The Zombie Theories (Book 2): Conspiracy Theory

by Rich Restucci

  Everyone but the captain, Remo, Kinga, Austin and I left. Kat was pissed. Tim looked hurt, but he had been through enough.

  Captain Schumitz put his hands on the desk and looked up at us. “There’s data on that boat that I need. A colonel from USAMRIID had some journals that I want, but more than that she has one of these.” He pulled a little red key from around his neck. It was shaped oddly, with ridges and depressions.

  “You mean a doctor colonel named Callus? She’s dead.”

  Schumitz blinked. “How—”

  “Been on the Majestik, captain. Remember? I read the ship’s log. Captain by the name of Pederson. He wrote how you assholes took over his ship, carted throngs of infected on there for study, and how they, shockingly, got loose and killed everybody.”

  The MARSOC boys looked pissed. “They put infected on a ship to study them?” asked Kinga.

  “They did,” the captain returned. “Anything else?”

  I saw Kinga back down almost immediately. I couldn’t believe it. This guy could kill everybody in the room except probably Remo, and he backed down in an instant. He was still mad, but he wasn’t going to question this Navy captain again.

  “I’ve got something else,” I said. “It seems that you military assholes,” I looked at Remo and Kinga, “sorry. You military assholes aren’t so bright, because you did exactly the same thing inside a secure facility in Montana. Brought in a bunch of infected, they got loose, and they killed everybody.”

  It was the captain’s turn to get angry. I’m guessing he wasn’t accustomed to being called names and having his authority questioned.

  “Frankly, I don’t give a shit about your problems. I’m a naval officer and I follow orders. That having been said, neither I nor anyone under my command, had anything to do with what happened on the Majestik Maersk. I’m allowing you on this mission because you can help me. That’s it. Get the data, the key, and the survivors, and we will take it from there.”

  “Take it from there. Right. And how long until you’re ordered to fill Atlantis with a hundred infected to study?”

  That took him aback. Literally, he stepped back.

  “I…that wouldn’t—”

  “Wouldn’t what?” I snapped. “Happen? Occur? Give me a break. Let me ask you a question, Captain: would you follow orders if you were ordered to bring infected here?”

  Remo put his hand on my shoulder and I glanced in his direction.

  “Easy,” was all he said.

  I turned and looked at him. “Easy? Remo, he’s going to do the same thing they’ve done to me twice. They won’t be satisfied until everybody’s dead.”

  “They won’t.”

  “Clearly this man isn’t military,” the captain thought out loud in reference to yours truly. Bastard shook his head like he was better than me.

  “Neither am I,” Remo followed, and I almost shit myself.

  I looked at him expectantly, WTF!? all over my face.

  “Two years retired. I was on base dealing with some insurance crap when the shit hit the fan. Hooked up with these boys,” he thumbed at Kinga, “and now I’m here.”

  Schumitz looked at me. “I have no plans on bringing infected to Atlantis, son.”

  “But you would if ordered. Forget it, let’s just go. You and I can talk when I get back.”

  Remo and Kinga stayed behind while I went in search of Kat.

  End

  It took almost an hour to get to Kat. Everybody wanted to know how I was and what was done to me and how I escaped and everything else. My friends, and folks I didn’t even know, stopped me to ask me those questions. They asked others too, like how were the roads, and did I pass through—insert state and town here—and how many infected had I seen and killed.

  I answered patiently, even when one of the roughnecks, Bear, grabbed me around the middle and hoisted me in the air like a sock-puppet, telling me how good it was to have me back.

  I got to my room and Kat was waiting with Tim and the kids.

  “You’re not really leaving are you?” asked Chloe, a bit scared.

  “I have to help my friend. Actually, he’s more like my brother, and if Richy was in trouble, wouldn’t you want to go help him?”

  She looked down and nodded. Kat had already packed a bag and was checking her shotgun.

  “Kat.” She didn’t look at me.

  “Kat!”

  She looked up. “Don’t! I’m coming.”

  “Kat, I need you and Tim to watch out for the kids while I’m gone. I don’t trust that Schumitz guy as far as I can throw him.”

