I've Been Deader

by Adam Sifre

  Table of Contents

  copyright

  Chapter I

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Teaser from "Here's What Happened"

  Teaser from "'Take A Breather"

  I've Been Deader

  by

  Adam Sifre

  ISBN 1478180781

  EAN 978-1478180784

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

  'I've Been Deader' is published by Taylor Street Publishing LLC, who can be contacted at:

  http://www.taylorstreetbooks.com

  http://ninwriters.ning.com

  'I've Been Deader' is the copyright of the author, Adam Sifre, 2011-2012. All rights are reserved.

  All characters are fictional, and any resemblance to anyone living or dead is accidental.

  Chapter I

  Commute

  Fred's ruined face stared back at him from a fractured, mold-spotted mirror. The remains of breakfast pooled around his feet and a pair of lace panties clung to his shoe, glued there by God knew what. Bits of flesh were stuck between his yellow teeth, along with the sodden remains of a hand-wash-only label. There was no denying that he'd seen better days.

  Being a zombie is no picnic.

  Compelled to pause and take stock of himself, he wiped his gore-stained hands on a filthy shirt, unsure if he was cleaning the hands or the shirt. His right eye looked like a crushed egg yolk and his left leg was broken in two places. A large splinter of bone poked through the skin above his thigh, fine dark lines etched across the surface like a bad piece of scrimshaw. The open wound on his neck had started leaking again, but at least the fluid was mostly clear now.

  No use dwelling on negatives. Time to get to work. He turned away from his reflection, and limped out of the men's room of the Vince Lombardi rest area.

  An overly bright morning sun assaulted him as he stepped outside. Fred gave a mental wince, wishing yet again that he could blink. Sunlight had no adverse effect on the undead, but he had never been a morning person. Rain or shine, today he had to shamble over to Terminal C of Newark Airport, where eight breathers were making their last stand. Zombies were lone hunters and rarely worked together. Every so often, however, a kind of collective broadcast signal went out over the undead grapevine, announcing the newest brain buffet - in a shopping mall, a church, or an airport - with predictable and satisfying results.

  Dozens were already making their way down the New Jersey turnpike. By their mindless, movie-slow pace, he knew they hadn't fed. Zombies weren't Jesse Owens on the best of days, but they tended to move a lot faster with a little brain in the old furnace.

  If Fred could breathe, he would have sighed. There'd be hundreds of zombies, all ready to fight over eight brains and assorted bits. The breathers would probably take out ten to twenty percent of the attacking hoard before being overwhelmed. That left about ten zombies per breather. With luck, by the time he got there he would still be the brainiac of the pack.

  Having his wits about him gave a zombie an edge in the hunt. The effects of the virus or whatever it was that put the mojo in their mortified flesh varied from corpse to corpse. Most became textbook droolie ghoulies, but some could reason and even remember who they were as breathers. So far Fred hadn't come across any other thinkers, but he doubted he was the only one.

  By mid-afternoon he found himself enjoying his walk down the turnpike. Most of the fires had burned themselves out and although the air still reeked of burning gasoline, the skies were more or less smoke-free. He might be a walking corpse, but he appreciated a warm spring day like this one. He pulled his lips up in what should have been a grin.

  Death, ruin and destruction improved the New Jersey Turnpike.

  Not that there wasn't a black lining to be found around Fred's own little rainbow of a life. Most of the zombies were a few hundred yards down the road, but two lesser undead doggedly tagged alongside of him, putting a bit of a damper on things. The virus left them as nothing more than … well, nothing more than zombies. They were about as interesting as slugs and moaned so much that, were Fred alive, he'd be sporting a hell of a migraine.

  All in all, however, the day was turning out quite well. He almost convinced himself being undead wasn't so bad. Sure, it was bad luck that he was forty-five years old with a rather large potbelly when he had been bitten by that damned clerk. Being cursed to wander the earth in search of brains was bad enough, but why couldn't it have happened when he was twenty years younger and thirty pounds lighter?

  He was imagining wandering the earth in search of fresh brains as a slimmer, sleeker and younger Fred, when the head of the zombie on his left exploded.

  Shit!

  He limped over to an abandoned Ford Explorer and crouched down, scanning the area for the source of the ambush. The other walking corpse stopped and stared at the ground, a low "Braaaaiiiinnnnsss?" emitting from its drooling mouth. Fred felt a sense of relief when a bullet took the second one through its right eye. Those two had just about gotten on his last dead nerve.

  A glint of light in the tall grass by a pond off the side of the road revealed the breather's position. It looked like he was alone.

  The lone gunman on the grassy shoal, Fred thought with a mental smile.

  He stood up from behind the Explorer, pointed at the area where the gunman was hidden, made the undead scream of discovery then ducked back down behind the SUV and waited. Several zombies with lesser survival instincts turned off the road and converged on the field. A bullet dropped another one and Fred saw a figure pop up from the tall grass and start running. A collective moan escaped from the zombies and they began to shuffle a little faster. But unless the breather tripped, broke both legs and fell asleep, he'd be fine - for now.

