by Gnarly, Bart
ZOMBIE BOOKS
Table of Contents
CHAPTER 1
The Z Gene
CHAPTER 2
Lives Loved Lost
CHAPTER 3
He Who Was Last
CHAPTER 4
My Favorite Weapon
CHAPTER 5
Of All The Things That I Have Lost…
CHAPTER 6
The Tale of Stuart Giesler
CHAPTER 7
What it cost
CHAPTER 8
Alive
CHAPTER 9
The Sheriff
CHAPTER 10
A Man’s Castle: Part 1
CHAPTER 11
A Man’s Castle: Part 2
THIS IS HOW THE WORLD ENDS
CHAPTER 1
The Z Gene
It’s like caging crabs, really. They’re slow and easily tricked; you just have to keep your hands clear of the dangerous parts. Yeah, it’s like crabs. Only they’ve consumed your entire family and now want to eat you. Heck, some of them are your family… or were anyway. They’re like crabs if crustaceans wandered they countryside searching for food. Oh, and they’re dead. Dead crabs wandering the land, tearing the flesh of the living and never being satisfied. They move continuously. So I like to wrangle them with poles and nets, drag them back to the van, and take them to the ranch. Which really isn’t a ranch at all, but hey, nothing is what it was anymore. The ranch is the surviving house at the top of a hill. I’ve taken to calling the garage my barn. I dump my catch in the barn until I’m ready to finish them off. Those I didn’t kill while collecting, that is. Yeah, just like crabs. Only they’re dead. They were people. Teachers, Doctors, Fuel attendants, Baggers from the grocery store, Mail carriers, Prostitutes, Scientists, and Police. Everywhere you go it’s like the zombie edition of career day. “You can be anything you dream…” the poster would read, “…just so long as it’s dead.”
I live in Cheney, Washington. Yeah, like the vice president that shot the guy on a quail hunt in Texas, only not so conservative. It’s a small town just south of Spokane. When the virus began to spread, I thought our town had a few things going for it. First, we are really close to Fairchild Air Force Base. Lots of protection, right? Secondly, with the exception of Spokane there are no large population centers. Less people mean fewer zombies. Lastly, Cheney has Turnbull, the wildlife refuge just south of it. That’s’ 16,000 acres of uninhabited wilderness that someone could retreat to if worse comes to worse. Well, that was the plan anyway.
Most believe the outbreak began in the southeast. It hit fast, and crawled across the States with disgustingly efficient results. Tourist hubs were hit the hardest, it being early summer and all. In full swing, millions of zombies were pouring out of cities, but it all started with just a random bite being reported here and there. We had a bit of warning being in the farthest corner of the nation from the incidents, but most people thought it was just a bunch of random sickos. There were reports of people attacking and biting others, even consuming them in the street. Disgusting stuff, but at least it was happening in Florida and not in the Northwest, right? Even without the reports of the dead rising back to life, many were declaring this a zombie outbreak. They were right of course, but who would believe them? Would you have? I mean really? They were fat white guys with beards and batman t-shirts. You know, the kind that hang out at comic book conventions and debate whether one superhero universe could defeat the cast of some modern fighting game. They’ve had a longer relationship with a particular brand of yellow soda than they have ever had with any humans to whom they were attracted. So when the geeks started blaring about zombies, it actually created the opposite of concern. Everyone laughed at how ridiculous their suggestion was, and went on with their normal lives.
This was a mistake that cost millions their very lives.
And just like the rest of the nation, Cheney was decimated. Ten thousand residents reduced to about fifty. So why did none of the location advantages make any difference? Well…
Shortly after the reports of the outbreak, the base was emptied. Like, overnight. We heard an evening’s worth of engine noise from the airfield. The next day: Ghost town baby. They probably didn’t even lock the gate behind them. Where’d they go? Who the hell knows? Most likely they’re all dead by now anyway.
