The Tale of Tom Zombie (Book 5): Zombie Survival

by Timmons, H. D.

  Zombie Survival

  #5 in the Tale of Tom Zombie Series

  By H. D. Timmons

  Copyright © 2018 H. D. Timmons

  All Rights Reserved

  Table of Contents

  Prologue

  Part 1

  Part 2

  Part 3

  Part 4

  Part 5

  Part 6

  Part 7

  Part 8

  Prologue

  The living population of Bowling Green, Missouri had been reduced to a scant handful. The Gant brothers never thought they’d willingly want to stay in prison, but stranger things have happened.

  Northeast Correctional Center transformed from their prison to their fortress, and they defended it, even against survivors. An entire arsenal of firearms and ammunition was at their disposal, and they’d be damned if they’d let anyone take that away.

  For Darren Gant and his younger brothers, James and Dennis, life was simply made up of the ‘haves’ and the ‘have nots’. And the Gant brothers were going to make sure they were the ‘haves’.

  The brothers would each draw straws to see who would go into town for supplies each month. The youngest, Dennis, would be constantly frustrated by how often he drew the short straw. Even though Dennis’s older brothers rigged the draw, Darren would sometimes take pity and force James to go into Bowling Green with Dennis.

  The Walmart Supercenter wasn’t nearly as picked through as one would think a year after the zombie outbreak. Most people had died, got bitten and turned, or simply fled, leaving a decent supply on the shelves.

  Someone had scattered fliers down Bowling Green’s main drag. Fliers promising a new beginning in a refuge out in Colorado. Beneath a photo of Cheyenne Mountain, were the words in bold lettering: Survivor’s Sanctuary: where humanity can begin again.

  Other towns were probably littered with similar fliers, but the Gant brothers were just fine riding out the apocalypse in Bowling Green. Their logic was that when the world finally got back to normal, they would be running their town. Nothing could happen without their say so.

  From the start, they had shed their prison jumpsuits in exchange for law enforcement uniforms which gave them the edge of superiority they needed should they ever encounter other survivors wandering through town.

  Whenever James went with Dennis, dispatching zombies during a supply run became a sport. James almost seemed to go out of his way to attract zombies to their location only to get in some target practice.

  A slow slapping sound echoing through the aisles of Walmart caused James to peer down each nearby aisle searching for the source. Flip-flop, flip-flop. It was getting closer. No... wait. Further. James couldn’t be sure now. He told Dennis to stop pushing the squeaky-wheeled shopping cart for a second so he could hear better. Then, he spotted something rounding the sporting goods department.

  It was December, and the rancid-looking zombie was still dressed for summer, in shorts, tank-top and flip flops. It sniffed the air picking up the scent of the two brothers and ambled quicker down the main aisle toward them. Flip-flop, flip-flop, flip-flop.

  James stepped into the center of the wide aisle and drew the Smith and Wesson revolver from his holster like he was in the old west. KA-BLAM! From fifty yards, the bullet struck the zombie in the throat. His second shot—the kill shot—found the center of its forehead. Before the creature collapsed to the floor, James unloaded his six-shooter into its torso and twirled the weapon in his hand with a gunslinger’s flourish.

  Dennis slapped his cap across his brother’s shoulder. “Damn! Stop wastin’ ammo. You killed it already. What’s the matter with you?”

  James holstered his gun and glared down the aisle at the bloody heap. “I fuckin’ hate flip-flops.”

  Part 1

  Dashing through the brittle winter grass, Sasha and Willie scrambled for a hiding place. At the tender age of nine, Sasha had come to understand the importance of being a leader in the new world that had developed over the past year and a half and sought to guide her younger brother to safety.

  Saying a new world had ‘developed’ was an understatement. It seemed more of an evolutionary track as the zombie population quickly outnumbered the nearly decimated unaffected humans.

  All technology and communication that had been taken for granted for so long, suddenly halted. No one was at the helm anymore, in control of the great master switch that seemed to keep the world in motion.

