Reavers (Z-Risen Series Book 4)

by Timothy W. Long

  “Does it really matter anymore? Most of the US is dead and shambling around looking for flesh. Parts of the world are rumored to be virus-free, but how long can that last? Once the US economy collapsed, the rest of the world wasn’t far behind. Last I heard, you could take a wheelbarrow full of Euros and buy a loaf of bread. Just like the end of World War I,” Steve interjected.

  Douglas fired up the SUV and we pulled out of the parking lot. He checked a map and then eyed a street sign. The vehicle sped up and poked along abandoned roads for a few minutes.

  I picked out figures behind drawn curtains. Zs roamed the streets in small groups, but most gave us no notice.

  “This has been great and all, food, a free ride, and getting intimate with the little strip search. Lemme guess, you guys used to work for TSA.”

  Diane chuckled.

  “Nothing wrong with being overly cautious,” Steve said from the driver’s seat.

  “Guess not. So now that we’ve checked each other out, are you indicating that we're welcome with open arms into your little utopia?" I asked.

  "First of all, it's no utopia. We work. We only accept people who are skilled, and by skilled I mean good at stuff other than bashing in heads," Steve nodded at my pipe wrench.

  “I was an engineer,” I said.

  “Great. We got enough pencil pushers.”

  “No. I was in the Navy and I used to work on big engines. I also worked on our desalinization plant, so I can turn salty water into clean water with the right equipment and chemicals,” I said.

  “That’s interesting. Not that we have easy access to sea water, but it’s an option we can consider. We’ll get you checked in, and if you work out, great, if not, no hard feelings.”

  “No hard feelings, like a bullet to the head?” I asked.

  “Christ, man. We’re not fucking savages. We’d send you on your way with a sack lunch and a handshake. Just don’t take it personal. Every person on site has a clearly-defined job, and if you don’t fit in, then have a nice life. Just don’t fuck with us in the future.”

  I chewed on that for a second. Did I really want to get stuck with a bunch of farmers who were interested in the future of mankind? My future of late involved looking for a place to hide, scrounging food, and shooting things in the head.

  “I’ll be honest. I’m sick to death of constantly looking over my back, hiding, running, scrambling for guns and food. I’ve had enough of this apocalypse. I’d love a place to call home.”

  Christy looked at me. “What about…”

  “I know. We left friends back there, or maybe they left us. We’ll probably never see them again. We have to do what’s right to survive,” I said. As far as motivational speeches went, it was nothing stellar.

  I bit my tongue and hoped they didn’t ask too many questions. It was fine to mention we’d had companions, but that’s all these folks needed to know.

  Christy clammed up and lowered herself back into the seat. She crossed her arms over her chest and didn’t say another word for a while.

  I got it. She was worried about Anna and Joel. Not to mention Roz. The last time we’d seen her, she was in the back of a truck, and having suffered an attack at the hands of a shuffler, she’d been a bloody mess.

  But what concerned me was the fact that she had been acting weird, not to mention vomiting up food and blood after the attack. I didn’t want to speculate on what form of virus the shuffler might have infected her with. She hadn’t turned while we were all together, so there was still hope.

  Where was she now? I wanted to go back for them. All of them. I was mad at Joel, but maybe he had a reason for deserting us. We’d had strong words with each other, and I'd thought for a minute I’d been looking into the eyes of an enemy, but I'd understood: his girl was hurt, and he was doing everything he could to find help.

  We crossed at least one main road and then shot across an empty four-way stop. They cut across another street and entered a rural area that was all small buildings, restaurants, and apartments. They drew up in front of a church that had been half-burned to the ground. The other half was covered in soot and ash, but still stood, including most of a cross on what had been a white tower. They pulled around to the back of the structure, but not before Steve hopped out and moved a few shrubs aside. This revealed a path that was well-worn. The driveway allowing access to the back was all bumpy dirt, so Douglas took it slow.

  The SUV came to a stop a few seconds later as Douglas picked his way over holes and drove over a bunch of standing water. Steve stayed behind and covered the entryway, then jogged to catch up with us.

