Life of the Dead (Book 1): Hell on Earth

by Tony Urban

  “Well then, let’s do it.”

  He looked up and his grin turned into a full smile which, although it revealed a few holes where teeth should have been, was downright charming.

  “Great! Let me just get something from my rig.”

  He climbed back into the cab and emerged a few moments later with the prize. A silver Ruger revolver which possessed, what looked to Ramey, an obnoxiously long barrel.

  “Figure this might come in handy,” he said as he looked down at the zombies.

  “Good call, Stan.”

  She started for her truck. Even if she had stolen it, it was hers now.

  “What’s your name?” Stan asked as he jogged to catch up.

  “Ramey,” she said as she climbed into the driver’s seat. “Now I’ll drive and you navigate.”

  “Sounds like a plan.”

  She drove into the grass which licked at the tires as she steered around Stan’s wrecked rig, then pulled back onto the rural road. Ahead, the coast was clear.

  36

  A high-pitched whistling sound woke Grady from a deep sleep. The shrill noise filled his bedroom. Is that a fire whistle? It sounds so close.

  He fumbled for the lamp on the nightstand and after a few moments of searching found the switch. The 40-watt bulb cast dim light into the dreary room and Grady looked toward the window, expecting to see the flashing signs of fire trucks. He saw nothing, but the whistle continued. What is that?

  He sat up and the worn out quilt he’d received from his grandmother as a wedding present slid down his torso. He swung his legs off the bed and wiped the last vestiges of sleep from his eyes as he approached the window. Before he made it there, he realized the sound was not coming from outside. It was coming from his living room/kitchen. That’s when he realized Josiah wasn’t in the single bed that set tight against his own double.

  Grady rushed out of the bedroom and found his son sprawled on his back on the living room floor. He dropped to his knees, skinning them on the carpet and ignored the burning pain from the exposed nerves. Josiah’s hands were at his throat and his tiny fingers had scratched long gashes down his neck. Air struggled its way in and out of his mouth.

  Oh, God, no. Please, God, I can’t lose him. Anything but that.

  Grady tilted the boy’s head back then pulled open his mouth and tried to look inside for something blocking his airway. He saw nothing. Josiah’s eyes had rolled so far back that almost nothing but white showed.

  “Josiah? Can you hear me? Can you hear daddy?”

  The boy had never spoken a word in his short life. Grady knew that but it was all he could think to say. Josiah only kept wheezing.

  Grady grabbed the telephone off the wall and punched 9 and 1 before he realized there was no dial tone. He hung it up, took it again. The line was dead. He tapped the switch hook, not knowing why but people always did it in the movies so there must be a reason. It made no difference.

  Please, Jesus Christ in Heaven, protect my boy. Embrace him in your healing arms.

  Grady dropped the phone and rushed back to his son. He scooped the boy up in his arms and ran to the apartment door. After unlocking it, he raced out of the apartment into the black, night air. He didn’t even realize he’d forgotten to put on shoes until he felt the wet grass under his feet, but that was okay, he didn’t need shoes. He needed to save his son.

  Grady sprinted down the sidewalk. The streets were empty of everything except litter. He had no idea what time it was. It could be 11pm or 5am and, as he headed for the bus stop, he realized the next bus could be hours away.

  Three blocks later, he discovered the bus stop vacant. The glass cubicle that had once provided shelter from bad weather was shattered. That wasn’t too unusual but Grady could also see dark, wet blood smeared against the green bench that sat amongst the destruction. He couldn’t allow himself to think about what might have happened there. He needed help. His son needed help.

  Please, Jesus, protect him.

  Josiah’s whistling wheezes had decreased in frequency as Grady ran. They now came only once every five or six seconds. Sometimes half a minute passed in between them. And as they waited for a bus that might never come, his breathing stopped altogether.

  It took Grady a moment to realize Josiah wasn’t going to breathe again on his own and when he did, his mind exploded in confused, distraught thoughts. Why is this happening? What’s wrong with him? How can I get him help? What should I do? Why is this happening to us, God?

  That last thought snapped him out of his panic. God helps those who help themselves.

