by Shana Festa
Praise for Time of Death: Induction
"A must read. Time of Death: Induction is the zombie apocalypse at its best. Scary, scary stuff."
-- MARK TUFO, AUTHOR OF THE ZOMBIE FALLOUT SERIES
"Shana Festa's debut novel is disturbing. She breathed creative life into the zombie genre. With three-dimensional characters and a compelling plot. Time of Death: Induction is a book you will read fast, but remember forever. Job well done!"
-- PHILLIP TOMASSO, AUTHOR OF THE VACCINATION TRILOGY
"Festa's zombies are the Romero-classics, but the heroes could be your neighbors; normal people pushed too far. The characters feel genuine, and you can't help but get involved with them. That's the strength of this book, and like any good zombie, all I want is more!"
--JAMES CRAWFORD, AUTHOR OF THE BLOOD SOAKED SERIES
"Time of Death: Induction is a brilliant debut novel from a true fan of the zombie genre that manages to capture the essence of the apocalypse from a woman's point of view without leaving anything out. Readers will find Shana Festa's work original, poignant, funny, gory, heartbreaking, and above all else totally satisfying. Time of Death showcases a strong new voice in dystopian fiction that will leave you hungry for more."
--DEVAN SAGLIANI, AUTHOR OF THE ZOMBIES ATTACK SERIES
"Shana Festa delivers an outstanding old-school zombie tale that will keep you up late and remind you why you love this genre."
--TW BROWN, AUTHOR OF THE DEAD, THAT GHOUL AVA, AND ZOMBLOG SERIES
"I enjoyed this fast paced debut novel by Shana Festa. The gripping and unique nature of the book kept me turning the pages, and you'll have a hard time putting it down."
--DARREN WEARMOUTH, BESTSELLING AUTHOR OF FIRST ACTIVATION
A PERMUTED PRESS book
Published at Smashwords
ISBN (Trade Paperback): 978-1-61868-2-727
ISBN (eBook): 978-1-61868-2-734
Time of Death: Induction copyright © 2014
by Shana Festa
All Rights Reserved.
Cover art by Joe Martin and Laura Gordon
This book is a work of fiction. People, places, events, and situations are the product of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or historical events, is purely coincidental.
No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author and publisher.
Table of Contents
Dedication
Foreword
Prologue: I’m Lovin’ It
Chapter 01: Code Brown
Chapter 02: Happy Wife, Happy Life
Chapter 03: Squishy
Chapter 04: Snow Day
Chapter 05: Buried Treasure
Chapter 06: Out of the Frying Pan…
Chapter 07: A Mother’s Love
Chapter 08: Dutch Oven
Chapter 09: Bachelor Pad
Chapter 10: Fuck You Helen Hunt
Chapter 11: …And Into the Fire
Chapter 12: Gone Fishing
Chapter 13: Apocalyptic Picnic
Chapter 14: This is my Rifle
Chapter 15: This is Jeopardy
Chapter 16: G.I. Jane
Chapter 17: Up, Up & Away
Chapter 18: Merry Fucking Christmas
Chapter 19: Gold Nuggests
Chapter 20: All Dogs Do Not Go to Heaven
Chapter 21: Heaven Gets Another Angel
Chapter 22: Sneaky Bastard
Chapter 23: Puke. The Ultimate Defense
Chapter 24: Yes, Dear
Chapter 25: Like Father, Like Son
Chapter 26: Oops, I Did It Again
Chapter 27: Living the High Life
Chapter 28: A Little Bit Louder Now
Chapter 29: Do Not Pass Go
Chapter 30: I See Right Through You
Epilogue
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Dedication
For my adorable husband, Tony, who wouldn’t let me kill him off.
