by Wimer, Kevin
The Dead and The Living
Copyright ©2019 Kevin Wimer
First published 2019
Published by Kevin Wimer
Email: KevinWimerOffical.gmail.com
All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a database and retrieval system or transmitted in any form or any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the owner of copyright and the above publishers.
ISBN – 13
ISBN – 10
CHAPTER 1
The early morning fog slowly moved across the clearing in front of him. Chris took a breath as he took a knee at the edge of the tree line of the forest that he had been walking through since sometime yesterday afternoon. He listened to the world around him. It was eerily quiet. Chris wasn’t used to it being this quiet. He was used to the sounds of people screaming—dying while being eaten alive by the infected bastards that he and other survivors of this new world called walkers. The world he had once known was no more. The life he had once lived was a distant memory that was slowly starting to fade. Chris had lost a part of himself somewhere between the old world and this new nightmarish one that he was living in now. It was like living a nightmare that was right out of a horror movie. Chris narrowed his eyes as he peered through the fog, watching it as it slowly moved across the field in front of him. He thought he could see something through the fog and in the distance—a building of some sort. He looked over his shoulder and back into the woods. The sound of rain hitting the dead leaves that covered the forest floor echoed. He shivered with a chill that ran the length of his body. He was soaking wet from the rain and the elements he had endured for the last twenty-four hours.
Chris started to stand when the crunching sound of dead leaves and the snapping of tree branches echoed through the stillness of the forest behind him. It was the first time he had heard a sound—the first time in over a day he had heard anything but himself making a noise while running through the forest. Chris’s heart fluttered as it ticked a beat faster. His eyes were wide as he looked through the woods—waiting for the undead to show themselves. Chris gripped his rifle tightly in his hand. He slowly moved it to his shoulder as he looked down the barrel and through the sights. He held his breath and listened. The beating of his heart echoed into his ears. Chris took a quick breath and then let it out—the steam from his heated breath rose in front of his face. Come on . . . show yourself. Chris thought as the moved his rifle from one side to the other. His finger danced in and out of the trigger well as he looked for one of the undead to shoot. Maybe it’s just an animal. He narrowed his eyes as the voice in his head tried to convince him that it wasn’t a walker. Chris thought that it wasn’t more than one—at least he hoped it wasn’t. He knew if it was a horde of walkers, he didn’t stand a chance. He was one man—one man that couldn’t take on more than two or three of them at a time.
Chris slowly stood as he looked deeper into the forest. He could see nothing but the trees that had been there since the dawn of time. The sounds of someone or something walking across the forest floor had faded as quickly as it had started. It caused him to question himself. Had he heard what he thought he had heard. He shook his head and shrugged his shoulders as if someone had asked him that very question. The sound of rain hitting the leaves was the only sound that now filled the world around him—that and the beating of his heart. Chris slowly turned back to the clearing in front him. The fog had lifted just enough to allow him to see beyond the field in front of him. He could see what looked to be an old gas station. He looked at the old building for a brief second and then stepped out into the clearing. He took a few small steps and then forced himself to take a few larger ones. It wasn’t but a few seconds later that Chris had picked up his pace and was now running across the open field and towards the building. He was running like a bat out of hell. He didn’t want to be out in the open for long. He knew to be this exposed right now was inviting trouble—trouble that would be from both the dead and the living.
Chris was focused on the building in front of him as he ran towards it. He was in mid stride when he stumbled and fell to the ground—tripping on a root of some sort that stuck out of the ground. The building had filled Chris’s mind with hope—hope that he knew not to have in this dark and evil world. Hope was for the dying, not the living. The thought of getting out of the cold and rainy elements had consumed his mind—he had tunnel vision. It was that momentary lapse of tunnel vision that had caused him to make a mistake—a mistake that he couldn’t afford to make. It was this kind of mistakes that could get him killed or worse. He could be bitten and becoming one of them. Chris rolled onto his back and took a breath. He looked at the dark grey sky above him as droplets of rain pelted him in his face. He lifted his head off the ground and quickly looked around. He could see no one or nothing but the field he was lying in and the woods that were nearly eighty yards behind him.
Damn you Christopher! The voice inside his head scolding him. One mistake is all it takes. You know this world. You know that one little slip up and your dead . . . Or you become one of those things. Chris vowed to not let himself become one of the walkers. He would kill himself first. He kept one bullet in his pocket for that reason and that reason alone. He had told himself if he was ever bitten, he would put the barrel of his gun in his mouth and pull the trigger. It was an act that would have been considered suicide in the old world. It was now an act of mercy. Chris rolled over and onto his hands and knees. He leaned back onto the hunches of his feet. He felt the grittiness of dirt and debris in his mouth. Chris turned his head and spat. He spat dark brown dirt—at least he hoped that it was all dirt and not shit from the cattle that had once filled this filed. He ran the sleeve of his jacket across his mouth—it too was caked in mud and god knew what else. Chris spat again for good measure and then lifted himself off the wet ground. He shook his head and thought that if this had happened in the old world he would have cursed and then laughed his ass off at having done something so stupid. It wasn’t the old world and there was no point in cursing aloud or laughing at what his dumb ass had just done. He knew to make a sound would only bring the undead to him or alert the living that he was around.