Our isolation from major population centers? Ha. The virus ran right up the I-90 and into our freaking lives so fast most were caught on the crapper, if you know what I mean. Spokane lit up like a zombie inferno, and then nowhere within 100 miles was safe.
What happened at the wildlife refuge? Well, apparently my ideas aren’t as clever as I thought. Thousands fled to the refuge in camping rigs stocked with survival gear. One man can hide in an area that large without a hitch. When you try to use the land as Noah’s Zombie Ark, all you really do is provide a well-stocked hunting ground for the Earth’s undead. One zombie shuffled in unseen, and thousands came shuffling out. Many are still wandering around in the sage and trees, looking for any leftovers.
In the cities, it was block after block, neighborhood after neighborhood, until the entire population was either dead, reanimated, or in hiding. Waves of staggering dead could be seen flowing through streets like water through canals.
But why? Why were the zombies so effective?
My best guess as to why people become infected so often is that most thought the zombie population was supposed to look ridiculously comical. We had all seen the movie zombie with half a arm, blood splattered across a face with a gaping mouth spewing a long moan, dragging one foot while reaching menacingly with its one good hand. Grey skin, torn clothes, white eyes, bad hair.
Reality lets us down so often.
Actual zombies look just like us. They wear normal clothes. Their skin is pale, but not noticeably. They still have a pulse, so they don’t deteriorate the way Hollywood made us think they would. We use the term ‘dead’ to describe zombies, but a more accurate statement would be that they are brain-dead. The virus attacks the mind and orders the consumption of living things to keep them alive. Poor nutrition makes most of them weak and slow, since the virus clearly does not think fruits and vegetables are important for survival. They recognize nothing from their old lives, and will eat their own child as soon as they would the neighbor’s dog. They talk, though very poorly. I suppose speech isn’t all that necessary for a zombie. They don’t stagger like in the movies either. Instead, it’s kind of a fancy stumble. Zombies walk around like clowns pretending to be drunk when they haven’t fed, but have a nearly normal gate when they aren’t hungry, walking around like anything or anyone else. Well-fed zombies will walk right by you and not even blink. Yet by all appearances the modern zombie has two settings: Totally chill, and dying of hunger. Moreover, there is no ceremony separating the two conditions. They will ignore you, or tear down a house to kill and eat you.
It’s all luck of the draw I guess.
So most folk didn’t fight the zombies. They let them into elevators. They held open doors for them. People unknowingly invited zombies over for dinner. They shared cabs with them. People waited in line for the bathroom with them. And then the zombies ate them. One by one, in “crazy random acts of disturbed violence,” zombies attacked and often consumed people in waiting rooms, hotels, malls, bars, and super-hip sidewalk bistros. One minute, the odd guy was standing next to you as you were waiting at the DMV. The next minute he had attacked the lady behind you and was eating her leg while she screamed for her life. You get all noble and shit, and try to pry the nut job off her. He turns. He bites. Pow! Welcome to the zombie family! You may not be officially dead, but in the eyes of the world you are now a crazed cannibalistic maniac who doesn’t recognize right from wrong and will unashamedly consu
me babies who are still buckled into their strollers, and that’s close enough to dead for us. Before they knew it, the city was overrun.
Now the real question. Why didn’t people just kill them? Once the world figured out the real situation, why didn’t people just shoot them and be done with it? Great question. You are also most likely pointing out that one good shot to the brain and it’s all over; break out the champagne and toast your survival brilliance, right?
That would be nice, if only it were true.
Really guys. I’ll wager movies did more to encourage a rapid outbreak than any other factor out there. First of all, most victims did try to shoot the zombie in the head. But have you ever tried something like that? Shooting a moving target is hard enough, but to hit a living target in the head while panicking is harder than films make it appear. Also remember, their brains are now inactive globs of grey and white matter. So a person would waste half of their ammunition trying to shoot the zombie in the brain, missing most of the time. When they did hit it in the head, it didn’t affect anything, and the zombie would soon be on them. Like cutting an earthworm in half: Messy, but it doesn’t kill it. Blood flows slowly for the creatures as well. When zombies are injured, the wound seeps a jelly that stops what little flow of blood there might have been. The only real way to stop a zombie is to destroy it, though as I mentioned earlier, most never even tried to kill them. Most just opened their door and let the zombie eat them.
