“Geez,” Paul breathed out, wiping sweat from his forehead with the back of his hand. “After everything we’ve been through over the last six years, you’re going to kill yourself in a car accident.”
“Hey man, don’t even joke around about something like that. That’s bad mojo.” He looked up and down the quiet street, eyebrows drawing together and waves crashing in the background. “Have you seen Curtis around lately?”
Paul shook his head, ignoring the way the dead man outside the gate was now just standing there staring at him. “Not since yesterday morning.”
“Dude was supposed to stop by and help me with the NOS.”
“NOS?”
“Yeah, you know, nitrous oxide.”
Arching an eyebrow at Billy, a dog started barking at something off in the distance. “Nitrous oxide? Really?”
Billy shrugged. “Him and T-Bone found some tanks in this low-rider shop in Tijuana yesterday. Cleaned the place out.”
“Tijuana?”
“Yeah, and now that we’ve got Interstate 5 pretty much cleared out to L.A., Curtis thought we could make the trip even faster with NOS.” Billy blinked blankly at Paul. “Plus it’s fun as hell.”
Paul slapped him on the shoulder, noticing the straggler had disappeared somewhere. “See you at the barbeque tonight.”
“Can’t wait, man. I’ve been dreaming about ribs all day. Bob’s got that smoker smelling up the entire neighborhood.”
“Slow and low, Billy-boy. Slow and low.” Paul turned for the four bed/three bath house that warmed his heart and scared him to death at the same time. Turning his head, he yelled over his shoulder. “Don’t forget the blue widow brownies.”
Billy laughed, backing toward his home. “Like that would ever happen. You know I’ve got a sweet tooth!”
“Which is why I haven’t had a single cookie in the past two years!” a woman’s voice sang out.
Paul waved at Annaliese who stepped out onto the front porch with a glass of white wine and her red hair sailing on the salty breeze. “Get a safe,” he yelled back.
“Jolly Ranchers, that’s all he leaves me!” She smiled, giving Billy a kiss on the lips when he stepped up onto the porch.
Grinning, Paul continued across the street, thin eyes scanning the neighborhood as he went, watching a spattering of people come and go from their new homes. Performing his job. His duty. It was quiet. The kind of quiet that comes from years of trying not to draw the dead’s unwanted attention. His team, over a thousand strong now, were beaten dogs, trained into a subdued nature that weighed on their shoulders after hiding in a hallway closet for three and a half hours while four dozen stiffs stumbled through on their way to God knows where. For the most part, the dead traveled in larger packs now, gathering and moving like swarms of angry locusts, devouring anything in their path. That’s what Brian called them.
Swarms.
It made them easier to spot from afar but left zero room for error. One twist of the ankle and they’d be on you like a decomposing tornado. Outside of a few exceptions, only the smart ones were left, skin and bones, hungry and methodic. They set invisible traps like patient spiders. The last person to trip one of those silk threads was Louis Rodriguez – a forty-two-year-old Los Angeles cop who thought he’d seen it all until he stepped on a bamboo rug with the floor dug out beneath it. The fall shattered his ankle. The things ate his flesh. That fatality was four months ago and there was no doubt that statistic would, one day, begin to rise again. Sometimes Paul wondered if those things out there were breeding.
Dumping a bucket of dirty water into the freshly cut grass, he pushed everything from his mind. It was good to take a break from the war. They had to stop…for just a minute. After putting a sizeable dent in the undead population over the years, it didn’t take long to realize how many more it would take for total eradication. This group would never see that, even the children. Not in this lifetime. In reality, they were always punched in. Always on guard. Always ready to run. Brian was right about the sarin gas. It worked for a while, but the undead’s respiratory system was changing with time. Decomposing. Yet, somehow, even without breath to fill their lungs, they still walked. Still craved. Still kept coming.
