His approach and angle were almost perfect, but he didn't account for the smoothness of the shell of the bucket. He smacked against the outside, then bounced off with a deathly holler. Too late, James reached for him.
He looked down, but the guy was already gone.
“Oh man, I'm so sorry. I didn't know you were there.”
Bella had made it half way up the first arm as the man's impact jostled the whole assembly. She now clung to it like she didn't want to be shaken off. James was content for the moment, but a couple of zombies had taken notice of the little girl as they lurked around the far side of the truck. He could see what was going to happen if she didn't climb faster.
From the depths again, his brain inquired: “what if a dozen zombies climb to the bucket, and we all go tipping over?”
“Bella and I would be zombies ever after...”
The dead continued to tumble.
“You have to keep coming to my rescue, Bella. Please climb.”
He doubted he sounded anywhere near calm, but his words got her moving. She'd begun to climb the last few feet to the top. She hung right at the joint between the two arms.
“Hold on sweetie. I'm going to lift the arm a few feet so you can climb.”
If he didn't, she'd be climbing down an incline, which didn't seem safe. Not over a bottomless pit, anyway.
The movement of the bucket seemed to surprise her, as she was once again holding on tightly. But a zombie was now at the bottom of the first arm. James watched as it struggled up the first little bit of the arm. It put its hands and feet on the rigid metal near the bottom, but once it got a few feet up, it got hung up in the cabling and soon fell over the side.
The zombies continued to come into the light.
“You're almost here. Come on. You've almost saved me.”
Bella moved up the final arm. It was narrower than the first, but she moved slower and with more caution.
A second zombie started up the bottom leg. It made it further than its predecessor.
“You're almost here, Bella.”
The little girl made steady time on the last leg, though she slipped once and teared up. By the time she reached James, she was crying openly.
“I'm so scared,” she blurted out as she fell to the floor of the bucket.
“It's OK. I'm saved now. Thank you so much.”
The second flare began to peter out.
His third and final one was already in his hand.
He moved the bucket back down to fighting position.
I'm cleaning the world
With the third flare burning hot, he held it high as he looked down at Bella. “You're an angel, young Miss Bella. You've freed me from my prison.” He lifted his feet to show her he could move.
With sad eyes, Bella asked, “Does that mean we can go home?”
He had no idea how to respond. He couldn't do much more than let her ride his life's big flame out. Changing the subject, he asked, “You wanna watch what I'm doing over here?”
She seemed to perk up. He reached down to help her up, turned to get oriented on the side of the bucket facing the zombies, and saw the white teeth of one of them almost in his face. It had slithered across the last arm behind Bella. He'd assumed it had fallen off like the one before.
He swatted the zombie with the flare. An act which seemed to catch it off guard. It made a clumsy reach for it, and James capitalized by pulling it the other direction—he peeled it off the arm. He turned back to Bella with a smile as the zombie fell below, thanking his piece of luck that zombies couldn't climb for shit.
She looked up. “I'm so scared. Don't let me fall.”
He didn't know how to convince her he wouldn't so he changed topics again.
“I'm cleaning house, Bella. Do you and your mommy ever clean house?”
“Mommy keeps a messy house. I have to tell her to clean her room.” She sounded proud of herself.
“Well, I think your mommy would like what I'm doing. I'm cleaning the world of these bad things.”
In a hushed tone, she replied, “You mean the demons? Momma calls them demons.”
“Possessed demons.” She was the second person today to call them that.
For his part, he'd seen “possessed” zombies his whole life. Drug abusers. Dealers. Pimps. Crack whores. They were the living version of the undead. They fed on each other, and the healthy, and made everything they touched sick. These new monsters were scary, but not something new in the pantheon of human monsters.
He didn't feel the need to correct her. For all he knew, she was right. Maybe they were demons. Which, if true, he was doing them a favor by sending them down into the hole. Did it go all the way to Hell as Kevin suggested?
The flare was half-spent.
The number of zombies was constant. Two or three here. Four or five there. They saw the beacon, walked toward it, and tumbled over the side. It was neat and efficient. He'd probably win an award for least dollars spent per kill. If there was anyone left alive to give him the award.
Bella stood at his side, tip-toeing so she could see over the edge, cheering as more and more “demons” plunged over the side. He put his hand on her shoulder, comforting as well as being comforted at the human contact. He thought about everything that had happened to get him to this point and couldn't come up with any way that he could have changed the outcome that didn't involve giving up on someone.
Maybe if he'd ignored that phone call begging him to come in and work an off-shift.
Perhaps if he'd refused to help the citizens downtown as everything fell apart.
Or, if he'd run with the Army and left his cohorts to their own fates.
So many paths could have led to any number of alternative outcomes. How many of those wouldn't have ended in a horrible, lonely, death?
