Dedication
Introduction
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Table of Contents
Dedication
Introduction
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
DEDICATION
I would like to dedicate this book to my fiance.
Thank you, Elizabeth, for your love and support.
INTRODUCTION
This is the first in what will hopefully be a series of novels following a group of friends as they escape Southern Maryland during a zombie outbreak and attempt to locate their families.
I began writing this book because I love apocalyptic stories and there seem to be so few good ones available. I'm aware this particular volume is brief, but I was anxious to get it into print and figure out the whole self-publishing thing. There really is a lot more that goes into it than meets the eye. Regardless of whether this book is well-received, I've learned a lot during the process and I plan on continuing to write, if only for myself.
Thank you very much for giving this a chance, and I hope you enjoy!
PROLOGUE
Dr. Renee Broome was running late, as usual. An Emergency Physician at the University Of Pennsylvania Hospital, Renee scurried around her midtown apartment preparing for work. She prided herself on her work ethic, but her entire life she had struggled with punctuality. Finally she grabbed her sunglasses, tossed her bag over her shoulder and headed out the door.
Today, Dr. Broome was scheduled to begin her shift in the Emergency Room at 12 p.m. It was currently 11:45 and the clogged city streets ensured she'd be delayed even further. After a twenty-five minute drive battling Philadelphia traffic made worse by the stifling heat, she pulled into the Civic Center Boulevard parking garage about two blocks from the hospital.
Dr. Broome strapped on her shoulder bag and grabbed her heels from the passenger seat as she climbed out of her Lexus sedan. She would wear sneakers during her shift in the ER, but preferred to keep the heels in her locker just in case she was called into a meeting. Exiting the parking garage, she hurried north onto 34th Street, wondering what kind of night she would have. She typically worked 16 hour shifts, three in the afternoon until seven the following morning. Some nights were uneventful, as the uninsured would use the ER as their family medical practice; she spent those nights treating the common cold and strep throat. Other nights, she would see gunshot victims, rape victims, the worst of humanity. Tonight was a Friday, so it could go either way.
As Dr. Broome darted across an intersection onto Spruce Street, she noticed three white cargo vans pull up and stop at the park across the street. She paused briefly and shifted the cell phone in her hand, unsure if she should dial 911 or mind her own business. It's not as though the vans had done anything illegal, but they certainly looked suspicious pulling into a park filled with children. Fortunately, she didn't have to decide, as she noticed a police officer walking toward her on her side of the block. She slowed and gestured slightly toward the park as the officer approached.
"I know, I know," the officer said, keeping his pace.
The doctor watched as the officer jogged across Spruce Street toward the vans. Satisfied that there was nothing more she could do, Renee turned and resumed her brisk pace to the ER.
Moments later, the sound of screeching tires begged Renee to turn around. She spun and watched as the three vans peeled away from the park. The officer raised his weapon but didn't fire. He didn't have time to fire. The vans drove directly into the side of the White Memorial Building, a wing of the hospital with approximately 250 patient beds.
No sooner had the vans crashed through the glass windows that lined the building at street level, than Renee was knocked to the ground by an explosion. Flames erupted from the hole left by the vehicles, shooting straight toward the street and into the park. Two dozen people who had been standing closer than Dr. Broome lay limp on the ground. Cars in the street appeared to have bullet or shrapnel holes in the sides. Two bodies nearest the explosion burned on the sidewalk.
Dr. Broome stood and checked herself for wounds, dropping her phone and bag on the ground. Aside from minor scrapes on her elbows and knees, she appeared to be unscathed. She rushed toward the nearest person, a 20-something male about fifteen feet in front of her. As she neared him, his formerly limp body began to twitch violently.
Before the doctor could kneel by his side to provide aid, she looked up and noticed that many of the other victims, who moments ago had been laying still, were also jerking and convulsing on the pavement. Looking back down at the young man, Renee froze when his eyelids sprung open, revealing blackness from lid to lid. No whites, no iris, just black.
