Dead Pulse Rising: A Zombie Novel

by K. Michael Gibson

  Richard moved forward and came to rest his hand on Marvin’s shoulders. “Marvin, I . . . I’m so sorry . . .”

  Richard didn’t get a chance to finish the sentence as Marvin shot up from his crouching position with a speed and agility that Richard had not expected to see from the old man. He shot a fist out and caught Richard in the chin, knocking the police officer back a few steps.

  “Fuck you!” he shouted, tears streaming from his eyes. “Fuck all of you . . .” He trailed off and went back down to his knees sobbing.

  Richard stood there stunned for a moment. He rubbed his chin and shook off the blow when something to Marvin’s side caught his attention. It was subtle, but it was definitely something. Sitting next to Marvin on the floor was what looked to be a very large boot print. Mud caked on the carpet in a distinctive tread pattern. At closer observation, Richard could see the prints led in and also back out of the room. Judging from the size of the print, whoever had left it, had to be at least 6' 5" or more.

  “Marvin,” Richard spoke quietly, and Marvin ignored him. “Marv,” he tried again. “Look down to your right,” Richard said softly, trying his best to keep the edge out of his voice. Marvin glanced down at the floor and saw the muddy imprint on the carpet.

  “So what?” Marvin cried, gazing at the boot print through tear-stained eyes. “It’s just a fucking footprint.” He sobbed, not making the connection.

  “Marv, look closer, that’s not one of your prints. Unless you happened to be taller this morning,” Richard said, trying somewhat to bring this man back to reality. This was a horrible situation, but if the old man continued down this path for much longer, both of them were going to die.

  Marvin looked back down once more, then back up to his wife. The realization set in as he remembered the syringe sitting downstairs on the kitchen table, if she had injected herself downstairs and then again up here, the syringe would have still been with her. Marvin looked around the room to see if another needle lay in the vicinity. None had, which meant someone had injected her and then left her here, but why? Why leave the evidence lying around . . . unless, unless they wanted him to know it wasn’t an accident. The thought tore through Marvin’s mind like a thunderbolt, and he stood erect. “Homeland did this. I’m sure of it,” Marvin vehemently spat out.

  Richard stood there in silence.

  Marvin gazed down at his wife’s dead form. “Why would they do this, though? She’s never done anything to anybody,” he sobbed again.

  Richard caught movement out of the corner of his eye. The police officer stared intently at the elderly woman lying on the bed. For a moment, he could have sworn he had seen her hand twitch.

  Marvin walked over to the upstairs window and stared out into the din. He touched his fingers to his chin, his mind racing with a thousand and one thoughts about what had transpired. Why would they kill his wife? What the hell was the point? They had to be sending some sort of message, but he had no clue as to what it would be. The only thing Marvin could surmise in his brain’s distraught state was that these people wanted that case more than any of them could have imagined, and if they knew where he lived, then Kyle was also in danger. They had to warn him.

  Marvin turned to face Richard when his wife’s body shot straight up in her bed. She stared at them with hollow eyes and lunged at Richard.

  “No, baby, no!” Marvin cried as the creature that was once his wife slammed into Richard, knocking him to the floor. She climbed on top of him, snarling and snapping.

  Richard grabbed her by her spindly arms and thrust her forward off him. She landed hard against the other side of the room and quickly scrambled back to her feet. Richard rolled over and deftly moved back into a standing position.

  Marvin stood there, staring in stunned silence, rooted to the floor, his mouth quivering at the sight of his beloved’s face covered in blood and drool. Her once lovely features twisted in rage. Richard brought up his pistol and prepared to fire as Marvin screamed out.

  “No!” he shouted and moved to intercept as Richard squeezed the trigger. The shot caught the woman in the forehead, and she fell to the carpeted floor in a mound of brittle bones and paper-thin flesh.

  Marvin fell to his knees beside her once more, screaming out in pain and anguish. He gathered her up in his arms and held her close, rocking her back and forth as she stared lifelessly up at him once again.