Having Bella with him was bittersweet. He'd give anything to get her out of this place, but there were too many zombies. The second he moved the bucket back to the truck, they'd be overrun. He even considered tossing Bella over the last few feet so she could make a run for it, but she'd never land in a clear spot to make good on that effort. He didn't think her mom would approve of his last act to be tossing her daughter to her death.
He was out of time. The flare only had moments to go.
“Hey, I have an idea, my little princess. Do you want to see how far down the hole goes?”
She was enthusiastic.
“Then look down.”
She tipped her head over the edge of the bucket so she could watch.
He looked down, too.
More zombies tumbled.
James let the flare drop.
In that second a flash of fur dove after the stick.
There wasn't time to call Jeep's name.
He wanted to close his eyes to avoid watching the flailing dog, but he had to see what was down the pit.
Something told him he had to see.
The flare burned longer than he thought.
The pit was much deeper than he imagined. What he saw in that final instant made him rethink taking his chances with all the zombies in the nearby darkness. Rethink his whole life. He wanted to go back to that pink frilly bedroom in his photograph. He snapped his sleeping daughter in the soft glow of a Missouri sunrise all those years ago. Suddenly it hit him he would never see that picture again. Preservation of that memory was paramount, even above his own life. It was totally irrational, yet absolutely necessary.
“What's down there, mister?”
He didn't know how to describe it. Did it even matter?
“Mister?”
He stepped back. Bella disappeared as the light fizzled out far below.
She hugged him.
“I'm scared...Daddy.”
He knelt down to her.
The soft sobs broke his heart.
Were they the last people alive in the mine? In St. Louis? In the world?
Bella wouldn't care about the world spiraling above.
“I'll be here f
or you, sweet pea. All the way to the end.”
###
EE Isherwood's Author Notes
Thank you for reading Officer Down
Welcome to the world of Sirens of the Zombie Apocalypse. This novella introduces one of the many locations visited by the heroes in the books. The pit mine presents many challenges and mysteries as the series progresses. This first look is just one wedge of a complex pizza filled with conspiracy, intrigue, and zombie blood.
The answer to what James and Bella see below will be revealed in an undisclosed point in the series…
Prior to that revelation you'll learn:
How one city tries to save its citizens
The role of a military ill-equipped for a worldwide disaster
The special skills exhibited by some of the zombies
Where to go in a Zombie Apocalypse if you are in the Midwest
What's so special about the pit mine
Who is ultimately responsible for the safety of citizens
The identity of the worst killer in human history
But first, before we can get to all that, you'll ride along in Book 1 as an elderly woman and her young grandson tumble into the Zombie Apocalypse on day 0. Tornado sirens roar for an hour in all the cities, signaling the end of civilization. But it also signals the rise of everyday people who may one day become heroes. For mankind, yes, but also for each other.
These books document what happened since the sirens.
The series (so far)
Book 1: Since the Sirens (found exclusively in DARK HUMANITY)
Book 2: Siren Songs
Book 3: Stop the Sirens
Book 4: Last Fight of the Valkyries
Book 5: Zombies vs Polar Bears
Book 6: Zombies Ever After
Thank you for reading.
EE Isherwood (December, 2016)
Since the Sirens:
Sirens of the Zombie Apocalypse, Book 1
A ONE CHAPTER SAMPLE
© 2015 E.E. Isherwood. All rights reserved.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales, is entirely coincidental.
This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the author except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
When the end came, those left alive found their own religion.
The dead, however, became militant atheists.
Since the Sirens Table of Contents
Chapter 1: CIV (included in this sample)
Chapter 2: The Library (part is included in this sample)
Chapter 3: The Long Way (Chapters 3-18 not included in this sample)
Chapter 4: Quantum Decisions
Chapter 5: Angie
Chapter 6: Coagulation
Chapter 7: Maple Syrup
Chapter 8: Victoria
Chapter 9: Last Rites
Chapter 10: Touristy Stuff
Chapter 11: Antibodies
Chapter 12: Heroes
Chapter 13: The Hole Nightmares Fall Out Of
Chapter 14: Intermodal
Chapter 15: Slow Grind
Chapter 16: The Tenth Circle
Chapter 17: Valkyrie
Chapter 18: Shadow Government
Chapter 1: CIV
Martinette Peters leaned against her oven and thought about hunger. She guessed she'd cooked tens of thousands of meals during more than a century of living, but this morning was different. She was off the script.
These days her breakfast was prepared by Angie, the nurse who lived in the upstairs flat of Marty’s two-family red brick home. Bacon. Eggs. Toast. The same things she'd made for her the past two years. Every day. Without fail. But today Angie hadn't come down at her regular time and hadn't answered the intercom or her telephone. Marty waited as long as possible for her chef but soon thought about how to cook those things for herself. What was once second nature now required proper planning.
She studied the cabinets, the pantry, and her cooking dishes. Everything she needed was far above. Either she was getting shorter, or Angie had intentionally placed everything on shelves out of reach.
