Zombie Revolution
Emily Allison
Copyright © 2014 Emily Allison
Cover design by Emily Allison
Book design by Emily Allison All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the author. The only exception is by a reviewer, who may quote short excerpts in a review.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, businesses, events, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Dedication
This book is dedicated to the family and friends that never stopped believing in me and encouraged me on my apocalyptic journey. Especially, to my romance-enthusiast mother who visited the dark side to read my creation. Lastly, thank you to my adoring husband, who accepts me as his zombie-crazed wife and loves me all the same.
Book I
Chapter 1
They were clawing at the windows and doors again. They never grew tired….never got bored….never stopped…always wanting one thing…the flesh of the living. “Zombies…” Damon Marshall hissed. The small town mechanic ran a thick hand through his shaggy brown hair. It really was not the mob of zombies outside his door ready to rip him limb from limb and feast on his flesh that bothered him. Not really anyway. It was the mounting depression from utter loneliness. He had been alone in this maddening world for what seemed like countless days boarded up in his once beautiful home. He checked the desk calendar sitting on the nightstand, June 05, 2009. It had been two months since it happened. The city of Dalville, Arkansas once had a steady population of 25,000; now, 24,999 of them were stumbling flesh-eating monsters from a horror movie. He could change the sign when you enter the city to Population: One, if the old thing was even still there.
The warm sunlight gleamed through the large windowpane of the upstairs bedroom down onto Damon as he played with the shining black pistol again. It had become a daily ritual since his wife and son died.
He would wake up to the pounding sounds of zombies, their tireless hands always banging, always grabbing. The sound was a constant drumming in his head. He could even hear their moans. At times it sounded like something was caught in their throats…like they all had hairballs…revolting gelatinous hairballs. Once up for the day he would jump into the shower. Surprisingly it still worked. Damon would laugh to himself thinking maybe there was someone left other than him that was not a man-eating creature and worked to keep the water on in hopes there was someone left to use it. He stopped caring to think about when the water would run dry; he had worse problems. His mind did not let him dwell on such unimportant things.
After his shower, he would toss on his usual plain white shirt and blue jeans combo and stroll lazily down his weakly lit hallway. Black and white portraits of his family hung in sleek onyx frames staring at him silently when he would pass. He had washed away the blood from that night. It had taken an entire bottle of peroxide to get the job done…a trick that he learned from his wife. Everything was left exactly the way it was when his wife and son were alive. The first door on his right was his son’s room. Michael was his name, after his grandfather. He was only eight when he died. Glow in the dark stars and moons covered the walls, a Lego space station was left unfinished on his desk. Blue, red and yellow rectangles glittered in the morning light. He never could bring himself to enter that room again. Damon had not bothered to board up the second floor windows, since they could not climb. Damon would slowly walk back to his bedroom. There he would sit on his bed holding a picture taken on the Fourth of July almost a decade ago. His wife, Amy, with golden curls that hung down past her shoulders was holding their infant son. Her lips were smiling as she did her best to hold onto their squirming child. Those lips were always smiling. Michel’s blue eyes were bright and sparkling in the summer sun. They had such a great time that day. Damon would rub his finger across the photograph longingly wishing he could feel her soft skin again, or hear his son’s laughter.
When the tears would come he would spy the gleaming black pistol sitting on the walnut nightstand, and take it in his rough calloused hands and just hold onto it. He would press the barrel against the side of his head wishing he had enough courage to pull the trigger.
Chapter 2
The sheets still smelled like her as if she had slept by his side all night. Damon buried his face in her feathered pillow breathing deep. The scent was sweet like night blooming jasmine or an orchard of apples in early fall. His chest ached, and then he felt the tears sting his clenched eyelids. He was a wreck without her. He knew it. What he didn’t know was how he was going to survive without her. She was the oil to his engine. She was gone and never coming back. If I knew then what I knew now? Would I have changed? He asked himself. Would I have spent a few hundred less hours in the garage working on now meaningless projects? Would I have taken her into his arms and kissed her over every inch of her luscious, warm body? Yes. His heart was a boulder in his chest. A salty tear trickled down the stubble on his cheek onto the blue pillow. He threw his legs over the side of the bed with his head in his hand. He was going to do it this time.
