Dead Pulse Rising: A Zombie Novel

by K. Michael Gibson

  “Definitely gonna be a long day,” I groaned to Josh, and Josh smirked.

  “Better you than me, dude,” Josh said wearing an oily grin on his face that made me want to punch him in the forehead. I continued scanning the items and sorting them into small mail bins that I would later load onto my truck, keeping out only what was slated for whatever section of the route we were in, while the rest was locked into a steel cage. I clipped a key to a lanyard around my neck and tucked it beneath my ballistic vest that would be used to retrieve said packages once we entered a new area. Josh handed me the last package, and said, “Done. Now get the fuck outta here.” I eyed him for a moment, and then looked down at my PDA and shook my head.

  “Uh, you missed one.” I held up the PDA, the screen facing in Josh’s direction.

  Josh frowned and mumbled something unintelligible and began scanning the inside of the vault with his eyes. Josh seemed to recognize something, and he strolled out of sight for a moment. He reappeared a few seconds later, carrying a large black metal case struggling slightly against the weight of it.

  Josh heaved the case onto the counter. It was huge, only slightly smaller than a suitcase, but definitely larger than your standard briefcase. Next to the handle, embedded into the metal, was an electronic keypad and what appeared to be a biometric scanner designed to accommodate a single thumbprint. A red LED flashed next to white lettering, that stated “Armed.”

  I cocked an eyebrow and whistled. “That’s some fancy sh-mancy security. What the hell is it?”

  Josh shrugged. “No freaking clue, man. All I know is that it’s supposed to go to Brantley and Reese,” he said, flicking a small card that was tied to the case’s handle with a black zip tie.

  “Great,” I muttered sarcastically. Brantley and Reese was one reason why I had been assigned to this particular route. Although my company knew nothing of my military past, my clearance level was still one of the highest in the armored car industry, which made me a vital player when it came to picking up various government and high-security facilities. Brantley and Reese was one of those facilities. The company itself, from the public standpoint, was nothing more than your simple run-of-the-mill electronics outfit that made everything from alarm clocks to smart phones. Their business, however, expanded way beyond that. Contracted by the government, they also built such things such as aircraft, submarines, and missile defense systems, as well as a whole menagerie of experimental weaponry that even my high-clearance level was not made privy to.

  I grabbed the handle of the case and tossed it into my own cart, barely even registering its weight. I had done this job for years, and the case couldn’t have weighed more than fifty pounds. My slightly toned, but muscular arms, took the weight with ease. I eyed Josh and smirked. Girly, man, is what rolled through my mind, but I decided to keep the rude comment to myself and remained professional.

  “That it?” I spat out.

  “Yeah,” Josh replied.

  “You sure—nothing else hiding in the shadows back there? I really don’t want a call later telling me to bring my ass back here to get something extra that you forgot about.”

  Josh suddenly grabbed a log book off to the side, just to double check. “Nope, that’s it, man,” he said.

  I nodded, watching as Josh closed the upper section of the vault door, leaving me once again to the stuffy claustrophobic room. I stowed all of my mail tubs into the rolling cart, stacking them directly on top of the black metal case. My curiosity was piqued just a bit. Normally, I couldn’t care less about what I was carrying; however, the case was somewhat intriguing. I delivered currency to their location on the regular; however, that usually consisted of a handcart full of coins and a bag of money, which was always packaged in clear plastic. This was something different. For all I knew it may very well be a nuclear bomb; I shivered slightly at the thought but quickly disregarded it. Shrugging, I pushed a green button located on the wall next to the door marked exit, pushed the cart through the heavy steel door, and into the truck bay.

  I waited by the door for several minutes until the large, rolling truck bay door slid up the track, allowing our vehicle to enter the complex. The large black armored car rumbled through the garage to the opposite end near an exit door. I pushed my cart to the back of the truck and suddenly jumped backward as the armored car’s rear doors flung open, almost catching me in the shoulder.

  “What the hell took you so damn long?” Marvin growled.

  “Sorry, there was a slight SNAFU in the vault,” I stated simply.