  This sucks, Richard thought. It was bad enough to lose a loved one once, but twice in the same night? At that point, the police officer was glad that he was unmarried and any family he had lived several states away.

  A loud crash from downstairs caused Richard to wrench his eyes away from the grieving man on the floor. Richard lifted the shotgun that hung from a strap on his side and raised it up to his shoulder, and then moved over into the hallway.

  He sprinted over to the top of the stairs and peered down to see the shadows of shambling forms entering in through the sliding glass window. The sounds of Marvin’s screams and the gunshot from his sidearm must have alerted the infected to their position. Quickly, Richard ran back down the hallway, and peered into the bedroom.

  “Marv, we gotta go!” he shouted to be heard over the increasing volume of the infected’s wails below. Marvin didn’t respond. He simply sat there, still rocking his wife’s body back and forth in his lap. “Goddamn it,” Richard spat out and crossed the room in an instant. The large police man reached down and grabbed Marvin by the arm and bodily hauled him to his feet. Marvin stood there in silence, too weak to fight and in shock, Richard realized. “Marv, you need to snap out of it, or we’re both dead,” Richard said, grabbing the old man by the shoulders, and giving him a shake.

  The old vet simply closed his eyes. “Just leave me. I don’t want to be without her. I just want to stay,” Marvin whimpered.

  Richard felt panic welling up in his stomach as he heard the infected begin to clomp onto the bottom of the stairs. Hastily, Richard grabbed Marvin’s discarded shotgun, and thrust it into his hands. Marvin reluctantly took the weapon and let it hang at his side. Rich dragged him forward and out into the hallway. He pointed down the stairs at the oncoming horde and shouted in the old man’s face. “I don’t know about you, but I don’t plan on ending up like one of them! Do you think that’s what she would have wanted for you?”

  Richard’s words stung in Marvin’s ears, and that seemed to snap the man out of it.

  Looking at Richard with tear-stained eyes, Marvin seemed to steel himself, allowing the aspects of their situation to sink in. The old vet nodded and wiped the offending liquid away from his face. He looked around the hallway and pointed upward.

  “There,” he said, pointing to a hidden drawstring in the ceiling. An attic, Richard presumed. Although Marvin would have needed a step ladder to reach the cord, Richard’s 6' 2" stature allowed him to jump up, and snatch it in the air. Quickly, he pulled down the trap door with a loud springy creak. He grabbed the folding stairs and pulled them down. “All right, you first,” Richard ordered, pushing the elderly man toward the steps.

  Marvin didn’t resist; he simply grabbed onto the ladder-like stairs and made his way up into the darkness.

  The infected stumbled atop one another, trying to get up the staircase and to the fresh meat that sat above them.

  Hurriedly, Richard climbed up after Marvin; the metal coils creaked and sprang under his weight, the sounds almost deafening in the confines of the hallway. Richard made it to the landing above. Reaching down, he grabbed the closest wooden step and pulled upward with all his strength. The infected clawed at the bottom rungs as he hefted the heavy spring-loaded staircase up and into the ceiling.

  Chapter 30

  After driving through just about every country back road from the airport district to Harford County, I had finally managed to make it to my homestead. The roads I had chosen had been eerily devoid of anything moving, the normal sounds of birds and squirrels rustling through the trees were absent as I made my way home. Smoke fr
om distant fires hovered on the horizon as I passed in and out of wooded areas. It wasn’t until I made it to the main strip of Route 40 that I even noticed any of the widespread devastation that seemed to be all around me. Cars set empty along the middle of the expressway and forced me up and onto the shoulder. There were several points I was worried that the lowered formula Mustang would get hung up on a curb as the bottom of the car scraped along, showering the sidewalk in sparks. There were several tense moments where the lanes became so choked with cars that I feared there would be no way of getting around the obstructions short of ramming them.

