Tales of Terror from Survivors (Zombie Apocalypse #3.5)

by Hoffman, Samantha

  Tales of Terror from Survivors

  By Samantha Hoffman

  Zombie Apocalypse #3.5

  Published by Samantha Hoffman at Smashwords

  © 2015 by Samantha Hoffman.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form, or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without prior permissions of the author.

  Smashwords Edition, License Notes

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  Author’s Note: This collection of short stories will consist of events that took place before the cure, or after the cure. Each short story will be clearly marked at the beginning to let the reader know not only when the story takes place, but who the story focuses on. The stories are in no particular order and may jump around in the timeline.

  After: Anders

  Anders leaned against the fence, feeling the rough wood beneath his hands. As he watched, figures began to move quickly through the fields, picking as they went. Seeing all these people working so well together brought a smile to his face and he was eager to go through the daily haul later. Under Evan’s experienced and patient guidance, the crops had flourished, and he had no doubts there would be enough food to go around for at least a little while.

  He hoped there wouldn’t be any problems with the rations given to each person. Most understood the need to cut back, but there were a few people he was worried about. That was to be expected though. Just like Sam’s group had told him before they left, there had been a lot of people to take in, and not all of them were okay. A few had anger issues, while others were severely depressed. Some were just plain assholes. But Anders had kept up with his studies so that he could help everyone he could. However, he could only do so much.

  Every couple of weeks, it seemed like there was another suicide that shook the remaining survivors to their very core. It was very unsettling, listening to someone’s problems day after day, trying to help them as best as he could with his limited training, only to wake up one morning and find out it hadn’t been good enough. He could remember every word said during their visits, and he couldn’t help but wonder if he had missed some subtle sign that they were planning to take their own lives.

  If he had caught it, would he have been able to prevent it? Would they still be here if only he was better at what he was doing? He’d spent so much time studying from his books. He never went anywhere without at least one of them tucked under his arm or in a gym bag on his back. The people living on the farm would tease him good naturedly if they ever saw him without one, and he never took offense to it because he knew they appreciated what he was trying to do for them.

  Still, he thought. I wish I could do more to help these people. They understand I’m trying my hardest, but for some people it’s just not enough. And it’ll never be enough. They’re too far gone for me to help, no matter how badly I want to. I hate to admit it, even to myself, but it’d be impossible to ignore the mental shape some of these people are in.

  In the several months since things changed for the better, he had come to mostly accept the fact he would never save everyone. He tried not to let the suicides weigh too heavily on him in general, but there was one death he absolutely blamed on himself. Nothing anyone said would ever change that, either. Evan and Mary had both tried to dissuade any guilt he was feeling about Daisy’s death, but he still thought about her frequently. Even more frequently, he thought about Trey and the double life he had lived. It still bothered Anders that he had completely missed the psychotic nature lurking beneath the surface, no matter how well hidden it had been.

  If I couldn’t tell that Trey was a fucking psycho, what makes me think I’d ever be qualified to treat people of this caliber?

  Anders turned away from the fence, putting the hard workers behind him. Part of him missed doing more of the hard labor he’d grown accustomed to doing, but Evan and Mary insisted he devote his free time to studying and not harvesting or maintenance. Even though he agreed his time was better spent with his books, he still felt like he should have been doing more around the farm. It didn’t seem fair to ask others to do the heavy lifting while he sat in his nice apartment office and poured over every book Evan could find for him on the subject of psychiatry.

  Aside from Mary and Evan, he was the only one on the farm to have his own room. The others were sleeping four or five to a room while more and more buildings were being built, and at times it felt like he could sense some jealousy and resentment from his patients when they entered his office—the second of his rooms. Not that he blamed them. If he was sleeping on a mat on the floor of a crowded room with several other people, he’d be upset as well. But Evan and others had argued that Anders needed the space to work and help people from.

  It was simple, Evan had said. These people were never going to get better unless Anders had the proper tools to treat them. And apparently a decent night of sleep was one of those tools. He probably should have objected a little bit more than he had, but deep down, even if he wouldn’t admit it to himself, there was a tiny part of him that felt like he deserved a nice room and a nice bed. And after converting Trey’s old room into his work space, things had actually started to feel homey and normal. At least as normal as things could be when there were people still walking around who wanted to eat human flesh.

  Soon Anders had left the farmyards well behind him. As he made his way to the main house, he stopped short, his eyes searching the area around him. He could have sworn he heard something. Listening closely, he heard it again. Pssst! Anders turned, finally spotting the young boy hiding behind the edge of the main house, out back near the newly expanded chicken coop that now housed an entire horde of the birds.

  The boy was young, probably not much older than ten. His hair was a dirty dishwater blond and his eyes were the color of mud. He was painfully thin and his eyes had a haunted look to them, a testament to the fact that he had survived only God knew how long as a zombie. Some people bore more obvious signs of their trauma, like missing limbs and a vacant stare that never really healed. But this boy, aside from his thinness, could have passed as “normal”.

