by Brown, TW
Other Titles by TW Brown
The DEAD Series:
DEAD: The Ugly Beginning
DEAD: Revelations
DEAD: Fortunes & Failures
DEAD: Winter
DEAD: Siege & Survival
DEAD: Confrontation
DEAD: Reborn
DEAD: Darkness Before Dawn
DEAD: Spring
DEAD: The Reclamation
DEAD: End
The New DEAD series
DEAD: Onset (Book 1 of the New DEAD series)
DEAD: Alone (Book 2 of the New DEAD series)
DEAD: Suffer The Children (Book 3 of the New DEAD series)
Zomblog
Zomblog
Zomblog II
Zomblog: The Final Entry
Zomblog: Snoe
Zomblog: Snoe’s War
Zomblog: Snoe’s Journey
That Ghoul Ava
That Ghoul Ava: Her First Adventures
That Ghoul Ava & The Queen of the Zombies
That Ghoul Ava Kick Some Faerie A**
Next, on a very special That Ghoul Ava
That Ghoul Ava on the Lam
That Ghoul Ava On a Roll
That Ghoul Ava Sacks a Quarterback
That Ghoul Ava has an Appetite for Deception
DEAD: Snapshot—Estacada, Oregon
©2018 May December Publications LLC
The split-tree logo is a registered trademark of
May December Publications LLC.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons living, dead, or otherwise, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
This book is protected under the copyright laws of the United States of America. Any reproduction or unauthorized use of the material or artwork contained herein is prohibited without the express written permission of the author or May December Publications LLC.
Printed in the U.S.A.
A moment with the author…
About a year ago, I was invited to the Estacada Spring Gala by the mayor. It was a fun event, the kind you would expect in a small town.
During the festivities, there was a silent auction, then a bidding one. One of the attendees had not put anything up for the auction but was invited to do so as the night went on. At some point, I ended up putting the cover for a DEAD book up. The winner of the bid was a man named Ken Johnson, owner of the local establishment, Fearless Brewery.
One of the other things I gave as part of the “prize” was that a character would be named after him. He would have no input on the character, and I made it clear that I doubted there would be any resemblance between him and the namesake. I also did not promise if he would be good, bad, live, die.
That is the genesis for DEAD: Snapshot—Estacada, Oregon. As the story unfolded itself for me, I discovered that this was actually a great venue to feed the main story of the New DEAD series. In fact, this could almost be New DEAD 3.5. For those of you who have been along for that ride, you will enjoy seeing some familiar faces.
If you have not read any of the other DEAD books, this can stand on its own. You don’t have to have read the others, but for those that have, this will be a welcome treat.
As you settle in, I hope you enjoy this little story. If you are new to my stuff, I hope this is the gateway to a new adventure.
As always, so many people to thank. Debra, Melanie, Maggie, Caroline, Kathy, Michele, Janet, and Megan. You make this a better book with your insight and assistance. I could do none of this without my wife, Denise. Last but not least, I want to thank Ken and Bennett Johnson, Sean and Mary Drinkwine, the people at Fearless Brewery, and the entire town of Estacada.
Close to everything, but far from it all!
TW Brown
April 2018
Contents
Fearless
Casualty
Public Display
More Bad News
Death and Blame
Raiding
The (In)human Condition
Darkness and Evil
Bad Decisions
Snake Eyes
Dead Onset Preview
The First Few Hours
1
Fearless
“People of the Portland-metro and surrounding areas, we are facing something that is unprecedented. There is a terrible virus or contagion that is sweeping through not only our city, but the world. As reports flood in from around the world, the symptoms are consistent.
“This is what we know for certain. Those infected are currently described as hostile and displaying violent, cannibalistic characteristics. The CDC has confirmed that this disease is communicable. There is no known prevention other than to avoid contact at all costs.
“Local hospitals have ceased accepting victims of attack. You are directed to bring any person bitten but still alive to stations set up by the police and National Guard. Currently in the Portland-metro area the following locations are set up as monitoring sites: The Rose Quarter, PGE Park, Roosevelt High School, Beaverton High School, Gresham High School, Tigard High School, Forest Grove High School, and Franklin High School. Be advised that more sites are planned, and that those who must use the Rose Quarter or PGE Park will be directed to a FEMA-run emergency shelter where they will be asked to provide information on the person or persons they delivered. At each high school, that information will be obtained at a designated checkpoint established in the vicinity. There will be signs clearly designating routes to take. Also, be advised that you should only use the Rose Quarter and PGE Park if you’re in the immediate vicinity.
“Additionally, the president is expected to speak at seven Pacific Time, approximately eighteen minutes from now. Martial law is expected to be declared on a national level, and Portland is already in the process of recalling all members of the National Guard.
