by TW Brown
I stood up and wiped my mouth with the back of my hand. One step was all I managed before I felt my knees buckle. I collapsed into a heap and dry heaved.
“Do this later, Evan,” Carl’s voice cut through the fog and acted as a line to pull me back from the brink of the breakdown I could feel coming.
I climbed to my feet and took one unsteady step and then another. We reached the door and Carl turned to face me.
“You need to screw your head on, Evan. We have to get out of here, past those things out there, and then make it back home. I need you not to fall apart.”
“I’m good.” I heard the words, but I did not recognize the voice.
“I mean it.” Carl’s face was right in mine now. “You need to tighten up. There are a lot of them out there.”
I think I nodded. “I’m fine.”
I saw the look of doubt clear in his eyes as he regarded me. “If you get us killed, I am gonna be so pissed,” he mumbled as brought his pistol up and tapped his own forehead with it.
That must’ve been his signal to move out. He stepped into the hall. I was about to ask why he wasn’t going with his knife, but I realized just how stupid that question was when I stepped out into the hallway and saw that it was packed back the way we’d come. If we continued along the hall past the room we’d just killed Brandon and his friend in, it was only marginally better, but at least we could see daylight between the oncoming zombies.
Carl fired off a few shots and dropped the leading zombies. He hit the release and let his magazine clatter to the floor and swapped in the next one.
“You take the next few,” he said, stepping a little to the side. “One of us should always have a loaded weapon. And as soon as we close in, you take my gun.”
“What are you gonna do?” I asked as I raised my left hand and sighted on the closest walker, a man with blonde hair. I pretended it was Brandon as I fired.
“Use my knife as soon as we get close enough. We ain’t got nearly enough bullets for this. And no matter what, we gotta keep moving forward. If that pack behind us catches up, we are done for.”
I wasn’t sure we weren’t just delaying the inevitable. I looked back, and it was clear that we were moving much slower than they were approaching.
Carl stepped forward and shoved the closest zombie back. It toppled and knocked two down with it. He struck like a cobra, his knife rising and falling with fierce precision. I stepped over the third body that he was putting down for good and shoved my pistol into the open mouth of the nurse that had her eyes locked on the vulnerable man. A dark spray of brain and bone made an audible clatter as it hit the wall, creating a constellation of gore.
Carl was already back up and rushing past me to drive his shoulder into the next zombie—a rotund woman who had been shot up and sported at least fifty dark holes on her large torso. She toppled easily and was stilled by one thrust of steel into her left eye.
I had to move to the right and take down two more that were almost within reach of Carl. Part of me wanted to marvel at how fast the man moved while not seeming to even realize or care how close the next zombie might be. If he was putting that much faith and trust in me, we would have to talk later. He would need to reassess his mindset.
I lost track of how many he killed. Just as I could not even begin to tally my own. It was just one undead face after another, each one gnashing its teeth and reaching with cold hands for me or Carl as we carved and blasted our way down the corridor.
“Last magazine,” I warned as the empty one clattered to the floor and I slammed in the replacement.
“Just keep moving,” Carl grunted as he kicked another zombie back to give himself enough space to take down one of the trio that were all converging on him at once.
I shoved my arm past him and brought the pistol up under the chin of one zombie and squeezed the trigger. Another pair down almost simultaneously and Carl hopped over to the one he’d kicked and planted his foot in its chest before sticking it.
I brought the Glock around and was struck by the realization that the way in front of us was clear. We were almost to the end of this corridor where it emptied into what I recognized as the entrance lobby.
We jogged the rest of the way and emerged into a day that still seemed gloomy despite the sun. I fell in behind Carl as he walked over to one of the police cars. I stood a few feet away and turned in a full circle as I surveyed the parking lot. Even though a handful of the walking dead were coming our direction, it seemed like nothing after what we’d just escaped.
The sound of an engine turning over made me jump. I spun to see Carl emerge from one of the green and white county sheriff’s vehicles. He waved me over and I started across the open lot.
He was already in the driver’s seat by the time I opened the door on my side and joined him. I didn’t care to ask why he was bothering with taking the car. I had to guess that dealing with the few zombies that wandered up to our driveway would be a small price to pay.
“I thought you’d be happier,” Carl said as we exited the parking lot and started on our short trip home.
“Why is that?”
“We can do this because you proved that your noisemakers work. We park the car, hurry to the wall and climb over, then you wait for a moment or two and activate your lure. The zombies all wander away and we slip out and bring our stuff back in.”
“Sure, I guess.” I was having a tough time feeling excited about anything.
My thoughts were returning to that day of the flare. I’d been set on charging in and killing Brandon. I was ready to prove to Carl that I could do what it took to deal with the rough situations. What a bunch of crap that had been. I’d been fooling myself.
Carl was right. I was not a killer. At least, it wasn’t something that fit comfortably in my nature. I sat back and watched the empty buildings and straggling undead pass by without really seeing any of it.
We pulled in and Carl exited the vehicle. I looked up and saw him heading the rest of the way up our driveway. We reached the wall and Carl climbed over first. I followed, only slightly aware of the pain in my arm.