  “Do you need something?” Anders asked, his feet carrying him towards the back of the house.

  The boy shrank back, hiding himself in the shadows cast off the building. Anders paused; close enough to get a better look at the boy but far enough back to give him some space. He examined the boy for a second, and as he chewed his thumbnail, Anders got the distinct impression the boy was trying to fight off his nerves long enough to ask Anders for something. He waited patiently for the boy to open up about what ever was troubling him, thankful that he didn’t have anyone waiting to see him for the next couple of hours. He would have hated to be late for an appointment. Perhaps that was what this boy wanted?

  “Did you wanna talk to me?” Anders guessed.

  The boy nodded meekly, his eyes darting down to stare at the dirt beneath his bare feet. They shuffled uncomfortably, and Anders waited for the boy to say something, anything. Finally, he mumbled, “Can I talk to you? In private? It’s important.”

  Anders nodded. “Of course. We can head over to my rooms right now, and you can
tell me all about whatever is troubling you.” He held out his arm to the boy, motioning to the direction of his rooms. “You can follow me and we’ll get started right away.”

  After what looked like much deliberation, the boy let go of the side of the house, marching sullenly in the direction Anders’ pointed. He followed along behind the young boy, watching his every movement with eyes that had gotten much practice in the last few months. He could already tell that something was weighing very heavily on the boy, and he doubted this conversation would be the slightest bit pleasant. He just hoped the boy didn’t show any signs of aggression, or he would have to be watched like a hawk and just made even more uncomfortable.

  When they reached his quarters, Anders took his keys out of the pocket of his jeans and unlocked the door. He hated having to lock it and making people feel like he didn’t trust them, but his rooms had been broken into twice before, probably by someone who thought he was a real psychiatrist of some kind that kept drugs on hand. After he made it well known he had no such thing, just good old fashioned knowledge, the would-be burglar gave up their search and left Anders’ things alone. But he didn’t want to take any chances with more and more strangers arriving at the farm every day.

  He led the boy through the open doorway and into his work room. It was pretty simple, nothing more than an old couch he and Evan had brought back for patients to get comfortable, as well as a worn chair for Anders, and three small bookcases overflowing with all kinds of psychiatry books filled to the brim with sticky notes. He could only imagine how far Evan must have traveled to find him some of these books, and he was forever thankful that the old man believed in him enough to provide for him.

  He motioned to the couch, and the boy sat down, his eyes nervously flitting over everything in the room. When they finally found Anders’ eyes, he flinched and looked away, hanging his head again. His thumbs twiddled around each other nervously, so quickly Anders had trouble following their movements. But from what he could see, most of his nails had been bitten down to the flesh and then some, and were nothing more than bloody strips at the tips. He wondered silently how long that had been going on and quickly jotted the observation down in his notebook.

  “You can start talking whenever you’re ready.”

  The boy glanced up, finally meeting and holding Anders’ gaze. He nodded once before glancing back down at his hands. Anders sat back in his chair, getting comfy while he prepared to wait for the boy to speak. He figured it wouldn’t be anytime soon, with how he had been acting. He had deliberately searched Anders out, and now that he had found him, he wasn’t in the mood to talk. Anders didn’t want to rush him in case it made him clam up even more, but there was nothing he could do for the boy unless he decided to finally start talking.

  “You can tell me anything,” Anders said, trying to get the boy’s attention on him. “I promise you, I’ll withhold my judgment no matter what you tell me. Believe me, I’ve heard some awful things—people confessing to killing their children, doing whatever it took to survive even at the cost of their friend’s lives, and even some people still having those urges now that they’re human again. Nothing you can say to me is going to make me judge you.”

  “Do you believe in God?”

  The boy’s voice was so soft that Anders worried he might have misheard him. He leaned forward in the seat, giving the boy his full attention. “Do I believe in God?”

  The boy nodded. “Do you think He punishes everyone that does something bad?”

  Anders sat back, mulling the question over. “A lot of people would say that He doesn’t exist, and that what happened to us is proof of that. But others would say that the way things are now is proof that He does exist. I’m not sure which camp I’m siding with, but I do know that if He does exist, he’s surely very forgiving and loves everyone, no matter what they’ve done, as long as they believe in him and ask for forgiveness.”

  This boy is about to admit to something terrible, Anders realized. He could see it in the way the boy fidgeted nervously under the weight of Anders’ reply, and in the way the boy refused to look at him once more. I wonder how bad it is, and if it’s already happened, or if it’s something he’s thinking about doing. Is he here to confess a crime or to prevent one?

  “Lately I’ve…” The boy stopped, unable to continue. His face twisted into a grimace, as if the thought of what he was about to say physically pained him. But one look at Anders’ encouraging expression, and the boy took a deep breath and continued speaking. “I’ve been c-craving something…something nobody else does.” He paused, looking to Anders for some kind of reaction.