  “But I—”

  “No, Kat. No, I need you here.” I grabbed her hands in mine. She was still holding the shotgun, so it was weird. “This isn’t me trying to keep you safe, it’s me trying to keep everybody safe. You’re a badass, and that’s what I need right now. I’ve already spoken to Greg, and he and a few of the boys we came in here with are going to keep an eye the sailors from that destroyer, especially its captain. This guy,” I nodded at Tim, “is also a badass, and he will do whatever is necessary. I not only trust him with my life, but with yours.”

  Her eyes welled up and a single tear rolled down her cheek.

  “You just got back.”

  “You’ll be saying that again tomorrow. Maybe even tonight.”

  She threw her arms around me, crushing me with an embrace. If I wasn’t so friggin’ tough, I might have followed suit on the tear thing.

  I heard a sound behind me, and Austin was there with Kinga.

  Kinga nodded. “It’s time.”

  I nodded back and held Kat at arm’s length. “I want striped bass, grilled with garlic, salt, and pepper when I get back. You be safe, watch the kids, and bring Tim up to speed on this place. If anybody tries to bring a shipping container on this rig, you shoot them.”

  “I will.”

  I hugged her, the kids, and Tim. “Watch your ass out there, hero,” he said to me.

  “Remo will be with me.”

  “Then I pity those zombies.” He smiled.

  I looked at the people in my shack once more and followed Kinga out into the sun. It smelled like metal, grease, and sweat on the deck. I took a deep breath.

  I love that smell.

  Read on for a free sample of A Broken World: A Zombie Novel

  Acknowledgements

  Sometimes it’s easier to write a book than it is to recognize everyone who helped in its creation. Seriously, if I were to make an attempt to individually express gratitude to all those wonderful folks who pitched in to make this story what it is, the tome would be twice as long. But I’m going to try anyway. Thanks to my family; Mom n Pops, Lovely Wife, and Brats X3, whose patience with me only exists because they are family. To those friends seen by me each day for the same reason. For those specific friends, like the excellent and admirable James Schannep, who has not only written his own fantastic series of books, but the foreword for this one, I thank you. To Sara, J.R., and FF, Zombie Fiends and friends; this book would be sitting on a hard drive in my basement without your feedback. To the Wardroom (wdrmmta.wordpress.com) without whose input this tale would suck even more than it does. To you, Dear Reader, who was either smart enough or dumb enough to beg, borrow, buy, or steal this work; you have my utmost thanks as you have generated enough revenue for me that I might just be able to purchase some Cheetos with my next sandwich. Thank you all.

  Chapter 1

  Approximately 1430 hours

  Twelve miles southeast of Chicago, Illinois

  Day 174. Still haven’t found any signs of fellow survivors.

  My car has finally run out of gas. It had been on fumes for the past hour, and I dreaded this happening, so I pushed on. I got out and opened the back door. Everything I had of importance now lay on the seat. Funny how something can make you realize the important things in life. In a backpack I picked up from a K-Mart in downtown Chicago, I had several canned foods, extra ammunition, and a sleeping bag from the hunting section.
Next to the backpack, I grabbed the .22 rifle I picked up. I already had the 9mm Sig Sauer P226R handgun strapped to my left hip.

  It’s the only gun I ever bought and owned. Before retiring last year and putting twenty-one years in the Special Forces behind me, I was browsing through the PX and spotted the gun. It was a reasonable price and came with four twenty-round magazines and night-sights. I bought the gun and a holster for a combined price of $1100. That actually isn’t bad for a good weapon of that magnitude. Of course, I couldn’t foresee the added benefit that I could share ammo between my handgun and any 9mm submachine-gun or rifle if I happened to find one.

  My watch stopped working a few days ago, but I’m holding onto it in the event that I find a battery to replace the dead one. Until I do, all times will have to be approximated.

  It’s funny really. 174 days ago I was thinking about grabbing a beer, watching the football game, PT in the morning, and getting laid. Now, only one of those would make a difference to me. And it sure as hell isn’t PT.