  “Owwww! You’re hurting my arm.” Willie whined. “Stop pulling so hard, Sasha!”

  Sasha swatted at her brother’s head, grazing his close-cropped afro. “Do you want to fall in?” she said, pointing to one of several covered pits at the edge of their property.

  “No,” Willie said with a huff of embarrassment mixed with stubbornness, rubbing his head. “But you’re hurting me.”

  “Quiet. He’ll hear you. Now, let’s keep going.” She said, tugging her brother into the thicket beyond their property.

  Sasha tried often to impart some of the survival logic her father had taught her, but seven-year-old Willie was still cemented in his impetuous youth—impatient and self-absorbed, born of twenty first century American culture.

  The wreckage of a Douglas Skytrooper C-17 plane, strewn in the woods near their rural Missouri community, was where Sasha instinctively fled. She and her brother had played there many times, exploring the debris as if it were a crashed alien spacecraft.

  Sasha led Willie to a burrow dug under the fuselage and shoved him firmly to the ground.

  “Hey, you’re being rough,” Willie complained.

  “Shhhhh. Just get down there. I’m right behind you.”

  Concealed by the dry, viny overgrowth surrounding the wreckage, the two tucked themselves away and waited, hoping to have evaded their pursuer.

  Presently, they could hear slow movement crunching through the crisp leaves on the ground. As Sasha peeked out of the burrow, Willie closed his eyes tightly, hoping in vain that it would hide him more.

  Sasha could see a figure come into view, its footsteps were slow and deliberate. Although she could only see him from behind, she recognized the tattered coat. She could hear her brother’s nervous breathing grow into panting and cupped her hand over his mouth to protect their position.

  Willie gave a muffled groan against his sister’s palm as she abruptly stifled his breathing. That noise was all it took. The man in the woods grunted and turned slowly, then crouched to peer through the lifeless winter weeds to beneath the fuselage.

  “Gotcha!” The man said with a playfully victorious laugh.

  “Awww, dad. No fair. You cheated,” Sasha declared, crawling out of the burrow, stomping her foot in annoyance.

  “I didn’t cheat. I tracked you fair and square. Ain’t that right, Willie?” Reverend Hamilton Burke smiled broadly to his son, prompting Willie to run and jump into his father’s arms, giggling with childish glee. Sasha was unamused.

  “Sasha, if dad was a zombie he’da eaten you up!” Willie tossed his head back with laughter.

  “Yeah, well, he’d have eaten you too, dummy,” Sasha reminded her brother.

  “Hey now. No name callin’,” Hamilton warned. “That’s enough practice for one day. Your mamma’s waitin’ for us. We’d better be gettin’ back.”

  Hamilton swung his son up onto his shoulders to carry him; the stretch opened wider a tear in his coat’s fabric at the elbow. After adjusting Willie into position, Hamilton held his hand out for Sasha to grab as they walked back to the house.

  Reverend Burke faithfully led the family in grace at mealtime, thankful for the blessing that he an
d his family were impervious to zombie attacks—inwardly knowing that blessing would run out sooner than later.

  Dinner was meager, but warm, nourishing, and made with love as it ever was. His wife Cora had always been a nurturing wife and mother. No longer running reports, analyzing spreadsheets and dealing with the headaches of corporate accounting allowed her to devote her time to family. She saw the morbidity of it all — the world cast into a cataclysmic nightmare, and here she was thankful for the family time it gave her.

  Being the wife of a man of the cloth had its obligations, especially in a world in chaos. That’s when he needed her most.

  “Any visitors today, daddy?” Sasha asked of her father as he they ate.

  “No. Not today,” he replied.

  “It’s been a while since we’ve had any,” Sasha noted.

  “Maybe they won’t be any more,” Willie said.

  “There won’t be any more. Maybe there won’t be any more. Not they,” Hamilton corrected.

  It seemed all the survivors of his congregation had left a few months ago, chasing the promise of refuge out west. A congregant had shown Hamilton a flier that was posted in town of a survivor’s refuge at Colorado’s Cheyenne Mountain. The promise of salvation here on earth never looked so good. But, the good Reverend Burke felt compelled as a man of the cloth to remain for the benefit of others who may pass through, offering them some protection along their journey.