  He released Josiah from his tight embrace and laid the boy out on the safety glass covered sidewalk. He again used his fingers to open Josiah’s mouth, but this time he didn’t look inside. This time he pressed his own mouth over his son’s and breathed. He sent five big breaths into the boy’s lungs, then waited.

  Nothing.

  He gave five more breaths. Then 10. Still the boy refused to breathe on his own.

  “You can’t take my boy!” Grady screamed and the sound of his own voice startled him. He hadn’t spoken above a whisper in years and he couldn’t remember shouting since he was a boy and that was playing games and in fun. This was pain and anger and it felt like something had burst open inside him.

  “God, don’t do this! Don’t take him from me!”

  Tears streamed from Grady’s eyes and rained down onto Josiah’s small, vacant face.

  “What you going on about?” a man’s voice said.

  Grady spun around and saw a black man in a Ravens skullcap. He seemed vaguely familiar and Grady remembered seeing him in the shadows of the street and under stoops, trading baggies for cash. Before, Grady had tried not to notice him, to ignore the gangster dealing drugs, but in the ghastly glow of the arc sodium streetlight he could see the man was younger than he’d earlier thought. He might not even be 20. Heavy gold chains sagged down from his neck and more gold adorned his ears and lip. The grip of a pistol jutted out above the crotch of his jeans.

  “You speak English or what?” the man asked Grady.

  “It’s my son.” Grady looked down to Josiah, then back to the gangster. “He’s sick. He’s having trouble breathing.”

  “So call an ambulance, man.”

  “My phone was out. And I don’t have a car.”

  The man grabbed a cell phone from his pocket, dialed, listened and frowned, staring at the phone.

  “All circuits are busy. What the fuck that mean?”

  Grady reached out and grabbed hold of the man’s baggy jeans. “Please. Please help us. My son’s going to die without help.”

  The man looked down at Josiah as he pocketed his phone. He then stared up and down the empty street. “All right man. All right. You wait here.”

  He jogged away. Grady watched him disappear behind a row house, then resumed breathing into his son’s mouth. Less than two minutes later a black 70s Lincoln Continental with obnoxiously large chrome rims roared to a stop in front of them.

  The passenger side window rolled down and the gangster banged his hand against the door. “Yo, man! What you waitin’ for?”

  Grady grabbed Josiah under his knees and shoulders and lifted him into the backseat of the Lincoln, then climbed in beside his son. A different man was driving. He too was black and about the same age, but much larger. Long coarse dreadlocks tumbled down his plus-sized head. He didn’t say a word as Grady sat down. He only stared.

  “That’s O’Dell. He don’t say much. But this is his ride.”

  “Thank you so much. You’re a Godsend.”

  O’Dell only nodded. As soon as Grady pulled the door shut, Odell hit the gas and the Lincoln sped away.

  A wreck on 40 blocked the entire street. Grady could see a Cadillac Escalade flipped on its roof and a smoking Dodge pickup with a crushed hood only a few feet away. Despite the crashed vehicles, he saw no one.

  He gave it little thought as he clutched Josiah tight. He felt the coldness taking over
the boy’s body but refused to admit it to himself. He continued giving breath after breath. Soon he’ll breathe again. I believe it. I have faith. God won’t take my boy.

  O’Dell made a hard left onto a side street, almost throwing Grady and his son off the seat. The original gangster, who had identified himself as LaRon glanced into the backseat.

  “Hold tight back there. How’s he doing?”

  Grady didn’t meet his eyes. “He’ll be okay. Just please get us to the hospital.”

  LaRon looked down at Josiah. “We’re getting there, little man. You hang on.”

  After a few more turns, LaRon called out, “Almost there,” and just as he did, Josiah opened his eyes.

  Grady gasped. He put his hands on Josiah’s chest - So cold - and tried to feel it rise and fall. He couldn’t feel anything but the boy’s eyes were open and they looked at him. Grady raised his son up and embraced him so hard he worried he’d injure the boy, but he couldn’t stop himself.

  Thank, God. Thank you, God!

  Josiah squirmed and struggled against Grady’s grasp and, now afraid that he had hurt his son, Grady let him loose. The boy looked around the car, then caught site of the driver.

