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

by Steven Ramirez

  Isaac waved Patty away and positioned the cops on either side of him. Then he signaled for them to draw their weapons. His hand shaking bad, he slipped a key into the lock, took a breath and flung the door open.

  Sal, the neighbor who’d been attacked in his backyard, glared at us hot and angry. His face was livid, and his grey, motionless eyes were hard and dry. His mouth was pulled back into a hideous grimace. One of his arms was chewed to the bone.

  Patty screamed as her husband lunged at the men. Everyone scattered. One of the cops tried to aim his weapon, but Sal was too quick. Before anyone could stop him, he was on one of the cops, biting off his fingers and goring his face and neck. The cop’s screams died in a gurgle of choking blood.

  “Sal!” Patty tried to go to her husband, but Isaac and I held her back.

  “Shoot him!” Isaac said to the other cop.

  “No!” Patty said.

  The cop aimed and let off a couple of rounds, both hitting Sal in the back. Sal turned, an eye stalk hanging from his teeth.

  “Try for the head!”

  “Please, no!” Patty said.

  The cop fired three times, huge chunks of bloody brain matter splattering against the white wall. Sal shuddered and collapsed on the floor.

  Seeing her dead husband, Patty crumpled in a sobbing heap and tried crawling towards him. “Sal! Dear God, what’s happening?”

  “No, stay back,” Isaac said.

  He and the other cop examined the fallen police officer. He was bleeding out and mumbled like a frightened child.

  “We need to isolate him,” Isaac said, looking at Dr. Vale, who stood motionless. “Eileen, now!”

  It was late when we left the hospital—too late to take Isaac to Enterprise to pick up his car, so I drove him home. He’d have to wait till morning to sort out the wrecked car and get a new one. Grabbing his bag and medical kit from the backseat, he came around to the driver’s side.

  “I appreciate the ride,” he said.

  “Sure.”

  “Dave, I don’t know how bad this thing is going to get. Go find your wife and get the hell away from here before they lock it all down.”

  “She’s done with me. Besides, Detective Van Gundy said not to leave the area.”

  “The cops are going to have their hands full.”

  “I can’t see her anymore,” I said. “I need to stay and figure something out.”

  “They might arrest you. You could tell them the truth and hope for the best.”

  “It was stupid.”

  “Stupid doesn’t begin to describe it. If you’d saved the girl, you’d be a hero. Next time. Take care, Dave.”

  I watched as Isaac went into his house. He was a good friend. I got the sense he wouldn’t tell Van Gundy what he knew. Nevertheless, if I was arrested and the case went to trial, they would call him in to testify. Isaac had never lied to a jury in his life, I’d bet.

  I wondered if Holly told the detective the truth. If she had, I was screwed. Unless, as Isaac had pointed out, all hell broke loose. It’s not something I wished for, but an outbreak was just the thing to get me out of my troubles.

  I HATED HOLLY. First she left me, then ratted me out. I didn’t deserve that. All I was trying to do was help. I wanted for things to go back to the way they were. Hard to do when you’re a cheating, cowardly piece of crap. Hard when dead people are feasting on the living. How was that my fault?

  I wasn’t conflicted or anything.

  Though it was late, the streets were filled with people moving numbly along the sidewalks. They appeared drugged. I thought they might be infected. There were lights flashing as cops stopped some of these moody drifters, beamed flashlights in their faces and made them answer a lot of questions. That’s when I realized they weren’t infected. They must have witnessed something gruesome—perhaps a family member being mauled—and were in shock. There were hundreds of them out.

  I knew something wasn’t right when I parked in my driveway and walked up to the front door—it was ajar. I was sure I locked up before driving up to Mt. Shasta. My heart racing, I ran back to my truck. All I could find was a four-way lug wrench. Outstanding.

  Pushing the door open, I flicked on the lights and peered inside. There was blood everywhere. The walls were smeared with it. And the smell. It was the stench of meat rot and excrement. I wanted to hurl, but I sucked the bile back down. Cold-sweating, I scanned the room for movement. Glancing outside, I saw that the neighborhood was deserted.