  The ex-Marine nodded, understanding SNAFU for the military slang that it was,, situation normal all fucked up, in other words, a typical day. “Well, let’s get this shit loaded so we can get our asses on the road,” said Marvin sourly. “It’s bingo night.” He cocked a sheepish grin in my direction.

  I raised an eyebrow. “Is that before or after the five whiskey sour’s you pound down nightly?”

  “After,” Marvin stated truthfully. “My wife makes me go hang with those old fogies. Personally, I’d rather eat my gun.” He chuckled.

  I loaded the mail tubs full of packages into the rear of the truck and handed Marvin the key that was tucked into my vest.

  Marvin opened the cage in the rear of the truck and picked up a tub and braced himself with his prosthetic leg, and then heaved the heavy tubs into the cage. Marvin may have been in his seventies and was operating with only one leg, but he didn’t let any weakness show.

  This task completed, we set about loading a skid of coin boxes that a forklift had dropped at our rear. The boxes were heavy as hell; however, I tossed them one handed into the back of the vehicle with ease.

  Marvin crouched and stacked them neatly in rows, separating them by denomination for easy access.

  The humidity from the approaching storm made this a difficult task, having infused the cardboard boxes with ambient moisture, which made them harder to slide across the metal floor of the truck. I drew my sleeve across my forehead, wiping away beads of sweat that had formed and began to soak the inside of my shirt collar.

  “It’s too damn early to be sweating,” I said sourly. “There should be a law in place. No sweating until after noon.”

  Marvin nodded in agreement. “I’ll send a stern letter to our congressman,” Marvin said in a sarcastic tone.

  Sighing, I slammed the rear doors of the truck closed.

  A few moments passed. Marvin had exited the building and pulled the armored car around to the large chain-link fence. I walked beside the truck and moved to stand by the exit gate. An alarm beeped as the gate slid along its track and opened. I walked to the other side of the gate and waited for my truck to pull through the opening. I keyed the radio clipped to my shoulder.

  “Clear,” I said into the microphone, and the gate almost immediately began to slide shut. When the entrance to the complex was secure, the side door to the armored car popped open, and I boarded the truck sitting in the rear.

  Marvin sat in front of me to my left, and spoke, “Ready to rock, son,” he said, glancing over his shoulder.

  “No, but were gonna go anyway,” I replied with a hint of disdain.

  Marvin grinned and nodded.

  “Buckle up, Bucky,” and with that, the truck lurched forward, and we were on the road.

  Chapter 3

  Fat droplets of rain began to fall from the graying sky and splatter across the windshield, leaving spidery tendrils of water sheeting across the thick bullet-resistant glass. Marvin squinted and mumbled something about Mother Nature being a bitch and flicked a switch activating the sorry excuse for wiper blades. The tiny blades screeched across the flat surface of the windows and barely cut a path through the streams of water falling onto the hood of the truck, making visibility difficult.

  I stared listlessly out a side window, watching trees whip by wondering if my wife had awakened yet. I pulled my cell phone out of a case attached to my gun belt and flipped it open. No messages. Either she hadn’t awakened or sh
e hadn’t picked up her phone yet. I typed a quick message that stated simply: On the road again, love. I’ll be home as soon as possible. I hit send, closed the phone, and returned it to its leather pouch.

  Looking down at my clipboard, I planned the logistics of my day, in a nanosecond, figuring out where to start and where to finish, as well as the approximant time of day we would be getting home. I sighed with the knowledge that it would more than likely be well after dark before we got home. I tossed the clipboard into a mail tub.

  “Bank of Amara,” I said, letting Marvin know where our starting point would be. We always tried to move things differently along the route, never showing up at the same place at the same time from day to day. It tended to piss off our clients, but as I explained, If you don’t know when we’re coming, neither do the crooks. It was sound logic mainly because after running and gunning for the past ten years, I hadn’t had my ass shot off yet. Knock on wood, I thought.