It’s been eighteen months now. Here in Cheney, those few who are surviving are doing so by staying in hiding. Humans have become the prey. They’re like mice in a field. Like cockroaches in the walls. Like hares in the desert.
But not me.
It’s like caging crabs, really. I have made it my job to collect and exterminate as many zombies as I can catch. At first it was a noble effort to eradicate the threat and help civilization return to its previous wonder.
That was for the first couple months.
That was before I was bit.
That was before they took the ring and pinkie fingers from my left hand.
That was before I despaired of becoming one of them.
That was before I tried to kill myself.
That was before the doctor found me drenching myself in fuel.
That was before she discovered that I was immune.
That was before she told me her theory.
The doctor believed that I carried the “Z” gene. That I was born with the virus, and I could spread it to others, but it would only be a dormant strain in my system. If I got bit by a zombie it would hurt like hell, but it wouldn’t be any different than being bit by a non-infected human.
She told me that blood like mine was the cause of the outbreak, and it could hold the answer to a cure.
Then she performed tests on my blood.
Then she found out she wasn’t immune.
Then the woman, who stopped me from killing myself, became the thing I had grown to hate most.
And I killed her, long before I burned her.
Now, I exterminate them as a way to find peace. To silence the little voice in my head. The one that tells me the outbreak is my fault. The voice that tells me that no matter what I do, I can never undo what my blood has done.
There is a smaller voice which reminds me that I didn’t do anything wrong, that just because I am immune doesn’t mean that I ever hurt anyone. But in the battle for control over my mind, you can guess which voice wins more often.
The only time the voice is silent, is when I am destroying a zombie. So here I am. Cheney’s very own exterminator. The mouse that refused to be prey. The hare that wouldn’t stay in his hole. I patrol Cheney like an old-time sheriff, caging zombies and bringing them back to the barn.
Twenty years old. High school loser. College drop-out. Protector of Cheney, Washington.
Those left alive still don’t trust me completely, but I can’t really blame them. I snare zombies with catch poles and nets. Then I bring them home to execute in whatever wacky way I can think of. Hell, some of them I keep in a fenced pen like reanimated cattle. So no, I don’t get many people coming over for dinner.
Word got out that I was bit, but not infected. As a result I am seen as this half-man half-zombie vigilante. Honestly, I haven’t done much to squelch that rumor. Let’s face it, I’ve been called worse.
So some of the town’s residents don’t like me, but they still look to me to keep the area relatively zombie-free. Others think I am a maniac who is attracting zombie activity and that I should be locked away. One in particular has tried multiple times to gather a posse to come and collect me.
I won’t mind seeing him in the pen someday.
Until this is over; until the last zombie is cut to pieces; until all that remains of the zombie apocalypse is the smoldering remains of a great fire; until the voices in my head fall silent: I will not stop. I will continue to survive. I will find food. I will run down, capture, and eradicate every last zombie I can find.
It’s like caging crabs, really. Just stay away from the dangerous parts.
My name is Kyle Moore. And I am a zombie hunter.
Let fame, that all hunt after in their lives,
Live register'd upon our brazen tombs
And then grace us in the disgrace of death;
When, spite of cormorant devouring Time,
The endeavour of this present breath may buy
That honour which shall bate his scythe's keen edge,
And make us heirs of all eternity.
W. Shakespeare
Love’s Labour’s Lost
CHAPTER 2
Lives Loved Lost
We’re all just trying to survive. The man who fashioned himself a tree fort. The couple who stole a houseboat. The woman who barricaded herself in a motorhome. The family with the huge friggin’ fence. All just trying to hide, and survive.
