The Dead Series (Book 1): Tell Me When I'm Dead

by Steven Ramirez

  CONTENTS

  Tell Me When I'm Dead

  Complete Table of Contents

  A Simple Ask

  Acknowledgments

  The Playlist

  About the Author

  For George and John.

  You guys were right.

  They’re all messed up.

  The world’s gone mad, he thought. The dead walk about and I think nothing of it. The return of corpses has become trivial in import. How quickly one accepts the incredible if only one sees it enough!

  “Oh, Robert,” she said then, “it’s so unfair. So unfair. Why are we still alive? Why aren’t we all dead? It would be better if we were all dead.”

  — RICHARD MATHESON, I Am Legend

  NOT ALL DRAGGERS want to eat your flesh. Some want revenge.

  This was what went through my head as I lay frozen in the corner of a cold storage area, my body halfway to dead and my breath like a broken concertina. The pounding on the metal door was deafening. The wailing of the undead tore at my brain like a glass dagger. It was a matter of time before they got in. I might be able to take out one or two—even without a weapon—but in the end they’d finish me.

  I couldn’t get my mind clear. I thought I heard automatic gunfire and the sound of people screaming. How had the draggers broken in? Wasn’t anyone defending the doors? Maybe my captors were passed-out drunk.

  It would’ve been so much better for me had I done the same. I wouldn’t feel anything as I was ripped to pieces by animal-like claws and razor-sharp teeth that reeked of carrion, the filmy grey eyes unseeing and unfeeling.

  In my delirium I prayed Holly and Griffin made it to the Arkon building and under the protection of Warnick and his men. There was no way for me to check. My cell phone was busted. I hadn’t slept for days. I was hurt. Bad. Surrounded by huge aluminum tanks of ice-cold beer waiting to be tapped. Nice touch, Lord. Back atcha.

  Through the pounding and the screaming I wondered if my friend Jim was outside with the others, trying to claw his way in and shred me up out of hate for what happened to him. It wasn’t my fault he turned. It wasn’t anyone’s fault.

  In the days preceding this—I don’t remember when—I saw a horde tear a guy apart. Big as he was, he was no match for them. In a matter of seconds they had him on the ground as they ripped his belly open, exposing the soft, pulsating organs. They cored him like an apple, from bottom to top. His head was the last to die, I remember, his eyes frozen in the terror of seeing his own hollowed-out body shudder into stillness. I wished I had a gun.

  But it was the screaming. I’d never heard a man scream like that before. Was I capable of making that sound?

  I stared at the door, wondering if it would hold. There was no way to lock it from the inside. Besides, I was too weak. The nailheads had left me in here and were planning to kill me according to the one they called Ulie. It didn’t matter that I’d agreed to join their insane movement. Or the draggers would find me instead. You ’member that guy Dave Pulaski? Whatever happened to him? Oh yeah, he’s dead. Just like all the others.

  So far the horde was unable to pull the door open. I needed a beer bad.

  I thought of Black Dragon and the Red Militia. Both proved to be false remedies in these delirious times. The soldiers—private military contractors really—were overwhelmed. And the militia, which started out as a movement to “save” people, turned into ravening chaos and violence. They fought Black Dragon, they fought civilians and they fought themselves, all at the behest of their insane leader, Ormand Ferry, with his dream of a new order, which was disintegrating into a long, debauched night of madness here in this out-of-the-way brewery.

  I didn’t know which was worse—the draggers or Ormand Ferry. Either way you were dead.

  It was so cold in here as I sat there thinking about these last weeks—about Holly, Jim and Missy. Everything went wrong after that night—that lost night. And what about me? I was a good person—I am. Used to be … I don’t know. But it was after that monstrous night when everything went sideways and Hell came looking for the good people of Tres Marias.

  I REMEMBER. IT WAS July 5—the night when Jim got shitfaced and found his way to my house in the dark. He must’ve fallen, because when I answered the door well past ten, his upper lip was bleeding and one of his teeth was chipped.

