by Dhar, Mainak
'Dad, I can shoot and fight better than most of the adults you're taking with you.'
Gladwell looked at his daughter's sulking face and knelt before her.
'Alice, being one member of a twenty-man squad armed with rifles is much easier than the task you have. You won't have the chance to ask for instructions, you won't have reinforcements close by; you'll have to take your own decisions based on what you see and act on them. I've told you before, being a leader and a fighter is much more than knowing how to shoot and fight. It's about taking responsibility for others, it's about learning to exercise the right judgement in the heat of battle. I hope today's mission teaches you some of that.'
Alice hugged her dad. She was disappointed at not going with the main force, but she also knew better than to part on a bitter note. She had learnt that life in the Deadland could be brutal and short, and you never knew when you said goodbye to a loved one, never to see them again. She buried her face in her dad's shoulder.
'Love you, Dad.'
***
Alice was beginning to get very tired of sitting by her sister on the hill, and of having no Biters to shoot. Once or twice she peeped through her sniper rifle’s scope, but could see no targets. ‘What is the use of an ambush,’ thought Alice, ‘without any Biters to shoot in the head?’
Alice was fifteen, and had been born just three months after The Rising. Her older sister and parents sometimes talked of how the world had been before. They talked of going to the movies, of watching TV, of taking long drives in the countryside, of school. Alice could relate to none of that. The only life she had known was one of hiding from the Biters. The only education that she knew to be useful consisted of three simple lessons: if a Biter bit you, you would become one of them; if a Biter bit someone you knew, it didn’t matter whether that person was your best friend, they were now a Biter and would rip your throat out in a heartbeat; and if you could take only one shot, aim for the head. Only the head. Nothing else would put a Biter down for good.
So here she was, lying on a small hillock, her rifle at her shoulder, waiting to pick off any stragglers who escaped the main force.
The first few years of her life had been ones of hiding, and of surviving from one day to another. But then the humans had begun to regroup and fight back, and the world had been engulfed in a never-ending war between the living and the undead. Alice’s parents were part of the main assault force that was now sweeping through a group of Biters that had been spotted near their settlement. She could hear the occasional pop of guns firing, but so far no Biters had come their way. Her sister was lying quietly, as always obedient and somber. Alice could not imagine just lying here, getting bored when the action was elsewhere, so she crawled away to the edge of the small hill they were on and peered through her scope, trying to get a glimpse of the action.
That was when she saw him. The Biter was wearing pink bunny ears of all things. That in itself did not strike Alice as strange. When someone was bitten and joined the undead, they just continued to wear what they had been wearing when they were turned. Perhaps this one had been at a party when he had been bitten. The first Biter she had shot had been wearing a tattered Santa Claus suit. Unlike kids before The Rising, she had not needed her parents to gently break the news that Santa Claus was not real. What was truly peculiar about this Biter was that he was not meandering about mindlessly but seemed to be looking for something. The Biters were supposed to be mindless creatures, possessed of no intelligence other than an overpowering hunger to bite the living. She braced herself, centering the crosshairs of her scope on the Biter’s head. He was a good two hundred meters away and moving fast, so it was hardly going to be an easy shot.
That was when the Biter with the bunny ears dropped straight into the ground.
Alice looked on, transfixed, and then without thinking of what she was getting into, ran towards the point where the Biter had seemingly been swallowed up by the ground. Her heart was pounding as she came closer. For months there had been rumors that the Biters had created huge underground bases where they hid and from which they emerged to wreak havoc. There were stories of entire human armies being destroyed by Biters who suddenly materialized out from the ground and then disappeared. However, nobody had yet found such a base and these stories were largely dismissed as being little more than fanciful fairy tales. Had Alice managed to find such a base?
Her excitement got the better of her caution, and she ran on alone. She should have alerted her sister, she should have called for reinforcements, she should have done a lot of things. But at that moment, all she remembered was where the Biter had dropped into the ground and what would happen if she had truly found an underground Biter base.
She was an excellent shot, far better than most of the adults in the settlement, and she was fast. If there was one thing she had been told by all her teachers since she started training, it was that she was a born fighter. She could put a man twice her size on the mat in the wink of an eye, and she had shown her mettle in numerous skirmishes against the Biters. Yet she was not allowed to lead raids far from the settlement. That had always grated, but with her father being one of the leaders of the settlement, she was unable to do anything to change that. He claimed that her excellent shooting and scouting skills were better used in defensive roles close to their settlement, and had promised her that when she was older he would reconsider, but she knew that was a nervous father speaking, not the leader of their settlement.
This could change all that.
Suddenly the ground gave way under her and she fell. She managed to hold onto her rifle, but found herself sliding down a smooth, steep and curving slope. There seemed to be no handholds or footholds for her to slow her descent or to try and climb back up. She looked up to see the hole through which light was streaming in disappear as the tunnel she was falling down curved and twisted.
Alice screamed as she continued falling in utter darkness.