Fools.
Nice tree fort, Mr. Arnett, but real zombies can climb. They swarmed that tree like ants and you were little more than an apple waiting to be picked and devoured.
Handy that you found the houseboat, Jim and Lisa. Too bad you had to come ashore sometime. Got lost and wound up in the port of Zombieville. Population +2.
The motor home wasn’t a bad idea, Mrs. Treager. Clearly, you haven’t watched many zombie attacks, though. They tore that flimsy door off the side and scooped you out like the last dollop of peanut butter.
The massive fence? Not a bad idea, Calvo family, but it was a gamble nonetheless. Fences make you feel safe, and feeling safe is the first step toward becoming a meal. You wasted all your ammo shooting shufflers from the top of your precious barrier. When they came for you en masse and razed your fence to the ground, all you had left were a few bullets, some clubs, pointy sticks, and pocketknives. I hear you made a lot of noise while they ate you.
Fools.
Back when there was TV and the Internet, did you ever see video of crocodiles fighting lions? One crocodile can take out any lion if it plays it smart. Crocs won’t attack a lion on dry ground; it’s too easy for the lions to surround the river monster and soon half the pride is perched on him with a handbag of crocodile skin between each set of teeth.
See: Mr. Arnett.
See: Jim and Lisa.
No. The crocodile waits until the cats take a step into the river. The croc chooses the battleground. The croc holds the cards. Even the biggest and most dangerous of lions are little more than a furry fish while they’re swimming. They’re snapped up and dragged under like everything else. The croc doesn’t hide itself in lion territory and pray to go unnoticed. They’d be sniffed out and chewed up before their skin dried out.
See: Mrs. Treager.
See: The Calvo family.
If you want to stay alive in a land full of killers, you have to play it like the crocodile. You must be equally deadly and always confront the enemy on the battlefield of your choosing. Caught in the open, we are all dead. You may put up a fight but eventually the horde
will overrun you, and baby’ll be sportin’ some new teeth marks.
We’re all just trying to survive. Some of us are just better at it than others.
◊◊◊
“Noooooo!”
The scream fades into a raspy exhale. The girl had seen horrors these last two years; worse things than she could have ever imagined. She was fifteen when the stories first broke. First there were the few weirdoes in Florida who attacked and bit people in broad daylight. Then more reports came in. Georgia. Tennessee. West Virginia. Oklahoma. Colorado. Pennsylvania. By then, the nation knew something bad had happened. Speculation of terrorist attacks and biological warfare burned across the country’s living rooms and coffee shops. The girl remembers the doctor on TV who said that this was the result of a dormant gene that had mutated and caused its carriers to attack non-carriers. This systems biologist said that unless a cure could be found, the plague would decimate the whole of the country and eventually the world, putting all of humankind at risk, carrier and non-carrier alike. By the end of the newscast, Florida, Georgia, South Carolina, Alabama, Mississippi, and Louisiana were all declared no-man’s lands by the military. The country had just branded each of those six states a total loss.
That of course did not stop the spread.
Zombies were already in the west states by the time of that broadcast. The girl’s father had acted quickly. He gathered his family and as much food as their 5th wheel could hold, then took them south of their home in Four Lakes, Washington and into the hills to wait for the cavalry to arrive.
Turnbull was crowded, so they kept east, but everywhere they went there were more people fleeing the cities. When the horde hit Spokane, a wave of the dead crashed upon the stones of the surrounding cities and towns. No place became safe. Uninfected began to despair and commit horrid crimes. Robbery. Murder. Rape. We’re all dead anyway, right?
The girl’s father kept his family moving. Her mother. Her two brothers. They drove until they ran out of fuel. They camped in the trailer until a gang of men took it from them at gunpoint. Then they walked. Always moving. Always a step ahead of the horde. Taking food from the land and abandoned homes but finding less and less each day.