Chris stood and walked the few steps to his rifle. He picked it up and had a quick look around before checking to make sure that it hadn’t been damaged. It seemed okay. The rifle wasn’t as covered in mud and whatever else that was in this field as Chris himself was. The rifle would need a good cleaning—something Chris was diligent about doing when he was in an area that was safe to do so. The last few weeks it had been rather rare to be in an area that was safe to do anything. Chris was about to take a step when the hair on the back of his neck stood on end alerting him that something was wrong. It was a gift Chris had been blessed with—a gift that he had used in the old world a lot and more in this new world. It was an instinct that had saved his life on more than one occasion. Chris brought his rifle up and into his shoulder as he began looking around—slowly turning in a circle until he faced the old building he had been running towards. He could see nothing and no one—dead or alive. Chris let out a sigh of relief as he took a step and winched with pain. It was then that he felt the effects of not only falling flat on his face but from the root that had tripped him. He took a step and gritted his teeth. It was his ankle. He wasn’t sure if it was a bad sprain from twisting it or if it was broken. He thought he could rule it out as being broken—he had walked on and felt nothing but then again that d
idn’t meant anything. The adrenalin that pumped through his body was a great equalizer of pain.
Damnit Christopher! He cursed himself as he began hobbling across the open field and towards the building. If it is broken, you just signed your own death warrant. Stopping as he shifted his weight to one foot while moving the other one in a slow semi-circle. He could feel it starting to swell and thought that it was just a bad sprain. He told himself that if it was broken, he wouldn’t have been able to move it the way that he was moving it now. He wasn’t a doctor and it wasn’t that much of an educated guess. He was just guessing and telling himself to rub some dirt on it and keep moving. It was what his old football coach—coach Robertson—would have told him to do. Chris hobbled across the field and only stopped when he came to an old cattle wire fence. It was rusted and just looking at it made Chris wonder if his tetanus shot was up to date. If something in this shitty world has to kill me . . . why not tetanus. He thought while looking at the fence. If it wasn’t for bad luck, I would have no luck at all. He took a breath and let out with a heavy sigh while following the outline of the fence in hopes of finding a way of getting past it without having to lift himself up and over it. Chris shook his head and grumbled. It looked as if there was only one way to get through it and that was by going over it.
Chris took his backpack off and laid it on the other side of the fence. He did the same with his rifle and instantly felt a bit naked without it in his hands. He was fearful that walkers would come rushing out of the woods to devour him now that he was somewhat unarmed. He still had his handgun but if a horde made their presence known his long gun was the better option at this distance—at least that is what he told himself. Chris felt the hair on the back of his neck standing on end as images of the undead flooding the field began to fill his mind. Keep those damn thoughts out of your mind Christopher. No sense in letting fear get ahold of you. The time for being scared has passed. He nodded in agreement as if the voice inside his head was that of a person standing next to him. It was something he thought might become a problem in the future—voices inside his head and answering them. It was the first sign of going crazy. The world that he was living in now wasn’t too far from causing him to go insane. The survivors of this ungodly world were more terrifyingly to him than that of the undead bastards that walked the face of the earth.
Chris gingerly rested the weight of his body on the ankle he had just twisted. He gritted his teeth while lifting his good leg up and over the fence. It took him a few painful minutes to get across—those few minutes felt like hours, but he had finally made it. He took a quick breath and felt week from the fiery hot pain of his ankle that now consumed him. It throbbed like a toothache—maybe worse than that of a toothache. He leaned against the wire fence as the pain damn near caused him to fall to his knees. It was going to be one hell of a walk to the station that sat nearly fifty yards away. He looked across the road at the building. It felt like the building was laughing at him as he stared at it—mocking him for falling. He pulled his pants leg up and had a look at his ankle. It was swollen and starting to make his boot feel a bit tight. He wasn’t willing to admit to himself just yet that his ankle was broken. Stop thinking the worst. It could always get a hell of a lot worse. Chris chuckled like a madman as the voice inside his head echoed. He knew he needed to get across the road and inside the old gas station as soon as possible. He needed to take his boot off and prop his foot up to allow the swelling to go down. He needed a place to rest his head for the night. He knew he wasn’t going to be walking anymore today. He knew to do so would be risking his life and maybe injuring himself worse than what he already was. He couldn’t run and he could barely hobble. It was a hell of a place to be—caught between a rock and a hard place and the undead. He was a walking meat stick for the undead to feast on.
