Surviving the Zombie Apocalypse (Book 9): Frayed

by Chesser, Shawn

  “One room to go … where is everybody, Max?”

  Nothing.

  “You bark when you hear ‘em. OK, Max?”

  Still nothing.

  Max yawned wide and then rested his head back down on his outstretched front legs.

  Before leaving the room, Cade skirted the bed, parted the horizontal blinds and took a peek. Though the snow cut down on the visibility, it seemed the Zs trudging up Center Street had geared down, going from barely moving to statue still. The ramifications of what he was witnessing hit him like a ton of bricks. Apparently freezing temperatures coupled with the wind-chill was doing to the walking dead what up until now only a quick double-tap or dagger to the brain could accomplish—render them immobile. Though only temporary, he guessed, he would take it nonetheless.

  The second bedroom left Cade wide-eyed. It was one part office containing some of the things on his list and two parts science fiction geek nirvana complete with sculpted statues of popular and, not so, superheroes. Mostly Marvel and, ironically, the first one he recognized was of Captain America with his red, white, and blue shield raised and at the ready. The statue next to Cap was Wolverine in his trademark pre-battle pose, hunched over, arms curled with the razor-sharp adamantium claws fully extended, their angular tips nearly touching up front. There were numerous homages to Star Wars: figures on a shelf and spaceships hanging from the ceiling. For a moment Cade was twenty and naive and the world was back to normal. No walking dead. No opportunistic bandits. Just a full life ahead of him and Brook.

  A hot tear traced his cheek as he reminisced.

  In the front room Max growled at something then came padding into the man cave slash shrine assembled by an adult unwilling to let go of days gone by.

  The dog gave Cade the usual head tilted sideways look that seemed to be saying: Hurry the hell up.

  “Just like a good wingman … reminding me to quit crying and get the lead out.” Cade relieved the office of the laptop on the desk. Stuffed it, the power cords, and a stack of software CDs and DVD movies that he didn’t bother to inventory into the bulging pack.

  Turning to leave, he caught sight of himself in the mirrored closet doors. Simultaneously he looked ten years younger and ten older. The former impression was due to body mass alone—he was now more muscled up top and slimmer in the waist. Just about how he’d been put together at twenty-five years of age. The latter, however, he based on the newly formed wrinkles on his forehead and prominent, deep crow’s feet in the corners of his eyes. Wearing a combination scowl and thousand-yard stare, the face staring back looked more forty-five than his chronological age of thirty-five. Hell, he thought, in a matter of months the zombie apocalypse had prematurely aged him. If things continued the way they had been going, in a few more people would be mistaking him for Duncan.

  Shaking his head at the mere thought of looking anything like the old Vietnam vet, he slid the closet door open and was instantly rid of the stranger staring back at him.

  In a box at the bottom of the closet, he found a handheld video game of some sort and a dozen tiny cartridges to go with it. They went in his pocket and he pushed both mirrored doors to the right. What he saw there defied all logic based on the rest of the pieces of the puzzle already revealed. Belying the bare bones nature of the dwelling, secured to the back wall of the closet was a gun safe more at home in a McMansion than a doublewide. He tried moving the circular wheel affixed to the thousand-dollar-item’s door. It didn’t budge, and he had no heavy tools nor the time to crack the thing. If only Tice were here with his high-tech toys, he thought as he slid the door shut and found himself once again staring at his aged visage.

  After flipping his scraggly bearded reflection the bird, he called Max and retraced his steps through the house and stopped before the closed door leading into the attached garage.

  Chapter 4

  In the span of a couple of minutes, less time than it takes to boil an egg soft, the man and his blade had reduced all of the zombies within sight to motionless forms, their blood black and pooling on the pristine blanket of white. Here and there a severed head or arm or leg lay where it had fallen after meeting ancestral steel.