Foreword
Hello readers! My name is Mark Tufo, author of the Zombie Fallout series and other stories. But this isn’t really about me, although I had to get in my shameless plug, this is about Shana Festa and her new book Time of Death: Induction. I get asked probably a couple dozen times a week to look at folks’ stories or writings and I always graciously decline. Listen, I’m honored that folks think I’m knowledgeable enough to give them tips and pointers or critique their stories. Fact is, I am not a critic. I hate doing it. I would no sooner tell someone their work was subpar than I would take food from a baby (unless it was a peanut butter cookie then all bets are off). Once upon a time, I accepted all stories truly with the hope that I could help out. I got so inundated within the first month, I quickly stopped. I’d received over a hundred books, the vast majority of which I will never, despite my good intentions, read. Now they reside in the corner of my office where they produce feelings of guilt every time I pass them by. I realized that just reading those stories would become a full-time job. That was three years ago, and I’ve politely turned down every request since.
So why now, you ask? Well you can blame it on the missus. Now I’m not saying seek her out and request that I read your book. I’ve already told her I don’t like doing it. I’m not comfortable with it, and I am by no means an expert. With that being said, Shana has done a lot for us by posting reviews of my books on her blog and generally tweeting the hell out of them. So for that we are extremely thankful. When she contacted us and told us that she had written a book, I was thrilled for her—if you’ve ever tried it, you’ll realize it’s not nearly as easy as one might think trying to collect those thousand thoughts you have and making them sound cohesive. Shana did it and she did it well; her story is fast-paced and crammed with action and characters you will come to love (well not all of them). I’ve written a few forewords and I struggle with what I can and cannot share, i.e. spoilers. Suffice it to say, I believe Shana has a brilliant start to what is sure to be an epic zombie apocalypse adventure. And I hope Shana takes this as the compliment I intend for it to be. I do believe her strong female lead could be related to Mike Talbot (read the story and that’ll make much more sense).
So to you, dear reader, Shana has delivered with her first novel what most can only hope to achieve, and I truly hope that you enjoy it as much as I did!
* * *
Prologue
I’m Lovin’ It
Nick Michaels sipped coffee on his back lanai, savoring the last few minutes of peace before leaving for work. Even in October, Florida was still hot enough to reduce the man to a puddle of sweat.
He pulled on his work boots, gave his sleeping girlfriend a quick peck on the cheek, and went out into the morning. Soon he was behind the wheel and heading down the road. He tapped the power button on the truck’s radio as he pulled out of the parking lot and turned the dial until he found something worthwhile. With his windows down, he sang along with Alanis Morissette about all things ironic.
The job site was a hive of activity when he arrived. His truck’s loud diesel engine was replaced with the sound of heavy equipment coming to life. Nick fed the pipe into the ground as the bit penetrated hard earth. He held up a fist to his teammate as the grinding noise of metal on rock changed to a high-pitched whine, indicating the drill bit needed to be replaced. The team welcomed the disruption and used the time to make trips to the portable toilet, smoke cigarettes, and gulp down some water under the shade of a tree on the adjacent lot.
Their break was cut short when a woman in her late sixties rounded the corner of the house shaking her fist in the air and yelling for them to
get off her property. The ranting woman was clad in a flowered housecoat and matching slippers. Her gray hair was done up in pink foam rollers, and most of it was trying to escape. The men held up their hands in a placating gesture and backed away from the tree, heading to their respective stations and resuming the dig.
With the drill bit replaced, Nick once again guided it down through the hole. The sound reminded him of childhood visits to the dentist as it bored through rock. He shuddered at the memory of cavities being filled and swore he felt a tingle in his mouth every time the whirling rotor struck some new obstacle in its path. After only a few minutes, the deep rumbling was again replaced with the whining of nothingness. Annoyed, Nick began the process of removing the tool from the deep hole to check for damage. As the head was backed out, a pocket of gas escaped through the newly created opening, and a loud whoosh sounded as it traveled to the surface.