  I can’t help but think about how things were before…I mean, I know I shouldn’t, but my mind wanders when I’ve been driving for hours. Now that the car has run out of gas, maybe I won’t think as much. Maybe.

  I ran my hand through my long hair, unused to the length after my years in the military. My wife had always said I looked better with long hair, but I liked it better short. Now, I’d give almost anything to hear her say it again even if she was my ex.

  I grabbed my backpack and weapons, placing my hand on the Sig to make sure the strap wouldn’t slip, and patted the car once on the hood. Gas stations were unreliable for fuel after everyone started to panic when the shit hit the fan half a year ago.

  There had been news reports that some biologists had discovered some sunken city deep in the Arctic. They thawed the people, and that’s when things got sketchy. The reports from their outpost stopped transmitting. A search team was sent; never returned. Knowing what I know now, I would have said screw it, and left the poor bastards alone. But, of course, that’s the gift of hindsight.

  A larger group composed of three scientists, a military escort, and a news team flew up there and checked it out. Some died there. Unfortunately, others made it back onto the planes. Since the rescue operation was a joint effort between the United States and Great Britain, both countries suffered the results of the expedition. Curiosity killed humanity.

  A virus, preserved through the freezing process and dormant for centuries, came to the surface upon thawing and had infected the hosts. People showed varying symptoms. Some broke out in a heavy fever. Others vomited their insides out. No matter how they got there, though, the result was the same: Death. Twenty-four hours after returning, the searchers with the most severe symptoms died first. The ones with fevers took longer, passing over the next two days.

  There was a televised burial ceremony of the “brave” team that had ventured out into the arctic for a few dumbass scientists. I hate the fucking media. They always have to glorify everything. Of course, no one at that point knew what the scientists had been screwing around with up there. Now, we did. They were recreating a virus that had infected and subsequently exterminated an entire population. Scientists should know by now that playing God never works out in their favor.

  Anyway, the dead people didn’t stay dead. The gutless ones got up within a few hours; the fevers took longer. It’s safe to say that the footage of that ceremony was actually quite hilarious. The priest got attacked right as he was saying, “May they rest in peace.” Oh, the irony. The mass hysteria that ensued all over the nation wasn’t so fun, but I made it out okay. People just need to learn to go with the flow and improvise.

  People got bitten, basically signing their death-warrants, and then all Hell broke loose. Literally. People died and became…I’m honestly not sure. Technically, they’re not zombies because the virus has a name, and they don’t really moan or shuffle their feet. Well, some do. But most of them walk normally unless you break their kneecaps. Not that I would do something mean like that. Actually, it’s the ones that crawl that are the worst. They can be anywhere, and you might not know until it’s too late. Say goodbye to Bathroom Bob or Closet-Checking Cindy. The stupidity is classic, but still kind of sad.

  For the purposes of writing all of this down, though, I’ll refer to the dead undead infected as zombies.

  Chapter 2

  Approximately 1700 Hours

  Unknown Location

  I continued to walk aimlessly, pressing forward for a reason I no longer knew. I was only vaguely aware of the time due to the location of the sun. Sweat had stained my clothing, and I was hot as hell, but I fought the urge to drink my water until I found another source.

  Up ahead, I saw a sign along the side of the highway. It’s strange. In all of the movies and television shows, cars were always bumper to bumper on the highway. There was that random eighteen-wheeler that jack-knifed for no damn sense and everything was on fire. I laughed at that thought, because Hollywood was so wrong.

  Maybe it was because I was miles from a major city, or maybe it was because no one made it past a certain point out of Chicago, but there was not a thing out there except for me, that sign, and a shitload of dirt. At that thought, I looked around in every direction. Chicago had a lot of tall buildings crowded together for the sole effort to pollute the hell out of the city and kill the environment. Outside of the city, though, it was a lot more peaceful and barren. The good thing about that was that I could see in every direction, so none of the zombies could creep up on me without me knowing.