  Marvin took an exit ramp that was meant to be traversed at fifteen miles-per-hour at around sixty-five. I grabbed hold of the oh-shit handle next to my seat and braced myself in between it and a large air-conditioning unit that was bolted to the floor on my left side. Marvin slammed on the brakes as we hit traffic at the end of the ramp. I jerked forward in my seat belt and heard a loud metallic scraping sound as a handcart in the rear of the truck slid forward, and then caught me square in my left calf. Fiery pain exploded in my leg, and I kicked the handcart and sent it skittering to the rear of the truck.

  “Son-of-a-bitch, Marvin, what the hell!” I shouted. Marvin looked over his shoulder and glanced back at me.

  “Sorry, man,” was all he said.

  I had to seriously resist the urge to pull my weapon and shoot him in the face. I rubbed my calf and hiked up my pant leg to observe the damage. My calf was an angry red, but the skin was not broken. It was, however, going to leave one hell of a bruise, though.

  “What the hell is this?” I motioned irritably to the traffic ahead of us.

  Marvin rose up slightly and looked down the road a bit.

  “Dunno, ton of cop cars, though.”

  I looked at my watch. “Fantastic,” I said sarcastically. “We’re already an hour behind.”

  “Hence, why I was speeding,” Marvin interjected. “Sorry ’bout the leg, though. You okay, boss?” Marvin frowned slightly.

  “I’ll live. Can we get around this crap?” I said and made a sweeping motion with my hand.

  “Not unless the cops let us through or we take a short cut through the median, but I don’t feel like getting arrested today.” Marvin shrugged.

  “Okay, I’ll see if I can get us through, or at least see how long this is gonna take.” I unbuckled my seat belt and pulled my windbreaker on; the jacket didn’t do much against the rain. God forbid that the powers that be pay a little extra for water proofing. It would help keep the chill from the driving rain down a bit. I stood, and Marvin popped the door open with the bus bar, and I exited the vehicle.

  I stepped out into the elements. The rain seemed to have picked up a bit. I pulled a baseball cap out of my back pocket and seated it on my head. The rain pelted the brim of my hat and still managed to run into my eyes. I frowned, shook my head, and looked down the road. Cars, vans, and trucks stretched for what seemed like a half mile and obscured my view of the commotion ahead. The only indication I had that something was amiss was a series of bright red and blue light flashes in the distance. I zipped up my windbreaker and flashed my driver a thumb-up and began walking.

  I followed the shoulder of the road absently taking notice of annoyed and impatient drivers and passengers as I walked by. A mother yelled at her kids loud enough that I could hear her quite clearly with her windows up and the sound of the rain enveloping me. I cringed and wondered if those kids still had any hearing left after that ear assault. Apparently, they did not or more than likely just didn’t give a damn, because they kept on acting stupid in the back of the car. I thought back to my own kids probably up and romping around at this point at my grandparents’ home in West Virginia, where they were spending the remainder of their summer vacation.

  Gravel scraped across the wet asphalt as I walked. The clouds were all encompassing with no break in sight. Ambient light seemed to cast a gray-blue hue over everything. As I rounded a curve, three police cars came into view. The gray and yellow cars instantly identified the department as the Maryland transportation authority.

  “Good,” I said to myself. I had worked with these guys before. As always, there were a few pricks, but most of them seemed to be decent people. Several officers stood around a dark-green minivan, in black vinyl rain gear. One of the officers shined a flashlight into a window while another spoke into his lapel mic. As I approached, an officer standing slightly away from the scene took notice of me. I waved as I walked forward.

  “How ya doing, Officer?” I said as I put on my best fake smile. The transportation cop looked over his shoulder nervously and hurried toward me. “So what’s—”

  “Sir, you need to get back in your vehicle!” he ordered and pointed back in the direction I had come from. He came to stand nose to nose with me. “Sir, I gave you an order.”

  I stood there and looked stupefied at him. One of the pricks, I thought. “Sorry, man. We’re in an armored car down the road, and we’re just wondering if we could possibly get through. Got a lot of liability on board, and we’re sitting ducks back there.” I thrust a thumb in the direction of my vehicle.