  The back of the church butted up to a few houses and was surrounded by sequoias. A car was parked at an angle that would allow a quick exit from the location.

  The men poked their heads into the back of the broken wall and called softly. They exchanged looks, and Diane stiffened in her seat.

  “Everything okay?”

  “Yeah. I think so,” she said. “I hope so.”

  Steve carried a handgun--a 9mm, if I’d had to guess. Once again, Joel Kelly's influence on me over the last few months shone through. From the second Steve had pulled the gun, I'd started to think about magazine capacity and caliber.

  Douglas carried what looked like an MP5, but the profile was a little off. I studied the gun and wondered what it was. Diane had tucked Christy’s snub-nosed revolver, and my favorite gun--my Springfield XDM--into her backpack, and had placed it in the rear of the vehicle, nestled among a variety of gear. I looked in the rear of the SUV and wished the weapons were in my hand instead of stashed away. I caught sight of a couple of tents, sleeping bags, and a portable cooker.

  “Everything okay?” I asked Diane.

  She stared out the window and didn’t seem to hear me or just pretended not to.

  “Diane?” I asked.

  She spun and looked at me in surprise. Then her expression softened.

  “Sorry, I zoned out for a moment.”

  “It’s cool. I zone out a lot. I’m good at it. When I worked on the ship I knew how to take a nap standing up,” I said.

  “How do you sleep standing up?” Christy asked.

  “You work for three days in a row without sleep and then you just sort of find a corner, lean against a wall, close your eyes, and sleep,” I said.

  It was true. We’d once done an operational readiness at sea for a week. I was on port and starboard duty, but during my off shift I still had to work. I’d figured out how to grab a clipboard to log readings, find a place with little foot traffic, and take my standing nap.

  “During the first few days of the apocalypse I barely slept,” Diane said. “I’d doze, but it was like every single noise, every single pop or crack, I was convinced it would bring a zombie. I was so tired I was seeing things.”

  “I still see things,” Christy said. “I see my brother with the Zs. I dream about him chasing me down and eating me while I scream his name and beg him to stop.”

  “Jesus, Christy. I didn’t know,” I said.

  “In time you’ll…” Diane didn’t finish, because someone smashed into the door.

  I’m not going to lie. The three of us screamed in unison. Now, in a horror movie, this would be the part where one of your friends was fucking around and trying to scare you. This wasn’t a horror movie.

  The Z had attached itself to Douglas’s back, and rode him like a bizarre game of chicken fight. Douglas swung around and slammed into the side of the car. He reeled away, Diane right behind him. She came out of the passenger side, gun raised, before I could even catch my breath.

  Another Z chased Steve, who fell backward, landed on his butt and fired into the air. The rotter was dressed in black, and its head was a mass of wounds. It fell on Steve and drove him to the ground, putrid hands reaching for his head, mouth looking for his neck.

  Three more shambled out of the building, and that’s when I snapped out of it. I didn’t know these guys from Adam, but they didn’t seem like the
tightest group of Z hunters I’d ever come across. On the other hand, I’d had the shit scared out of me by sneaky Zs more than once in the last few weeks.

  I fell out behind Diane. She advanced on Douglas, drawing her sidearm.

  The Z that was on Douglas was a big one. He had the tattoos of a surfer riding high on his formerly body-sculpted frame. Short blonde hair stained a shade of dark blood didn’t add to his looks. His face--probably tanned and looking photoshopped back in the day--was now a mass of bite marks. Part of his nose was missing, and teeth shone through a hole in his cheek.

  Diane lifted the gun, but didn’t fire, for fear of hitting Douglas.

  The older man struggled to get out from under the Z. He got his arm up, locked it under the surfer’s chin and pushed, but the man had weight on his side.

  I pushed Diane away, grabbed the dude, and hauled him off Douglas. He flopped to the ground, and stared at me with milk-white eyes.

  “Shoot him, I’ll help Steve,” I said.