Setting the bucket by the hose, Paul filled his own lungs with a sweet smelling breath. Flowers bloomed in their beds and the smell of barbeque mixed with the ocean protecting their backs. This was his first summer in San Diego and from here, you would hardly know anything had happened. Hardly know the world had turned upside-down. They spent over five years doing the best they could and, despite the cast-iron fence surrounding the massive gated community, he was still on edge. Still saw things that weren’t really there. Still just as broken as everyone else. The Trans Am’s left headlight winked at him as he passed by and grabbed a shammy hanging from the handlebars of a matte black Harley that was brand new and six and a half years old at the same time. Since planting roots here six months ago, Paul had put three thousand miles on it and they didn’t make em like that anymore.
And they never would.
Inside the house, the smell of a cinnamon candle waited to greet him. The air-conditioner licked at his wet skin. He tossed the rag on the kitchen island and strolled down the long hallway leading to the bedrooms in back, eyes caressing the framed photographs adorning the light gray-painted walls. Leaning in the doorway of the last room on the right, he smiled at Stephanie, a fond look softening his eyes. She smiled back, rocking in the chair and returning her attention to the baby cradled in her arms.
“God, she’s getting so big.”
“I know and she’s not even six months old yet. She’s going to be tall like you,” she said, helping the little one hold a bottle to her mouth. “I wish she would stop growing. She’s just too cute.”
“Have you tried putting a brick on her head. I heard that works.”
“I think that’s an urban legend.”
“Google it.”
Her subsequent laughter tapered off into a long sigh that drifted into one of those nostalgic moments of silence that everyone got these days. The ones where you knew some forlorn memory of the past was about to rear its ugly head and remind you just how far backwards you’d gone. “I would so give your Trans Am for just one more Jennifer Aniston movie.”
“Wait, my Trans Am?”
“We got so cheated! Now I have to watch The Break-Up over and over again.”
Paul laughed and crossed the room, kissing her on the lips. “Don’t forget about Leprechaun.”
She batted her mischievous eyes at him, slowly rocking back and forth. “That too.”
His eyes drifted to the baby, her sucking sounds melting the hardness that had once threatened to overtake his heart. Kissing her on the forehead, he inhaled the scent of lotion and formula floating from her soft skin. “I’m going to hop in the shower before we head out to Bob’s.”
“Why’s he grilling for everyone on his birthday anyway?”
Paul shrugged. “That’s his thing,” he said, heading for the master bath.
“Hey.”
He stopped and turned, her thin eyes pulling him back into the room. “Why don’t you kiss me like you mean it this time.”
The ghost of a grin lifted one corner of his lips. Bending over her, a sudden noise in the living room made him spin around so fast his sidearm knocked a small lamp from a table. It hit the floor and shattered into pieces. Footsteps thundered down the hallway as Paul peeled the Beretta from its skin before the baby could even begin to cry. He took aim, pointing at whatever was about to burst into view because this neighborhood has a very strict rule about knocking. Spreading his legs, he readied his body to absorb the kick like it had come to know and expect.
Stephanie stopped rocking and the baby started crying. “Paul!”
The footsteps came harder.
Louder.
Closer.
Setting his jaw, he controlled his breathing, which had become second nature to him after all these years.
When Jack burst into the room and shook water from his oily coat, Paul blew out a calming breath and slowly lowered the weapon. Turning to his wife, he spread a sheepish smile as the lab sat down and panted on the oval-shaped rug in front of the crib. “Sorry,” he said, holstering his trusty sidekick.
She could only shake her head and bite back a smile before trying to get Shelly to stop crying. Stephanie wasn’t mad. No, she knew this was the world they lived in now and they could get a new lamp anywhere. They were all haunted by the past and this was as good as it gets. On a nice night, with the upstairs windows open to let in a cool breeze, he could sometimes hear the neighbors screaming themselves awake in the middle of the night. Could easily imagine them finding their sheets soaked in a cold sweat because he’d been there too. He watched Shelly calm to a murmur of soft cooing noises that threatened to burst his heart. He loved the two of them more than anything and sometimes he felt guilty for bringing a baby into this world. It was selfish and terrified the shit out of him but if they didn’t, one day the lights would go out and, this time, never come back on. He hadn’t seen Sophia or Dan for over three years now and it was clear they were on their own. His dead friends had done all they could to help them win the war before moving on to their next life. He still thought about them a lot, especially Sophia and her green eyes that sparkled like emeralds in the sun when she laughed. One day, they would meet again. Of that he was certain.