She walked from the kitchen, leaning on her cane. A bag of bread hung from her free hand. That, mercifully, had been within her grasp on the counter. The phone rang as she guided herself into her comfy chair. Her cane remained nearby.
“This is the Metropolitan Police Department, City of St. Louis, with an emergency alert. Violent disturbances have been reported in multiple locations within St. Louis city limits. There is a risk of injury or death to any participants or bystanders. If you hear this message, we urge immediate evacuation to safer areas. Follow instructions from city or police officials in your neighborhood. Be alert for additional emergency messages. (Pause) This is the Metropolitan … ”
Shifting in her seat, she listened as the robocall repeated through the answering machine. She screened everything these days, responding at her leisure, if at all. Despite having many friends and relatives, she seldom had energy for chit-chatting. At 104 years of age, she assured herself it was okay to be picky.
The announcement finally ended with a beep, leaving her to her thoughts.
Well, I'm not going to run for the hills!
She glanced at the two-wheeled walker in the corner, tennis ball-swathed feet fresh and yellow—she hated using that big device. If she were going to chance an escape, which she certainly was not, she'd use the smaller, quad-footed cane sitting by her side. She despised that thing too, but grudgingly admitted it helped her get around more effectively than grasping at walls and furniture while patrolling the cozy single-level flat.
Ignoring the robocall’s instructions, she resumed cross-stitching under the timeless rhythm of the wall clock. Angie would call sooner or later, and then the day would start properly.
It wasn't long after the phone alert when she heard a great banging sound from the front of the apartment. To her hearing-amplified ears, it sounded like someone had fallen down the stairs leading to the upstairs flat. Over the years, she'd heard many things dropped down those stairs, including many by her grandchildren who just loved playing on them despite her stern warnings. She had also come to know the sound of someone tripping up the stairs, or falling down the steep flight. This was a case of the latter.
“Angie, is that you?” she asked, though she knew her raised voice was still too weak to be heard in the front of the house, through a wooden door.
Getting up, she patiently grasped her cane, pushing up on the armchair with her free hand. Normally it was Angie who would come down to help her when she had trouble getting out of her chair after being comfortable for too long. A quick buzz on the intercom was all it took. This time, she was able to make the transition from sit to stand unaided.
She lamented that if someone up front was counting on her to help them quickly, they were in trouble. With her hunched back and sub-five-foot stature her gait was a slow shuffle at best—foot, foot, cane. It was, however, very steady most of the time. That, at least, would give the desperately injured some modicum of hope of eventual rescue.
She hurried—in her own way—to the potential fall victim. At a snail's pace, she passed her curio cabinet and shelves of fine china in her dining room and emerged in her front living room. She steadied herself on a big armchair, then pushed off to the last stop, the interior door in the front foyer of her home.
Lord help me move.
Soft moans and scratching indicated this was indeed an emergency. She steeled herself to see the fallen victim as she opened the door inward.
“Oh my, Angie. Are you all right?”
Angie had bounced down the stairs sure enough, but a mere fall was the least of her problems. Her skin was ashen, and her eyes were bloodshot—or bloody, it was hard to tell
—and her usual perfectly manicured hair was sitting in greasy knots. Her light-colored nightgown was soaked with sweat and stained with many red streaks and blotches from top to bottom. The fifty-something nurse looked almost skeletal, and her emotional state wasn't the expected embarrassment or agony from the fall, but instead...anger? Her right foot was unquestionably broken from the fall—it was pointing in the wrong direction.
Why isn't she screaming?
While Marty had scoffed at the warning on the phone, she was aware of the panic sweeping the nation and was certainly aware of the mystery Ebola-like sickness which so troubled many of her family members. They were at her flat just last night urging her to stay with them until it all blew over. She demurred, declaring she felt perfectly safe for the time being. She assured them if things got really bad she'd oblige them on their offer. Secretly she felt it couldn't possibly get rotten enough for her to leave. For someone who had lived through the Great Depression, World War II, Vietnam, and the War on Terror, she did not panic or scare easily.
She wasn't panicking now, but she was hasty about shutting the door.
“I'm sorry, Angie. You aren't looking right. I'll call 911 and get you some help.”
Before she could get the door fully closed, Angie stuck her arm and shoulder into the void to reach for her, preventing a good seal.
“My lands!” It was as close as she came to cussing.
2
A woman of 104 wasn’t going to kick or shove a person lying on the floor hard enough to get them back through an open door. It would be difficult for someone half her age, so she released the door and did the only sensible thing she could at that moment—she walked away.
Perhaps it was habit, or maybe just a little bit of panic creeping in, but she went back into her flat rather than step out the front door to the relative safety of her front porch. After several seconds, she realized her mistake and partially turned around to see if she could still slip out—and saw Angie slithering into her flat, blocking escape in that direction. Angie had an evil look she had never seen on her friend's face before, and she was struggling to get off the floor.
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