  As I passed through the living room towards the kitchen, turning on lights as I went, I stepped over the carcasses of dogs, cats and raccoons. Most had been gored. Others were headless. A heart-stopping banshee scream ripped through me.

  Swinging around, I found Missy standing inches from me. Her complexion was grey, her dark hair matted with twigs and live insects. Her fingers were long and pointy, and I saw bone coming through the torn fingertips. She smelled like a charnel house. Her black tongue flicked as she focused on me.

  For a time she just stood there, grinning hideously.

  I didn’t know what to do—I tried hitting her with the lug wrench. She grabbed it and, with the strength of a wrestler, tore it from my hands and threw it aside. I turned to run, but I tripped on a dead dog that had been ripped in half. She grabbed for me. I scrambled away, got to my feet and tried to make it through the kitchen to the back door.

  Then she did something extraordinary.

  She leapt towards me like some kind of demoniacal broad jumper. She was on my back now, and I didn’t know how to get her off. I was afraid she’d bite me. Her body generated no heat whatsoever. I spun around in the kitchen, trying to shake her off. I was sure she would sink her fangs into my neck.

  I bolted backwards towards the sink. Then I heard something crack as her grip loosened, allowing me to get free. She tried straightening up, but something was wrong. She gave herself a hard twist and fell into a sitting position, staring at me with those maggot-filled doll’s eyes. She opened her mouth wide and let out a death shriek that tore at my eardrums. I wanted to scream with her.

  I ran out the front door, got into my truck and hit the gas. A police cruiser screeched to a stop in front of me, and I slammed on the brakes. Detective Van Gundy’s beige sedan pulled up behind it. What was he doing there? The detective and patrolman ran to the driver’s door and, guns raised, yanked it open.

  I couldn’t speak. My teeth were chattering, and I was breathing so hard I thought my lungs would explode.

  “What happened?” Van Gundy said.

  “Inside! Missy!”

  He and the patrolman entered the house. I expected to hear the death shriek again, but all was quiet. I sat in the truck, trying to calm myself. I thought of a Donovan song, “Catch the Wind,” my mother used to sing to me when I was little and got scared.

  Time passed to the pounding of my heart. After long minutes, Detective Van Gundy and the patrolman came out the front door. Still shaky, I got out and moved towards them, my legs like clay.

  “She’s not in the house,” the patrolman said. “Must’ve gone out the back.”

  “Good thing you guys showed.”

  “One of your neighbors called 911,” Van Gundy said. “I was on my way home, and when I heard it was your house, I came right over. Did she attack you?”

  “She was waiting for me.” I was still breathless.

  “Did a nice job on your house.”

  “I think she’s one of them,” I said.

  “‘Them’?” the patrolman said.

  “The undead—whatever you want to call them.” They exchanged a glance. “There were maggots crawling around in her eyes. I’m telling you, she’s dead.”

  The patrolman drove off, and the detective waited inside as I packed some clothes. Obviously I couldn’t stay there. I thought of Holly. What if she was planning to drive back? Mad as I was at her, I still cared. Before leaving the house, I texted her.

  As I climbed into my truck, Detective Van Gundy to
uched my arm. “Don’t worry,” he said. “We’ll find her.”

  “Sure,” I said, confident that he didn’t know what the hell he was talking about.

  “Why did she come after you?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Still with the lies? Suit yourself.”

  “She hates me,” I said. He waited for more. “Because I broke it off with her. She’s a jealous bitch.”

  “After seeing the house, I don’t think hate is a strong enough word.”

  I watched him drive off. I might have to invent a new word, I thought. Nothing in my experience could describe what Missy felt about me.

  As I pulled away, I looked back at the house. I knew I wouldn’t be coming back. It occurred to me that we didn’t even have a pet fish. Better to burn the place to the ground, along with my past.

  It was early morning. I hadn’t slept in more than a day. I was able to find a cheap room at the Pine Nut Motel, which was located in a crappy part of town near the railroad tracks. With everything that had happened, it was amazing I wasn’t guzzling beer by the barrel. So I had to laugh when I saw that the motel stood next to a 7-Eleven, which I knew stocked plenty of beer.

