Zombie Overload (Book 4): Determined To Live

by C. M. Wright

  What do I do now?

  Was I excited because I thought I had a way of contacting my family? Why? I don't want them to know I'm alive. I don't want them coming after me. I don't want them to die!

  So instead, I think of anything else I can do that will help the boredom, but won't harm my family. An idea hits and I search the internet for zombie apocalypse. The results are flooded with games, movies, books, tv shows, articles - but nothing about the real zombie problem. I search for more specific results and finally something relevant pops up.

  Searching For Lost Loved Ones

  The REAL Zombie Apocalypse

  This website is for people who are searching for loved ones who have gone missing, haven't been heard from, and for letting others know of a loved one who is deceased. Please make your pleas or announcements on the correct page using the links below.

  I click on the Gone Missing link, and read through the names quickly, not really paying much attention until I see the names of Kaleb and Grace Holderman and their babysitter, Lilly Dawson. My heart beats faster and I gasp, unable to believe that the parent's of those two babies are alive - or at least at the time of the posting. It has their contact information and I quickly copy and paste their email address.

  I switch over to my email provider and then stop halfway through typing my email address. When they contact my family, they're sure to mention who they had received the email from, so I can't do this! But I can make a new email account. I'll worry about the other details later.

  So I make an email account for a totally different person, then click on the New tab. I tell Grace and Kaleb's mom and dad everything; from the time we met Lilly and the kids, until I last saw them. Then I give them my mom's cell number.

  Fortunately, I read the email before I click Send, and delete all but my mom's number. Then I add; Grace and Kaleb are with the person who owns this phone number. They're safe and have been taken care of. They had no idea how to contact you.

  Then I clicked Send. Sure, it may be easy for my family to figure out, but it's not a certainty. At least, that's what I tell myself.

  A thought occurs to me that Jake may not believe I didn't try contacting someone for help, and panic builds. I delete the history, close the browser, and shut the laptop's lid. I consider hiding it, but then worry he would notice if it were gone, even if he didn't notice it before. Not knowing what else to do, I hop back to bed and lie down.

  After lying here for what seems like hours, but which was probably only just a few minutes, I get back up, needing to do something - anything. I decide to wash the dishes we've used and that takes less than five minutes. So I go and clean the bathroom. Ten minutes later, I stand in the middle of the main room and look around.

  Bed!

  I'll make the bed.

  With some difficulty, I'm able to transform the bed back into a sofa and by that time, I'm exhausted enough to collapse on it. Things are a hell of a lot harder in a cast, that's for sure. When I get some energy back and the boredom becomes unbearable again, I head into the kitchen to make something for lunch. The fridge, freezer, and pantry are stocked so we won't run out of food anytime soon. I find some marinated chicken breasts in the freezer and pop some in the microwave to thaw. Then I start peeling potatoes.

  I've got the potatoes boiling and the chicken baking when Jake steps in the doorway and scares the living hell out of me. I scream and almost fall on my ass when I lose my balance. Jake rushes over and grabs me. I recover somewhat, but the fear turns to anger and I give him a good slap on the arm without thinking.

  "You almost killed me! Don't frikken do that!" I scream at him.

  "I'm sorry. I really am. I thought you would have heard me." He does look sorry, amazingly enough. He also doesn't look so healthy either. His face is paler than normal, except for his cheeks which are bright red. He's sweating a bit, and his breathing is a little off. Maybe if he's sick, he'll leave me alone.

  "It's alright. I'm sorry for hitting you." Actually, I'm not. But I'm damn sure not going to tell him how much I wish I'd had a knife in the hand I slapped him with.

  I've made the decision that - no matter what - I've got to heal. The pain he's given me is too much and any more might just kill me. I haven't lost all my will to live just yet. Give it time, I suppose. But not just yet.

  Jake wraps his arms around my waist and pulls me to him. At first I stay stiff until I remember I that I want to heal. Whatever Jake wants, he can have if it means he won't take me to the edge of death like he did last night. Over-dramatic? Maybe. Maybe not.