  Fred got up and started limping toward Exit 14. It would be another hour or so before he reached the airport. Most of the zombies were still on the road. After taking into account the ones that had left to chase the gunman and Fred's two undead groupies - now just dead - he figured there would be plenty of brains for everyone when they got there.

  Fred was ... well, he was - I'm happy. As he shambled down the turnpike he began humming a song that was popular before he turned. In his mind it was a happy, catchy tune. But when he hummed it, it sounded a lot like "Braaiinnss ..."

  Chapter 2

  Airport

&nb
sp; Fred ignored the abandoned cars, corpses and piles of trash littering the tarmac in front of Terminal C. The carcass of a burned out passenger jet smoldered on the closest runway, black smoke coloring everything, turning a beautiful summer morning into a bruise. Several gypsy cabs were parked in front of the loading zone, their owners gone.

  Not interested in negotiating fares with Newark's newest class of immigrants.

  His earlier good mood had evaporated. Something wasn't right. He couldn't put his finger on it, but the place felt ... creepy. For starters, his chances of getting an easy meal were slim. A baker's dozen of undead gathered a few hundred yards away, before the terminal's nearest entrance. They flung themselves against the glass doors, ignoring the other two entrances a few yards away. Another dozen or so wandered aimlessly in the parking lot. He'd kept back from the shambling crowd, in case the breathers inside had prepared any nasty surprises.

  Zombies were strong, terrifying and relentless, but unlike rent controlled tenants, they didn't live forever. On the trek down the turnpike he'd seen one stop and fall to the ground. One moment happily moaning with the rest of them and the next - kaput. Fred's first thought had been 'sniper', but there weren't any bullet wounds. Of course, looking for fresh wounds on a walking corpse was harder than finding Waldo in a candy-cane hat factory. Still, what sniper would kill just one zombie? Like eating a single potato chip ...

  No, death was too short to take unnecessary chances. He'd play it safe and leave the storming of Castle Newark to braver zombies, even if that meant giving up the choicest cuts.

  No gunfire so far, always a good sign. In the movies his son Timmy watched, the breathers were armed to the teeth and dead shots. Apparently the Apocalypse always fell on NRA double coupon day, because machine guns, assault rifles and rocket launchers seemed to fall from the sky like manna from heaven. But the reality was different. Most people who didn't have guns before, didn't have them now. Not surprising when you thought about it. When facing a plague of flesh-eating zombies, your chances of survival significantly increase if they don't see you. So staying home with the blinds down instead of heading to Wal-Mart for iPods and ammo meant you stayed hidden and kept livin'. The shooter at the rest stop had been a bit of a surprise for just that reason. Why take pot shots at a bunch of zombies who didn't know you were there?

  Takes all kinds.

  Still, better safe than sorry. There didn't appear to be any gunmen on the roof. All was quiet, apart from the repeated thudding of undead throwing themselves against the glass doors. More zombies joined the throng. Fred started shambling forward for a better look when two zombies slammed into each other and fell to the ground, giving him a clear view of the door.

  A baby. Well, a toddler, sitting a few feet behind the door. He looked to be about two years old, and tasty. Plenty of baby fat and a nice big head, covered with light blond hair. The kid sat, legs splayed, pushing down on a bright orange and green cloth ball. No wonder the zombies were whipping themselves into a frenzy.

  An unprotected child - no parents, no guns. Like winning the undead lottery. It made him uneasy. It shouldn't make any difference to a zombie, but the thought of eating a child didn't sit well with him. What kind of breather leaves a baby all alone in Newark Airport? Again, he couldn't help but think of Timmy. He'd be eleven now. Ten? Well, older than a toddler, that's for sure. If he's still breathing.

  Fred's glassy eye caught movement on the roof and he looked up in time to see two breathers, a man and a woman, manhandling one of those fifty-gallon drums. They tipped it over and light amber liquid rained down on the crowd of zombies.

  Gasoline.

  A few paused in their mindless attack, but most paid it no mind. Fred, however, was very attentive. A collective moan from the undead drew his attention back to the door. The toddler was gone.

  Bait.

  On the roof, the woman was on her stomach, leaning over the ledge, her legs wrapped around the man's waist. He sat a few feet back, his hands gripping her thighs. Her hair was tied back in a small pony tail. She wore a dirty white T-shirt and gray shorts. Without thinking Fred took a few more steps toward the building for a better look.

  She's beautiful.

  Then he saw the Molotov cocktail in her hand. With the skill of a Korean masseuse, she lit the cocktail while hanging upside down. One zombie took notice of her. It pointed up at the sky, moaning in agitation. Its fellow corpses did what corpses do best, and ignored it. Fred saw the woman smile as she dropped the bottle.

