Love & Decay
A Novella Series
Volume One
Episodes One through Six
By Rachel Higginson
Copyright@ Rachel Higginson 2014
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Copy Editing by Carolyn Moon
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Other Books Now Available by Rachel Higginson
Love and Decay, Season One, Episodes One-Twelve
Love and Decay, Season Two, Episodes One-Twelve
Love and Decay, Volume One (Episodes One-Six, Season One)
Love and Decay, Volume Two (Episodes Seven-Twelve, Season One)
Love and Decay, Volume Three (Episodes One-Four, Season Two)
Love and Decay, Volume Four (Episodes Five-Eight, Season Two)
Love and Decay, Volume Five (Episodes Nine-Twelve, Season Two)
Reckless Magic (The Star-Crossed Series, Book 1)
Hopeless Magic (The Star-Crossed Series, Book 2)
Fearless Magic (The Star-Crossed Series, Book 3)
Endless Magic (The Star-Crossed Series, Book 4)
The Reluctant King (The Star-Crossed Series, Book 5)
The Relentless Warrior (The Star-Crossed Series, Book 6)
Breathless Magic (The Star-Crossed Series, Book 6.5)
Fateful Magic (The Star-Crossed Series, Book 6.75)
Heir of Skies (The Starbright Series, Book 1)
Heir of Darkness (The Starbright Series, Book 2)
Heir of Secrets (The Starbright Series, Book 3)
The Rush (The Siren Series, Book 1)
The Fall (The Siren Series, Book 2)
Bet on Us (An NA Contemporary Romance)
Striking (The Forged in Fire Series) This is a co-authored Contemporary NA
To Zach,
This would not exist without you.
Just like so many other things.
Episode One
Chapter One
647 days after initial infection
Oh, god.
The smell was the worst. The absolute worst.
It wasn’t enough that I had to pick my way through dismembered and half-eaten bodies, or that at any moment one of them could spring up from the ground and make an afternoon snack out of me.
It wasn’t enough that I hadn’t had a shower in over a year and a half, hadn’t worn eye liner in even longer than that and my hair was somehow simultaneously disgustingly greasy while frizzing into a perpetual fluff ball.
Oh no, that would never be enough. My ugly tan work boots were a size and a half too small, I ripped my too big Grateful Dead t-shirt off a very, very dead man, and my jeans… or what was left of my jeans was the last of my stash from my once excessive closet.
After all of that- and I mean, the shower alone should have been enough suffering for any living being to suffer through- it was the smell that got to me.
Putrid, rotting flesh from both the dead that littered the ground around me and the remnants of stench that lingered in the air when the Feeders were finished was what triggered my gag reflex and watered my eyes. There weren’t enough words in the English dictionary to describe my revulsion, or the way my empty stomach flipped with every breath.
I probably would have puked if I had eaten anything in the last two days.
The best thing about the Zombie Apocalypse? I was no longer addicted to sugar and caffeinated beverages.
I wiped my forearm across my sweaty forehead and re-aimed my handgun in the general area in front of me. This is the point of the story where I’m supposed to tell you what kind of gun I’m carrying, but let’s be real… Before the end of the world I was a cheerleader at a small town school, where I was the debate team captain and student council secretary. I lived for throwing parties when my parents went out of town, making out with my football captain boyfriend and doing the occasional trip to the homeless shelter where I would put in my monthly two hours of good deeds.
I’d never even held a gun-- scratch that-- I’d never even been in the same room as a gun until the world went to shit. Who knew the cure for herpes would turn all those sexual deviants into people-eating, brain-dead, infection-giving assholes?
Not me.
The whole phenomenon gave a girl a serious complex about safe sex.
Not that I was having sex. Or would be any time soon.
I hadn’t even seen an eligible bachelor in a good six months and it wasn’t like I had exactly been interested when we passed each other with guns raised and a suspicious glint in our eyes. Although there was a sort of mutual give and take between us that could have been considered an instant connection, possibly love at first sight. I let him loot the dead gentleman that had his head literally severed from his body by Feeders, and he let me raid the vending machine offering one bag of Funions that had been smashed into pathetic crumbs.
But then we both went our separate ways and I will never know if he got eaten, turned or found the promised land of Zombie-free showers and espresso machines.
Plus, I was still pining over poor, deceased, Quarterback-Chris.
Just kidding! Quarterback-Chris had apparently been less than faithful to me during our two year relationship and after things with the government, army and general world went to hell, Quarterback-Chris tried to eat me!
So I did what any loving, devoted girlfriend that just found out she had been serially cheated on by her now zombie boyfriend would do. I plunged a butcher knife into his eye socket and when that didn’t effectively do the job, I drove over him with my mom’s Escalade until his head detached from his body.