***
ABOUT MAINAK DHAR
Mainak Dhar is a cubicle dweller by day and author by night. His first `published' work was a stapled collection of Maths solutions and poems (he figured nobody would pay for his poems alone) he sold to his classmates in Grade 7, and spent the proceeds on ice cream and comics. Mainak was a bestselling author in his native India with titles published by major houses like Penguin and Random House and with one of his novels (Herogiri) being made into a major motion picture. In early 2011, he began to use Amazon to reach international readers through his ebooks and became one of the leading independent authors in the world with more than 100,000 books sold in his first year. Mainak is one of the top selling horror authors on Amazon worldwide and in March 2013, became the #1 bestselling Horror author on Amazon, momentarily unseating Stephen King. He has thirteen books to his credit including the bestselling Alice in Deadland series. Learn more about him and contact him at mainakdhar.com.
BOOKS IN THE ALICE IN DEADLAND SERIES
Alice in Deadland
Through The Looking Glass (Alice in Deadland Book II)
Off With Their Heads (The Prequel to Alice in Deadland)
Alice in Deadland: The Complete Trilogy
Hunting The Snark: An Alice in Deadland Adventure
Deadland: Untold Stories of Alice in Deadland
CHRONICLER OF THE UNDEAD: FREE EXCERPT
A new thriller from the author of the Amazon.com bestselling Alice in Deadland trilogy.
When there were still people around to talk to, I would introduce myself as a drinker with a writing problem. It sounded witty at the time, and certainly got a smile once in a while from the ladies. None of that matters now. There are no people left to read my books, and nobody left to listen to my attempts at wit.
Now it’s just me, sitting in my house on the hill, watching the undead rampage through what we humans once called our world. I sometimes wonder why I still live when those much younger, stronger, smarter and fitter than me perished. Maybe it’s just dumb luck. But maybe I am b
eing left alive for a purpose. Nobody may have cared much for my novel, but maybe this is what I was meant to write. Maybe this is what I was meant to be.
The chronicler of the undead.
This is my story.
Available now on paperback and ebook on Amazon.com
When there were still people around to talk to, I would introduce myself as a drinker with a writing problem. It sounded witty at the time, and certainly got a smile once in a while from the ladies. While I’d never have admitted it back then, it put a thin cover of wit over two problems that haunted me – the fact that I couldn’t seem to sleep without a drink and that for all my efforts, nobody seemed to want to read what I wrote. None of that matters now. There are no people left to read my books, and nobody left to listen to my attempts at wit. And yes, I think I will have to learn to sleep without alcohol.
Now it’s just me and this notebook, sitting in my house on the hill, watching Them rampage through what we humans once called our world with me as the only witness. Actually, there may be others out there, but after three months of not seeing another human being, I am beginning to wonder if anyone else survived, at least as a human. I’m certainly not going out to check. I may have been lucky so far, but am not about to tempt fate by venturing out among Them.
I sometimes wonder why I still live when those much younger, stronger, smarter and fitter than me perished. Maybe it’s just dumb luck. Maybe after laying our world to waste to fulfill whatever whim He wanted to satisfy, God showed a perverse sense of humor by leaving a good-for-nothing like me as the last remnant of the human race. But sometimes when I see Them at the foot of the hill while I scribble away, I wonder if I am being left alive for a purpose. Nobody may have cared much for my novel, but maybe this is what I was meant to write. Maybe this is what I was meant to be.
The chronicler of the undead.
Day 94. The day I was forced to go cold turkey.
I am beginning my journal ninety-four days after everything got seriously fucked up. Why now? Not that there are any shrinks out there to analyze my motivations, but perhaps one of them would have taken a shitload of my money to tell me that this is when I got over the initial shock of what I have seen unfold. The more prosaic truth is that this is the day when the bungalow where I’ve been shacked up for the last three months finally ran out of alcohol. Now that I’m not wasted half of the time, I need to find something to occupy myself with, and why not get back to what I once thought I was meant to do? Write.
Of course, there’s no laptop, so I’m doing it the old-fashioned way, and my hands are shaking as I write on this old notebook. Maybe it’s just the cold. It is bitterly cold here in Sikkim, given winter is almost upon us, and I’m thankful this bungalow still has a functioning generator. I have no idea how long it will last, and if it stops working before peak winter hits, then I am in seriously deep shit. But for now, it’s warm enough, and I can still afford the luxury of sipping hot soup from one of the several cans stockpiled in the attic.
They’re all over the valley down below, and I saw several hundred roam through the city, or what remains of it. It’s hard to understand what they’re trying to do, but they shuffle about, tearing down roofs and walls seemingly at random, and occasionally turning on each other. Those fights are never pretty affairs, and inevitably end with the loser being literally torn apart. I saw a fight this morning through my binoculars and it took some serious effort to keep my breakfast down.
All day, I watched Them and afterward, as I have done for the last three months, turned on my mobile phone for five minutes. Still no signal, and no hope of contacting anyone outside. I checked the radio yet again, and there was as usual no music other than the greatest hits of the Static Brothers. I left the TV on for some time as I always do, in the hope that someone will broadcast something and I’ll learn a bit more about what’s going on in the world, or if the world as I once knew it even exists. But partly, I leave it on because the hiss of the static at least provides some background noise, and makes things less lonely.