  He felt blessed for this opportunity that God had surly given him to continue His work in the midst of earthly turmoil, and doubly blessed that his family chose to remain by his side.

  “How much medicine do we have left? We’re gonna need the shots soon, daddy.” Sasha reminded her father as he tucked his children into bed that evening. Willie’s eyes cut to the calendar on their bedroom wall and grimaced at the thought of another shot.

  Always the budding pragmatist, Sasha had marked the three times per year that the medicine her father administered would wear off, requiring a booster shot.

  “Don’t worry, baby girl. We have plenty of medicine safely stored away. Now, are y’all ready for your bedtime story?” Hamilton began sifting through the rows of children’s books on the shelf.

  “Tell us the angel story again!” Willie piped up.

  Hamilton patted the spines on the shelf back in place, then turned with a grin. He sat on the edge of Willie’s bed, his eyes sparkling knowingly in the room’s candlelight. His audience already rapt before the story had even begun.

  “It was a night kind of like tonight, only it was summer then; over a year ago now. I was walking from the chapel next door when I heard a loud crash. The loudest crash I’d ever heard...”

  “I remember. We heard it too!” Willie said, excitedly.

  “Shhhh. Wilie, be quiet,” his sister scolded.

  “Yeah, we all heard it, but then I looked up,” Hamilton looked up to the ceiling, the young ones’ eyes following his gaze. Then, their father’s voice began to take on the timbre of a sermon. “Directly overhead, I could sworn I saw two angels, their wings shimmering in the moonlight. As they got closer, I could make out that what I saw wafting down to earth were actually parachutes; not wings. And the angels were merely men. Though, one looked more like a demon. I nearly thought it was Satan himself. His flesh was peeling from his skin. His teeth were bared when he came to me.”

  “The zombie man!” Willie interjected again.

  “He only looked like a zombie, though. His name was Tom, and he spoke to me and said he could help us—that he and his companion were on a mission. They brought a special medicine—a serum—they said could save people from the unholy plight that had been unleashed upon the world.”

  “You see, that crash I heard—that we all heard—was that plane y’all were hiding at today, and it was carrying that medicine. It was surly a miracle that it all survived the crash.”

  More than ninety-eight percent of the crates of serum survived the crash, enough to forgive Hamilton’s little white lie that it all had survived, adding a more miraculous touch to the tale.

  “God was helping the zombie man and his friend.” It was Sasha’s turn to interject, despite admonishing her brother moments ago for doing the same.

  “He must have been,” Hamilton acknowledged, “and, do you know that zombie man, Tom, saved our family with that medicine? He even said I could have some to help protect what remained of my congregation from zombies and protect anyone passing through. That Tom zombie man was surly sent here to do God’s work.”

  Hamilton had told the story to his children enough times that he was certain that they would pass it on, and it would continue for generations. The embellished tale of angels falling from the sky to save mankind. The tale of Tom Zombie.

  “What am I? Chopped liver?” a voice from the doorway said, drawing their attention.

  “Uncle, Jef!” the kids squealed in unison, scrambling from their beds.

  “I was just getting to your part in the story,” Hamilton offered. Another innocent white lie to save face.

  Willie rummaged through Jef’s coat pocket, knowing he’d always brought back treats after his trips. “Peanut brittle!” He extracted the box of candy and stared at it wide-eyed.

  “It’s pecan pralines. Straight from N’awlins,” Jef announced in his best Louisiana accent. Sasha and Willie popped open the box and begin sampling the goodies.

  “Can’t go wrong with sugar. Great shelf life,” Jef stated.

  “Hey, hey now, kids. You just brushed your teeth,” their father said.

  “We’ll brush ‘em again, daddy,” Sasha promised. “And I’ll make sure Willie doesn’t cheat.” Willie was too busy chomping the sweet treat to rebuke his sister for the remark.