It was just a few minutes before I saw the first of the zombies coming up our driveway. I waited until I felt the time was right and gave my line a few tugs. I the distance, I heard the cans of gravel make their rattling sound. It took a little longer for the undead to turn around in the driveway that was already crowded with the military trucks. At last, the moans were distant enough that I risked a peek. The last of them was just vanishing around the slight bend in the drive.
I crossed the open yard and broke off from following Carl as I headed up the stairs to my room. I glanced down when I reached the top of the stairs to see Michael and Chewie in the huge circular entry hall. I considered calling my dog, but then decided against it.
I walked into my room and shut the door behind me. I have no idea how long I stood with my back against the door without moving. Eventually, I pushed off and crossed the room to the huge closet. I had blood, and bits of all sorts of things I tried not to examine that closely, splattered all over my clothing. I needed to strip down, sponge off in the basin, and then sleep for a month.
Never in all my years doing construction had I felt so exhausted as I did this minute. I ended up seated on the floor as I undressed because I kept erupting into shaking fits that prevented me from removing my clothes. By the time I’d gotten naked, I was over most of the shaking.
I grabbed a sponge and dunked it in the bin that Betty had placed in everybody’s room. I scrubbed my face first and then cleaned up the rest of my body as fast as I could. As soon as I was done, I headed into the closet, threw on a set of sweats and staggered to the bed where I collapsed facedown.
At some point, I fell asleep.
I awoke to darkness. I shifted slightly and felt Chewie’s massive body curled up next to mine. The boy must’ve brought her to my room at some time during the day and let her in.
I ruffled her fur and tried to go bac
k to sleep. Eventually I gave up on that. The growling in my belly was insistent that I eat something.
I sat up and looked outside. A bright moon shone in through the window, and for just a moment, things could be normal. I swung my legs over and tried to get up. My feet tangled and tripped over something and I hit the floor with a thud that made me cry out. I’d partially used my injured arm out of reflex to try and break my fall.
A soft cry got my attention and I made out a dark figure on the floor beside my bed. “Michael?” I whispered needlessly. Already I could hear shouts and calls from outside my room.
The door flew open and Betty rushed in with Selina. The woman hurried to the child and scooped him into her arms, her shushing noises much louder than his soft whimpers.
“What is he doing in here?” I winced as I stood up. My arm hurt, but I didn’t think I’d rebroken it.
“The dog wouldn’t stop pawing at your door and Michael won’t leave your dog’s side,” Betty said through the boy’s hair as she kissed the top of his head. She headed out my door without another word, carrying Michael in her arms. Chewie followed, glanced back once as she went through the doorway, and then was gone.
Once I was alone again, my hunger reminded me as to what I’d gotten up for in the first place. I started for the kitchen, and as I descended the stairs, felt an itch on my left arm. I scratched it and paused when I felt a sting as well as something hard and scaly.
I moved to the shaft of light coming in from a kitchen window and hiked my sleeve up past my elbow as my mouth went instantly dry. There it was, about three inches long down the inside of my forearm: a scratch.
“Damn,” I whispered.
Where do zombies come from?
When a daddy zombie and a mommy zombie love each other very much…they nibble on each other and then that makes baby zombies.
Okay, so that is not really true. At least not in my DEAD world. For the most part, I stick to the tried and true Romero style. Sure, my universe has a few of its own quirks, but I would say I am mostly traditional. Still, when the characters in my books encounter zombies, every so often, one stands out. One of the zombies in DEAD: Onset (Book 1 of the New DEAD series) actually has a story of his own. I present to you “Paul Stokes is DEAD“.
Paul Stokes is Dead
Paul Stokes pulled into the entrance of his Happy Valley community. He still marveled at what his career afforded. He’d grown up in a modest home, but just over eight years ago, his love for brewing beer changed his life. Nobody had been more surprised than Paul when a major brewery wanted to purchase majority ownership of his small microbrewery.
Overnight, he’d gone from renting a mid-level apartment to owning a home in an exclusive neighborhood on the outskirts of Portland, Oregon. He still walked around his home sometimes just touching things and soaking in the wonder.
This must be how it feels to win the lottery, he’d thought on more than one occasion.
He’d also told himself more than once that it was too good to be true. All good things come to an end. Today felt like just that sort of day. As his luxury SUV rolled onto Southeast Scott Park Circle, the changes were immediately apparent.
“Not even the Bradford or Coatney kids are outside,” he mused as he aimed the nose of his vehicle for his driveway.
The first thing he noticed was that his front door was open. Marjorie never left the door open. During the summer, her reason was that it let the air conditioning out as well as allowed flies to migrate inside. During the winter, it let all the warm air outside. Period.
He turned the key and sighed as the vehicle shut off. An eerie silence fell now that not even the gentle purr of a motor gave him a soundtrack for distraction. He’d shut off the radio just a few minutes into his drive home. What he was hearing just did not seem possible.
Unable to delay it any more, Paul opened the door and climbed out. A strange noise drifted on the air to his ears. He looked around. Was somebody hurt? Even worse…was it Marjorie? The sound had come from the direction of the side of his house. He started that way just as another of those peculiar moans came from inside his house.