My hands are shaking even more as I end the entry for the day. Man, I could do with a drink. I just hope I can sleep tonight. They insist on coming out in even greater numbers at night, and I can hear their screeches and moans all around me. The alcohol at least helped shut some of that out. Oh yes, and it helped me ignore the stench they carry with them. Forget all the crap you read and see in zombie movies and books. What you most need to survive a zombie apocalypse is not a shotgun, but a bloody can of air freshener.
Day 96. Love in the time of zombies.
I was in too foul a mood to write yesterday, and for a while it looked as if my journal would not make it beyond its first entry. I barely slept the night before. Not having had my nightcap didn’t help my mood and They were out in larger numbers that I had ever seen them, screeching away as if it were some frigging zombie rock concert. In the middle of the night, I was so mad that I grabbed the rifle and was about to go out and take a few potshots, but then sanity prevailed. They’ve left me alone till now, why mess with them? Besides, if I ever feel suicidal, putting a bullet in my brain would probably be a better way to go than being eaten alive by Them.
However, last night I slept surprisingly well. Perhaps it was the backlog of sleep catching up on me or perhaps my body is adapting to the lack of drink better than my mind is.
So here I am, back at the desk overlooking the valley. There are only a couple of Them visible now. A few minutes ago, out of curiosity, I took a look through my binoculars. One of them had been a young girl, and she was still wearing the brightly colored clothes that you see so often among the mountain folk here. The other was a man who was wearing tattered jeans and a bloodied vest. The writer in me started thinking that perhaps they had been a couple who had been turned and were still together. Did They feel any such emotions even after turning into the blood-soaked ghouls that they now were?
That line of thinking ended abruptly when the male grabbed the female and snapped her neck before biting deep into her flesh.
Day 97. How it all began
I spent the morning making sure none of Them had come any closer to the bungalow I now call home. The winding path leading up the hill was still unmarked and there was no sign of any of Them nearby. I remember my heart pounding as I ventured out and I was so relieved to be back inside, and thankful that my former employer had kept such a well-stocked getaway to host his Nepalese mistress. There was lots of bottled water, canned food and as I’ve mentioned, a pair of binoculars and a rifle. It’s an ancient Lee Enfield .303 of the sort cops still favor in India, but it’ll do the job at long range, and if They get too close, I doubt my one good leg will carry me too far before They get me. Once I got back, I started thinking about this journal and decided that my random musings aside, in case anyone ever chances upon it, I may as well serve some useful purpose by recording what has been happening.
Don’t ask me how it all began, because I have no frigging clue. I was at a local watering hole, having been dismissed for the night, drinking Tsing Tao beer brought in from across the Chinese border and getting smashed with a couple of other ex-Army types. The chick on TV was talking about some virus. Different networks had different names for it, but the one that seemed to stick was Wild Dog Virus. You’ve got to hand it to whoever comes up with these names. Mad Cow and now Wild Dog. But unlike all the previous animal monikers, this one did not go away with the media frenzy far exceeding the death toll. This one spread like wildfire. It took just a couple of days for the major cities to be affected, and in little old Gangtok, while we were initially untouched, we watched it unfold on TV screens. That was when the toad I had for a boss bolted and left me here in his holiday retreat.
Wait, I’m getting ahead of myself. Before I get to my boss and how I happened to be appointed Guardian of his Weekend Fornication (now, is that a cool job title or what? If I ever get such a gig again, and assuming there’s anyone left alive, let alone horny old business tycoons, to offer
me such a job, I’ll ensure that’s what they print on my business card), let me tell you a little bit about myself.
Hold on. Ladies and gentlemen, children of all ages, I just heard something on the radio.
False alarm. My mind must be playing games with me, or maybe I’ve started to appreciate the musical genius of the Static Brothers.
Day 98. The one-legged man.
I’m beginning to like this writing routine. It keeps me from just staring at Them down there and gives me something to do. So where was I? Oh yes, my horny boss. But to get to him, I need to go a bit further back. See, once upon a time, there was a soldier in the Indian Army who spent more time than any sane man should sitting in god-forsaken mountain passes looking at similarly miserable Chinese soldiers. This soldier may have been a grunt but had a dream of being a writer, and would spend many evenings working on his book. He had a novel that had accumulated so many rejection slips that if you stapled them together, they would make for a pretty hefty book by themselves, but he hadn’t yet given up.
This was back in 2013, when if you remember your history, there was a fair bit of saber-rattling by politicians on both sides of the India-China border as they tried to distract the unwashed masses from inflation and slowing economies. As often happens, the old politicians give speeches in their air-conditioned offices, and we poor schmucks are left holding the body bags. Or a severed leg in my case.
Two of my men had strayed across the border. Happened all the time. At ten thousand feet up, where you see more goats than people, who knows where the bloody border that some drunk Englishman drew sixty years ago on a map is anyways? Difference was that this time some Chinese officer took the rhetoric seriously and killed both of them. They were good men. Men with families. Killed because some fat fool made some angry speeches and some stupid officer was mad or drunk enough to act on them.