God, I was glad I held onto my v-card.
Could you imagine me as a zombie?
Ugh, it made me shudder just thinking about it.
A rustling to my left had my gun up, pointed and steady at whatever was stupid enough to make noise in a regular Feeder playground. I only had three bullets left, so this kill would have to be spot on.
That was the thing about living in a world in which it was a very likely possibility that you could end up as someone else’s meal before lunchtime, you’ve got to be very good at shooting. Very quickly.
So even though the most I knew about my gun was that it was a Beretta from the label on the handle, and the exact kind of bullets it took, .40 S&W- because those were an absolute necessity and I was always on the lookout- I knew exactly how to use it. I knew exactly how to get my bullet from my gun to the perfect dead zone right between the eyes.
In fact, it was kind of freaky how good I was at killing things.
Well, killing already dead things.
It was like I was born for the Apocalypse. No, I couldn’t find a hot shower, figure out how to make food last longer than twe
nty-four hours and effectively loot a Walgreens that still had hair products available. But I could stay alive.
I had an innate ability to stay alive.
And in this day and age, ninety-two weeks after the first recovering STD victim bit his doctor and the world fell apart, staying alive was very important.
Back to the rustling….
I slowed my breathing, stopped moving completely and waited for the sound to come to me.
One of the first things I learned about survival was that there was absolutely no need to go hunting down trouble. In the world I lived in, trouble would find you soon enough. It was better to cover your back, stay calm and have a loaded weapon ready and waiting.
“Reagan, check this out!” Haley squealed in a loud whisper.
“Holy hell, Hales!” I whisper-shouted back, “I almost shot you in the f-ing head!”
She made a resigned grunting noise and I heard her mumble, “Too bad, I bet they have showers in heaven.”
“We are so not convinced you’re going to heaven,” I whispered back while stepping over a particularly decayed body.
Did I say the smell was the worst? I meant maggots.
The maggots were definitely the worst.
“It wouldn’t matter,” she countered with that distraught, depressed tone even the best of us were known to fall into. “This might as well be hell.”
We were still whispering, there was no other option, since Feeders were drawn by sound. And sight, and smell, and light and movement…. But since we were rummaging around a dilapidated department store somewhere in what used to be southern Missouri, we had a little bit of cover.
The floor was covered with dirt and grime; metal racks that had been looted a long time ago were scattered and broken across the floor and we’ve already discussed the body count problem. We were using what was left of the evening light streaming through the broken window fronts to see and from the sounds of things we were alone, at least on the first floor.
One of the best things about Feeders was their incapability for stealth. They were heavy mouth breathers and tended to stumble over anything in their way. It was like they had their own warning bells.
Well, if you stayed alert, kept yourself surrounded by noisy debris and never fell asleep, you could sense their presence.
“What is it?” I asked; at the exact same moment my stomach growled.
Haley shot me a sympathetic look and shook her head, sending her dark blonde hair bouncing around her shoulders. “Not that.”
I sighed, but continued to follow her down a dark hallway. Track lighting hung at awkward angles, the glass long shattered, the bulbs broken since the beginning. The once white walls were smeared with streaks of what I had to assume was blood and dirt. But the stench was less overwhelming here, the air easier to breath.
“I hit the jackpot,” Haley said excitedly in almost a full-volume voice. We rarely spoke above a whisper so I was taken aback at first. I had almost forgotten what her real voice sounded like.
“In?”
“Jeans!” She turned back to look at me over her shoulder, giving me a goofy smile and waggling her eyebrows.
Now this was a jackpot.
We exited the hallway straight into the Junior’s section. The racks were less knocked-over in this part of the store and still stocked with clothes. Racks and racks of fall fashions from almost two years ago filled the floor. A discount shoe rack with boxes of clearance items sat in one corner and in the middle of the department was a makeup counter.
An f-ing makeup counter.
Eyeliner!!!
At this point, you might be wondering who I could possibly want to look good for. And that is a valid question. But it wasn’t like that.
In the last two years, I had been forced to live as a homeless, basically-starving person, with shredded, usually-covered-in-blood clothes, no shampoo, let alone conditioner and perpetually covered in dirt. I was tired of looking ugly.
Tired of it!
I just wanted a little bit of makeup, just something to make me feel like the world hadn’t completely blown apart in the prime of my life and left me a wandering vagabond.
I had given up on finishing my education. I had given up on feeling guilty for killing what used to be human beings. I had given up on being happy again, living in a house, having a hot shower and whatever dream I had imagined myself living out. I had even given up on finding love.
Hell, I had given up on finding sex.
I just wanted to look anything but tired, weary and worn out.
Was that so much to ask?