  “Got any beer?” he said through blood and saliva.

  “You know I don’t.”

  “Communist.”

  Tres Marias was one of those towns in Northern California you passed through on your way to something better. There was nothing to do here except get drunk. Since high school that’s pretty much what Jim and I did. Before that I used to play hockey, and when I wasn’t on the ice I devoured books like a glutton. My favorites were by Faulkner, Steinbeck, Vonnegut and Dick. Somewhere along the line I decided beer was better. There was no reason for it other than it tasted good and got me high. What followed were no college and no high-paying job far away from the stink hole I called home. Instead of promise, every day I looked forward to low wages and getting lit.

  Then I met Holly. I don’t know why she spent two minutes on me. As we lay in bed the first time she said, “I can’t wait for you to become the man I will make you.” Any other guy would’ve walked. I stayed.

  I attended AA meetings and took community-college classes. Poor Jim kept on going the way he was going. Though he was still my friend, it got harder to see him. Because when I was with him, I saw myself—my old self. And I didn’t like it.

  Holly padded down the stairs and stood behind me, her arms folded. I knew she was mad. She told me she disapproved of Jim, fearing he’d get me drinking again. But I knew better. I’d changed my ways for good.

  “What do you want, Jim?” she said in that short tone of hers—the same tone she used when I forgot to take out the trash.

  Holly was a knockout of a girl with a high-school education. Smarter than most people I knew. Her all-time favorite movie was The Notebook. Though she was a head shorter than me, when she got into her power stance, her fine blonde hair hanging over her shoulders and those huge green eyes boring into you like some kind of industrial laser, she was scary.

  Jim opened his mouth to say something and threw up on the star jasmine.

  “Oh, for—Dave, get him out of here. Puh-leeeez.”

  “I’ll drive him home,” I said, getting my wallet and keys.

  Jim lived way out up the 5 at the edge of town near the national forest, in the house his father built. Both his parents were dead—like mine. He used to have a dog named Perro, but he went missing a few weeks back. He’d been following Jim on one of his drunken nighttime hikes along the 299 when an eighteen-wheeler almost ran them over. I always thought the tractor-trailer was meant for Jim and the dog sacrificed himself. But the dog had disappeared. Once I read a story about a dog that saved his owner’s life in a house fire and later died from smoke inhalation. It was the romantic in me, I guess.

  “So what happened?” I said as we glided along the dark highway, not a car in sight.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Why did you go on another bender?”

  “Thinking about the old days, I guess.”

  Jim Stanley and I used to be best friends, as close as any two brothers. We went to high school together. Got summer jobs together. Celebrated twenty-one together by driving up to the Point and drinking enough beer and vodka to bring down a moose. We passed out up there too. It was December and we almost died of the cold. When we woke, it was in the twenties and we both had hypothermia. Ended up in the hospital. Still, it was the best birthday ever.

  We l
iked pretending we were badasses, but we never did any real harm. My mom—sick as she was—kept me in line, and whenever Jim came over to hang out and eat, which was much of the time, she went to work on him too. When it came to advice, Jim always did have a tin ear though.

  “Jim, I keep telling you. Those days are gone.” I smelled the beer and puke on his breath, and I was glad we were no longer hanging out. I don’t know how I made it to twenty-four. Holly had everything to do with it, I guess.

  I met her working at Staples, where I managed the copy center. Two years younger than me, she was the new cashier and seemed to have her eye on me from Day One. I don’t think a week had gone by when she invited me to dinner at her mom’s up in Mt. Shasta. Then we went back to her little apartment. She was all over me in bed, but right before anything happened she laid it on the line. I’d have to stop drinking—that was the deal. No sobriety, no Holly. I saw the determination in her eyes—it was like she was on a mission from God. And it made me even hotter for her. So I signed on.

  After Holly and I married, Jim came around less and less. I’d see him downtown sometimes on my lunch break, but mostly he was out of my life. Things changed forever the night he showed up again.