He sat just like every other day, wondering why he could never pull the trigger. It would end my suffering. He thought to himself repeatedly. “I am not weak.” He muttered to himself. Damon flew off the bed in a clumsy manner that caused him to trip over a leather boot. He howled in rage as he threw open the window. He picked up the weathered old boot and launched it out the window. It soared through the morning sky down to the zombie-filled front yard below landing on the rotted head of an unsuspecting zombie. The zombie used to be the neighborhood postman. It hit with a thud, and the postman stumbled forward into a teenage girl dressed in jogging suit. He figured it used to be blue, but it was hard to tell through the layers of dried blood. The two tripped over their uncoordinated feet and fell to the mud. He watched in disgust as the two zombies attempted to untangle themselves, both looking up to the window with their lifeless eyes filled with an unending hunger. The eyes were the worst thing about the undead. They were nothing more the milky yellow orbs. You could no longer see the pupil or iris, which was a truly unnerving sight. He had seen that same look in his wife and sons’ eyes.
Down below it seemed they had no knowledge of each other, but only the one thing they wanted…HIM. “You won’t get it!” He bellowed. His voice echoed down the empty streets of his suburban neighborhood. The other zombies staggered around trying to figure out where the voice was coming from. The mob of the undead reached with blood and gore covered hands, the ones that did not have hands reached with bloody stubs. Their mouths opened wide flashing broken teeth with bits of flesh stuck in them. Damon lined up a shot with the pistol to the dead postman’s head and squeezed the trigger. The shot rang out so loud that it actually startled him, prickling his skin. The zombie crumpled to the mud, only to be replaced by another. Don’t be stupid! His brain scolded. More will find you. He gulped. His need for self-preservation kicked in, and Damon calmed himself down. The rage he felt was subsiding, which meant that the nagging depression would come back sooner or later….probably sooner.
Across the narrow street, Damon saw an unsettling sight. Zombies staggered out from between his neighbors’ homes spilling into their overgrown front yards. Beyond the row of homes there was an open field of golden prairie grass. He could make out the shapes of more zombies coming his way. Soon the street in front of his house would be crawling with them. Damon felt a heavy weight crash down on his shoulders. How do they know that I am here? Where are they all comin
g from? Yep. He was right, the depression came back.
Damon spent the rest of the day finding things he could use to reinforce the doors and windows. The pressure from all the bodies pushing up against them would eventually cause them to splinter and break, and he was not going to let that happen. He would die before they found a way in.
The work was mind-numbing and tedious, but it was nice to only think about barricading the house. Damon moved a tall oak curio cabinet from the dining room into the garage. It took some time dragging it from room to room across the thick carpet since it was solid oak. It was given to them by Amy’s parents as a wedding gift. Damon poured what was left of a gas can into the generator. He thanked God for the ice storm last December that knocked out power for three days. He went down to Lowes and bought a brand new generator, and it was getting well used. Even though Damon was not exactly fond of the curio he still felt a twinge of sadness when he turned the power on to his Dewalt sawzall and started cutting. The loud whine of the saw completely blocked out the banging hands and moaning of the zombies outside.
The curio was turned into a pile of wood sitting on the garage floor in a matter of minutes. Damon let the saw whine down and set it back on the workbench. He picked up a few boards in his strong arms and carried them into the living room to where he dropped the boards in front of the bay window. He immediately went to work hammering the boards to the wood that already covered the windows. Under a furrowed brow he worked listening to the constant drumming of zombie hands on the walls. He did not have to look out the upstairs windows to see that there were more out there…Great!