Chris leaned over and picked up his backpack and then slung it across his shoulders before doing the same with his rifle. He placed the palm of his hand on the butt of his holstered handgun. It was the first time he had checked to make sure it was there since falling in the middle of the field. He breathed a sigh of relief that it was—he couldn’t bear the thought of having to cross the fence and walk back to where he had fallen just to see if his gun was lying in the mud. Chris took a quick look around and then began limping across the road and towards the gas station. The station looked to have been built in the late forties if not the early fifties. It had three service bay doors that led into the service area of the old station—something you don’t see with most modern gas stations in America. Gas stations in the modern world were more about selling you your favorite beverage and snack than helping you fix your car. This station was from a different time—a different error than the one he had lived in before the outbreak. It was from a time when people truly cared about one another. It was before the world had gone to Hell in a hand basket. Chris hobbled a bit closer and noticed that the gas pumps looked to have been updated at some point—maybe five or ten years ago. It wasn’t the kind of gas pumps that you would see at all modern gas stations. It didn’t have the TV screens that would give you the news while filling your tank full of premium gas.
Chris finished crossing the road as he limped into the parking lot of the station. He stumbled his way over to the gas pumps to have a closer look at them. I should have stolen a car before I left. I shouldn’t have started out alone and on foot. He narrowed his eyes in knowing that he had no one to take with him. He was truly along in this world. I shouldn’t have left with only a few hours of daylight remaining in the day. He shook his head and cursed himself as he started to second guess each decision he had made since yesterday—maybe every decision he had made since the night of the outbreak. Chris left a group of survivors that he had been with for two and half months. He had left to not only save himself but to get away from a madman that he felt was far worse than the walkers ever dared to be. Deacon. Deacon was the kind of man that thrived on the misery and carnage of others. He relished in the torment and fear that he and his group of survivors could inflict on those that were unable to protect themselves. Chris had witnessed things that would turn a man’s stomach. Vile acts committed against humanity. He had seen things he couldn’t keep turning a blind eye to. Things that were being done to the living that were far worse than one could imagine. He knew to stay with them meant that he condoned their vile and evil actions. He had made his voice known among the group of survivors and with Deacon himself. He knew to speak out anymore would mean his death. Deacon was the kind of man that had ice water running through his veins. He was a man to be feared and one that needed to be praised by those within his group. Chris wasn’t the kind of man that would ever praise a sick and twisted son of a bitch like Deacon.
Chris had spent three and half months on his own while fighting the dead and looking for the living. He had prayed to God for help—for someone to come and help him survivor this untamed apocalyptic world that was overrun by the undead. He prayed to find a group of survivors. It wasn’t until he found Deacon and his group that his prayers had changed. He prayed for a way to escape them. He prayed to be rid of them and once again on his own. Chris had taken an oath as an officer of the law—an oath that he still felt needed to be uphold. He had taken an oath to serve and protect those that couldn’t protect themselves. It was an oath he had taken and one he had failed at doing. He wasn’t sure how to protect anyone in this nightmarish world that was filled with the living dead. Chris had seen people who had once been good and honorable do unmentionable things in order to survive. He had witnessed the killing of those that refused to bow down and take a knee in honor of their new King. Deacon. Deacon was to be their savor—the one who would not only keep them safe but save them from the walkers and those that dared go against them. Chris would rather die than be a part of what Deacon and his group were doing to survive. It wasn’t who he was—not in the old world or the new one. He wouldn’t bend at the knee—not for Deacon and not for anyone.
Chris blinked
his eyes as his mind slowly faded from thought. He took a breath and let it out as he stepped between the pumps and then limped to the front entrance of the station. He looked at the double glassed doors with is rifle in hand. He stood there waiting for the walkers to come shambling out of the building. It didn’t happen. He wondered how many were inside waiting for him—waiting so they could make him their next meal. Maybe the dead are not the ones who inhabit this place. His heart ticked a beat faster as he took another breath and slowly let it out. The thought of the living being inside made him almost wish that he would find a pack of walkers. He looked at the building and found it odd that the windows and the doors still had glass in them. It was one of the few places that looked to have gone untouched by looters. The voice inside his head was screaming—warning him to not to go inside. It was no use. He wasn’t paying attention to the voice of reasoning. The pain of his ankle was far too great. He needed a place to not only rest but to warm up and stay the night. He needed to get out of his soaking wet clothes and out of the rain before he caught phenomena.
Chris limped a few steps towards the set of doors. He found himself saying a prayer as he walked. It wasn’t a prayer of asking God for protection—that shipped had sailed a long time ago. Chris was praying that there would be some food left on the shelves and a bottle or two of painkillers. He also hoped for running water—fresh water to fill his canteen. He would drink himself sick if he found the cooler stocked with bottles of water and other soft drinks. He wondered if he might find some beer or whisky still on the shelves. It might be the only thing to help take the edge off his throbbing ankle. It had been a long time since Chris had had a drink of liquor. He was sure his tolerance for alcohol was mighty low. If he found something strong to drink, he couldn’t allow himself to get carried away. He had to keep a level head if he wanted to survive. Chris was mere inches from the doors when he came to an abrupt stop. He stood there looking at the glass of the doors. The glass had a bloody handprint smeared across it. He let his eyes trace the bloody handprint to the outside handle of the doors. It too had blood on it. The voice inside his head wasn’t just talking. It was screaming with each second that passed.
