by Carl Hose
Billy handled his new weapon like a skilled marksman. He felt more comfortable with the pistol and liked that it didn’t knock him on his butt whenever he pulled the trigger.
Jed raised his rifle as a corpse lurched in front of him. The thing was too damn close and the barrel of the rifle deflected, throwing Jed off balance. He was in the process of trying to get his rifle up again when the lumbering thing hit him hard, knocking him backward. He did a good job keeping his balance until his heel caught on one of the fallen corpses, then Jed went down on his ass so hard the wind left him in one fell swoop.
Jim spun toward Jed and the zombie, bringing his Uzi into firing position. The Uzi stuttered for just a second before the clip was empty, leaving the zombie over Jed still in one piece.
“Shit,” Jim said, fumbling for another clip.
Billy’s handgun exploded. The bullet tore through the back of the zombie’s head. The zombie stiffened, then toppled over Jed, who looked up at the boy with admiration.
Jim was just about to slam a fresh clip into his Uzi when he was attacked from behind. Billy turned in time to see it, but there was nothing he could do. One of the things bit into Jim’s neck, tearing out his jugular. Others crowded around, and after a few seconds, Jim’s screams were lost in the steady buzzing and slurping sounds of feeding zombies.
* * *
A newscast was playing somewhere in the background.
Wanda watched two soldiers carry away Johnny’s remains. There wasn’t much there, but she insisted on looking at what was left.
Bobby and Terri Lynn stood by for support.
“. . . after worldwide strikes against the infected, the President of the United States has declared that the situation is under control . . .”
Dalton, Abigail, Colbrook, and Sarah moved among the wounded, doing what they could to help out. Occasional gunshots reminded them that not every survivor was coming out of this alive.
The newscast continued.
“. . . While it will be some time before we experience complete recovery, we can rest assured the worst is behind us and we are on the road to recovery, not only as a nation, but as a planet. . . .”
The smoldering remains of Faith were the same as the smoldering remains of towns across the state of Wyoming. Those smoldering towns were the same as smoldering towns and cities across the United States, which in turn mirrored the smoldering remains of towns and cities worldwide. It would be a long time before the planet recovered. . . .
* * *
ONE YEAR LATER
Dalton poured a cup of coffee and headed for the porch. He stopped and looked into the bedroom, where Abigail lay sleeping with the early-morning sunlight in her hair. He stayed long enough to enjoy the sight of her, as he often did these days. It was a pleasure he would never deny himself.
It seemed a lifetime ago that the dead had risen. Edna’s place was still where it had always been, surprisingly untouched by the final blistering attack on Faith. Abigail opened it every morning Monday through Saturday, never once forgetting Edna or Joe as she went about keeping the diner alive.
Jeff Colbrook (no longer Sheriff Colbrook because he’d given up the office) and Sarah lived on a small farm not far from Dalton and Abby’s place. They’d taken up raising horses, which made the two of them happy.
Wanda, Bobby, and Terri Lynn opened a store in the rebuilt section of Faith. A candle and incense store. They didn’t do a lot of business, but it was a living they enjoyed. Wanda became quite the country girl, often wondering what it would have been like had Johnny survived. She thought about him often, smiling when she imagined him living the country life.
Dalton still wrote paperback westerns, and Jed, along with Billy, who he’d unofficially adopted, still stopped by for the occasional beer and a signed copy of Dalton’s latest book.
Dalton looked at Abigail a moment longer, then he went out to the porch and sat down to read Edgewater’s journal. He’d retrieved it from a safe deposit box in Edgewater’s hometown, which happened to be in South Dakota. Edgewater, it turned out, was a transplanted small-town boy.
Dalton had possessed the journal for a year now. He wasn’t sure what to do with it. Edgewater had led him to it, so he thought maybe he was supposed to write it all down and give it to the public. The note Edgewater had written was simple: Do what you believe is right.
He opened the journal and began reading from the beginning. The first entry was dated one year before the meteorite struck Faith.
Edgewater’s Journal Entry, January 2009:
They’ve known about it since 1970. I knew too, even though I was barely a teenager back then. My father, General Martin Edgewater, wrote it all down. He kept the papers in a safe in his study. I inherited those papers when he died in 1995. I wish to God I hadn’t.
The black shit in those meteorites has been here before. Our government studied it and hid the findings away, hoping to never have to deal with it. Who could guess there’d be more?
I have Alpha Male Syndrome. Some people call it 47 XYY. It means I have one more male chromosome than most of the rest of the male population. 47 XYY effects one in every thousand men. It makes me the arrogant son of a bitch I am today.
What on God’s green fucking planet does that have to do with anything? Let me tell you. The black shit in those meteorites has an effect on anyone it comes into contact with. Touch it, breathe it, hell, even look at it, it kills you and makes you walk again. Brings dead things out of the ground too. I pray to God we’ll never have to see it in action.
The black shit has another effect on those with Alpha Male Syndrome. Anybody with 47 XYY that comes into contact with it or gets bitten or scratched by someone infected with it ends up an Alpha Male Corpse, leading hordes of the slathering dead like some rotted messiah.
Our government recorded it. General Martin Edgewater kept a copy of the tape. Colonel Clayton Edgewater, yours truly, inherited that too. I won’t talk about all the things our government did on the tape, but suffice to say, it ain’t fucking pretty. The 47 XYY subject they experimented on became a raging hulk who could only be brought down with a rocket launcher. Where do you think they found that subject? They didn’t just happen on a corpse with 47 XYY. Somebody with the extra chromosome had a “ government accident.”
A big, strong bastard with a bad attitude. That’s what the poor fucker became. I’ve always fancied myself a big, strong bastard with a bad attitude, but not like it happens with the black shit. That’s not the way I want to be remembered. I’m a proud American, and like me or not, I don’t give a damn, I do what I do for my country. I’ve always done what I do for my country.
I love my country.
If this ever comes to pass, understand that I will put a bullet in my brain. I will not become a monster. I will not inflict on the United States of America what I would become if the black shit ever sees the light of day again and I am infected by it.
I will not lead an army of the dead.
Dalton closed the journal.
Abigail came up behind him and wrapped her arms around him, leaning down to kiss him on the cheek. “Good morning,” she said.
“Good morning.”
He turned his head so he could kiss her lips.
“What are you deep in thought about?” she asked.
“I’m starting a new book,” he said. “Something with a little more punch than a western.”
With that, he kissed Abby again, then headed for his typewriter.
Table of Contents
One
Two
Three
Four
Five
Six
Seven
Eight
Nine
Ten
Eleven
Twelve
Thirteen
Fourteen
Fifteen
Sixteen
Seventeen
Eighteen
Nineteen
Twenty
Twenty-One
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Twenty-Two