  Steve at least had his gun out, but he fired it in a panic. The round struck the Z in the gut,--a woman in her twenties--and stopped her momentum. She flailed her arms and knocked the weapon down. Steve took a step back and fired again, but this shot wasn’t anywhere near her head. She reached for him and got ahold of his shirt. He batted at her arm, but she had a strong grip.

  Another pair of Zs left the building, and I couldn’t help but feel for our new friends, because this pair were dressed in newer looking street clothes, just like our new companions.

  “Down!” I yelled at Steve.

  He backed up a step and ducked, ripping the woman’s hand free of his shirt. He turned to find me advancing on them both.

  The pipe wrench--an extension of my arm--swung around and caught the Z across the neck. Bones cracked and the rotter slipped to the ground in a heap. I leaned over and smashed her skull to pulp. Blood flew, and pink matter splattered the ground like puke.

  Steve lifted his gun and shot at one of the two new Zs that moved on us, but shifted his aim at the last second.

  “Dude,” I said.

  “I know them,” Steve replied.

  “Knew them,” I said.

  “Fuck me, that’s Marquitz and the other one is Kenny. I liked Kenny,” he trailed off. “Maquitz was kind of a loud mouth.”

  The first one went down with a crack to his skull. The gun boomed behind me a couple of times, but I was focused on my targets, and trusted these guys were at least good enough not to shoot me in the back.

  That’s what adrenaline does to you: makes you forget that you’re in the line of fire. Or as Joel Kelly would have called it, a bone-headed move.

  Steve found his guts and backed me up by advancing and shooting his former teammate. It was a beauty of a shot that snapped the Z’s head back and took him off his feet. Kenny and Marquitz were now just another pair of bodies.

  When I turned to find out how Douglas was doing, I found Diane standing over a twice-dead corpse, smoking gun in hand. She pointed at me. I shrugged, ‘what’?

  She pointed again, and I turned to find that all of the noise had attracted some unwanted attention. A bunch of shamblers left homes near the church and moved on our location. I took up my wrench to go to war but Diane called me back.

  “This place is blown so we need to move on,” she called.

  I nodded.

  I reached out and helped Douglas off the ground. He felt over his limbs, face and neck. “Christ, thought I was a dead man.”

  “You had ‘em,” I said, trying to sound encouraging.

  Christy banged on the window and pointed at the opening opposite us. Two Zs had found us, and were already on the car. One of them moved fast. It went for the side of the SUV and then scrambled on top. Another fast-moving Z backed him up by moving around the rear of the vehicle.

  “Oh fuck me running,” I said. We were about to fight a pair of shufflers.

  ###

  14:15 hours approximate

  Location: Somewhere near Vista, CA

  Shufflers aren’t your garden-variety Z, not by a long shot. They are smart, fast, and a total fucking anomaly. Bad enough the new world order was slow-moving dead people with an appetite for flesh. Shufflers--as I’d taken to calling them during one of our first engagements, due to their ability to skitter around like freaky crabs--knew how to work in groups, organize hordes and lead them into battle.

  Joel and I had chased a fresh and young shuffler out of a camper only to have the bastard call for help. Stood in the middle of a damn water reservoir and shouted for his green-eyed pals to come save him.

  It didn’t sound human; more like something an ape would scream if it could talk. Since then we’d run into few shufflers--just a few pissed-off ones who probably wondered if we tasted delicious.

  “Kiiiiill,” the shuffler on top of the Escalade hissed.

  Shufflers eyes didn’t exactly glow like light bulbs. More of a dull gleam, but they were always easy to pick out. This one’s were no different; his eyes were like something malevolent. The bastard leapt farther than a human could. I backed up a few feet to get room; also to get out of its path. The spritely Z hybrid landed on all fours and sprang for me.

  I was already swinging when it leapt, but it got an arm up and took the impact. I hadn’t had a lot of time to get in a good blow, but it cracked smartly and the shuffler howled in pain, or rage.

  I kicked out, but the shuffler batted my foot aside and did a damn good job of delivering a tackle.

  In the months after the zombie fucking apocalypse, I’d become adept all all kinds of fighting. You couldn’t always count on a weapon, and Joel Kelly had taught me a thing or two. One of the first rules was not to get stuck under a Z.