  I peered into many of the empty transports as I slowly made my way past them, looking for any signs of life still trapped inside. None were particularly forthcoming; many of the doors and windows hung open, cab lights and door alarms still binging away in the interiors of many still-running vehicles.

  Finally, after what felt like hours, I made it into my neighborhood. I was shocked when I pulled in to see many of my fellow residents trailer’s had been reduced to flames and ash, many of them still smoldering in the afternoon heat, adding to the oppressiveness of the day. Several bodies lay in the street, crowding gutters and sidewalks in the area, spread along the roadsides like rubbish. My heart leapt slightly when I turned onto my street and noticed that my wife’s van was absent from the scene.

  “Thank God,” I breathed as I pulled alongside my driveway. A quick check of my surroundings led me to believe that for the moment, the coast was clear. I grabbed my shotgun from off the passenger seat and checked to make certain that a round was in the chamber. Satisfied that the gun was conflict ready, I exited the vehicle. I entered my home like a DEA agent on a drug raid and swept the shotgun left and then right. The first thing I had noticed upon entering was how the door hung open on wiry hinges. I cursed the manufacturer of the mobile home and continued on. One by one, I cleared the home—starting with my children’s rooms.

  At the moment, I was extremely thankful that my children were on vacation somewhere else. Hopefully safe, staying with my grandparents in the mountains of West Virginia. With any luck, this blight hadn’t even reached there yet. Shifting that thought to the side, I made my way into my bedroom. The room itself was in complete disarray; bedding and clothing lay strewn across the room in unorganized heaps. My wife’s knickknacks littered the floor, broken and crushed under footsteps that had obviously trampled them into the wooden floors. The bathroom door hung ajar and had been busted inward; the doorway leading to my closet was completely torn off its hinges. A body lying in between the bathroom proper and my closet told me that something had definitely went down, as if I needed any more convincing.

  I gingerly stepped over the fallen corpse, taking notice that its head had nearly been removed from its shoulders, and set about gathering my supplies. Grabbing one of the many duffle bags from off the top shelf, I started loading it up. I dumped several boxes of various types of ammunition—including rounds for my beloved .357 Smith & Wesson. MREs were the next item to be added in to the pot; I loaded enough of those to last several people for about a week or more if rationed right.

  A noise outside of the closet forced me to stop what I was doing and listen. I waited for several minutes to see if it would come again. Nothing but silence greeted my expectant ears.

  Thankful, I resumed my task. I bent over and unlocked a heavy wooden chest and grabbed out the crowning jewel of my firearms collection. The AR-15 felt comforting in my hands; it was like an old friend came home for a visit in my arms. The custom stock provided an easy grip and helped reduce recoil when set to full auto. I had it mounted with a night-vision scope that would allow me to practically shoot the flea off a dog’s ass at a hundred yards or more, even in lowlight conditions. I hefted it in my arms and gauged the weight; ultimately, I swapped the shotgun out in favor of the weapon and loaded it in the bag with the other supplies. I also stacked several .22 hunting rifles inside, mainly because the ammunition for those was not only lightweight, but plentiful.

  After I finished loading the bag to what I presumed was its tear-weight capacity, I hefted it up and slung it over my shoulder. The heavy nylon strap dug down into the flesh of my neck as it settled into place. Hurriedly, I carried the burden out of the house, nearly tripping down the rickety wood stairs attached to my front deck, and crossed the yard. I threw the heavy bag into the backseat of the Mustang and gave my home of the last few years one final look. I settled myself into the driver’s seat and restarted the engine.

  Chapter 31

  It took roughly forty or so minutes to make it over toward my parents’ place. The ride for the most part was fairly uneventful aside from a few shambling forms that I had spotted in the distance. The ones I had seen for the most part either grouped around buildings or walked along pathways of congested cars. For some reason, activity seemed to increase the farther down the road I traveled.

