by Lori Whitwam
The Dead Survive
By Lori Whitwam
The Dead Survive
Copyright © 2014 by Lori Whitwam. All rights reserved.
First Print Edition: December 2014
Limitless Publishing, LLC
Kailua, HI 96734
www.limitlesspublishing.com
Formatting: Limitless Publishing
Quote: Joshua Guess
ISBN-13: 978-1-68058-019-8
ISBN-10: 1-68058-019-1
No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to locales, events, business establishments, or actual persons—living or dead—is entirely coincidental.
Dedication
To the Eaglets of the Indianapolis-Marion County Public Library circa 1989-1996
Sharon Bernhardt, Debbie Overshiner, Mary Hylton, Angie Lewis, Cornelia Bryson, Mark Kincaid, Melinda Merrifield, Kaye Smith, Dianne Burke, Doreen Hantzis, Jennifer Botkin, Pat Heilman, Suzy Heilman, Jennifer Hutson, Willie Hohn and Rex the Dinosaur
You're all very special to me, and being an Eaglet was the best day job in the world, surrounded by book-lovers. I'll always treasure the memory of the time we had together.
Table of Contents
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
“If what you are is what you do when crisis comes, then they were monsters, worse than the shambling dead that surround us at all times.”
–Joshua Guess, Living With the Dead
CHAPTER ONE
It should have been easy to tell who the monsters were in the middle of a global zombie pandemic. The blank-eyed swarms of animated corpses who wanted to gnaw on your flesh were the obvious choice. The reality, though, wasn’t so simple.
I learned that particular lesson less than a week after the outbreak started, and it was like getting hit in the head. In this case, literally.
I was a graduate student at Kentucky State University, studying for my degree in Library Science. I wasn’t a tough girl. In fact, I was a real Susie Sunshine. Life was wonderful, the future was bright, and there was never anything with fangs under the bed.
I lived in a small, wood-frame house off campus with my older brother, Matt, who managed a wholesale buying club off I-64. At first, he didn’t like having his little sister underfoot, but I was quiet by nature, and between classes and working part-time in the University library, he barely knew I was there.
Shortly after the “riots” were reported in Cincinnati, we knew something terrible was happening. Like everyone else, we were glued to the news broadcasts, struggling to find some logical, manageable explanation for what we saw. I don’t remember which of us said the z-word first. It felt ridiculous, and I almost laughed, but the reality soon became undeniable.
Our parents lived in Cheviot, on the west side of downtown Cincinnati. We heard from them once, the day it started, and they were planning to wait it out.
I sat at the living room window, staring out at our street as the sky brightened with the coming day. The zombies started turning up around Frankfort late the night before, and panic was taking over. The first day or two after the initial chaos, people functioned more or less normally, their minds unable to accept their lives were about to become a Saturday night movie straight from SyFy. Still, like the herd mentality before a predicted ice storm, people had flooded the stores, buying things like bread, bottled water, and toilet paper—as if that would help.
Matt had all his staff working extra shifts. He’d also brought in additional security, and so far things hadn’t gotten out of control. Judging by the sight of neighbors throwing suitcases and bags in their vehicles and peeling off down the street, presumably in search of somewhere safe—or at least safer—things were about to turn very bad very quickly. The increasing number of undead lurching about the neighborhood was also a clue.
I turned from my vantage point in the front window when I heard my brother stomp into the room. He was clutching his cell phone, white showing at his knuckles, and staring at the screen.
I sighed. “Still nothing?”
He threw the phone on the end table, glaring at it as if it had intentionally defied him. “No. It either keeps ringing, no voice mail, or I get a dropped call message on the screen.”
It had been five days since our single successful attempt to contact our parents, and worry settled in my stomach like molten lead. “As bad as it was there, the cell towers are probably out, or the electricity. Their phone could be dead. They might be okay.” Yeah, there was my inner Susie Sunshine again.
Matt dragged his fingers through his dark blond hair. I had to smile. It was so much like me, both the hair color and the frustrated gesture. “I hope so. They have good neighbors. They’d all help each other out if they could.” He sat on the couch and gestured for me to join him. “I need to talk to you about something, Ellen.”
I sat beside him, and my beagle, Skip, hopped up and settled his head in my lap. “Um, okay.”
Matt turned to face me, his expression grim. “I need to go open the store.”
It was early, barely seven-thirty, and the store didn’t normally open until nine. Honestly, I’d assumed we wouldn’t be going anywhere—staying in and waiting out the nightmare—hoping there would be some end in sight. “Why would you do that? I think that ship’s kind of sailed. It can’t be safe anymore.”
He reached over and gave Skip’s ear a rub. “I’m sure it’s not, but I have to, and I have to do it now. People are going to come, whether we’re open or not. If I open, regular people can get things they need, rather than leaving the place an easy target for looters.”
I hated knowing he was right. “It’s going to be chaos. What’s your plan?”