  I grabbed the shuffler’s sleeve, and then did a decent Judo flip by lifting my leg and using the shuffler’s momentum to send him sailing. He landed hard enough to crack bones, judging by the sound.

  The second shuffler darted around the Escalade. Diane shot at him. A pair of rapid rounds stuck ground. Steve took a shot and caught the shuffler in the hip. It spun and fell in a heap, but was back on its feet in no time.

  I rolled to my side and struggled to my feet. For the last few days I’d been running on very little sleep and way too much anxiety. Now it was like my body was shooting me the middle finger, because it refused to obey all of my commands. I was weak, that much was apparent. I hadn’t had enough to eat for days and now, what little energy I had was rapidly disappearing.

  Diane shot at the shuffler, but it darted to the side and then flashed in toward me.

  I lowered my chest and got an arm up, fist near my ear, to take the tackle. To the shuffler I must not have looked like much of a threat. Unfortunately for him, I once again used his momentum, and took the blow on the meaty part of my upper arm. Bones cracked in his collarbone and he hissed at me for a second time.

  I threw a punch, but it went wide. The shuffler ducked and reached for me, grabbing at my shirt. It was probably a good thing I didn’t make contact. Punching a shuffler full force might have broken every bone in my hand.

  I danced back, and lashed out a foot to catch him in the shoulder.

  Diane shot again and rounds--probably hollow-point judging by the damage--punched into the shuffler’s chest, blowing chunks of flesh out of its back.

  Douglas and Steve fought off the second shuffler, but it looked like it was too late. While these two jerkoffs had been keeping us busy, a small army of dead moved on us from the east and the west.

  “In the car, we don’t have any time to waste,” Douglas called.

  I slammed my wrench into the shuffler’s body, then kicked him as hard as I could. His ribcage crunched under my boot and he was on the ground.

  Douglas and Steve pushed the shuffler away while Diane shot at him. Steve managed to get a blast in, but I wasn’t sure where the round went.

  Douglas hustled to the driver’s seat while Diane grabbed my shirt and pulled. I turned and ran the few fee
t to the car, and then around the hood. Douglas hopped inside and managed to get the big SUV cranked over before I was to the door.

  Steve provided backup while Diane slid into the back seat. I was close behind her, but guarded her entry.

  Then, Steve did a stupid thing: he gave the shuffler he’d shot a quick salute with his middle finger as he backed into the cab and climbed into the passenger side. The car’s wheels were already spinning as it backed up.

  The shuffler rolled to all fours and leapt. It grabbed Steve as he tried to close the door, and pulled him out. The second shuffler fell on him, and Steve screamed.

  I lashed the wrench around and hit one in the side of the head, but there wasn’t a lot to my swing. The shuffler rolled to the side and hissed at me like a pissed-off cat.

  Then a sight sent me scrambling after Diane into the back of the SUV. I slammed the door shut and felt like I was about to pass out. My heart pounded in my chest so hard I thought it was going to burst. Panic set in, but there was also a sense of doing something wrong. We couldn’t leave our guy behind.

  Frosty wasn’t taking all of this very well. The dog practically leaped into my lap and growled at the window. Her paws scratched at the opening. Her body was completely tense, like she wanted to go out there and rip the shufflers a new one.

  A horde of the dead, at least fifty strong, had arrived.

  Diane howled in frustration while Steve screamed in pain. Blood arced into the air and chunks of flesh flew. Steve shot until he was empty, forcing us to back away, because he wasn’t aiming at any one thing in particular.

  I reached for the door, because I wasn’t about to leave Steve behind, even though I knew he was already a dead man. Fucking monsters! I was going to take each one, give it a name, and then smash curb stomp them into the grave. Frosty would have my back.

  Diane reached for me and pulled my shirtsleeve.

  “We can’t do anything!” she yelled.

  I shook her hand off, but Christy called for me as well, and her voice broke through my fog of rage.

  There wasn’t really anything I could do and I knew it. That would be just the way to go: fighting off Zs, taking two shufflers to the ground, and me shot in the head by a man who was being devoured.