Stephanie flashed him a warm smile that brightened her eyes and tickled his insides. Paul smiled back, his heart warming as she snuggled Shelly in her loving arms. The smell of cinnamon inflated his chest and seeing the two of them together like this made it all worth it.
Made him feel almost whole again.
Part of something else.
A little more alive.
The End
Thank you for reading A Little More Alive!
Before you go, please leave a quick review so others can experience, what I consider to be, one of the darkest and most realistic zombie series ever written. My creative integrity won’t allow me to buy or trade reviews with other authors and I appreciate all the honest feedback I can get. Thank you in advance.
For fans of Salem and The Conjuring, look for my modern-day supernatural thriller, The Hunting of Malin, coming very soon. Be sure to like my Facebook page to find out what happens in my next horribly-ever-after.
Also now available by Sean Thomas Fisher:
Floodwater – A zombie novel unlike any before it.
For fans of The Walking Dead and Jaws, I hope you’ll check out the extended sample of Floodwater on the following pages!
Thank you again…and stay out of the rain.
Floodwater
A Zombie Novel
Chapter One
Connor
The flash lit up Reed’s dead body, making his skin look even paler than it already was. Connor brought the phone to his face and studied the shot with an eerie glow washing over his crooked grin. Even though Reed Walters had lost everything, the man looked at peace, satisfied with the short life he lived in Minot. Clipping the phone back onto his belt, Connor straightened his burgundy necktie and took one last look around the darkened lake. Other than the distant call of a loon and the water lapping at the pontoon, it was quiet at this time of night and that was a good thing. A sudden burst of lightning fractured the sky behind him, reflecting off Reed’s wide-awake eyes.
“The fuck!” Heart jumping, Connor stumbled back into a railing, nearly falling overboard. When the darkness returned, the corpse’s eyes were just as closed as they were in the picture on the cellphone. Exhaling a calming breath, Connor laughed a little and swept a lock of oily hair over a festering bald spot getting worse with each winter that passed. Steadying his lanky frame against the railing, he raised a black wingtip into the air. “Nice knowin ya, Reed,” he whispered, giving the body a gentle nudge. Rolling listlessly over the side, Reed hit the black water below with a gentle splash.
Through vacant eyes, Connor watched the lake unhurriedly claim the young dentist who slipped into cardiac arrest last weekend after feeding his secret cocaine habit a little too much for dinner. The rumor spreading around town like a bad cold was that Reed died right in the middle of fucking Vicky Miller’s brains out in the backseat of his Audi S5. Connor didn’t know if that was true or not but Reed’s wife, Amy, certainly didn’t seem too broken up at the funeral.
Thunder rumbled off in the distance, bringing Connor’s eyes back into focus. He watched the ripples disrupt the glassy surface as Reed quietly sank to the bottom. The old-timers claimed Lake Darling reached depths of up to seventy-five feet and had catfish the size of bull sharks lurking along the muddy floor. Connor didn’t believe a word of it, but the embalming fluid coursing through Reed’s veins would ensure the young dentist soon found out. Wiping sweat from his upper lip, Connor considered stopping off at Doc’s Bar & Grill on the way home. A cold one and a bag of beer nuts sounded good right about now. Real good.
He pulled a silver Rolex from his black slacks, the blue moonlight jumping off the timepiece as his hand rose up and down, inspecting its impressive weight. Another cold grin slithered across his face. It might even be worth more than Mrs. Johansen’s diamond ring. He’d have to make another trip to the pawn shop in Bismarck and soon.
The cellphone vibrated on his hip, stirring him from his thoughts. Slipping the watch back into his pocket, he unclipped the cell from his belt, sallow cheeks sinking in like an under baked cake in the screen’s gray glow. Hesitating for a moment, he swiped at the screen. “Hey, Frank,” he said, watching bubbles rise where Reed went to sleep with the fishes.