  “Why don’t we hang out anymore?” Jim said. He sounded like a hurt child.

  “Aw, come on, man. Don’t do this.”

  “What?”

  “Lay the guilt on me. I’m married. I have responsibilities.”

  “She’s nothing but a piece—”

  “She’s my wife, asshole.”

  I looked over to see if he was crying and found him trying to pull his lower lip up over his nose.

  “So?” he said. “What about a boys’ night out once in a while?”

  “Next you’ll be wanting a sleepover.”

  “Shit, let’s do it.”

  “No.”

  “Why the hell not?”

  “Because I don’t have time for this anymore, Jim. Why don’t you grow up?”

  I didn’t mean for it to come out like that, but I was pissed off. And it’s not like Jim didn’t know the score.

  The silence carried us for another mile. He started singing the sappy chorus from “Someone Like You.” I don’t know what made me angrier—him knowing this song always brought tears to Holly’s eyes or what he might be insinuating. I smacked him hard across the ear. When I turned back, I saw something in the road coming at us and swerved to avoid it.

  It was Jim’s dog—I could swear it!

  After that I don’t know what happened. I couldn’t get on top of the situation. Next thing, we were going over the embankment, headed for the trees. Neither of us made a sound. It was at this moment I regretted never having fixed the passenger air bag.

  A hundred-year-old pine stood in front of us. We hit it hard. My air bag stopped me, thank God. Jim wasn’t wearing his seat belt, and his head went through the windshield with a sickening crunch. Then everything got quiet and my eyes closed.

  When I woke up I was alone. Beads of glass were everywhere. I looked over and saw a large hole in the windshield, dripping with blood, bits of flesh still hanging from the jagged edges. The passenger door was open.

  I saw raccoons vaguely in the glare of the headlights, their eyes shiny and hungry with anticipation. I knew as soon as I got out they’d be all over the windshield.

  It was hard to move—I was jammed pretty good against the steering wheel. I inched sideways and, feeling intense pain from my neck down, forced the driver’s-side door open and fell out onto the dry pine needles. I heard an owl hooting and the sound of the wind through the trees.

  As I searched for my friend, I called out but got no answer. “Jim! Come on, man, this isn’t funny.”

  It took me almost half an hour to get back up the embankment. I’d get a good start, but there was so much pain in my neck, back and legs. I kept slipping on those damned pine needles and gravel and sliding down to the bottom. Cursing, I’d go at it again, but I needed to rest after each attempt.

  At last I reached the top, and lay there on my side till I could catch my breath. I couldn’t see Jim anywhere. He had to be in pretty bad shape. He might be lying out there in the darkness somewhere nearby, bleeding to death.

  “Jim? Where are you?”

  I was in the middle of nowhere surrounded by silence. I dug into my jeans pocket for my phone and realized I’d forgotten it at home. It was a long walk back. I took one last look at my car down below. A gaze of raccoons pawed at the windshield. I hoped they didn’t cut themselves on the sharp, bloody glass.

  As I started down the road, I saw Perro again. The dog stared at me in the moonlight. There was something odd about him. His head was low, his body expanding and contracting like a bellows. I realized he was panting. Though it was dark, the animal’s eyes seemed to glow hot and red. Then he came after me, snapping and snarling.

  I turned and ran, but I couldn’t move very fast. And I couldn’t turn my head because of the pain. I had no idea if he was gaining on me.

  Blue-white headlights came up behind me. A horn blasted, and I heard a meaty thud followed by a grisly yelp. I stopped running. A white van with a logo I didn’t recognize was stopped in the middle of the road, the engine still idling. The blinding headlight beams illuminated the dog, which had been thrown several feet.

  I heard a car door open and saw the dark shape of a man getting out. He approached the softly panting animal.

  “Be careful,” I said. “I think he’s rabid.”

  “You okay?”

  “I could use a ride. Did you see anybody else on the road?”

  “Like who?”

  “My friend Jim. We were in a car accident. I need to find him.”