  The bad thing was that I was in the middle of freaking nowhere, and I had no idea where to go. If the movies were wrong about the simplest subject of the zombie apocalypse, meaning the zombies, then how could they possibly be right about the more complex things, like where to go that’s safe? I was hoping that a small town with a low population would provide relative safety, but at this rate I was not counting on it.

  I was close enough now to read the sign. “Oak Lawn. 42 Miles.” Only forty-two more miles, and I might find something useful. I hadn’t had a full night of sleep in probably a few months now. Every little sound woke me. Nightmares flooded my subconscious and kept me on a constant edge. The combination of paranoia, sleep deprivation, and basic fear had been causing me to zone out for long periods of time where I began to imagine things. Hallucinating isn’t a good thing to do when ninety percent of the world population is trying to kill you.

  I wished I had someone with me that I could trust. That way, I could sleep in relative peace and have a conversation. I used to be very anti-social, and avoided people like the plague. Only now that there is a plague, I would give anything to have a friend. It was pretty ironic in a sad, depressing kind of way.

  How long have I been walking? I lost count of feet a while back. I thought I was up to 4,300-something, but I was not sure anymore. I would just start over.

  The sign was now a blur in the distance behind me as I looked over my shoulder yet again to check if someone, or even worse, some thing followed me out of Chicago. I looked back in front of me and prayed that this was all a dream.

  Maybe it was a dream. Maybe I would wake up to my annoying alarm-clock and listen to my ex-wife bitching at me that it’s my day to get the kids and how much she hates my guts. It was not my fault I preferred my job that takes me thousands of miles away from her over being around her and her hippy parents. They even had the long hair still. My marriage ended a couple years ago when I told her parents to leave me alone, and let me take care of my family since I was the father, not them. Of course, I didn’t put it that nicely, but I had never been very diplomatic.

  If this was a dream, then if I walked out into the dirt and put a bullet in my brain, I would just wake up, right? The shock of dying in a dream wakes you up. I read that somewhere, or maybe I saw it in a movie. I couldn’t remember. What’s the last thing I remember? What did I have for breakfast? Supposedly, one way to tell if you’re
dreaming was to see if you remember anything prior. Standard Stanislavsky questions. Who am I, where am I, how did I get here, et cetera.

  I don’t remember, but I was not exactly anxious to plug that irritating hole in my head, called a mouth, with a 9mm bullet. No, I was just going to have to stick it through and pray that I wake up soon.

  Further ahead, I saw a faint outline walking in my direction. I stopped and crouched down, reaching in the pack for my binoculars. Adjusting the sights and bringing them to my eyes, I zoomed in, and focused on the object.

  Yeah, it was a zombie. Who didn’t expect that, right? Disappointed, I put the binocs back, and whipped the rifle off my shoulder while walking forward, taking my time because I was not looking forward to another zombie. Honestly, if I never saw another zombie for the rest of my life, it would be too fucking soon.

  When I was trying to leave Chicago, I had gone to my ex-wife’s house. She was lying on her back in the kitchen, and she just looked up at me when I walked in. At that time, I wasn’t aware of everything going on. When I walked around the corner of the bar, what I saw pushed my mental capacity to “mind-fucked” status. My son, Phillip, was devouring her intestines.

  You know, it’s weird. All the movies say zombies want your brains, but somehow they always end up eating other stuff besides your brains. Like intestines for instance. Why do zombies eat those? I don’t have the answer, but at that time, Phillip definitely wanted some intestines. He was pounding it down faster than a marine eats or an alcoholic drinks.

  As proud as I was that my son was finally eating enough, I was both disturbed and disgusted at his choice of cuisine. The little cannibalistic motherfucker was chowing down on my ex-wife. I must admit that as much as she hated me, I didn’t want that for her. Then Phillip had the nerve to get up and frown at me. He was actually frowning. Don’t get me wrong, he was my son, and I’m obligated to love him for that reason, but at that moment, with his fat, pudgy face caked in the blood of a woman I had loved long before him and frowning, something snapped. I raised my gun and put his ass down with a bullet to the brainpan. Then I shot her in the head to end her pain. I stood for a long time like that—gun leveled, shock making its way through me, just staring at the two bodies in the kitchen.