  All I wanted was to sleep. After taking a shower and changing clothes, I fell asleep on top of the covers. When I woke, it was late afternoon. I called Fred at Staples. He wasn’t too pleased that I hadn’t come in yet. I promised to get over there right away and work till closing.

  “This isn’t like you, Dave,” he said. I heard the concern in his voice. “Everything okay? How’s Holly? Really hated to lose her.”

  “We can talk about that when I get there.”

  Fred was the kind of guy who took things personally. Everything that didn’t come out right in his or anyone else’s life he considered a personal failure. For example, Fred had been trying to convince one of the new guys to quit smoking. He even got him to cut back to a pack a day through sheer nagging. But when it came time to drop the habit altogether, the ungrateful little shit told Fred to go screw himself, and quit his job instead.

  Fred was devastated. Over and over he dissected that last confrontation, pleading with the rest of us to tell him what he’d done wrong. Had he gone too far? Was he being insensitive to the guy’s needs? I think, deep down, Fred wanted to be liked.

  Stacey, a pretty cashier with two years of junior college under her belt, told Fred not to worry. In her learned twenty-year-old’s opinion, that guy was an asshat who didn’t know what was good for him. Though Fred appeared to accept this explanation, I doubt it made him feel any better.

  I was starving and stopped off at La Adelita to swallow a couple of pork soft tacos. It was almost six, and all I thought about was going to bed again.

  When I got to Staples, I found that part of the glass front door was broken and plywood had been put up to cover it. Then I saw Fred as I came in.

  “What happened?” I said.

  “Some kind of weirdo. Went through the glass like it wasn’t there.”

  “Anyone else hurt?”

  “I cut myself,” he said, waving his bandaged hand. “I called 911 and the ambulance took the poor guy away. He was pretty wound up, I gotta tell you. You’d better get over to your station. Copiers are acting up again, and we have print jobs up the yin yang.”

  “What about you?” I said.

  “Oh, I cut my hand on the damn glass. EMT gave me a tetanus shot and fixed me right up. No big deal.”

  This was typical Fred. Downplaying the whole thing so as not to worry the rest of us. What a martyr. But what if whoever that guy was who broke the glass was infected and his blood had spilled onto the door? Fred would be infected. No one knew how the undead were being created, but I had to assume that whatever the cause, it was transmittable through bodily fluids. That’s what Isaac thought. And as with other deadly diseases, blood and saliva were suspect.

  “Fred, do you feel okay?” I said.

  “I’m fine. Just a little tired. Guess I lost more blood than I thought.” He turned to go over to a cash register. I noticed that he was already walking stiffly. The jimmies. Not good.

  “Take it easy,” I said, and went to work.

  Twenty minutes later, Fred announced that he was going to the break room to lie down, saying he felt funny.

  “It feels like a fever, but there’s this buzzing in my brain. I can’t shake it.”

  He headed for the restroom. Having to pee myself, I followed him in. Without speaking, he went into one of the stalls and threw up.

  “Shit!” he said.

  I swung the door out as he straightened up and wiped his mouth. Whatever it was that he’d upchucked, the water in the toilet bowl was black.

  “Fred, you need a doctor,” I said.

  “Naw. Going to lie down awhile. I’ll be fine. Let me know if anything comes up.”

  An hour later, Stacey came running, scared shitless. “There’s something wrong with Fred! He—he doesn’t look like he’s breathing!”

  I followed Stacey into the break room and found Fred lying motionless on the brown Naugahyde sofa. His skin was greyish in the fluorescent lights. I ran and got a pair of the plastic gloves we use to change the toner in the laser printers. I checked Fred’s eyes and listened for any kind of breathing.

  “Call 911,” I said.

  Fred sat up and blinked like we weren’t there.

  “Fred, you okay? You gave us a scare.”

  He ignored Stacey and me as she waited on hold for the 911 dispatcher. When he tried to speak but couldn’t, I knew. He kept moving his mouth in an unnatural way, like he had awakened and found that he now had jaws. I recognized the symptom.