  With a grim look on his face, the man ran a scrap of oiled cloth up one side of the blade and down the other. Satisfied, he dropped the sullied rag to the ground, where it landed with a soft squelch and left a vibrant halo of red on the virgin patch of snow. Acting on the assumption that the main column of dead was well out of earshot, he shrugged off the gilded scabbard and slipped the edged weapon home. He stowed it behind the driver’s seat and clambered into the SUV. Wanting to spend as little time as possible exposed on the open stretch of road, he quickly turned the engine over. Working the wheel hand-over-hand, he turned a tight right and eventually had the rig crawling eastbound up the winding, snow-covered drive toward the house and big red barn.

  The diesel engine growled and chugged, fighting both the incline and the semi-worn tires’ inability to maintain traction in the slushy muddy mixture churned up by them. Passing by on the left were the remains of what once were beautiful animals. Reduced to bones and tufts of fur by the hungry birds, the carcasses looked ghostly wearing the fresh layer of snow.

  The man’s only reason for driving this tired old war wagon was its familiarity to the handful of survivors still residing in the border area between Wyoming and Utah. Its official-looking appearance carried with it a certain psychological edge. But why in the world his new son-in-law favored this throwback to the Cold War over all of the newer unmanned vehicles standing silent sentry over failed roadblocks on the Interstates and State Routes leading into and out of Salt Lake City was a mystery never to be solved, he conceded after a moment’s thought. And he supposed so was his daughter Lena’s decision to pick the man as her husband from the pool of dozens of worthy candidates she had grown up alongside.

  He heard the transmission slipping as the truck made the final turn and the two-story house and looming red and white barn door filled the mud-spattered windshield. He wheeled the SUV around a rusted piece of antique farm machinery partially blocking the drive and pulled to a halt, nose in to the fence surrounding the massive pasture now devoid of anything living.

  The man stilled the engine, shifted his gaze to the front porch and, just like clockwork, the silver-haired old man was emerging from the screen door with a long-gun held at a low ready.

  The driver again unfolded his considerable frame from behind the wheel. Without acknowledging the older man, he hinged the driver’s seat forward and reached in and came out with a large white cylindrical object. Set it on the snow-covered gravel and reached in and withdrew a second identical item. Unarmed, the man walked the distance from his SUV to the porch, one cumbersome propane cylinder swinging from each of his baseball-mitt-sized hands. “Ray,” he said, forcing a smile. “And Helen’s upstairs with the crosshairs on my head, I presume.”

  Squinting against the snow glare, the man on the elevated and covered porch lowered his shotgun and, with one arm outstretched, beckoned for the monster of a man to join him on the porch. “Alexander Dregan, propane baron, scholar and a gentleman.” Switzerland, thought Ray in direct opposition to his words. He went on, “Helen and I weren’t expecting another visit from you until … week after next.”

  “I wanted to get ahead of the weather,” Dregan said. He stopped at the stairs and effortlessly lifted the propane tanks and displayed them, arms outstretched like a T. “I brought Helen refills. Hope she has pie. And a few boxes of five-five-six. We’ve been doing a lot of foraging east, and strangely enough, the pickings in the ammo department are slim to none. And none seems to be taking over the neighborhood.”

  Ray trapped the shotgun in the crook of his arm. He held the screen door open and stepped aside. “As they say ... timing is everything. Five hundred rounds are yours if you keep the cylinders coming through winter. And Helen just so happened to have baked a pie. Had me two slices last night. Almost went in for a third—”r />
  “I had to slap Ray’s hand away,” said a voice from somewhere inside the house.

  “Old Ray’s still getting frisky with you, eh Helen?” Dregan said, craning his head in the door before crossing the threshold. “Where do you want these?”

  Stepping from the gloom, stubby scoped carbine in hand, Helen replied, “I’m the randy one.” Then, abruptly, her tone going all business, she added, “You can put those out the kitchen door with the others. And take the empties with you when you leave, won’t you please, Mister Dregan.”

  Ray followed the caller inside and, before closing the doors, cast a furtive glance over his shoulder at the camouflaged SUV and the driveway winding out behind it.

  The door lock snicked shut behind him and Dregan heard Ray ask how the hunt for his daughter’s killer was going. To which Dregan grunted and said, “Sore subject. My sons ... they want me to arm up and hunt them down. Me, I am more inclined to wait until spring and let them come to me. That way we’re not fighting the weather and vehicle breakdowns.”