“I ask you now to please follow the instructions you will see on the screen and do your part to keep the peace here in our beautiful city. If you are listening on the radio, this message will be repeated on a loop until the president speaks. After his address, your local stations will be broadcasting continuous updates of what to do. We will get through this, but only if we stick together as a community.”
The man smiled and tapped the pages on the desk as if to signal that he was finished. There was a flash, and then the EBS pattern returned. The crawler began scrolling the high points of the national and local addresses as well as the locations to bring those who were infected.
Ken Johnson clicked the button on his remote. The television went blank. Reaching over, he picked up a large mug from the counter behind the bar and drained it. The silence behind him finally made him turn around to face the handful of people that had been standing at the bar watching the broadcast.
At a few inches over six feet tall, and more than a shade over his old college playing weight of two-hundred and thirty pounds, Ken Johnson was a big man. “Sturdy” was how he liked to think of it. His beard was completely silver these days and had not been absent from his face since his twenties. His blue eyes still glittered with life, and he seldom felt like a man on the downside of his fifties.
“They really went and did it this time,” somebody said.
He glanced at the faces staring back at him. A few of them were staring back expectantly. What the hell did they think he was going to do? Surely they’d all seen the amazing amount of crap playing out on the television the past several days as things went from bad to worse around the world.
He still remembered the look on that Linda What�
�s-her-name’s face when she’d pulled off her dark glasses to show that she had the same infection she’d been trying to minimize for so long. If you believed her at this point, then there could be no doubt that, however it was happening, dead folks were getting up and attacking people.
He’d heard all the early reports saying that some town in Kentucky had been quarantined. Then, fast-forward a few days and places like Japan, China, Vietnam and Korea (both North and South) were simply dark.
The talking heads continued to try and minimize the problem through it all. Ken hated each and every one of ‘em. He didn’t care what so-called news channel they were on, they were all in somebody’s pocket. They said what they were told. Now, it looked like everything was in real danger of falling to this…whatever-it-was.
“I’ll be damned if I’m gonna wait for the useless government to try and solve this,” Ken muttered. “And I sure as hell ain’t going to some FEMA shelter.”
“What’s that, dear?” Bennett Johnson asked from his side where she’d stood in silence watching and listening to the television with everybody else in their little independent brewery and restaurant.
Fearless Brewing had been part of the small town of Estacada, Oregon’s little business strip since 2003. What started as a hobby and diversion from a job that had consumed him for years ended up being a passion that Ken and Bennett had been able to share as they headed towards what some considered the twilight years.
Now it was this small pub where many members of the town had gathered to watch the announcement that finally admitted just how bad Ken had figured things to be for a few days now. He’d been in communication with a few business reps from some of his suppliers and heard things that kept him awake at night.
It was because of what he’d heard that he’d gathered a few people he could trust and made a handful of trips down to the Clackamas River. They’d gone under cover of darkness with nets and brought in salmon and trout in amounts that were “legally questionable”. He’d had them bagged and frozen, but he wasn’t happy with the amount. If things were even half as bad as they looked on television, this could be like one of those old apocalypse movies from the 80s when everybody thought the United States and the Soviets were gonna nuke the world.
Food would become the new currency. Already, stories were sneaking past the government censors that had tried to hide this thing. There were riots in supermarkets out on the East Coast, and people in the cities were turning on each other fast.
Ken had started planning for all possibilities. It now seemed that maybe he’d not gone far enough in his assessment, but that would be an easy fix. His brewery was called “Fearless” because that is what he’d been known as when he was younger. It would take somebody with that quality to do what would need to be done.
“Go home, Bennett,” Ken whispered into her ear. “Take stock of all our guns and ammo. Also, shut down the kitchen here. No more food goes out.”
“Ken—” Bennett began, but Ken held up a finger.
Normally, that would not shut her down. Bennett Johnson was never one to be brushed aside or put off. She was perhaps the one person not the least bit intimidated by her husband’s size and sometimes piercing gaze that could cut through an individual and make them doubt questioning him.
A good foot and a half shorter than her husband, Bennett had grown up on a farm. She’d been no stranger to arduous work, and it had been her gift of a home brewing kit that had ignited the brewer’s passion in her husband. Her business sense had been the guiding hand that now made Fearless Brewery a success that they shared in together.
“Things are gonna go bad in a hurry,” Ken whispered in her ear. “My first responsibility is to take care of us…you. I won’t have us running around like chickens with our heads cut off like them folks will be in the city.”
With a nod, she kissed her husband on the cheek and turned to the people gathered around the bar, all of them throwing out ideas as to what they believed was happening. Some of the people were even crying. She had to figure them to be some of the newly arrived California transplant types. Those were the ones buying up the houses in the new development on the hill. Most of them worked in Portland and lived out here in what they considered “the country”. While Estacada was certainly small, it was absolutely not the country.