  My first thought was to simply drive into their cul-de-sac and park directly in front of the house, thus allowing me to transfer the heavy bag of supplies directly into my wife’s van. Common sense, however, got the better of me. With the loud engine of the Mustang, the last thing I wanted to do was to draw a horde of the infected directly to my parents’ front door; so siding on an air of caution, I decided to park the car along the side of the road about a half mile or so from the property. I chose an area that had an entrance leading into the woods.

  My parents’ home was surrounded on all sides by trees, and as I kid, I ran and romped through the forest like it was my own personal playground. I could remember years ago crawling with my friends through the woods, carrying toy rifles, and hunting one another down like enemy combatants. We dug pits, built traps and forts, and had the time of our lives doing it. The thought had never crossed my mind that I would be back here someday, only this time doing it for real.

  I let out a long sigh. I gathered what equipment I could carry on my back, deciding to leave the rest in the rear of the Mustang. If my wife was indeed at my parents’ place, this road wasn’t too far off that we couldn’t just simply swing around over to it and grab the remaining supplies. Choosing my .357 and the AR-15, I reloaded each and grabbed several spare magazines and speed loaders, and then tucked them into my duty rig. I exited the vehicle, locking it securely, and headed for the trail leading deeper into the forest.

  The trailhead lay just on the other side of the sidewalk and behind an old-fashioned wooden fence that someone had erected some time ago to keep the neighborhood children out. I shook my head at the thought of that notion. This is why most of our children now are overweight, lazy, and would rather be stuck in front of a video game than out here experiencing actual life.

  I straddled the fence and hopped over. The old trail through the forest was barely visible through the heavy overgrowth that had taken place over the years, and I hoped that I could still remember which way to go given all the changes that had taken place.

  I looked into the sky and decided the sun was going to be dipping below the horizon very, very soon, meaning more time had passed than I had realized. I needed to get a move on. If the sun was dropping rapidly out here, that meant it was going to be getting dark inside of the woods that much faster. I slipped into the thick underbrush stealthily, years of training taking over as I did so. I moved slowly at first, most of the overgrowth having taken place on the outskirts of the woods where the sun had more of a chance to penetrate down to the forest floor below. After breaking through the shrubs and brambles, I exited on the other side into the forest proper. I moved swiftly at that point, memories of my young exploits through the wilderness flooding back to me as I traveled. I passed by the remnants of an old dilapidated tree house my friend Matt and I had built as children. It stood atop several large branches in an old oak tree and hung there in broken and rotted pieces. Following these old signs I manage to pick up the trail leading to my folk’s house with relative ease.

  The area around me began to darken as I emerged from the woods
out onto the top of a hill overlooking the cul-de-sac where my parent’s home resided. I could make out candlelight inside of the home, which gave me a sense of relief that they had managed to buckle down and pull through. My view of the street below was obscured by another home that set at the bottom of the hill directly in front of me, so I adjusted positions. My heart soared as I noticed the navy-blue Honda Odyssey parked in front of the house. There were shapes lying around the lawn that I had a hard time making out in the encroaching darkness of twilight.

  I lifted my rifle up and flipped on the NVGs. Peering through the optics, I realized the shapes I had been looking at were indeed the remains of human corpses. I focused in on the bodies, making certain none of them were my own family members. Although some of them seemed to look somewhat familiar being neighbors and such, I supposed, people I had seen merely in passing as I dropped my children off on occasion to spend the day with their grandparents. I had seen so much craziness today the offending bodies didn’t seem to even make a dent in my psyche. I swept the rifle up and down the street, scanning for threats, when something odd caught my eyes. On the end of the road was a white SUV. The same kind of white SUV I had seen the Department of Homeland Security driving earlier that day.

  “Shit,” I cursed inwardly as I searched the area. From this angle, I couldn’t tell if the SUV bore the seal of the department or not. It could have just as well belonged to one of the neighbors. I looked at the vehicle for a long moment and continued my scan. I was about to cease my reconnaissance and make my way down to the house as something shifted in the darkness behind me.