  “Not to mention the deaders,” added Helen, opening the door leading out to the enclosed back porch for the hulking man.

  Again Dregan grunted, but more from the exertion of easing the tanks down softly than a preamble to voicing a thought. He said nothing and stepped back into the kitchen, rubbing his calloused hands together.

  Shutting the chill out, Helen closed the back door and rearranged the thick sheet of plastic weatherproofing to keep out the drafts. Then she shuffled over to the propane-fired heater and warmed her hands. Finally, without making eye contact, she said, “Almanac is predicting a doozy of a winter.”

  Nothing but small talk, thought Dregan. He said, “Farmer’s Almanac didn’t predict the scourge of dead, did it?”

  “No … but it was kind of inevitable the way we were treating our Mother Earth.”

  Dregan rolled his eyes. He said, “About Lena’s murderers. Have you seen any sign of them or that big truck since I was here last?”

  “No, we haven’t,” answered Ray immediately. “Again, you’re jumping to conclusions. Helen made it abundantly clear the last time you were here … and every time prior … that we only offered them harbor from the dead. Nothing more. Nothing less. For all we know … they had nothing to do with the ambush and killings. Maybe it was coincidence.”

  “That’s alright, Ray. Believe what you will”—the big man cracked his knuckles—“I’ve got the patience of Job. One way or another they’ll show their faces around here again and you’ll call me and then we will find out once and for all.”

  Helen wrapped the remains of the pumpkin pie in wax paper and placed it on the counter near Dregan. She looked up at him and said in a soft voice, “They didn’t seem like killers. Not by a long shot.”

  “We told you … most of them were kids,” said Ray. “You’re educated, Alexander. You knew who Nietzsche was when I first met you. One of the few who has. What would those folks with the nice vehicles and weapons have to gain from killing a couple of teenagers driving that?” And though he couldn’t see it, he hooked a thumb over his shoulder in the direction where the surplus Chevy was parked.

  “Because, Ray,” Dregan said calmly. “That vehicle was stripped of supplies. Food. Ammunition. Their packs and weapons.”

  “Could have been the bandits from up North,” said Helen, the bun of hair on back of her head coming loose and bouncing with each nod of her head. “I told you that the woman and kids were just out hunting for medical supplies for her daughter.”

  “Yes … you … did,” said Dregan. “And to your credit, that story hasn’t changed. But those people”—he clucked his tongue and looked Helen in the eye—“they were the only ones in the vicinity when the crime occurred. And the Judge says that’s sufficient evidence to bring them to trial.”

  “Can’t you just give them the benefit of the doubt?”

  “No, Helen, I can’t. I’ve never believed in coincidence. And blood … it’s always been thicker than benefit of the doubt.”

  Helen pulled a chair in from the dining room, sat down and stared up at the bearded man leaning against the doorjamb. “If they do come back and we call you, what are you planning on doing with them?”

  Dregan said. “I plan on letting my gut be the judge and jury—”

  Helen finished “—and executioner.” She pursed her lips, eyes unwavering.

  The big man nodded. “Magdalena was my baby girl. If it comes to that, I’ll make sure the punishment surpasses the crime.”

  Switzerland, thought Helen. She said, “We have the CB you left us.” She steepled her fingers and looked into his blue eyes. “But first we’ll let our guts decide whether we’re calling you or not.”

  Dregan smiled and turned back to face Ray, who had retrieved the shotgun while Helen had the big man’s undivided attention. He stared down and met Ray’s eyes. Then slowly lowered his gaze to the shotgun aimed at his gut. “I can’t commute a sentence If I’ve no gut to listen to.” He reached out and with one finger gently moved the barrel a few degrees right until the blast would destroy the plastic-ensconced porch door and not his breadbasket.

  Ray didn’t reacquire.

  Détente, thought Dregan. He was still alive. So he reached inside a pocket, slowly, and came out with a package of batteries, which he tossed onto the cutting board. “For the radio. Just in case for some reason it’s not working when they return.”