  “Fred, we’re calling the paramedics. You’re going to be—”

  He took a weak, angry swipe at my head, and I jumped back. “Stacey, get out!” I said. But she was frozen, unable to comprehend what was happening. “Stacey! Get out!” She snapped out of it and ran from the room.

  Fred made another feeble attempt to claw me, then stopped and looked around the room and up at the ceiling lights. The brightness seemed to bother him. He tried again to say something, but instead ground his teeth so hard I heard the scraping of bone against bone. One of this teeth broke, and he spit the bloody pieces onto the floor.

  Dear God, I knew what was coming. The urge to run away was overpowering. I didn’t want to die. What kept me going was the thought that I might be able to help Stacey and the others. I scanned the room, looking for a weapon. There was nothing. A coffee maker, a water cooler, several five-gallon plastic bottles of water lined up on the floor, a refrigerator and a push broom.

  The broom was it. All the time looking at Fred, I backed away and grabbed it. Then I unscrewed the handle and held it in both hands as Fred watched me, unaware of any threat, like he was seeing an actor in a play.

  Outside I heard Stacey scream, then someone grabbed me from behind. I tried to get away, but they had a firm lock on my head. I smelled sick, fetid breath but heard no breathing. Then I saw a hand. Bone was sticking out through ripped fingertips.

  I dropped to my knees and rolled hard to one side. As I turned, I saw Missy staring at me. How did she get into the store without anyone seeing her? As I scrambled to my feet, holding the broom handle out in front of me like a lightsaber, something strange happened.

  She turned and called to Fred in a series of short, piercing chirps that broke the stillness of the room. His ears seemed to prick. She directed her dead eyes back at me, and Fred came at me like a linebacker in sudden death. She was giving him commands!

  I heard a siren. A moment later, two EMTs rushed in with Stacey.

  “Careful,” I said. “They’re dangerous.”

  Too late. Missy turned and swiped a ravaged claw at an EMT’s face, ripping it half off. Wailing and grabbing the raw flesh and bone, he fell back, blood gushing everywhere, while the second EMT tried to grab her.

  Fred and Missy went after the second man. With the efficiency of wolves, they went to wo
rk on him, starting with his throat.

  “What’s happening?” Stacey said.

  As I jumped past, Missy grabbed me and sank her teeth into my shoe. But the bite didn’t go through the leather. Kicking her in the face, I grabbed Stacey and forced her out of the room.

  In the main part of the store, I screamed for everyone to get out. The few customers we had didn’t know what was happening. All at once they tried to make it through the inner exit door, but panicked, they jammed it up.

  “One at a time!” I said.

  Now Missy and Fred were there. I looked back as the customers went out. Then I grabbed Stacey by the hand and dragged her towards the inner door, but there were still people going out the door.

  “Come on,” I said.

  I tried the manager’s office in the front. I could lock us in there till more help arrived. As usual, the door was locked. I tried finding the right key as Stacey whimpered behind me.

  “Dave, hurry!”

  Before I could get her into the office, Missy leapt ten or twelve feet over the checkout station and brought Stacey down like she were a gazelle.

  “Dave!”

  I tried hitting Missy with the broom handle, and it snapped in two. Missy feasted on Stacey’s eyes, tongue and throat. She must have hit an artery, because a jet of hot blood pumped rhythmically onto the front windows of the store like an automatic sprinkler. This excited Missy even more, and she washed her face in it as Fred joined in.

  Repulsed, I tried to make it through the outer exit doors, but Fred grabbed me, screeching. Pulling back for a second, I gripped the broken broom handle and shoved the jagged end hard through his open mouth. It stuck there, and as he staggered in circles trying to dislodge it, I saw it protruding from the back of his neck.

  I made it outside, where a cop stared in horror at what was happening. It was dark out, and the parking-lot lights cast everything in a sickly orange glow.

  Missy came out, hungry only for my blood. The policeman drew his gun and fired at her, hitting her in the arms and chest and driving her back.

  “The head!” I said. “Shoot her in the head!”