Since The Sirens Box Set | Books 1-7

by Isherwood, E. E.

  He let himself fall backward, praying he'd crush her. The stars in his eyes from her painful grasp didn't give him many options.

  “I should have walked her out the door with her on my back. Then I would have won the bet,” he thought as he hit the carpet.

  Things happened so fast he couldn't keep up. Elsa hung on but flipped around from his back to his front as he fell backward. He landed on the hard carpet, and she let go for a brief second but re-mounted a second later. She straddled his neck, so her strong legs trapped his head.

  He looked up at his beautiful killer.

  “Nice try, John. It restores some faith in my decision to bring you into my circle, though you ended up failing all around. Most people do. Half the people are below average, all the time, don't ya know? You can take comfort you have a long line of failures marching before you.”

  His face was probably beet red, though he couldn't voice a witty retort. It didn't matter. Her thighs were crushing him.

  “Good help is so hard to find, but I'll muddle through this.” She hunched over, bringing her face as close to his as she could. “I'm taking your soldiers, John. I'm taking them into the wild, and I'm going to use them up. I needed all your boys outside the fence so these dumb townies had no idea you would abandon them. And, since you won't be alive to explain, they will curse your name until they're all dead, too. Two problems solved, with the bonus that the fault is all yours. You will be forever known as the general who killed Cairo. Maybe they'll make a monument after this is all over.”

  She didn't wait for a reply, though she called to someone outside the room. “Zeke, I need you to toss the general in the pit after I get all the soldiers beyond the highway. I want these people to have his body handy, so they don't come looking for him.”

  “Yes, ma'am.”

  “We leave this dump in five.”

  Chapter 1: Run, Boy, Run

  Nineteen days since the sirens.

  Liam halted between two floors of a St. Louis skyscraper. He pulled the backpack from his shoulder and set it on the floor. There was enough light from above he could see what he was doing. Looking down the dark stairwell, he'd soon need a flashlight.

  He'd just left his mom, Travis, and Haylee on floor 42—they were all influential members of the Patriot Snowball—so he could get back to Victoria. On the steps, alone, he could think things through.

  He put on the tan T-shirt given to him by Travis. It said “Yuengling Drinking Team” in big block letters on the front. It struck him as funny he wouldn't legally be able to drink for another five years. The Old World standards had likely been thrown out, though. He could probably walk in and get served at any bar, as long as he had something to trade. Paper money would soon be worthless. It hadn't crossed his mind much lately because there was nowhere open and nothing to buy. His cheap wallet was back in Grandma Marty's basement. He'd tossed it on his bed that first day after he came home from the library. It held his library card and an Imo's Pizza punch card. He was only two visits away from his “frequent pie-er” bonus pizza.

  Mmm. Pizza.

  He was near-starving. His mouth watered at the thought. Pizza and beer. Two joys of life now fading from the planet. He rooted through the backpack Travis gave to him as he left the lair of the Polar Bears. As he guessed, it had two of the energy bars—both strawberry flavored—that had been handed out by local governments at the outset of the collapse. Travis had packed three of the FEMA-issued plastic bottled waters, too.

  His thoughts turned inward once he had the shirt on. He was on the cusp of doing something stupid, again. Leaving the safety of the group of freedom fighters so he could go out—alone—and run the streets back to Victoria seemed more and more insane as he thought things through. Was he doing it because he'd been dazzled by Victoria earlier that day when they were both alone in her old dorm room? He didn't like to think of himself a victim of circumstance, but it sure seemed like he was going back to her because he was “girl crazy,” or something.

  It didn't change the fact he was crazy for her. He'd told Travis he'd tear the heads off every zombie between himself and Victoria if he had to. In the relative calm of the stairwell, that still held true. Given the choice of fighting in a war alongside his mom—even if he agreed with her—or going back to be with the girl of his dreams, he thought he was making the right call. His mom didn't need him. Victoria did.

  No, she's stronger than you, Liam. You need her.

  There it was. Did it mean he was growing up? Was it a sign of maturity to think being with a girl was more important than being with his mom? His mom had said something about being glad he and Victoria weren't together before the Zombie Apocalypse. It was a confusing statement when she said it, but with enough time to think about it, he accepted she was right. He'd disobey any order, curfew, or grounding to be with Victoria. Somehow that lessened his belief he was being mature about the whole thing, but the more he pictured her in his head, the more he was ready to go find her.

  He admitted his reasoning was suspect, his schemes were clumsy, and his mom would not approve, but he was absolutely sure Victoria would be glad to see him walk through her dorm room again. Nothing could shake him from that vision, and that was all the green light he needed to continue with his journey toward her. Plus, it distracted from the sadness for his now-dead father, and probably-dead Grandma Marty. If Victoria died while he was off pretending he was part of a rebel army...it wouldn't be good.

  He got up again and walked down the steps with grim fortitude. He only stopped once, to get out the little flashlight. He held that in his left hand, while he held a Glock pistol in his right. He kept the backpack and his AK-47 slung over his shoulders.