This had once been a logging community. With that industry poleaxed by people who had no understanding of how the lumber industry actually worked, or of its vital importance to the livelihoods of so many, this was now a town seeking a new identity. Unfortunately, it looked like it was turning into a far outlying suburb for the out-of-state types to try and take over. The only good thing about them was that they didn’t mind spending their money. Fearless Brewery was seeing a regular uptick in sales as people with disposable incomes began to scoop up the homes as fast as the construction crews could finish them.
Bennett had become a face known in the community. She’d leveraged her position as the business head of the brewery into various board positions in the city. She’d spearheaded making Broadway Street into the town gem—a showcase and meeting place. That brought the residents of town to the brewery’s doorstep. She made it a point to learn people’s names and greet them as they came in.
She had a way of making people feel comfortable and that was exactly why so many were gathered here now as the announcement had been made. Now it was time to send them home. Ken had something churning in his head. He’d made it clear that the kitchen was closed and that he believed food would become a situation.
“Okay, folks, I think we are going to have to close for the night. I am sure everybody has family or loved ones they want to check on,” Bennett announced. “Everybody get home safe.” And then another thought came. “And if anybody arrived on foot, please get a ride home. We haven’t seen any of those infected types out here, but that doesn’t mean there might not be."
Ken watched the place empty as Bennett ushered them out the door. She glanced over her shoulder and he gave her a subtle nod. Once she was gone, he grabbed the binder with all the inventory information and then headed to his pickup truck.
The drive over to Sandy was about fifteen minutes. As he made the trip, he couldn’t help but consider his course of action. Once he made this move, he wouldn’t really be able to call himself one of the “good” guys. Still, he had a feeling in his gut and he’d lived his life trusting that feeling.
By the time he arrived at his destination, he was committed to his plan. The first good sign was when he pulled up to the gate to find the place empty. There was no sign of activity, and at this hour, that was not normal. This was usually when the delivery trucks were loading up.
Getting out of his pickup, Ken grabbed a pry bar from behind the front seat and headed to the small concrete building that served as the office. Peering in the windows, he again confirmed that the place was empty.
Having been here more than a few times, his eyes drifted to the white keypad behind the counter. The red light was on which meant the alarm was activated. A bad feeling turned in his gut, and Ken had to shove it down.
Once he got himself back under control, the next part of his plan revealed itself to him. Walking up to the door, he dug the pry bar into the frame of the door right below the latch. After a good wrenching to drive it in, he gave the bar a hard press. The door opened with a scream of protesting metal and shattering wood.
A few seconds later, the telltale beep of the alarm system sounded. Ken walked back to his truck, tossed the prybar inside and climbed behind the wheel. Just as he pulled out of the lot, the blare of the alarm sounded. He pulled into the empty lot across the street where the U-pick stand sat empty. The field behind it was just showing the first shoots of the variety of fruits and veggies planted for spring. In a couple of months, the stand behind him should be buzzing with people. Some would come and just buy flats of things like strawberries and such, others would grab the baskets provided and pick their own.
Of course
, Ken doubted that would be happening this year. If he thought otherwise, he wouldn’t be here right now.
He waited for almost ten minutes. Eventually, the alarm stopped ringing. Ken continued to sit and watch. When another ten minutes passed, he rolled back across the street and pulled up to the front door.
Getting out of the truck, Ken’s nose wrinkled at a smell unlike anything he’d ever encountered. As he got closer to the office, the smell grew stronger to the point he had to stop and force the bile down that was trying to rise in his throat.
Reaching the doorway, he was about to step inside when the sound of something falling to the floor with a clatter caused him to jump. A low moan carried out of the darkness that made the hair on the back of his neck stand up.
He peeked inside, his first thought was that perhaps he’d missed somebody come in through the back. Maybe somebody stayed in a trailer on the premises. And perhaps somebody had slipped in using the shadows to check out the open door, encountered whomever had been inside checking out the alarm, and injured them.
Sure enough, a shadow moved down the narrow hallway that led to the restrooms. It was almost pitch black down that way and Ken hadn’t even considered bringing a weapon. He was fearless, not stupid. He wasn’t about to go into that darkness without knowing what waited.
“Hey, buddy,” he called, making sure he was mostly tucked behind the doorframe. “You might want to come on out of there. The alarm went off and the police are gonna be here any moment.”
Of course, he doubted that, and it was possible that this person was aware of how long ago since the alarm had gone off…as well as the lack of a police response. He expected some sort of reply from the person. After all, he’d kind of snuck up on the intruder.
Another low moan sounded, this one from the darkness. Maybe the person was some drunk, or, considering the number of druggies that drifted through the area, perhaps it was one of them. One thing for sure, they needed a damn shower.