  “You made it all the way to New Orleans, huh? How’s it looking down that way?” Hamilton asked Jef.

  “Not many left,” Jef told him. “Spotted a few small groups in rural areas. You know the routine. They hear the plane, come out and wave at me to rescue them, and all they get is a sun shower of diluted zombie juice dropped on them. I always wonder how long it takes them before they realize I just gave them a few months reprieve from death. If they’re smart they’ll use the time wisely.” Jef rubbed a knuckle across the base of his mustache, then swooped up the left side’s curled end.

  The two men soon made their way back into the kitchen. The hum of the refrigerator and the smell of fresh brewed coffee filled the room. A generator powered a few modern conveniences, but using lanterns and candles conserved energy consumption. Thankfully, a wood-burning fireplace in the living room held the winter chill at bay. Cora was standing near a cat carrier, that had not been on the counter earlier, and waved her hands around it like she was revealing a game show prize. “Look what Jef brought us to eat,” she announced.

  “I don’t think we’re desperate enough to eat a cat just yet.” Hamilton looked askance at Jef, but then he heard the clucking sound coming from the carrier. “Oh, fresh chicken!”

  Jef smiled proudly. “Got more supplies and canned goods in the vehicle, but I figured we all deserved a little treat... what with Christmas comin’ up and all.”

  He went to his duffel that he’d left by the back door and retrieved a handful of something that he gently laid out on the table before Cora. Sea shells. “I remember you guys said you’ve never been to the ocean. Well, technically Louisiana is on the gulf, but...”

  Cora wrapped her arms around Jef’s neck for the sweet gesture, tears welling up in her eyes. The Burkes appreciated all the things, great and small, that Jef had done for them.

  Jef didn’t have to stay. He could have gone away with Tom Dexter, but he chose to remain, calling the Burke’s house his home base for continuing the mission he and Tom started. Jef’s family’s aerial application business was a few miles away in Bowling Green, which was the perfect hub.

  “You truly have been a blessing,” Hamilton praised. “I hope you know that we consider you family.”

  “Well,
you would think a family member would get top billing in your bedtime story rather than someone who isn’t even here anymore.” Jef jibed.

  As Cora turned her attention to getting out some coffee cups, Jef took the opportunity to whisper to Hamilton, “I’ve got a little something for your old man outside his window.” Hamilton blinked and nodded with humble gratitude.

  The coffee was a welcomed warmth to Jef’s innards. Along with the plate of leftover dinner of rice and beans Cora had heated for him, he felt like he’d died and gone to Heaven. Jef was tired, but conversation over coffee, after being gone so long without talking to anyone, was another treat in itself.

  A time or two Jef was tempted to use his satellite phone to contact Tom, but thought better of it. He knew there were still secret military installations quietly keeping certain systems, like satellites, up and running and felt certain that someone would be monitoring non-military calls. For extreme emergencies only, he reminded himself.

  “After you rest up, where you off to next?” Cora asked.

  “Hard to say.” Jef squeezed one eye closed and wiggled his mustache side to side as he scanned the time line in his head. Not many folks are going to be outside in freezing weather, so I might have to hold off until it warms up a bit to get the best bang for the buck. Also, serum supply is running low and that makes backtracking to re-spray areas harder and harder. It’s like trying to treat cancer. Gotta keep up the chemo.”

  Jef noticed Cora’s eyes cut uncomfortably to her coffee. “Sorry, Hamilton,” Jef said. “I’m tired... and wasn’t thinking. How is your old man doing?”

  “I just try to keep him comfortable. The pain meds and sedatives you bring back help a lot,” Hamilton answered.

  “He won’t even let me help.” Cora’s innate sense of duty to her family was insulted that her own husband wouldn’t allow her to lift a finger for her ailing father-in-law.

  Hamilton told her it was his responsibility. Cora did enough for the family, and this was his duty alone. She had given up fighting the issue with Hamilton, With the state of the world, any sort of proper treatment was non-existent, so she simply allowed him to care for Thaddeus in his own way.