  “Sorry, I didn’t see anybody.”

  The dog howled suddenly and we backed off. The man ran back to his van and got a catch pole, but by the time he returned, Perro had limped off down the embankment and into the woods.

  “Shit,” he said.

  “Are you animal control?”

  The man looked at me. Then he said, “Come on, I’ll give you a lift.”

  As I climbed in I was able to read the side of the van. ROBBIN-SEAR INDUSTRIES, OLD ORCHARD ROAD, TRES MARIAS, CA. Both the name and address were unfamiliar to me.

  The Good Samaritan looked to be in his early thirties. He was dressed like an academic, wearing a sport jacket and jeans. Pale, with curly black hair and horn-rimmed glasses. A thin scar went from his upper lip to his nostril, and I realized he’d been born with a cleft palate. He said his name was Bob Creasy.

  “Good thing you stopped,” I said.

  He didn’t say anything. He seemed to be distracted and kept checking the rearview mirror. I must’ve looked pretty bad, because even though he tried to be helpful, he insisted on driving me to the police station rather than my house.

  “Did you get bit?” he said.

  “What? No, but if you hadn’t come along, it would’ve been over.”

  “You sure you weren’t bit?”

  “I’m sure.”

  A noise coming from the back of the van startled me. It sounded like growling. “What was that?”

  “Lot of injured animals on the road tonight,” he said.

  He didn’t seem to want to talk, preferring instead to fool with the car radio. At the police station he looked like he was in a hurry for me to get out.

  “Take care, buddy,” he said.

  I watched as he shot away, almost taking out a parked patrol car. Then I went inside to call Holly.

  She never said so, but I knew she was upset. We stopped at the emergency room even though I insisted I was fine. Good thing. The X-rays came back showing there was spinal damage at C3 and C4. They made me put on a neck brace. Said I was lucky I wasn’t paralyzed.

  While we waited, a man with a goiter came in, complaining about a kid in the park who had bitten him.

  On the way home, Holly and I “talked.”

  “So were you drinking?” she said. That was
always her first question whenever I screwed up. If I broke a glass washing the dishes, she’d ask me where I’d gotten the beer.

  “No,” I said. “Holly, how long is it going to take before you trust me?”

  “Well, let’s see. You stopped going to AA three months ago.”

  “It was two months. And anyway, I don’t need those people telling me I have no power over alcohol. I do and I’m fine, FYI.”

  “Then why did you lose control of the car?”

  “I swerved to avoid a dog, okay? Smell my breath.”

  “Never mind,” she said. Great, now she was getting weepy. “I was worried.”

  That was the thing with her. She acted all hard on the outside, but inside she was like a marshmallow. I knew I was supposed to be the man, but I was still pissed off. So I let her stew in it. We drove on in silence. I closed my eyes and let myself drift.

  The ER doctor had prescribed Vicodin for the pain, but I asked for Motrin instead. When we got home, I was so sore I couldn’t make it up the stairs. Apparently over her hissy fit, Holly kissed me and made me a bed on the sofa in the TV room.

  “I need to find Jim,” I said.

  “Dave, you need to rest. Come on, let me help you.”

  I lay down, and a few minutes later I was gone.

  In my dream I woke up in daylight. Jim was standing there wearing a curious expression, a dark red gash ringing his neck like a twisted reddish lei. I tried screaming, but when I opened my mouth, blood gushed out. Gallons of it, running down the sofa and spreading like a lake on the oval area rug and covering the hardwood floor. Shiny parasitic things that looked like kidney worms writhed and convulsed in the blood. Had I coughed them up too?

  Someone touched my shoulder and I opened my eyes. It was night, and Holly was standing there in the Giants jersey I’d bought her the previous summer. She looked so good, I wasn’t mad anymore. I took her hand.

  “You were moaning,” she said.

  “Bad dream. What do you think happened to Jim?”

  “I don’t know. He’s prob’ly back at his house, sleeping it off.”