“Guess I’ll figure it out when I get there.” He started to reach for the phone, but then drew back his hand. Trying to call Mom and Dad again in less than two minutes wouldn’t do any good. “Probably start out trying to operate as usual, but if it gets as bad as I think it will, I might just let everybody fill one cart and take it. I don’t think the money is going to be an issue, considering.”
“I’m not staying here by myself.” No way in hell.
Matt shook his head. “I wouldn’t leave you here alone, El. You’re coming with me. If things get too bad, we’ll load up the truck and come back here, or go somewhere else if we can figure out where might be safe.”
Skip rolled over and wagged his tail, begging for a tummy rub. “I’m not going without Skip.”
“I never thought you would,” Matt said with a wry chuckle.
Ten minutes later, Matt lifted Skip into the back seat of his extended cab pickup truck, and I climbed into the passenger seat. We drove slowly, alert for recklessly fleeing motorists and dodging clusters of zombies.
I was horrified at my first up-close view of these creatures. I’d seen them on TV, before the larger cities were overrun and the broadcasts stopped. I didn’t want to look too closely, afraid I’d see a friend or neighbor among them, but curiosity demanded I learn at least a little about them.
Their complexions were pallid, waxy. Some shuffled on clearly broken limbs, and their clothes were torn and stained with blood from ghastly wounds. I tried not to think
about the blood around their mouths. Their eyes were cloudy and didn’t seem to move well, as they turned their heads constantly to direct their gazes. I closed my eyes…I’d seen enough.
We slowed at an intersection to let a stream of cars pass; nobody was paying attention to traffic signals. I peered off to the left, searching for a break in the flow, and when I turned back to my window, I let out a shriek as a zombie slapped a hand on the glass inches from my face. The fingertips were shredded, and the dead woman clawed at the window, leaving behind gory trails and bits of flesh.
Matt looked past me, eyes wide with shock and revulsion, then turned back to the street. “We’re getting out of here. Now.” He gauged the passing traffic, then shot the truck through an impossibly small gap and across the intersection. Skip had stood up on the seat when I screamed, and barked furiously at the zombie as it disappeared behind us.
We arrived at the store a few harrowing minutes later, and Matt let out a relieved sigh when he saw at least a dozen employees in the parking lot. He was a good boss, and I wasn’t surprised his staff had anticipated what he’d want them to do. I pulled out the handful of treats I’d stuck in my pocket and tossed them on the back seat, telling Skip to be good and I’d be back soon. I’d scope out the situation inside, then find a safe place to put him out of the way.
We went into the store, and Matt had a quick meeting with his team, outlining how he planned to approach the expected insanity, while a crowd of increasingly panicked shoppers gathered outside the doors.
At first, people still went through the motions of trying to do business, but things quickly spiraled out of control. Fights broke out all over the store, and some people began wheeling their top-heavy shopping carts right past the checkout counters. Nobody tried to stop them. Most of them were openly carrying guns. Matt had planned to allow such justified shoplifting, but I knew it irritated him to see people making the decision on their own.
Matt’s office was just a desk behind a partition in the communal administration area, but I thought the break room would be a good place for Skip. I found a bowl for some water, and I thought I’d grab a chewy bone from the shelves to keep him occupied.
I started toward the truck, but as I turned the corner of an aisle, I ran into the broad back of a guy in a gray hoodie. He was in the process of wrenching a case of canned stew from the hands of a thin woman, a small child clinging to her leg.
The man turned and glared at me, relinquishing his hold on the stew. “Damn, girl! Get outta my way,” he snarled as he pushed past me to grab a three-pound can of beans.
“Cool your jets, jerk. There’s more in the warehouse. I’ll bring it out myself in a few minutes.” I turned sharply and stomped out to the truck, after a quick visual sweep revealed no zombies in the immediate vicinity.
I got Skip out, put on his leash, and rushed back inside to find Matt. He wasn’t in the aisles or in his office, so I moved on to the warehouse, where I saw a huge truck backed up to the loading bay. Any other time this wouldn’t have seemed unusual, but this was not a normal day. We certainly didn’t expect any deliveries.
Matt was backed against a pallet of canned vegetables, his hands in the air, facing five men with shotguns.
I froze as Skip began to growl. I recognized the man in front. I’d seen him many times when I stopped by the store to shop, or talk to Matt about borrowing his truck. His name was Mason. He was taller than Matt, but thinner, though working in a warehouse had given him tight, ropy muscles. His sandy hair was always in his eyes, and he seemed shy, occasionally nodding at me but never speaking.
He didn’t look shy now.
Matt, foolish, responsible Matt, attempted to reason with them. “You can’t just drive off with all this stuff, Mason. People need it! The things you’re trying to take might keep some of them alive.”
A dry, emotionless laugh was Mason’s reply. “Hey, dumb-shit, don’t you get it? It’s every man for himself now.” Gunshots sounded through the loading bay door. “See? They’re here already. Me and the boys are gonna set us up a supply depot. This will make a real good start.” Skip’s growl intensified, and Mason’s attention shifted to me. “Maybe your sister’d like to join us. I bet she’d be real popular.”