After securing as many windows as possible, Damon stumbled up the stairs into the bathroom to shower. The water soothed his body as it ran over his skin. Luke warm water washed away the stress of the day even though he knew it would return in the morning. He felt a sigh of relief wash over him as his sore back muscles eased and stopped the relentless spasms. He cursed the curio for being so damned heavy. Damon’s muscles rippled as he lathered himself with creamy body wash. The soap stung the little cuts on his hands and fingers. Back before the so called zombie apocalypses he worked out every day, mostly arms and abs. Amy loved to run her fingers over his well-toned abdomen. They were always her favorite, but Damon would not think of that…not now. Once out of the shower he threw on some sleep pants that were hanging on a hook attached to the white door and went back down stairs.
Damon sat in the comfy arm chair in front of the TV. He did not bother to turn it on; it had not worked in weeks. All that showed up was an endless snowy screen. On the coffee table were old Better Homes and Gardens and Entertainment Weekly magazines. His wife read both religiously, but none of them stimulated his interest. He did not realize how exhausted he really was until he sat down. Only minutes after he got comfortable he fell asleep. Damon slept without dreaming.
Chapter 3
Damon awoke the next day with stiffness in his neck and a weight on his shoulders. The aloneness weighed heavy on his chest, this time like so many others it felt like he could not breathe, but something about this time was different. It felt like a cement block was lying on his chest. Damon heaved his chest trying to take in a deep breath. He was suffocating… he needed air…Damon stood from his leather arm chair with a groan and grabbed the shining black pistol that lay on the oak end table next to him. Damon bounded up the staircase carpeted with old brown shag. With stale air filling his nose Damon turned right and continued down the hallway to the bedroom. I have to get out…I have to get out….he repeated to himself silently.
Once in the bedroom, he ran to the closet, rummaging for a few moments sending shoes and clothes flying across the room. He emerged with a large suitcase on wheels. It was yellow with bright orange, red and pink hibiscus blooms stamped all over; Damon and his wife had used it on their honeymoon to Cancun. He reminisced for only a second then he was back in a whirlwind. He tossed jeans, shirts, socks and other necessities into the brightly colored suitcase. It thumped down the stairs echoing hollowly through the empty house as Damon made his way into the garage. His footsteps clicked across the smooth concrete. He tried to ignore the black stain on the floor. Damon pressed the unlock button on his key fob, and the locks popped up in his black Silverado. He threw his bag in the back seat and went back into the house to gather the rest of his supplies. He emptied the maple cabinets of all remaining food, which wasn’t much. His wife had not had a chance to do the grocery shopping, but nobody knew the shit would hit the fan like it did. After tossing a few cans of Spam into a duffle bag along with bags of stale crackers and chips he crouched, there were some canned goods left under the counter. He filled empty milk jugs with water and threw those in the truck. After a few trips Damon was pretty sure he had grabbed everything.
He stood in the empty kitchen doorway almost rethinking what he was about to do. It was crazy. This was the home he shared with his wife and son. He looked into the living room at the fireplace; his son took his first steps right there. Amy almost called the ambulance when Michael stumbled into the mantel and bumped his head. He thought about the bedroom where he and Amy made love countless times. They were gone, and they were not coming back. Damon bowed his head and sighed. He was ready to close the door when he remembered something. Damon walked into the living room and knelt down beside a large chest opening the smooth lid. The smell of cedar filled his nose as he grabbed a black leather wedding album and another album with blue elephants and monkeys on it. He did not open the albums, but merely brushed the covers with his thumbs and held them under his arm.
He walked slowly back into the kitchen and into the dark garage. He stepped around the truck and nearly tripped over a purple and yellow soccer ball that had rolled out in front of him. A single tear fell from his scruffy face when he pushed the ball out of his way. He put the photo albums in the front seat and slid behind the wheel. The pistol sat on the center console and the extra ammo was in the cup holder. Damon sat in his truck holding onto the worn steering wheel for a few moments wondering where he was going to go or if it really mattered. Maybe he would go to Colorado to check to see if his estranged brother, Keith, was still alive or maybe up to Virginia. He had some cousins there that were more like brothers than his biological one…or where he use to have cousins at least. Maybe he would even drive to Mexico or Canada to see if any place was untouched by the infection.