“Marjorie?” he called, a tingle of fear shooting pulses of uncertain energy up and down his spine.
I am going to wake up and this will all just be a bad dream, he thought as he hurried up the walkway to his front door.
Maybe it was time to take those warnings seriously and head to one of those FEMA shelters that everybody was being directed to. When only two of his thirty-seven employees showed up to work this morning, he’d made the call to send everybody home to “ride this out” until things returned to normal. And they would, of that Paul had no doubt.
“Are you headed to one of the shelters?” his shipping foreman had asked.
“And leave my house?” Paul had scoffed. “I think I can ride it out better there than in some high school gymnasium or sports arena. This isn’t Hurricane Katrina. It’s just some sort of peculiar illness.”
When the report that Japan and most of Asia had gone silent…he’d reconsidered his options. The military was supposedly securing the perimeter around these locations as rumors of groups of these infected or sick individuals were being reported all over the city. For the first time since purchasing this home, he envied the community on the other side of Johnson Creek Boulevard. Their community had a brick wall all the way around it as well as steel gates at the entrances.
Paul had liked the idea of living in a luxurious community with well-to-do neighbors, but a fence and a wall had just seemed too uppity and snobbish for his comfort level. Right now, a gated community sounded like just the thing.
Reaching the door, a smell wafted out of the house that made Paul pause. It was unlike anything he’d ever experienced. That was saying a lot considering some of his early attempts at brewing beer.
“Margie?” Paul called.
Pushing the door open, the smell almost caused him to stagger. Throwing his arm over his mouth and nose, Paul stepped into the entry hall and gave his eyes a moment to readjust to the change in light. Already he knew there was something terribly wrong. The wall of his entry hall had a nasty smear along it that ended just before the stairs going up to the bedrooms. Looking up those stairs, he saw that there were bloody handprints as well as dark stains on the carpet.
A sound made him jump, and it took him a moment to realize that the sound had been a moan that escaped his own lips. In a rush, he bounded up the stairs calling his wife’s name again. He just crested that point where his eyes could see the open bathroom door at the top. That was another indication that something was wrong with his Marjorie. She had a very strict rule about bathroom doors remaining shut.
All of this was just adding to the apprehension and fear that rooted itself in Paul’s mind. He’d insisted that all this nonsense on the television was just a bunch of overblown media madness. Surely it could not be as bad as the reports were saying. It just wasn’t possible.
Paul froze.
The boy stood in the doorway to the nursery that the baby would occupy in just five months. It had been decorated the day after the sex of the baby was revealed by the doctor. Paul had wanted to go with yellows, saying that pink was the old-fashioned color given to girls. And just maybe his little girl would be a bit of a tomboy. Marjorie had won that argument just as she had most others.
It was that background of soft pinks and hints of purple pastels that framed Toby Bradford. Only…it just barely resembled Toby. No child could look the way Toby looked at this moment. The blood…so much blood.
The nine-year-old boy was a caricature of Dennis the Menace. His blonde hair and sparkling blue eyes were enhanced by his gap-toothed smile that never seemed to fade. Dennis the Menace was his well-known neighborhood nickname. He wasn’t a bad kid. Just a bit rambunctious.
“Toby?” Paul managed around a mouth that had suddenly gone dry.
As his eyes took in more of the picture, he felt his gorge rise. There was a dark stain just
outside the bedroom where Toby now stood staring at him. His head cocked first one way, then the other. The figure on the floor behind Toby was sitting up. That caused something else in the room to move and the sound of something crashing to the floor made Paul jump.
First one, then a second face emerged from the unlit gloom of the pink bedroom. Two of the three Coatney children emerged and stood behind Toby, one at either side. Skye Coatney was the youngest child in the neighborhood and had just started kindergarten this year. Her hair was still in braided ponytails that stuck out from each side of her head like a pair of antennae.
Jenna Coatney’s appearance was what shattered everything for Paul. At nine years old, she was the middle Coatney child. She was also the one who could outshine Toby Bradford in the mischief department. Her Minnie Mouse sweatshirt was in tatters. The once white shirt was now an ugly dark reddish-brown. Her belly was exposed and had been torn open. A ragged strand of intestine dangled from that rip—dark, viscous fluid dripping from it.
The eyes. That is what finally pulled Paul’s focus from assorted injuries suffered by the three children who stood across the room from him. They were coated with a film that was shot full of dark tracers. When the next figure emerged, Paul thought it would be the teenage Coatney boy, Joshua. It wasn’t.
“Margie?” Paul took the last few steps to reach the second floor of his home.
Marjorie Stokes was the stuff of nightmares. Her lower lip had been ripped away, leaving an ugly raw flap of meat dangling from her chin. Her nose was also gone. The right arm looked like it had been dunked in a piranha tank. One section of the forearm was almost stripped clean to the bone. Her throat was an ugly, gaping hole. A little blood trickled from the wound when her head twitched and jerked as she appeared to search and then focus on Paul. Her belly was a mess. It had been ripped open and a dark sac dangled from it, suspended by a fleshy cord that was almost black. Before he could look away, he was certain he saw something move inside that semi-opaque bulb.