  Ray’s eyes narrowed, then he handed over the sizeable brick of ammunition they’d promised the self-professed propane baron of Salt Lake City.

  Butcher knife now in hand, Helen smiled and motioned with it toward the front door. “Thanks for the propane. Best not forget your pie on the way out, sweetie.”

  Chapter 5

  The single-car garage was nearly empty and illuminated only by slivers of flat light working their way between the horizontal slats of a set of aluminum blinds. The owner of the house, definitely not a car guy, used the space exclusively for storing lawn beautification and gardening items. A workbench was covered with bags of fertilizer and other growth aids, all emblazoned with big colorful eye-catching font touting optimal PH levels and assorted added minerals and the like. No use. However, there were several tired-looking boxes, stressed and filled to overflowing with scores of small packets filled with all manner of seeds. Upon closer inspection, Cade was displeased to find the ratio of flowers and vegetables leaning more towards the latter column.

  Under the bench was a lawnmower, trimmer, rusted rototiller and industrial-sized plastic spray bottles with marks for calculating measurements and handled pumps for pressurizing the mix. Save for the meager supply of vegetable seeds which got dumped into the pack, and a nearly full fifty-five-pound bag of dry dog food which Max had shown keen interest in and Cade had promptly heaved over his shoulder, there was nothing else of use to either of them.

  Recalling some items not on the list but logged into his memory earlier, Cade grabbed a paper sack with stiff and sturdy handles from under the sink in the kitchen. Nose wrinkled against the stench from the sink, he padded through the front room and transited the hall to the bedroom. Without hesitation, he went straight for the bookshelf he’d spotted earlier and emptied two rows of paperbacks into the grocery bag. As they tumbled from the shelves, the titles and author’s names on the spines and covers registered: Tolkien, Heinlein, Bradbury, Sagan, Asimov, Niven, Goodkind. The list went on and the bag grew heavy as all of the greats passed in front of his eyes and vanished inside. He snatched a trade paperback off the top shelf and examined the cover. Saw the book was by an author named Forstchen and the title was One Second After. The blurb on the back cover revealed the book was about an EMP attack on the Eastern Seaboard of the United States; a catastrophe he’d gladly embrace over the current widespread Omega outbreak and resulting armies of flesh-seeking walking dead. But the reality of the matter for both the book’s content and what was happening all around the world was that there was no reset button for e
ither. No way to bring those already turned back to the side of the living. And where Omega was concerned, time was of the essence. So, making himself a mental note to crack it open later, he tossed the book atop the others and, bag in hand, retraced his steps down the hall.

  A quick glance out the window told him the temperature had fallen since he’d been inside. The big, fast-falling flakes had seemingly been supersized and were now floating to earth like goose down. The kind of snow he and Brook sought out in their youth. Oftentimes elusive in the Pacific Northwest, deep fluffy powder was his favorite surface to ride in the world. The waist-high stuff his petite wife plowed through wearing a wide smile.

  Youth not wasted on the young, he thought, focusing on the dead down the hill. The further drop in temperature seemed to have affected them greatly. Though they were still moving his way, uphill, their pace was glacially slow. That was the good news.

  Grabbing his attention a tick later was a sight that wouldn’t have even registered on his give-a-shit-meter had it been moving at a normal pace. However, it wasn’t. In addition, the sheer numbers involved were staggering. Hundreds, if not more than a thousand migrating flesh eaters—which in Cade’s mind after having seen the hordes in Denver and Los Angeles and at the Conex roadblock standing between Ogden and Huntsville, still constituted a herd—a grouping not large enough to move cars and topple poles, yet still a force to be wary of. Under normal circumstances, he would lay low and let them pass on by, but this turn of events was far from normal. Trying to wait them out as slow as they were moving might get him snowed in and trapped outside the wire overnight. The former he could dig out of. The latter was unacceptable. The last time he’d been trapped in a house by the dead his life had been spared by the appearance of a Black Hawk helicopter with Duncan at the controls. This time, however, if the slow-moving train of death somehow got wind of him and encircled the home, these flimsy pre-fab walls wouldn’t last an hour under the kind of force numbers like that were capable of exerting.