  So I bring my arms up and around his neck. He leans in to kiss me and I squeeze my eyes shut tight, let him kiss me, and then step away as fast as I can without pissing him off, using needing to check on the food as my excuse. His entire body is warmer than it should be and I debate whether to say something or not. But I'm sure he knows and I'd rather not encourage him to medicate and get better.

  He follows me to the stove and when I bend over, his hand attaches to my ass. I close my eyes and tell myself to breathe and let it go. Unable to stand it anymore, I straighten and move toward the sink.

  "Why don't you go sit on the sofa and relax for a bit? The food should be done soon." Relieved when he agrees and disappears, I go back to the oven and check the food again, as I didn't actually see it before.

  When it's all ready, I take the plates into the living room and hand Jake his. I sit at the other end of the sofa and Jake tells me between bites what he had been up to.

  "I went down and got all the guns and ammo. I stored them in a room closer to the truck. Eventually, I'm going to load the truck with them, drive to the other building, and get another Hummer. This one's about shot...literally."

  I nod my head and continue eating, although the food tastes like it's been seasoned with sawdust. All I can think about is Jake with a massive amount of weapons and my family being murdered with those same weapons.

  "Jake, don't you think we should leave here? Find somewhere better?" I ask him.

  He stares at me for several moments, and I finally notice the look in his eyes. Oh, no! I've done it again.

  I rush to try to divert his anger before it has time to boil over. "I mean, I'm sure you know what you're doing. I'm―"

  His hand is lightning-fast when it slams into the side of my head. My plate flies out of my hands and crashes to the floor in a mixed mess of food and glass. I throw my hands up to cover my face and head, but nothing more happens, I slowly lower them and look over at Jake.

  He's shoveling food in his mouth as if nothing happened! Without looking at me, he says, "Better get that cleaned up."

  I stare at him for a few seconds before I remember how to function again, then struggle to stand. I get the mess cleaned up and then try to stay busy in the kitchen. But there's only so much cleaning a person can do in an already clean room. Obviously whatever is wrong with him isn't affecting his strength any.

  When I go back into the main room, Jake is at the desk, the laptop open in front of him. My eyes widen, afraid he might somehow figure out I'd been messing with it. But he ignores me and I prefer it that way. I move as quietly as I can to the sofa and sit, doing what I can to avoid looking at him.

  Several minutes pass and when he finally speaks, it startles me. I jump and jerk my eyes in his direction.

  "Wanna see our home. Come look." I hop over and stand beside his chair. When I look at the screen, I see a home high in the mountains. Which mountains, I have no idea.

  I don't want to go to any mountains. I don't want to go anywhere with this man. I don't want to be here with this man.

  I open my mouth to ask what if someone is already living there, but shut it quick. I think we all know when Jake wants something, Jake gets it. Human life means nothing to him.

  "Damn it! Are you going to tell me what you think?" he growls at me.

  "I think it's great, Jake. I trust you to know what's best for us." I tell him as meekly as I can. Apparently, I went a little
too far, if his punch to my side and his shout of, "You're a damn liar! You hate it and you don't trust me a damn bit. But you will. You will learn to trust me," is anything to go by. I back up against the wall, my hand pressed to my side, gasping for air. The pain has my eyes tearing up and my one good leg weak as hell.

  I'm never going to heal at this rate. Never.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  The rest of the day went about the same way. I would do or say something - anything, it seems - that pisses him off and I'd be punished. By the end of the evening, my body screams in pain. When he gives me permission to take a bath, I do so willingly - anything to ease the pain, even just a little. He runs the water again, helps me undress and wrap my cast, then helps me inside. Gentle and sweet as ever.

  That's the worst part. The change from the old Jake to the new Jake can happen with no warning.

  And everyone thought my mental issue was bad. Hell, bipolar is nothing compared to whatever the hell is wrong with his head.