  Anders busied himself jotting down notes quickly in his notepad, but most of it was a garbled mess of random nothingness, just something to do to keep the boy from seeing the horror on his face. When he was sure his professional mask was back in place, he glanced up at the boy and nodded encouragingly.

  “I keep thinking that it must be okay, because others do it, too. You know? It’s a natural part of life for a lot of living things. Maybe not humans, but…are we really human anymore?”

  Anders was amazed at the depth of this young boy’s thoughts, but in truth he shouldn’t have been. Anyone that was still alive today, either through survival or the cure, had done and seen things that would mature them much faster than if the world had remained the same. He was trying to keep his promise to not judge the boy, but it was hard when he thought about the easy way the boy had just tried to rationalize his perverse thoughts. Anders knew it wasn’t the boy’s fault, but he couldn’t help but feel a bit of revulsion at his now calm demeanor. It seemed talking about it and getting it out in the open was a relaxing experience, and he could see the weight being lifted off the boy’s shoulders as he compared what came naturally to predators to his own dark thoughts.

  “Before we go any farther, let me get some background information on you. Is that okay?” he asked, trying to keep his expression light and professional. When the boy nodded, he clicked his pen and placed it to the notebook in his lap. “Let’s start with your name.”

  “Bryan Harding.”

  “Okay Bryan. How old are you?”

  “Twelve, I think.”

  Older than I thought. He wrote it down on the paper. “How long have you been having these thoughts?”

  Bryan shrugged his shoulders. “I’m not sure exactly. I think I started noticing them about two months ago. Right before my mom and I came here.”

  “Bryan, I have another question for you, and it might be a little uncomfortable to answer, but I need you to be honest with me. Okay?” When Bryan nodded, Anders cleared his throat. “Have you ever acted on these thoughts? Or is that all they are for the time being, thoughts?”

  “Just thoughts,” Bryan said, nearly tripping over the words in his haste to spit them out so quickly. Anders could tell just by that response that Bryan was lying to him, and a feeling of dread began to grow in the pit of his stomach. If Bryan had acted on these thoughts, there was no telling what he might have done. Gone was the scared boy that had come to him for help, and in his place was a boy who was surprisingly frank about the way his mind worked. The change in him was remarkable, and immediately Anders’ mind went to Trey and his ability to hide who he really was deep down.

  Don’t go there, he chastised himself. This is a young boy that needs help, not a violent psychopath that enjoys hurting people. You saw how scared he was to talk to you…

  But where is that scared boy now? The more skeptical part of him asked. Before I make any kind of fast judgment, I need to know what this boy has acted on and what he hasn’t. How do I get him to tell me without closing himself off? Do I play coy or just come out and say it like it’s nothing to be ashamed of?

  He decided on the latter approach. “Bryan, one of the things I’ve learned in all of my time studying…is how to tell when someone is lying to me. Kinda like how you just did when you told me they’re just thoughts.” Bryan’s face drained of all color and his fi
ngertips dug into the couch cushions, but he didn’t bolt like Anders thought he might. “It’s nothing to be ashamed of,” he assured. “People can’t change their thoughts anymore than they can change the color of their eyes or the date of their birth. Our thoughts are unique and can never be classified accurately as good or bad. So I want you to think about my question, and answer it again. Tell me, have you ever acted on these thoughts?”

  Anders waited with abated breath, his pen tapping lightly against the notebook in his lap. He wanted to give his words a chance to sink in for Bryan, so he could see exactly what kind of help the boy needed, if he could even be helped at all. Anders didn’t want to admit it since he had picked his profession in an attempt to help everyone he possibly could, but even he had to admit that not everyone could be helped. Some people were just beyond it, no matter how hard you tried. He hoped that wasn’t the case here, because Bryan was too young and too innocent to give up on easily.

  “I was out in the woods when I found it.”

  “What did you find, Bryan?”

  “I…found a rabbit. It-it was near death after being attacked by something. I watched it for a little while as it struggled to breathe. I even poked it a few times with a stick I found nearby, to see what it would do.” Bryan’s eyes became unfocused as he thought back to his time in the woods, and his breathing became faster, like he was excited. “It just breathed harder, like it was scared of me but knew it couldn’t do anything. When it finally died, I picked it up.”

  “What did you do then, Bryan?” Anders asked, jotting down what Bryan was telling him word for word. He was disturbed by the boy’s fascination with the dying rabbit, and he was worried where this conversation was about to go, but he had to know. His curiosity had been peaked, and he owed to it to Bryan to help him figure out his inner thoughts and cravings.

  “I wanted to know what it tasted like,” he said, his voice so quiet in the still room that Anders would never have been able to hear him if they weren’t both on the edges of their seats. “I had its blood on my fingers, and it was still warm and sticky. Before I knew what I was doing, I was sucking on them.”