  When he hit the ground floor—where he and his mom came in—he paused before opening the door. Such practice was common these days, so he didn't pat himself on the back for taking the basic precaution in the Zombie Apocalypse. But he was thankful of his caution because the lobby was half-filled by wandering zombies.

  When they entered the building earlier, a good number of zombies followed—he didn't stop to count them—but he judged there were more of them inside the lobby than he'd seen on the streets around the building. Once again he was reminded of bloodhounds. Somehow the zombies he'd interacted with earlier in the day had found him. That was the only logical explanation. The infected always seemed to keep coming once they had victims in their sights.

  He stepped away from the tiny glass window in the fire door. Pushing the door open and making a run for it was suicide. No amount of bravery or “girl crazy” energy was going to change that fact.

  Do I go back up and pretend this never happened? I could be back by mom's side in twenty minutes. Play it off as a joke. Or, go down into the basement and look for a way out?

  The calculus of his equation resulted in an answer of Victoria. The only way to solve all the variables was to keep going forward.

  He snuck away from the door and flicked the light back on as he descended to the next level.

  2

  He'd forgotten something important about his arrival in the building. They came in through the glass on the ground floor lobby, but they took an escalator up one level. That's where they'd gone into the stairwell. From behind the window of the door, he looked out on the marble entryway and could just see the broken window next to the revolving door that opened up to the street outside. Pulling back, he could see the big letter G for ground floor on the wall next to the door. He'd been off by one.

  There were zombies outside the door, but only a few. Compared to the floor above, it was a ghost town. Judging their position and speed, he visualized himself dodging them and exiting to the street.

  “Don't open that door.”

  A male voice from behind made him jump.

  The small flashlight was enough to see the face in the darkness on the landing below. The stairs continued downward to who-knows-what. Fear and surprise had paralyzed him, so he was content to stand his ground and respond
. He spoke just loud enough to be heard inside the empty stairwell, but, he hoped, not outside the door.

  “You scared the crap out of me.”

  “You can't let them in above. They already got in...below.”

  Looking closer, the man had evidently crawled up the steps. The stairwell continued down on the left side of the landing, and the man's legs were hidden down the next flight. He had blood stains on his back.

  “You've been bitten, haven't you?”

  He laughed with a wet cough. “They're all dead, down there. I'm the only one on this side of the garage. Others might have gotten out through the main gate. And yeah, I'm done for.”

  He scraped himself across the concrete and managed to prop himself up and sit against the wall. A smear followed him.

  “Don't suppose you have a smoke?”

  The man was middle-aged. He had scruff for a beard like he'd not been able to shave in ages. He wore a bright Hawaiian shirt, and in many ways looked very much like his dad.

  Liam hopped down a couple of risers, then sat so he could talk in a quieter voice.

  “I don't smoke. Are you with the people upstairs?”

  He shook his head. “There are people up and down all these buildings. Tryin' to stay alive as best we can. My group was in the garage. We sent people out through the opening to scout for food and water. We also sent people up into this building, but it had been picked clean. Just ransacked offices.”

  Liam wondered if the Polar Bears had done the ransacking. It made sense if the skyscraper was their base of operations for the city.

  “Then we had one of our people—a young woman—come back from one of those snatch-and-grabs with a nasty scratch on her arm. Said it was done by one of them zombies, but she didn't get chomped. We fixed her up and thought nothing of it. Left her with her father.”

  He knew where this was going. That morning he'd seen two of his fellow travelers get scratched and then...walk away. Like they'd been brainwashed.

  “But she wasn't good to go. An hour later we found her attached to the neck of her dad...it was god-awful. But the worst part was what she did next.” His breathing was labored, but his voice was steady. “We naturally tried to pull her off—several of us—and she sprayed blood in our faces. One big exhale, and we were all infected. But it affected us in different ways. Some turned in minutes. Others, like me, are dragging it out. I had time to fight to protect my family...but in the end, it was—”

  He choked up, planting a hand over his face.

  In a whisper, he said, “Some of those things went berserk like I never seen before. Biting. Scratching. Spitting. It all happened so fast. A few dozen of us—all survivors of the worst of things the past few weeks. All fighters. The whole place was wiped out.”

  “And you don't know if any got into the stairwells, or went upstairs?”

  “No, it's just me. I had to—”

  A big sniffle.

  “—put down whoever I could.”

  Well, thank you for that small favor.

  He was concerned this would interfere with his desire to leave the building and find Victoria, but the man's answer told him otherwise.

  “Will you do me a solid?”

  “I'll do whatever I can.”

  “Shoot me dead. I don't want to be one of them things. I don't want to kill anyone else.”

  “But you haven't turned. Maybe you won't.”

  “Everyone does, son. Everyone does.”

  He thought of Grandma Marty.

  Not everyone.

  “I don't know...if I can.”

  “Never killed anyone, huh?”

  That was a loaded question. It all depended on whether the zombies were dead or alive, and whether he believed they could be restored to health with a cure. The honest answer was that he'd never put down anyone who wasn't a direct threat to himself or his friends and family. Putting a gun to the man's head in this stairwell would be something new.

  But if he was infected, it was a matter of time before a decision had to be made.