Damon turned on the ignition, and the truck roared to life. The dead heard the truck with their rotten ears and began to bang on the aluminum garage door with a restored ferocity trying to get the meat on the other side. Before Damon hit the garage door opener button he scanned the garage for anything he may need. Since his pistol was his only weapon he grabbed the machete and two aluminum baseball bats. He also grabbed two gas cans, one empty and one full. Convinced that he had everything he needed to survive, he rolled up the windows, shifted the truck into reverse, took a deep breath and hit the garage door opener. The garage door groaned and cranked forcing the door slowly off the ground.
Damon could see the broken dead feet that paced in front of the door. The zombies started to push each other, over and under each other trying to get in the garage. Light spilled into the dark garage and so did the zombies. They pounded on the truck; some pressed their bleeding faces against the windows with their jaws snapping. He felt like he was in the middle of a mosh pit at a Slayer concert because how hard the truck was rocking. Damon tried not to look while he waited until the door was just high enough where his truck could squeeze out. His heart thumped in his chest…or was it the thumping of all the mangled hands against his truck? “Finally.” He said out loud and slammed his foot on the gas. The truck crushed the zombies behind him with multiple thuds. It felt like he ran over a bunch of speed bumps, but Damon did not care. He wanted out, and he got out. The more he killed the better. They took his wife and child away from him. They took everything that was once good away from him. It was one less dead thing that wanted to eat him. Good riddance.
He pulled out onto the deserted street with the dead stumbling, limping and crawling behind. He easily out ran them. That was one good thing about them, most of them moved very slowly. Occasionally there was a fast mover amongst the crowd. Well they were stupid too. Damon thought to himself. Damon drove slowly down the street avoiding the abandoned cars that were scattered. One Ford Explorer had actually crashed into a blue Victorian style house. It had gone through the lavishly decorated front porch and into the living room of an unsuspecting family. He recognized the house. It was the home of the Fowlers and their three kids. Michael went to school with their oldest Jerry or Jeremy. He was never good with names.
Damon shook his head as he moved further down the street. The truck was oppressively hot. He could feel the sweat gathering under his arms and running down his back, so he turned on the air conditioner. It was like he was in some kind of nightmare. He had not been out of the house for two months. His neighborhood did not look the same. He felt as though he was lost in a twilight zone. The dead roamed the streets looking for anything to eat. Some fed on mutilated corpses that were strewn all over. When they saw the truck they attempted to pursue, but their stiff or missing legs would not allow them to keep up. Damon tried to ignore the sheer number of them but could not. They were everywhere. They emerged from houses, backyards and parked cars.
Momentarily he thought he should turn back…back to his boarded up home, waiting to starve to death or until the zombies found a way in. They would eventually find a way in. Damon shook his head vigorously at the idea. He would kill every last one of those soulless bastards before they would get him. Damon continued down the streets of his hometown, he still had not decided where he was going when a big man wearing dirty blue overalls stumbled out into the middle of the street. His thick legs were stiff with rigor mortise. Half of his face had been torn away revealing a yellowish skull beneath bits of hanging flesh. A nametag was stitched into the shirt, but Damon did not need to read it. He recognized the zombie, it was Alex Hollingsworth. Alex worked down at Jeeves Auto with him. Before the zombies came, Damon was a mechanic, just like his dead friend. He couldn’t count the nights he and Alex spent working on various car projects and drinking beer. His friend was gone now. His once intelligent gray eyes were now milky and unfocused, but Damon knew the zombie was coming for him. Damon gritted his teeth and pushed down on the gas pedal. The Chevy’s RPMs jumped, and the engine roared. The dead mechanic and the truck collided with a horrible crunch. Damon lurched forward in his seat nearly hitting his head on the windshield from the impact. Luckily he had installed a heavy duty bumper the year before so the truck did not sustain any damage from the impact or so he hoped. Blood splattered on the windshield forcing Damon to turn on the wipers to wash the blood and gore away. He felt both disgusted and exhilarated. He got a strange sense of pleasure by killing the abomination. He knew it was wrong, but he could not hide the feeling. They took his family away from him. They took everything from him and now they will pay.
Zombie Revolution Page 1