  He leaves the room once I'm settled, so I take advantage of the time to relax and soak my damaged body. Eventually - too soon for me - he comes back in with a large towel and helps me out. Once he dries me and removes the plastic from my cast, he helps me into the other room where I again see the bed pulled out and waiting.

  Not wanting a repeat of last night, I get under the blankets and do my best to pretend I'm asleep by the time he finishes his shower and climbs in bed behind me. But what Jake wants, Jake gets. Don't forget that...because I did.

  Once he's finally done and rolls off me, I turn back on my side. I don't move and barely breathe until I hear him snore and moan a time or two in his sleep. I allow myself a few tears to fall when the pain of missing Will, my boys, and my other family overtakes me. But then I push it all away.

  I love them. I love them more than anything and if this is what I have to do - to feel - to protect them, I'll do it. I'll do this and more for my family.

  I finally fall asleep, but jerk away several times throughout the night. I never find out what wakes me. Maybe Jake moved or an undead got a little loud outside. Maybe it was the living screaming for their lives. Maybe it was the wind or even a damn mouse. Or maybe it was just me.

  Who knows? But I damn sure don't feel like I've gotten any sleep.

  I must have gotten some though, at least toward the morning, because Jake wakes me ready for sex once again. I'm so tired that I just lay there, almost asleep, and holy shit does that piss Jake off! By the time he's done with me, I'm no longer tired, but almost beaten into unconsciousness.

  Fortunately, he finally leaves me and goes into the bathroom. I can't move - can barely see. When he comes back out fully dressed and informs me he'll be back later, I close my eyes and say nothing. I feel the blanket as he covers me and then his lips when he kisses my own swollen and bleeding lips. I hear the door shut and then I allow myself to slip into the darkness.

  *****

  Sometime later, I slowly climb through the darkness and open my eyes. Or try to. I can only open them enough for tiny slivers of light to come through. I try out both arms and legs to see if they work and they do...barely. It seems like a half hour or more before I am able to just sit up, and even longer to make it out of bed and to the bathroom. I run the hottest water I can stand and get inside the tub. Not easy by myself, but I'm determined. I don't even take the time to wrap my cast, but just prop it on the side of the tub.

  I lay back and hiss when my bruised, torn and bloody back connects with the hard porcelain. Each time, I hiss in pain when the hot water soaks into an open wound or slaps against a bruise. My hair is soaked with blood and it's pure torture to get it clean. I have to drain and refill the tub several times. Thank god they have a large hot water tank here. Finally the water runs clear but I don't get out. I lay back and let my aching muscles soak.

  When I do get out, it's a pretty terrifying event. Don't get the cast wet. Don't get the cast wet. Ah, damn! I got the cast wet. Ok. Its not too bad. Now how the hell do I step out with only one foot? Well, how the hell did you get in? Oh yeah, sit on the side and spin around. Got it! Dry off the hair - Oh god! The pain! The pain! Dry off the body - holy shit! I'm gonna piss myself! Dry off the cast.

  I end my self-talk when I wrap the towel loosely around my body - loosely, because I...freakin'...hurt! I hop carefully to the sink and attempt to brush my hair. It's a mess and I'm determined to get the damn tangles out, pain, tears, and screams be damned! Once I'm done torturing myself, I hop right through the main room and kitchen to the room with all the clothes. I grab a pair of fatigue bottoms and another extra-large mens t-shirt and make my unsteady way back to the sofa. Finally, I collapse heavily on the cushioned seat and immediately scream in pain.

  Easy, bitch!

  Slow and gentle next time...damn!

  When the spots in my eyes dissipate, I remember I have to cut the pants first, but I'm too damn sore and tired to deal with it - and what the hell can I use to cut it anyway - so t-shirt only once again. I wonder if I can talk Jake into getting me some underwear, bras - and if he plans to keep on beating me - maybe some sweats? Fear makes my stomach do a few flips when I think of the pain my request will most likely bring me. I decide underwear isn't all that worth it.