  That line of logic usually got them thinking about them possibly being held responsible. I snuck a quick peek over his shoulder and noticed flashlight guy trying the door handle.

  “Look, I don’t give a shit if your wife is about to have the first alien baby.” He thrust his arm up and pointed toward the accident scene. “We have a serious situation and you need—” A scream from behind him stopped him midsentence.

  Both of us instinctively went for our sidearms. Officer Dick-head whirled around and froze in horror. I looked past him and noticed it too. We both stood there, mouths gaping for a moment. Flashlight guy was clutching his face as blood poured through his fingertips.

  What got out of the van took us completely by surprise. I was half expecting some belligerent and drunken bruiser with a shank in his hand, and what emerged was a blond-haired kid who reminded me of Dennis the Menace. The boy stumbled out of the front door and fell down on all fours. The kid was covered head to toe in gore. His blond hair was matted to his head with blood. Flashlight guy backed away from the kid as he crawled toward him.

  “Fuck, man, help! Little shit just bit me!” Flashlight guy spat blood on the ground. Radio Cop just stared at the boy stupidly, apparently not sure what to do. When it’s an adult and you don’t have a half mile’s worth of angry people in cars with camera phones, you can pretty much thump the shit out of anyone who has attacked a police officer, but this was just a kid. If they handled the situation even the least bit wrong, their asses would be plastered across Facebook and Twitter in a matter of seconds, YouTube video’s taken with random cell phones would make it on the six o’clock news. I glanced over my shoulder and noticed several nosy Nancies dangling cell-phone-laden arms out of windows trying to get a good shot of any carnage taking place. Probably hoping someone would get shot so they could end up on Dr. Phil talking about how horrible it was, and how it had scared them to witness such brutality, however, internally loving every second of national attention. Next thing you know they have a reality show and a fucking Chihuahua in a purse.

  Another yelp from flashlight guy snapped me back to reality. He was backed up against his cruiser, holding his torn face, blood still pooled over his fingers, and soaked into his gray woolen shirt. Dennis the Menace still crawled on all fours toward him.

  “Will somebody grab this kid? Something isn’t right with him!” Radio cop started to walk around the car toward the boy. He stopped in front of the open car door and looked down at the boy as if deciding how to best re
strain him. Should he cuff him, or simply just pick him up in a bear hug and restrain his arms? They were taught how to deal with punk ass teens and drunken adults, but seven-year-old kids, not so much. He decided his course of action, reaching behind his back for the handcuffs attached to his duty rig.

  At that precise moment, a growl seemed to emanate into the air, and a hand shot out of the passenger-side door and grabbed the officer by the arm. Thrown off balance, he pitched backward into the open car, his head disappearing into the SUV’s interior. A split second later, he screamed, red liquid sprayed across the windshield and out of the open passenger door. The officer’s legs kicked and spasmed. He jerked and writhed as if trying to throw something off. A wet gurgling sound was all I heard. Hearing another scream, I looked to my right. The young boy grabbed onto flashlight guy’s leg and sank his baby teeth into his muscular calf. The cop kicked out and reached for his sidearm. Officer Dick-head seemed to pull himself out of shock and drew his own weapon.

  “Stop right there!” he shouted at the boy. The boy took his attention from flashlight guy, mouth open in a snarl covered in fresh blood, and focused on us. Slowly, the kid got to his feet and snarled.

  Normally, the growl of a pissed off seven-year-old would not strike fear into my heart. I did, after all, have five children of my own. This boy, however, made my skin crawl. Aside from the blood and gore that seemed to cake every inch of the kid’s body, his eyes, even from this distance, bloodshot and cataract laden, stared at us with such intense hatred they made me want to turn tail and run back to the safe confines of my black and gray three-quarter-inch steel-plated armored truck.

  “Be smart, son. Don’t move!” Officer Dick-head said as he pointed his weapon in the general direction of the boy. His hands shaking as he stared down the barrel of his .44 Mag. At this point, I noticed flashlight guy crumple to the ground like a discarded piece of paper; he started to shake and convulse violently.