A dense cloud of yellow vapor escaped, engulfing the closest men in a thick fog. Nick collapsed, clutching and scratching at his throat while the offending vapor suffocated him. As fast as it materialized, it began to dissipate in a swirling mist and evaporated into the air. The aftermath left him disoriented on the sunbaked dirt. Fresh air flooded back into his lungs. He began to cough, creating little clouds of dust that stung his eyes and felt gritty on his teeth as he licked his lips. There was a pounding in his head that beat in time with his heart. When he opened his eyes, a stab of pain bore into his pupils as the light danced on his corneas like glittering fairies from Hell. Slowly shaking his head as if to clear water from his ears, Nick found his three teammates to be in a similar state of pain and confusion.
The men half-stumbled, half-crawled to the respite of the tree and sat with their backs against the trunk. Each of them held their head in their hands in a futile attempt to quell the pounding headache, and they took turns letting out quiet moans of suffering lest the unwelcome noise of their voices amplify the pain.
The nosy neighbor watched from the front lawn, yelling into a phone with a shrill voice that pierced Nick’s ears. Sirens sounded in the distance.
As the throbbing intensified with the increasing wail of sirens, Nick stumbled to his truck. Behind the wheel, his vision swam and his earlier coffee threatened to heave forth from his belly and spray the windshield. Turning his head caused a spinning feeling as if the earth were shifting uncontrollably on its axis. He started the truck and drove. It was not without great effort that he slowed to a stop in front of his apartment complex. Forgetting to put the gear shift into park, he fell from the cab. The truck continued to slowly creep forward toward the building. Motionless on the pavement, his last sight—before the spastic seizing overtook him—were the big yellow arches of the neighboring McDonald's.
What awoke shortly after was no longer Nick. Its gray pallid skin was lined with spidery blue veins. Its eyes were an opaque milky-white with red broken blood vessels streaming from the pupils like exploded fireworks. It had no memories, no feelings. The only thing it knew was hunger: a primitive, visceral urge to feed. The thing, formerly known as Nick Michaels, climbed stiffly to its feet and lumbered clumsily toward the scent of food.
Ignored was the smell of french fries, replaced by the sweet bouquet of living flesh. Once again gazing at the golden arches with unfocused eyes, the abomination made its way to the drive-thru window for some fast food. Instead of ordering at the lit sign, its gaze fixed upon the shape of an elderly woman behind the open window of a car, and it leaned in to feed.
* * *
Chapter 01
Code Brown
"Code brown in room 204." Our nurse preceptor sped out of the nurses’ station and down the hall.
"Oh, my God. What's a code brown?" Ollie asked me. Her eyes grew wide and sparkled with curiosity. Olivia, Ollie for short, was my five-foot nothing sidekick and one of my best friends. We always seemed to get into trouble when paired together.
"No clue but it sounds awesome, and maybe we’ll get to do something cool." With that, we headed down the hall in fast pursuit of the nurse.
St. Vincent’s Hospital was one of four hospitals in Lee County. All owned by the same parent company; St. Vincent’s was the newest facility and more technologically advanced than the others. Electronic key cards worn on the chest of each employee housed microchips, and when entering a patient’s room, the name, title, and area of specialty of the staff member, along with their employee photo, was displayed on the television.
Outside each room was a workstation with a computer terminal. I set my clipboard on a shelf before entering room 204 and squirted my hands with the alcohol-based hand soap mounted outside the door. I got three steps into the room and abruptly skidded to a halt. Ollie had been following on my heels and bounced off my back. A room full of nurses and students looked up at us and panic set in. There was no way to slink back out of the room unnoticed.
"Good. Glove up, ladies. We could use some more hands over here." The words code brown would now forever make me throw up in my mouth. The scene unfolding in front of me was bizarre. A woman lay naked on her side in a hospital bed and was covered in diarrhea. Shit was all over the bed, on the floor, and on the far wall. That's right, I said far wall. It looked like she had had a blowout. The woman had her head buried in a pillow, hiding her face from the rest of us.