The doctor pivoted in her sneakers to run the other direction, away from the blast and the people that were now beginning to stand. As she took her first step, the young man reached out a hand and grabbed her ankle, digging his nails deep into her flesh. She nearly tripped, then regained her balance, but was unable to shake his grip.
In one swift motion, the young man yanked on her ankle, pulling her feet out from under her, and pounced on her, pinning her to the ground.
Dr. Renee Broome saw the eyes of two other infected creatures over the man's shoulders, then lost consciousness as he bit down on her neck, spilling blood across the sidewalk.
CHAPTER 1
Friday, 2:45 p.m.
When the bell rings at 2:45 p.m., in every public school across the country, teachers suddenly turn into real people. The students scoop up their bags, empty their lockers and head for the buses and parking lots and waiting parents. Teachers breathe a sigh of relief, no longer paid baby-sitters, constantly redirecting student behavior, shouting every thirty seconds, don't touch that, raise your hand, take out your homework. On Fridays, for young, dedicated teachers like myself, that feeling was magnified ten-fold. Following my Friday routine, I packed my briefcase with papers I likely wouldn't grade until 5:30 on Monday morning, grabbed my mini cooler and coffee thermos, and walked next door to Rob's classroom. Contractually, we couldn't leave for 30 minutes, but neither of us would be doing any work. It was Friday and the only thing that mattered was beer and food; possibly girls, depending on how much beer was consumed.
Rob knew the routine, as well, and didn't flinch when his door swung open and I burst through, carelessly dropping my briefcase and cooler on the floor, then perching myself upon a desktop, feet resting on the seat. Both of us were social studies teachers, but I taught United States government and Rob taught world history. And we both insisted that our particular discipline was more important than the other, although of course this depended on perspective. Rob still hadn't looked up from his desk.
I glared at Rob hoping for a response, then glanced around Rob's classroom. Rob was dressed in his standard button-down ,greenish earth-toned shirt, yellow tie and brown sweater vest. He dressed thirty years older than his age, but it was all a façade. I'd spent too many nights driving his drunk ass home to think he was as straight as his wardrobe suggested. Books lined up by height on the shelves. Lesson plans for the day written clearly on one board, instructions for the exam o
n another board. My room was a disaster compared to this. Then again, I coached baseball and served as Student Council advisor, so quite a few students treated my room like a locker. Still, part of me envied the professionalism his classroom conveyed.
"Damn, man, it's the end of the year. Why are you still giving tests?" I asked, propping my feet on the chair of the desk I was perched atop.
"Unlike some teachers, I think as long as the students are here, they should be learning," replied Rob, as he leaned back in his chair and finally acknowledged my presence.
Friends know the difference between insult and banter. I let it slide. "So what's the plan tonight?"
Rob bit down on his red pen, attached a few paper clips onto various stacks of paper, then shoved them into his bag. With me here, he wouldn't be getting any more work done. "Doesn't matter to me. I've gotta run some errands after school, but I could probably meet up at like 7. The pub?"
"That works, but you're driving. I've gotta go home next weekend so I wanna get pretty tanked."
Before Rob could respond, Anne burst through the door. Anne was a science teacher down the hall, and one of their close friends. We're all young and from out of state, so while many of the other teachers are married with children, or grew up in the area, the three of us relied upon one another. What began as a friendship of convenience has grown into a family. Anne was a tiny little thing, with shoulder-length brown hair and an adorable face, but at this point there's no attraction within the group. Besides, Rob and I have each had our moments with her, and we've seen her go through plenty of other guys, as well. At this point, she was like a sister; and she made a great wing man at the bar.
"Have you guys seen the news?" she blurted out. Before we could respond she continued, "The bomb in D.C.? And like twenty minutes ago in Philly, Boston and New York?! Fucking crazy! We're under attack or something!" Her animated gestures and small stature were almost cartoonish as she related the news. Still, Rob and I exchanged a glance that indicated a much more grave understanding of the situation. As social studies teachers, we'd often spoken of the impact 9/11 had on the United States; we agreed the response had been positive initially, but as time passed it had only created a more divided nation. Without saying a word, I could sense we both feared we were in the midst of another 9/11.