An irritable sigh hissed from the line and snaked down Connor’s ear canal, piercing the drum at its end. “Care to talk about the dent I just found in Mr. Walters’ coffin?”
Connor tipped his head back and cringed, catching a shooting star scratch the night. He made a quick wish before replying. “Dent?”
“Don’t play dumb with me, Connor,” Frank shouted, crushing the wish. “Ricardo already informed me it was YOU who knocked it against a tombstone after removing it with the crane.”
“Sonofabitch.” Connor pinched the bridge of his long-hooked nose, silently cursing Ricardo under a canopy of stars. “I had no idea.”
“And it will be YOU who will have it shiny as new in time for Ms. Dixon’s funeral tomorrow afternoon. Do we understand one another?”
Connor’s gaze fell to his glistening shoes and a fish jumped off in the distance. Wiping sweat from his brow, he refused to clear his throat. Frank would like that too much. He liked it when Connor showed vulnerability. “I understand.” His skin crawled in the lengthy pause that followed. He shifted in his stance, careful not to fall overboard.
Frank exhaled a tired breath and papers started ruffling in the background. “Is everything all set with Mr. Walters?”
Connor glanced at the bubbles breaking the water’s surface. “Yes, sir, he’s fish food now.” Another bloated pause made his heartbeat quicken.
“Connor, I realize the gravity of what we’re doing here, but that doesn’t mean you can’t display a certain degree of…decorum.”
Hand slipping into his pocket, it wrapped around the thick Rolex inside. “Everything went just fine, Mr. Allan.”
“Ahhh, excellent! And when might we expect your most eagerly awaited return, Mr. Faherty?”
Nestled between the lake and a lonely stretch of US Highway Ten, Doc’s flashed through Connor’s mind. “Bout an hour or so.”
“Marvelous! I look forward to seeing Ms. Dixon - and her new coffin – looking right as rain in the morning then.”
“Gotcha, boss.”
“Oh, and Connor?”
Connor pulled a pack of cigarettes from his dress shirt pocket and cleared his throat, hating himself for doing it. “Yeah, boss?”
“Don’t fuck it up.”
He lit up, bathing his face in an orange glow and accentuating his hollow cheeks. “Don
’t worry, I’ve fixed bigger dents than that on my car. It’ll look brand new when I’m done with it.” He exhaled a tumbling stream of smoke. “In fact… Hello?” Checking the screen, his shoulders slumped. “Asshole,” he grumbled, shoving the phone back into its holster and firing up the engine. “Keep talkin to me like that and see what happens, Frank. I’ll blow the lid off this whole damn thing.”
Flipping on the boat lights, he throttled up Frank’s weekend getaway as lightning spider-webbed across the dark backdrop swallowing the stars behind him. The boat sliced through the calm water and thunder clapped, making him flinch. Looking over his shoulder, he gave it more gas and the engine whined. “People find out what he’s up to and they’ll string his cheap ass up,” he murmured, taking another deep drag off the long Marlboro clutched between two bony fingers.
“Bust my balls when I’m doing all the heavy lifting? I don’t think so.” Angrily, he flicked the smoke into the lake and stared out over the placid waters ahead. It would be a few more minutes before the marina’s sparse lighting appeared around the bend, giving his mind too much rope to run. “I don’t need your shit, Frank!” His echo bounced off the rolling hillsides and a crack of thunder punctuated the statement.
But deep down, no matter how frustrated he became, Connor knew he’d never leave Allan’s Funeral Home and that’s what pissed him off the most. Frank had him by the balls. That place was more than just a job, it was his life and his boss knew it. But what Franklin Allan didn’t know was that the people lying on those cold basement slabs weren’t just clients; they were Connor’s family. And just like a real family, he had pictures of every single one of them. Of course, none in a lavish gold frame like the one of his late mother hanging above the fireplace in his living room. Even so, he couldn’t wait to add Reed’s picture to the box hiding beneath his king-sized bed. His family was growing bigger with each and every addition. Stronger. His subsequent smile glowed in the dashboard lights.
Dead Series (Book 3): A Little More Alive Page 16