“Don’t even look at my sister,” Matt gritted, narrowing his eyes and lowering his hands. He paused and shook his head, making a clear effort to get his emotions under control. “Just wait, Mason. Wait till tonight. I figure this is the last day for the store, anyway. Let people take what they need right now, and you can clean out everything that’s left.” By the end of his offer, he sounded downright optimistic, certain the guy in front of him would accept his reasonable compromise.
Mason stared at him a moment, then snorted. “Are you out of your fuckin’ mind?” He glanced back over his shoulder at his cohorts, who obediently echoed his snort and nudged each other in amusement. Seeing his opinion validated, he turned back to Matt. “What do you figure will be left tonight? A can of Chunky soup and some toilet cleaner?”
“There’ll be plenty,” Matt said. “There aren’t enough people in this part of town to clean out the whole place in one day.”
“Bullshit,” Mason growled. “Somebody’s gonna pull a truck in here and clean you out soon enough, so it might as well be me.” He stroked his gun in a disturbing way and gave me a calculating look. “And I think Miss Ellen here is gonna join us.”
I felt the atmosphere change. Mason had pushed Matt to his civility limit. He’d spent his life watching out for me, and no apocalypse was going to change that now.
I opened my mouth to tell Matt to calm down, but I was too late. He took a step toward Mason, who in that one instant brought up his gun and fired. Matt flew backward, the pallet behind him rocking with the impact. Matt slid down and dropped to his knees, then fell forward on the concrete floor.
That hadn’t been a warning shot. It hadn’t been to wound or incapacitate. Mason had shot Matt in the face, and I was sure he was dead before the first drops of his blood hit the floor.
I screamed, and Skip barked and lunged at the end of his leash. I started to go to Matt, but Mason swung the gun toward us, then dipped it down, pointed directly at Skip. “We don’t need this noisy little fucker.”
His finger tightened on the trigger, and I let go of Skip’s leash. “Go, Skip! Run!” He leaped forward just as the gun went off. He yelped, but kept going, right out the back door.
I sank to the floor. I looked at my dead brother and the blood pooling around him beneath his pulverized face, and hoped Skip would keep running and hole up somewhere safe until I could find him. I couldn’t wrap my head around what was happening. There were monsters outside, roaming our streets. This guy, who was barely older than I was, had a gun pointed at me. I began scooting backward, getting my hands under me so I could get up and run.
“Oh, no you don’t, sweet cheeks,” Mason said, smirking. “Miss Ellen Hale, always so cool and prop-ah,” he mocked in a poor attempt at a British accent, eliciting a grunt of amusement from one of his lackeys. “Well, them days are over, princess.” He moved toward me, swung his fist, and that was all I knew for a while.
CHAPTER TWO
I couldn’t feel my arms. The only light came from a narrow crack between two broad metal doors. I made out the shapes of crates and boxes stacked around me, and concluded I was in the back of the truck Mason and his goons had loaded with stolen merchandise. The engine rumbled, but we weren’t moving. The lack of motion might have been what jolted me back to consciousness.
A quick inventory told me my hands were bound behind my back, and my head throbbed. In the dim light, I discovered the chill I felt was due to my shirt being pushed up under my arms, exposing my bra, and my jeans were unbuttoned and unzipped. They remained in place, though, and I hoped that was a good sign.
The doors banged open, and I squinted, ducking my head away from the light. “Well, the princess is awake.” I recognized Mason’s condescending, contemptuous drawl. I di
dn’t say anything. “Ignore me if you want, baby-cakes. Won’t do any good.”
As my eyes adjusted to the brightness, I saw pallets of food, bottled water, and other items stolen from the wholesale club, and many, many cases of bourbon. I surmised they’d made another stop, looting the distillery on the north side of town while I was unconscious. Fabulous. I read enough novels to know liquor was a high-value commodity in any survival situation. I also knew enough about mean drunks to feel sick with dread.
Mason climbed into the truck and reached behind me, grabbing my bound wrists and jerking me to my feet. I winced and failed to hold back a gasp at the pain in my shoulders, and Mason flashed a cruel half-smile at my discomfort. He dragged me out into the early March sun, and I saw we were behind a shabby two-story hotel off the highway. The windows were boarded up, and signs of a recent fire scorched the cinder block walls beside the back door. A power pole canted precariously against the building.
He pushed me ahead of him, and I was ridiculously grateful when my shirt slipped down to cover me, though I had to shuffle, thighs together, to keep my jeans from falling down. We went up the stairs to the second floor. I heard other women calling from behind doors fastened with latches and padlocks. Some were shouting for help, but mostly I heard sobbing. I wondered if my fate was destined to match theirs, and how I would bear it.
Near the end of the hall, Mason unlocked a door and pushed me inside. A stocky, greasy looking man stood near the bathroom, which was lacking a door. The Welcome Wagon, I supposed.
“Got a fresh one,” Mason said to Greasy, a note of sly satisfaction in his voice.
The guy gave me a head-to-toe appraisal, before settling on my breasts, mentally releasing them from my blue print t-shirt. “She’ll do.”