  Before Grady knew what was happening, Josiah lunged forward, tumbling off Grady’s lap. He caught hold of one of O’Dell’s dreads on the way down and yanked the man’s head sideways

  The car swerved to the right, then O’Dell pulled the wheel to the left to regain control. Grady tried to pull Josiah’s hand free of the gangster’s hair but couldn’t break his grip. The boy used his other hand to claw at O’Dell’s face. He pulled himself toward the driver, their faces just inches apart, then bit the side of the man’s ear off.

  “Motherfuck!” O’Dell yelled.

  Grady didn’t have time to process what just happened before the front wheels bounced over a curb. There was a loud crash as the grill of the Lincoln slammed into a row of steel newspaper machines on the sidewalk. The sudden halt threw them all forward. At last, Josiah let go of the dreadlock.

  O’Dell threw open his door and jumped out of the car. He then threw open the back door, grabbed Grady and dragged him out of the Continental. Grady slammed into the sidewalk and felt a rib break.

  LaRon exited the car from the passenger seat. He was so worked up he bounced on his feet like a jumping bean.

  “Your fucking kid bit him!” LaRon said.

  O’Dell held his hand against his bleeding ear.

  “He’s sick.” Grady said.

  “No shit he’s sick! What the fuck he got? Rabies?” LaRon said.

  O’Dell dove into the car after the boy. Grady tried to jump up but a jolt in his ribcage dropped him back to his knees. He watched the gangster grab his son by his frog pajamas and pull him from the car. He tossed Josiah like a rag doll and the child slammed into the ground in front of his father.

  Grady tried to grab Josiah, to hold him close and protect him, but the second the boy hit the ground he was back on his feet and moving toward O’Dell.

  “You best control that bitch!” O’Dell yelled. It was only the second time he’d spoken since Grady and Josiah got in the car and rage filled his voice.

  Grady again reached for Josiah but he was just out of reach. Grady struggled to his feet and stumbled toward Josiah who was still heading for the big gangster.

  O’Dell held out his arm to block the boy but Josiah dove for his hand and caught the fatty hunk of flesh between his thumb and forefinger in his teeth. The gangster’s eyes grew wide and Grady saw blood.

  The gangster screamed and jerked his hand free. He ignored the blood and pulled the pistol from his jeans and aimed it at Josiah’s head.

  “No!” Grady screamed. “Don’t. Don’t shoot him!” He grabbed his son and tried to shield him. Why is this happening? God had just given him back his son, he couldn’t take him away again. It wasn’t fair.

  O’Dell pulled back the slide to chamber a round and Grady sobbed. The boy struggled against him but this time Grady held on.

  LaRon grabbed on to O’Dell’s meaty, tattooed arm, the one holding the gun, and pulled it down. “It’s just a kid, man.”

  O’Dell glared at him, then returned the pistol to his jeans. He jumped back into his wrecked Lincoln and threw it in reverse. The tires squealed as it pulled loose from the newspaper boxes and bounced back onto the street. Then he drove away.

  LaRon watched him go, then turned back to the crying father and his biting son.

  Grady loosened his grip on Josiah. He saw the boy was eating the flesh he’d bitten off O’Dell. Grady’s stomach did a cartwheel and a second later the remains of his hamburger helper dinner landed on the sidewalk.

  Josiah swallowed the skin, then tried to pull free of Grady who held on.

  “No!” Grady ordered.

  Before that moment, Josiah never seemed to hear a word he said, but now he looked up at his father and stopped squirming. The boy held out his hand and Grady took it in his own.

  “Crazy fuckin’ white people,” LaRon said, then turned away from them and jogged up the street.

  Grady ignored his exit. He was entranced by the way his son looked at him. Josiah was seeing him, for the first time ever.

  “Josiah? Are you okay?”

  The boy gave a wet, gasp that came out like “Ah-bah” but Grady heard “Da da”. He embraced his son and the boy didn’t pull away. Grady kissed his cold cheek and tears streamed from his eyes. He couldn’t remember being that happy in years. God hadn’t just answered his prayers, he’d performed a miracle.