  3

  Liam stared at the body. He'd haggled with the man, and finally, he loaned him his Glock. Now the back of the man's head was a messy stain on the concrete wall. The pistol had fallen to the guy's far side, giving him one more dilemma.

  The gun had the man's blood on it.

  Getting blood on him could be a death sentence.

  Losing the gun to superstition could also be a death sentence.

  The infection was everywhere, and nowhere. Getting bit was an immediate death sentence, but getting scratched also had some effect on people, though not everyone. He'd seen plenty of people fight hand-to-hand with zombies, and survive. He'd also been sprayed with blood, so that wasn't always the end, either. But the man had said there was something different down there. She spit blood at them. For some reason, that put fear in him that the blood on the gun was dangerous.

  He took off his new shirt.

  I need to travel with wet wipes!

  Using a small pocketknife, he cut off one of his sleeves. It would provide enough material to clean the gun, but it would still allow him to wear the shirt. He wasn't fond of walking around in the hot sun without one. He'd done too much of that already. His shoulders were well-burnt.

  The tan rag gave him what he needed to grab the gun and clean most of the mess from the grip. He was sure there were still microscopic traces of blood, but he hoped there wasn't enough to infect him.

  With his shirt back on and the gun in his pocket, he ascended the stairs and went back to the ground floor window. He studied the outside for a couple of minutes until he'd convinced himself it was safe enough to make a run for it.

  The door opened outward and was silent. His shoes were also quiet, but he couldn't stay out of the zombie's line of sight. The call went up from a few zombies on the ground floor lobby, which was echoed by a greater number of the infected up on the second level.

  He avoided a couple of clumsy zombies near the broken glass window where he'd entered the building earlier that day, and ran into the bright light of the afternoon. Across the street, he could see the much larger hole where his mom drove the Tiger tank through the front lobby of that skyscraper. He feared there would be government agents—or even zombies—but the street was surprisingly empty.

  The zombies followed him in the windows of the lobby, rather than exit through the broken glass. They were nice enough to box themselves in and give him a head start.

  He took off at a jog.

  Only six easy miles to Victoria.

  Seemed simple, which was why he was on the lookout for anything that would cost him time.

  The rhythm of the run soon captured him. He relaxed as he found his pace, and hit his stride running down the middle of the narrow urban street. His father, the marathoner in the family, had run these streets many times—and he'd been there to cheer. His current fears were the potholes and many open manhole covers, along with numerous corpses littering the route.

  He breathed in and out, as evenly as possible. Nearly three weeks of poor diet and no sleep almost made him forget these basic things, but they came back soon enough. The pack and rifle made things a bit tougher, but it was a small price to pay for the ultimate protection on these streets.

  Running by the glass frontage of a newer building allowed him to see himself in profile. Unless it was his imagination, he looked older, now. He appeared more competent in what he was doing. Running. Fighting. Thinking. He was sixteen, calling himself seventeen, and going on thirty. Dog years of the Zombie plague.

  And what was behind those glass windows? As he ran by, he tried not to think about or look too closely in the windows. There had to be both survivors and zombies in most of the buildings around the city. His sincere hope was that all the buildings were locked, just like the one he'd exited. But, if zombies did run out, he was ready. His pace would keep him ahead of them.

  He looked up. An irrational part of his mind pictured zombies falling from hi
gh up the canyon of skyscrapers, but there were none in the air.

  “Just everyone stay inside, m'kay?” he said quietly, over his heavy breathing. The pack and rifle, and the uncomfortable way the Glock sat in his front pocket, had an effect on his endurance. He considered stopping for a quick break.

  Four weeks of hard living and my base is gone...

  At that moment a white drone buzzed by him from behind, about ten feet over his head. It drew his attention ahead, where he saw evidence of more zombies. A small park sat nestled along the street, between a large Greek-looking building and a row of parking structures. The drone made directly for that area and hovered and rotated among the zombies there.

  He ran up to a newspaper kiosk—long since looted—and waited to see what was happening. Alternate routes formed in his head.

  The drone was bigger than most drones he'd seen of late. It was about the size of a refrigerator, and looked like a small helicopter, rather than the style with fans on all four corners. It was very agile and seemed to work its way through the small crowd, avoiding the many trees with ease. After a few minutes, it raced off toward another block.

  He took off at a run again. He stayed on the broad street but crossed to the far side so he wouldn't run by the infected souls inside the tiny park. They appeared to be lying on the grass and on the numerous benches surrounded by huge piles of garbage. He was too fast to get caught.

  He was mostly right. The zombies didn't get up and run after him.

  In fact, a couple of them waved.

  4

  Liam did a double take. The men—and a few women—were lying or squatting in piles of garbage stacked around the once-pleasant urban park. It was a long, thin park about one city block long with a crisscross of paved walkways and some glass-block sculptures that looked more like restroom walls than artwork. Old trees mingled with several telephone poles the length of the park. The dense canopy shaded the area.

  He ran on for a few more yards but forced himself to stop. No real zombies were behind him, and whatever was happening here certainly warranted asking the question.