“Welcome to the promised land, my friend,” Haley whispered proudly before turning to a rack of longs-sleeve tee’s.
I had a theory about why this section of the department store was untouched and it went something like this. In the beginning of the end, families protected their young. If you were a teenager, you were home, holding down the fort. Especially if you were a girl. The whole raping and pillaging thing didn’t apply to most kids that still had parents around. And if you were young and stupid enough to try to make it in a world where sane people spent their time looting, overthrowing local government and shooting at any and every potential threat, chances were your inexperience and still rose-colored-glasses-of-the-world made sure you ended up dead.
How Haley and I survived living on the street and dodging not only the Feeders, but the crazed militia, and all the old man creepers that thought we would make fantastic sister wives was a straight up miracle. We got lucky in the beginning by sheer location. Small town, middle-of-nowhere Iowa finally paid off.
Well, except for the whole Quarterback-Chris thing.
But it wasn’t like we didn’t get Feeders in Atlantic, Iowa. Of course we did. Herpes was a worldwide disease. Everybody got Feeders, even remote islands in the middle of Oceans. If there were people there, then there were people having sex. And that meant STDs. Why? Because men would always be sluts. Always.
Was I a little bitter about Quarterback-Chris? Hell, yes.
Did I not mention he tried to eat me?
My parents were killed by Feeders. Haley’s dad was killed by a Feeder. I was almost killed by a Feeder.
They were everywhere.
What we did have was an absence of a lot of people and an abundance of guns. Thank you, farmer Fred, for your once unnecessary stash of ex-military contraband.
I hopped over the counter, sliding my butt across the filthy glass. My already-grimy jeans smeared a dust-coated path the size of my hips. I landed on the pads of my feet and my toes were smashed even worse in my small hiking boots, but it was a soundless landing I was kind of proud of.
I had the reflexes of a cat, thanks to living every minute of my life expecting an attack. If the world ever got its f-ing act together and cleaned up this mess, I imagined they would make a movie of my life about the whole Zombie thing. I’d obviously be played by that hot brunette from the Vampire Diaries in which I would run around in a sexy Cat Woman suit, totally playing the super hero.
I opened the cabinets behind the makeup counter and slipped my backpack off my shoulder. Inside my hiking pack everything was orderly and neatly packed for maximum space and easy access. But I didn’t have time for that now. I would reorganize everything later.
I started swiping handfuls of products into my bag, not caring about color or usefulness. This was what Haley and I called the Grab and Go- get as many supplies as we could now, as fast as we could, then leave the scene before either Feeders or protective townsfolk happened upon us. We could sort it out later. Without even having to discuss it with Haley, I knew she was picking out shirts and jeans for me and she knew I would cover her with whatever I could find.
After makeup, I hit up the clearance shoes, except there wasn’t anything hiking, nature resilient or weather-proofed. Haley’s shoes were in good condition actually, so I didn’t bother debating over her. She was tiny by nature, not just because we only ate every three days and probably had scurvy
since we were lacking serious vitamin C. She barely cleared 5’3, and her feet were average size enough that she could double up on socks and fit almost any pair we found.
I had clown feet even for my 5’8 frame and most the time found myself searching the small-feeted men. There were plenty of feet to choose from, but we didn’t run across the right kind of shoe very often.
Like right now. There were a pair of tennis shoes that I could upgrade to, and they were my size. Or should I stick with the weather-proofed boots that would protect my feet from the elements?
The other part of the debate- tennis shoes were much lighter than these things, easier to walk across country in and much, much nicer to run in.
Still, I had to protect my feet. And I definitely didn’t want trench foot. Not that I knew what trench foot was…. but I knew it was a big deal for everyone on Band of Brothers- my go to reference for everything survival.
“Get the shoes that fit,” Haley said from across the room while digging through every style of jeans.
“You’re right,” I agreed. A shoe that fit had to be infinitely better than what I was wearing now. I toed off my boots and ripped off my socks. There was a whole rack of socks near the checkout counter, so I grabbed handfuls of them and stuffed them in the bag, saving a crazy-patterned neon pair for now.
“Sweatpants?” Haley asked from a new rack.
Moving quickly was essential to our survival, and we had honed this skill in order to stay alive. “Absolutely,” I agreed. Jeans were practical and resilient, but there was nothing better than a pair of yoga pants when running for your life.
As I moved on to underwear-which might as well have been gold at this point- the light grew dimmer in this department. We were already squinting and stumbling around in the dark, and I knew we had been here too long. I had a flashlight that hadn’t run out of battery yet, but I really didn’t want to use it if it meant drawing the attention of wandering Feeders.
Love & Decay (Season 1): Episodes 1-6 Page 1