  They walked down the sidewalk, hand in hand, both still in their nightclothes and shoeless. Grady thought gripping Josiah’s hand was like holding a piece of raw chicken that had been recently removed from the refrigerator. Somewhere inside he knew the boy was dead. But that didn’t matter.

  This was the miracle he’d been praying for. God had saved Josiah and now Grady was prepared to do whatever God asked of him.

  37

  Mitch darted his tongue in and out of Rochelle’s beautiful pussy which, as far as he believed, was more perfect than anything David himself could have sculpted. It tasted like strawberries and he could have stayed between her toned legs forever. Then she coughed. Her body convulsed and her thighs bucked, pushing his mouth away from her groin. When he looked up, he saw her face had gone blue, starved of oxygen. Her eyes bulged, blood red. She’s choking, he thought.

  Mitch scrambled up her naked body. He grabbed her lower jaw in his right hand and with his left pressed against her forehead. Her skin felt molten hot. He pulled her mouth open and when he did a thick, black tongue fell out.

  ”Oh, fuck!” he screamed. She was dying. She couldn’t breathe and she would die if he didn’t help her.

  He leaned in toward her, their faces inches apart. He closed his eyes and pressed his mouth against hers, the only bit of CPR he could remember.

  When her black tongue entered his mouth, the taste of rotten meat was overwhelming. He felt his stomach flip and fought not to puke but it was a losing battle and he could feel the vomit rushing up his throat. He went to pull back, to separate his mouth from hers, but before he could she sank her teeth into his lips. The pain was worse than anything he’d ever felt. Even worse than when he jumped off a swing in third grade and tried to fly, breaking his left arm in the process.

  Mitch shrieked in agony but the rotting mouth pressed against his own muffled screams. He felt the puke gush from his own mouth and into hers, then splash back against his bleeding lips and tried again to scream and that was when he woke up.

  His heart beat so hard in his chest he could have seen it if the room was illuminated, but it wasn’t. He sat up fast and smacked his forehead against the bunk above him. Although it hurt like hell, it helped push away sleep and that horrible, revolting, dream.

  That’s when he realized he could still hear screaming. He brought his hand to his mouth, thinking it was himself, but as he covered his own lips, the screams continued.
r />   A red light flickered and danced on and off like a strobe in a nightclub. In the crimson flashes he could see the chaos in the room.

  Two men held down a guard and ate intestines from an open wound in his midsection.

  Dark.

  A nurse chewed on the arm of a boy who Mitch had earlier seen crying about not getting lime jello.

  Dark.

  A bearded man dragged another man from the top bunk and chomped into his throat.

  Dark.

  A naked woman with blood covering the entire front of her body sprinted a collision course toward Mitch.

  Dark.

  Mitch jumped out of his bed and backed away. The light came back on and she was only feet away from him. He tripped over something and fell backward landing hard on his bony ass and the light went off again.

  Someone grabbed him from behind and dragged him. Mitch flailed and struggled and his fist connected with something hard.

  “Stop fighting you shit!”

  The voice was familiar. The light blinked back on and Mitch saw it was Winebruner. He pulled Mitch toward the exit as the light went off again.

  “What’s going on?” Mitch asked.

  “Shut the fuck up!”

  The red light came out as they reached the glowing exit sign and Winebruner swiped a card through the slot by the door. Mitch saw the bloody woman still running at them but Winebruner kicked the door open and dragged Mitch through it. The steel door slammed shut behind them and they were in a puke green hallway. The woman hit the other side of the door and they watched through the narrow slit of a glass window as she clawed and scratched. When that failed, she started smashing her head against it.

  Mitch jumped to his feet. “Holy shit! They’re zombies aren’t they? They’re fucking zombies!”

  Winebruner nodded. “I really thought those rumors were bullshit. But there’s no denying it now.”

  The woman on the other side of the door had split her forehead open and bone showed through under the mangled skin.

  Mitch looked back to Winebruner who wasn’t looking too hot himself. Even under the dim fluorescent lights, the young man looked haggard and his eyes had sunk deep into the sockets. Snot oozed from both nostrils and, when he saw Mitch looking, he hurriedly wiped it away.