***
Friday, 3:15 p.m.
Twenty minutes later I pulled out of the school parking lot. I rolled the windows down, turned the music up, and let the wind whip through my little Hyundai Elantra on the country roads. St. Mary's County, Maryland was a gorgeous place this time of year. About 45 minutes south of D.C., the county forms a peninsula between the Potomac and Patuxent Rivers, right where they meet the Chesapeake Bay. There's a naval base in the county, and most of the commercial buildings are located within a mile or two of the base. The rest of the county was farms, bars, churches and independent shops. Most of the farms were old tobacco plantations, bought out by the government in the 1990s and forced to grow corn or barley. On my fifteen minute drive home I passed a ma-and-pa store where I could get most of my basic groceries and a case of beer or bottle of liquor. I drove by three roadside fruit and vegetable stands, grown locally. And about five minutes before I got home I passed another small grocer that sold bait and fishing tackle, along with alcohol. I moved down here three years ago from Pennsylvania and I'd fallen in love with southern Maryland.
I stopped at the ma-and-pa store to grab a case of Coors Light and a bottle of vodka for the weekend, then dialed my parents as I got back in my car. I lit a cigarette before my mother answered on the second ring.
"Hey mom, how's dad doing?"
"He's been better. He fell again yesterday. Or maybe Wednesday. I don't know. He's been in bed since. I want to take him to the doctor to get more pills but he can hardly get up to pee. Are you still coming up next weekend?"
"Yeah mom, I'm coming."
"Good. He'll like seeing you. And I could really use a break."
"Alright. I'll talk to you tomorrow or Sunday. Tell dad I said hi and I love you guys."
As I finished the drive home, I thought about my parents. As much as I loved southern Maryland, I felt bad for abandoning them in PA. They had done so much for me growing up, and worked so hard to ensure that I would never want for anything. Even in my early 20s, when I'd been a little reckless, they had always done everything they could to keep me on my feet. I owed them my life, so a four-hour drive to Pennsylvania every few weekends was a pittance.
***
Friday, 3:35 p.m.
The trick was to ignore her until she's outside the house. My dog, Holly - a rescue, presumably a pit bull but who knows? - was so excited to see me arrive home that she'd pee right on the floor if I bent to pet her before she'd had a chance to go out. I dropped my briefcase in the doorway and followed her back outside. Five minutes later she'd relieved herself and had a chance to run off some of the excitement. We share a small house, a mobile home that I rent from a farmer. The old man's house was over a hill and from my front porch I couldn't see another home in any direction. Holly had all the room she needed to burn off the extra energy.
Back inside, I turned on the TV and called Sarah.
"Hey Jason, how's it going?" she answered.
"It's going. Listen, can you possibly take care of Holly next weekend? She can stay here, but maybe you could swing by and let her out and feed her a few times a day? I need to visit my parents and she'll just be too much for my dad to handle."
"Absolutely! How's he doing?"
"I don't know, my mom says not good but she tends to exaggerate. I'll let you know when I get back! And hey, I think we're going to the pub tonight, you feel like coming out?"
"I wish! I've got too much work to do. Maybe some Sunday drinking if I get it done?"
"That'll work. Thanks again, Sarah. Let me know if you change your mind."
I dropped the phone back in my pocket, disappointed that she couldn't come out tonight. I met her through the school, where she worked part-time as a teacher's aide. Very funny, sweet girl. She's still in college, but we're only four years apart. No big deal. Plus she's gorgeous: five-four, dark hair, about 110 pounds. And enormous tits. I would tear her to pieces. And she lived with her parents about five minutes walking time through the woods. Talk about a perfect hook up. It hurt just thinking about it.