  At that moment Fred realized two things. He had to see this woman again; and he had to get the hell out of there. Then the bottle hit the ground and things started heating up.

  There was a whumph, like the sound an explosion of flames makes, followed by an explosion of flames. The next instant the crowd of zombies turned into walking Duraflames.

  Fred turned and started to limp away. There were few things more flammable then a zombie. That woman - that beautiful, amazing woman - could have poured grape juice on those rotters and they still would have gone up like dry kindling at the mere sight of a Zippo lighter.

  While zombies burned easier than toast, they had a tendency to keep walking while they did it. Burning dead began lurching to and fro, and a few were lurching too close to Fred.

  An overweight zombie with a flaming beard blindly shuffled toward him. Fred took a few steps back and moved to the left. He could feel the heat as the corpse walked past before falling to its knees. The fire kept burning as it started crawling across the parking lot, seeking God knew what.

  Two others were also heading his way. He couldn't tell for sure because the flames were too - zombie, zombie, burning - bright but it looked as if they had somehow fused together. The smaller one may have been a woman back in the day, but now she was bubbling a bit around the chest and neck and her eyes were empty sockets. She kept pulling the larger one to the left, and the flaming pair made their way in Fred's general direction via a series of sloppy half circles.

  He didn't stick around to see if they made it. Most of the undead hadn't moved much from the door, but a few impersonated walking candles, sending black greasy ash and smoke into the fresh Newark air.

  He managed to put some distance between himself and the ZBQ when he heard the car. A black Escalade tore down the parking lot, avoiding the undead more by chance than intent. The driver, head hanging out the window and drunk on adrenaline, screamed in defiance and terror. The windshield was spider-webbed and smeared with ash, hair and gore. The passenger window was also open and Fred could see the woman, the beautiful woman, in the passenger seat. She seemed remarkably calm, all things considered. She kept firing a gun without aiming. A garbage can and Coca-Cola vending machine each took one for the team. It's shock, not calm.

  As the car sped by, he glimpsed two girls in the back seat and just the smallest wisp of blonde hair peeking above the back window.

  That woman ... those eyes. Fred watched his meals on wheels make good their escape, but food was the last thing on his mind.

  Chapter 3

  Crush

  'Lord, I was made a shamblin' man.

  Trying to keep unliving the best I can.'

  -The Almost Breathers

  Fred stood in the rubble-strewn alley, dead flowers clutched in his hands, staring vacantly at the gated brownstone across the street. Like all undead he had two types of looks - vacant and insanely hungry.

  He would have stared with longing if he could. Not at the brownstone, although it was a rather nice building with the bedrooms exposed to the morning light, but at the breather inside - the woman from the airport.

  She and the others had been living in the building for the last several weeks - along with a white toy Poodle they called Niki. Fred hated Niki. If there was anything more annoying than the incessant moaning of the undead, it was Niki's never-ending yipping. Even now he could hear it barking from somewhere inside the brownstone. He didn't know how the breathers could stand it. On the other hand, if it ha
dn't been for the mutt, Fred may never have found them again.

  Ahh, but none of those petty annoyances seemed to bother Aleta. The wonderful, beautiful, clean Aleta. Like a living work of art - yum - she sat in front of the upstairs window with a sketch pad in hand, studying the sunset. Sketchpad. Can you imagine?

  She had short blonde hair and brown eyes. Two brown eyes. He absently raised a mangled hand to his ruined right eye. She had the whitest smile he had ever seen. Every day at this time she sat at her window and every day he stood in the rubble across the street.

  Fred's eye was empty but his dead heart was filled with fire.

  You are beautiful, like an angel, he thought.

  "Braaaiiinss," he moaned.

  He'd been watching her for days now, growing more anxious with each passing hour. She couldn't stay there forever. Bad things happened to breathers who stayed in one place too long. Yesterday, for example, one of the lesser dead tried to make its way into the building. He'd seen it attack the iron gate with a single-mindlessness one always finds in zombies and certain radio talk show hosts. It wasn't a Thinker and would never have breached the gate. Still, just knowing it was after Aleta's brains threw Fred into a rage. He picked up a broken Coke bottle and before he knew what he was doing, fell upon the zombie, sawing the jagged piece of glass into its throat. He didn't stop until its entire head flipped back ninety degrees, reminding Fred of a Pez candy dispenser. The deader zombie now lay outside the fence.

  If any of this bothered the breathers they didn't show it. The man left earlier that morning, taking the rifle and entrusting Aleta's safety to the spiked fence. Just a matter of time before others find her - maybe it'll be a Thinker next time. If that happens ...

  He knew that he was not like the other zombies. Sure, he ate the brains of breathers and his mortified flesh was in a constant state of decay; but inside, underneath all the gangrene and rot, Fred was different. He didn't know why. He just knew that he was. But how could he show her that? How could he get her to see beyond the open neck wound and the shambling gait? To make her see the real Fred and not just another drooling corpse?