  I hop back into the bathroom and use my towel to clean up the water I'd gotten all over the floor then throw it in the basket under the sink. Back in the main room, I notice the laptop is still sitting on the desk. I open it up but he's put a password on it, so I shut it back the way it was. Then I go into the kitchen and make an egg and cheese sandwich for myself and lay out a steak for Jake's lunch.

  Why do I cook for him? What if I don't? What then? It's not your ass he's beating the hell out of.

  I wash a few potatoes, then poke them with a fork and set them in the microwave to have with his steak, before I go back to the living room and ease myself onto the sofa.

  If it's crossed your mind why I don't just poison his food...hello! He's left nothing for me to use. Not even laundry detergent. I could put soap, shampoo, or conditioner in - but what's that going to do but make him burp bubbles and really piss him off?

  My eyes keep wanting to close so I lay down and let myself take a nap - and am woken with a slap to the face. A hard slap to the face.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  I gasp and throw my hands up to cover my stinging cheek. I look up and see Jake grinning down at me.

  "Get your ass up. I'm hungry." And then he walks away to the desk.

  My body is shaking from the violent way he woke me, and I'm disoriented as hell. But I make it up and to the kitchen. When I see the steak sitting on the counter, I remember what I'm supposed to do. The steak is very close to being thawed so I must have been out quite awhile. While the steak is slowly frying, I start the potatoes and dump a can of corn in a small pot. Once it's on the stove and heating up, I glance out the window and notice the sky is darkening.

  What the hell time is it anyway?

  I remember the stove has a clock and glance over at it. Two in the afternoon! Why is it so dark?

  Then a flash of light followed by a body-shaking boom of thunder answers my question. Soon after, drops of water hit against the window - increasing in speed, noise, and power over a short amount of time.

  When Jake's food is finished; I take sour cream, bacon bits, butter, salt, pepper, and shredded cheese in and set it out of his way on the desk, hoping I got everything he might want and giving him one less reason to get pissed.

  Then I carry his food, utensils, and napkin in. He gives me a short distracted, "Thanks," without taking his eyes from the laptop screen. I'm actually surprised I even got a thanks, although I could care less whether I did or didn't.

  I go back and clean the kitchen. While I'm washing the dishes, I stare out the window at the storm - foolishly spacing out - so when Jake kicks my one good leg and I crash to the floor, I had no idea it was coming. Covered in soap and water, I look up at Jake while rubbing the fire
out of my arm, which caught the edge of the counter went I went down.

  "How the hell am I supposed to eat that damn steak with no knife? Are you stupid?" Apparently I am.

  Why don't you get one of the knives you hid, you moron? Why don't you use your pocket knife? Why don't you pick the damn thing up and eat with your nasty fingers?

  But of course I don't say any of that. I just shake my head and apologize, over and over. God, I hate him. I hate being weak. But mostly, I just hate myself.

  All this happened because of me. Because of the dumb shit I've done. Like becoming involved with Jake - even if we hadn't had sex, I never should have allowed it to go as far as I did - believing Will's judgment of Jake was based on jealousy alone, and then separating myself from everyone who loved me and running off.

  I totally deserve everything I'm going through now. Totally deserve it all.

  "There are no knives in here. I'm sorry. I should have made something else," I tell him, and prepare as best I can for the pain of that too being my fault. Which I guess in a roundabout way, it is. Because if I had a knife...

  Jake waves his hand at me in disgust and stomps back to the other room. Once I'm able to get back up, I clean the water and soap suds off the floor and counter where it had splashed and been flung right along with my body, then finish the dishes. But I don't allow myself to relax; I keep my eyes and ears open this time.

  I go to the doorway and look over to see Jake eating his steak, a frikken knife in his hand. He looks up and, I'm sure, catches my look of disbelief I'm too slow to hide. He grins and pops another bite of steak in his mouth.

  I'm in disbelief not because he actually has a knife, but because my slow brain just realizes he's to the point of making shit up to beat me for. It's become a game; fun for him. Now, no matter how much I try to please him and keep my mouth shut, it's not going to matter.