vehicle had broken down a few miles back. The elderly farmer offered them a ride and invited them to his home. They accepted his generous offer - a place to rest and possibly food to eat was something they could not pass up. The group climbed into the cantankerous gas-guzzler and rode silently the rest of the way to the man’s home.
The Greenwood’s small farm, located approximately five miles from the city limits, came into view as the car neared the end of the dirt road. The farm consisted of a one story white traditional house probably built in the 1930s, a large two-story rust colored barn, a few small stables and two plots of land that appeared to have once yielded corn as the main staple crop. A large wooden fence separated the farm from the nearby woods.
Modest at best in its heyday, this farm might have boasted a few livestock and some hearty crops that the farmer would have sold at market to make a living and to provide for his daily needs. The farm had recently fell into disrepair since the “end of days” – an overused phrase uttered by modern day evangelists to describe the last eight months as the men of God preached the gospel from their pulpits on local radio broadcasts.
Kevin pulled the old green car into the tiny carport, shut off the ignition and exited the vehicle. The group followed his lead. Mr. Greenwood appeared to be in his mid-to-late sixties, long gray hair hanging out from under his faded blue Mets baseball cap and outfitted in tattered gray overalls. He walked with a minor limp, but the group could see that he was still quite strong from years of working on the farm. He reached back into the vehicle and grabbed a few items that he had gathered from town. He clutched closely to his side what appeared to be an old, leather bound journal with an illegible, worn-off inscription on the front cover.
For most of the morning, Kevin milled around the house doing busy work - dusting lamp shades, tidying couch cushions and washing dishes. While performing those tasks, the old man rarely put down the old journal. He invited his guests to make themselves at home and to dig around in the cabinets for food. During lunchtime the group moved outside to the porch. After formal introductions, Kevin told them his story of how his wife was killed a few months ago during a small zombie attack in the city.
“I still haven’t come to terms with it yet,” he painfully reminisced as his calloused fingers gently caressed his wife’s old journal. “It’s been almost three months since her passing. We had heard all of the warnings from the government on the local news when this mess first started. We took all of the precautions. Did what all the experts told us we should do. Mabel and I thought we could wait this mess out and live off our land. Folks were calling them ‘zombies’ and ‘undead’ and ‘living this or that’…but we didn’t believe that hogwash. I thought that maybe these people were sick or something but my old lady…she thought they were escaped government test subjects – Mabel liked to read all of them sci-fi works, you know the ones? She loved to tell me stories. She wrote down tons of ideas and thoughts in this here journal of hers. She had all of these conspiracy theories about JFK and Area-51…”
Kevin rambled on about some of Mabel’s ideas as he flipped through her journal pointing out conspiracy theories. Nikki delicately nudged the old farmer back to the present for him to finish his tale. “What happened? If you don’t mind me asking...you two seemed to have all you needed right here on the farm.”
The old man refocused as he wiped a few tears from his cheek, pushing through the painful memory. “I’m sorry for the tears…we were married for forty plus years.” He cleared his throat and continued. “Well, yeah, our farm did have plenty of stuff – don’t let how she looks now fool you. We had food and water and a generator to keep all of the electrics running.” He glanced around as they sat on his front porch seemingly surveying how terribly rundown the place was now. “Sure, it looks like shit now but I’ve not had the energy to maintain the place…plus everything reminds me of Mabel…” overcome with emotions - the old farmer buried his face in his palms, sobbing violently for a few moments.
Corbin Sinclair ate his lunch of canned beets and ham while he waited for Kevin to recover and continue with his story. While not a five star meal by any means, the food was a welcome relief to his complaining stomach - plus that’s all Kevin seemed to have on hand at the time. He ate in silence lost in thought of years past…
How devastated would he be if he lost Nikki? Corbin had met Nikki Clarkson a little over two years ago in a bar in downtown Dallas and had worked up enough courage to ask her out. By their third date, Corbin knew he was madly in love. They were sitting outside a small restaurant basking in the warm May sun; Corbin watched as Nikki ran her slender fingers through her short red hair. The gentle breeze wafted her light scent in his direction. Was that her perfume? Maybe it was her shampoo? He gazed into her light green eyes and studied the small patches of freckles on her pale skin. The couple dated many times over the following year and the romance blossomed. Nikki had gotten pregnant and they had decided to have a summer wedding this year, but those plans were cut s
hort when the “living dead” began to canvass the earth.
“I’m sorry,” the old farmer sobbed, bringing Corbin back from his thoughts to the conversation at hand. The old farmer seemed to regain his strength and he continued with his story.
“It’s OK,” Kara said as she placed a caring hand on the old man’s knee. “We understand. Take your time.”
Perturbed by the crying farmer, the old marine ate quickly; when finished he pulled out the creased atlas from his rucksack. He focused on highlighting different routes to Maine using an orange highlighter and multi-colored pen. He had been the group’s navigator the entire time. His field training with the military honed his sense of direction. While they were unsure of the exact location of Mount Hope in Maine, he knew it was in the city of Bangor. He had traced at least four viable routes to the eastern city.
“Mabel and I went into town after our generator broke down. The local news had reported only ‘minor activity’ within city limits, nothing to worry about they said. We were assured by the authorities that the city was safe and that we should continue with our daily routines. We made a shopping list for some minor odds and ends and then she and I headed into town in the old Impala.” A fleeting look of past good times fluttered across his face; apparently, many fond memories were tied to the old ’71 Impala.
Wild dogs howled in the distance startling the group and a cold northerly breeze whispered of a miserable winter to come. Megan stirred but quickly succumbed to sleep’s warm embrace. Everyone refocused on Kevin as he finished up his sorrowful tale.
“It was a short trip to town. We went to the hardware store and got the pieces we needed for the generator and then stopped by the local country store to buy a few items. I waited in the car because Mabel said she could do it quicker without me. She went in the store and never came back out...” Tears rolling down his face, unable to finish the story, the old farmer sobbed uncontrollably, clutching the journal tightly to his chest. The group sat mostly in silence, drawing the same conclusion as to her final fate. They too had lost love ones during this dire time in history.
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