I turned on CNN, then Fox News, MSNBC and finally back to CNN. It was all about the bombings that Anne had mentioned earlier. Four cities, all on the east coast, had been attacked. Each of the bombings took place at a hospital. The explosions themselves weren't large, only killing or injuring a handful of people at each location. The federal government had called in the National Guard. People were jumping out of windows at the hospitals, but no one seemed to know why. The news anchor suggested there could be a fire inside, but there was no smoke coming from any of the buildings. A still image from the hospital in Boston appeared on the screen. Sent in from a witness in an adjacent building, it appeared to show a man pressed up against the window, terrified, as another person stood behind him biting his neck. There was rioting in the neighborhoods surrounding each hospital, and police were responding to reports of violence within the rioters. What the hell was going on? Why bomb a hospital? And why so much violence in the streets near each bombing? Didn't Americans typically come together during times of crisis?
I turned off the TV and changed into my running shorts. One mile and a decent sweat later, I was jogging along the Patuxent River, thoughts of bombings and teaching and parental illnesses just a distant memory.
CHAPTER 2
Friday, 8:45 p.m.
After grabbing dinner at a BBQ joint, Rob, Anne and I went to Toot's, the local pub. The conversation at dinner had focused on the bombings, and it sounded like every other table was having the same discussion. No one quite knew what was going on. It was reminiscent of 9/11; lots of confusion and speculation but no real answers.
Now at Toot's, the crowd was half the si
ze of a typical Friday night, and the mood was solemn. An older couple sat at the bar sipping martinis. A pair of middle-aged couples sat at a booth, likely discussing their kids or vacation plans. The bar had a deck out back on which I could see a young, good-looking couple enjoying the privacy, huddled closely together sharing laughs and sneaking kisses.
The United States was under attack. So far no one was reporting on the death toll, however, and the devastation seemed miniscule compared to that Tuesday in 2001. But we weren't about to let that stop us from having a good time.
I placed four quarters into the pool table as Rob and Anne grabbed a pitcher of beer and a shaker of shots. Two games of pool and another pitcher of beer later, I received a call from Sarah. She'd finished her work for the night and wanted to come out. I must have blushed a little as I hung up the phone. It wasn't difficult to figure out what the conversation was about and Rob pounced right on it.
"So you've got the hots for this girl, huh?" asked Rob.
I dropped the chalk I'd been rubbing on the pool cue. "Dude please don't embarrass me when she gets here. Sarah's a pretty cool chick, you'll like her."
"No problem, I'm sure you'll do just fine making a fool of yourself!"
Going back and forth, Rob and I hadn't noticed Anne buried in her phone. As our banter died out she looked up, her expression somewhere between confused and frightened.
"We need to turn on the news," she said.
The bartender didn't mind, since the place was nearly empty by this point, and started flipping through the channels. The four of us stared at the screen as the reporter, standing outside the White House, updated the world on the attacks.
Reporter: "…quarantine has been established around the major metropolitan areas of New York, Boston, Philadelphia and Washington, D.C. The bombs allegedly contained some sort of projectile that, upon impaling itself on a bystander, caused a Rabies-like reaction in the affected persons. Reports earlier of individuals being violently attacked by other people have been confirmed. It also appears that when a person is attacked, any exchange of bodily fluid further spreads the Rabies-like condition. Transmission of the contagion is quick, reportedly within seconds. Due to this, the hospitals in which the explosions occurred were overrun within hours of the initial events and infected persons began flooding the streets earlier this evening in all four cities. The President had called in the National Guard immediately following the first explosions, but those troops have now been pushed back and, along with the military and local police, are in the process of establishing a quarantine perimeter around each hospital. It appears, at least in Washington, that that perimeter includes about ten square city blocks. The White House spokesperson has urged the residents of Boston, New York, Philadelphia and Washington to remain in their homes with their doors locked and, if possible, to board up any first floor windows. She stated that a mass evacuation could create traffic jams that could potentially further the spread of whatever is causing the violent reactions in the infected. She assured reporters that the quarantine will be effective…"
The Infected: (Book 1) Page 1