And the smell? Oh God, the fucking smell! Bob, one of my fellow classmates, was up at the woman's head and holding her hand. "Sir," he said, "you need to stop clenching your cheeks together. Bear down like you're having a bowel movement." There were two things very wrong with Bob's statement. First and foremost, I couldn't believe he just called this woman sir. Clearly the naked brown smeared thing in front of him had boobs and a vagina. And second, she already was having a bowel movement. It took me another minute to take in the rest of the scene. Hey, cut me some slack. My eyes and nose had just been assaulted. Due to the feces bomb that had detonated in room 204, the physician had ordered a Flexi-Seal for the patient. Apparently, this procedure is done by nurses. Not knowing what a Flexi-Seal was, I took this opportunity to nonchalantly pick up the package and read the description. The label read 'a temporary containment device, indicated for immobilized, incontinent patients with liquid or semi-liquid stool.’ The package showed a photo of a silicone tube, a syringe, and a collection bag. At one end of the tubing was a retention balloon to be inserted into the rectum.
This was when I looked up and the reality of the scene came into focus. They were attempting to insert the tube into the patient’s rectum and not having any luck. The tube would go in an inch, buckle, and slide back out. Covered, of course, in K.Y. Jelly and now shit. I looked over at Ollie at this point and could tell she was about to lose it. Her face was bright red, and the corners of her mouth twitched. Tears leaked from her eyes. I felt a case of the giggles coming on. Don't make eye contact...don't do it! I repeated to myself.
Then she looked at me, and I did everything in my power not to topple over the edge. It was at this point I realized I was still standing only three feet into the room. So I did what any respectable nursing student would do. I sucked it up, put on a set of gloves, and asked what I could do to help. That’s me, Emma Rossi, nursing student extraordinaire, and glorified ass-wiper.
It turned into one very long night, and I quickly decided that after I graduated and earned my nursing license, I would not be getting a job in Orthopedics. I saw more poop and wiped more asses in one night than I had in my entire life.
* * *
Once home, I dragged my aching body through the door from the garage. It was after midnight, and I stripped down to my birthday suit in the laundry room. After throwing every iota of clothing on my person, including my sneakers, into the washing machine (I now understood why they insisted on us getting leather sneakers with no fabric or breathing holes), I walked into the kitchen wearing the towel Jake had left out for me. The smell of burnt popcorn assaulted my nose as I entered. Waving my hand dramatically in front of me, I crinkled my face and
peered into the living room, leaning forward with my elbows on the granite countertop. From my vantage point, I could see into all the main rooms of our home by simply turning my head. With my chin resting on my hands, I took a deep breath and let out a long sigh and spent a minute appreciating the recent renovations we’d made to our little piece of the American dream.
I’d finally convinced Jake to take the plunge. Stark white walls were replaced with a color scheme indicative of Ralph Lauren. The kitchen walls were a muted, smoky blue and contrasted elegantly against the new cherry cabinets and stainless steel appliances. The earth-toned glass backsplash sparkled as it reflected the recessed lights hidden under the upper cabinets.
An exact match to the neutral beige in the backsplash had been painted on the walls of the living room where Jake currently lounged on the sofa watching some comedy with Vince Vaughn in Tahiti. For some reason these types of movies always seemed to put him in a goofy mood.
He jumped up from the sofa with his arms in the air like I was the recipient of a surprise party and yelled at me enthusiastically. "Hi, baby! How were your clinicals? Did you save lots of lives?"
Daphne, our seven pound Yorkie, jumped up on the back of the sofa and wagged her stubby tail in greeting. She really was an adorable little thing. Her coat was a steely-blue and tan color. I often joked that she had little-old-lady hair. I kept her fur cut short so she didn't overheat in the Florida sun when we played outside. She looked up at me with little brown eyes the size of small grapes. That's all it usually took to get whatever she wanted from me. I totally got the phrase puppy dog eyes after we brought her home from the pet store. She was the real head of the household at Chez Rossi. What Daphne wanted, Daphne got. God forbid we tell her no; she would throw a temper tantrum and stomp her paws like a toddler. And she was stubborn. Lately, I had to add the word now to the end of commands, or she would just stare at me smugly. For some reason the now scared her into action.
