The Dead and The Living (Book1): The Dead and The Living

by Wimer, Kevin

  “I’m going to kill you Chris!” Pete yelled as he fired off a few more shots.

  Chris flinched as various bags of chips exploded from the bullets that passed through them. He was quickly covered in crumbs. Chris crawled around the corner and to the back of the aisle. He peeked around one of the shelves and could see Pete standing behind the counter with his arm outstretched and his gun pointed to where Chris had just been. Chris slowly got to his knees and then to one foot. He took a breath and lunched himself from behind cover—running to the next aisle. Pete fired wildly—missing Chris by inches. Chris ran from one aisle to the next while a hailstorm of bullets followed him. Pete was firing wildly and without concern of running out of ammo. Chris heard the clicking sound of Pete’s gun. He was out. Chris rushed down the aisle and came into view just as Pete was putting a fresh magazine into his gun. He brought his rifle up and into his shoulder and quickly squeezed the trigger—hitting Pete dead between his eyes. Pete’s head jerked back as the wall behind him was painted a crimson red. His body fell to floor in slow motion. Pete was dead before he hit the ground.

  CHAPTER 5

  Chris slowly walked over to Tiny’s body. He put his foot under the man and grunted as he turned him over. Tiny’s eyes were open wide as they stared up at him. His eyes had a blank look that now filled them, gone was the murderous look of rage that had been there when Chris had shot him in the chest. His pupils were dilated and frozen. Chris took a breath and let it out. Tiny was dead. He stood there for a moment looking at the big man. He wondered when he would feel the guilt of having killed Tiny. He wondered if he would ever feel any guilt at all. The man was dangerous—more than just dangerous. He was evil. Tiny was a cold-blooded killer and he enjoyed it. Deacon had allowed both Tiny and Pete to grow as killers. The two men were not as bad as others within the group. The Butcher was the worst of them all. Chris knew the man rather well. He was the kind of man that was not to be trusted. Cole had gotten the nickname, Butcher, not from the job he had had before the outbreak but from what he had done to those poor souls that had been captured by the group of survivors.

  Hawkeye and his group are out looking for Chris now. Just wait until the Butcher gets ahold of him. That bastard will carve him like a pig. Tiny’s voice echoed through Chris’s mind as he looked at the dead man lying on the floor in a pool of his own blood. Chris was being hunted. Deacon wanted him alive. He wanted him to stand judgment before everyone within the group. Deacon was going to use him as an example of what happens when you don’t obey him and his rule of law. Chris turned and looked out the window. He looked at the parking lot outside and at the Jeep sitting there. He looked beyond the jeep and at the field he had come through the day before. Hawkeye was good at what he did—one of the best trackers he had ever met. Chris knew if Hawkeye was tracking him on foot it was only a matter of hours before the man caught up to him. Hawkeye had grown up using his Apache heritage to track and hunt wild game. He had been a Wildlife officer—Game warden—for the state of West Virginia for nearly twenty years and a damn good one at that. Hawkeye had bene in the city of Harrisonburg visiting family the night of the outbreak.

  Chris turned away from the window and took one last look at Tiny’s lifeless body before walking to where Pete now lay dead. He stepped around the counter and stopped short of the man he had shot between the eyes. He admired the whole in Pete’s head. It was one hell of a shot. Chris knew he had gotten lucky with the shot. It was the kind of shot that as an officer and as an avid gun enthusiast he had trained for but knew in the real world that nine times out of ten it was never going to happen. He raised a brow in thought. I guess you can never say never. Chris looked at the wall coated in Pete’s blood and brain matter. He watched as the trail of blood and brain matter slowly dripped down the wall and to where Pete was now lying dead. Chris noticed the look that was frozen on Pete’s face. His eyes were open and glassed over and the look on his face was that of shock. That makes two of us. Chris thought as felt a trickling of blood going down the side of his face. He placed a hand to the source of the blood and winched with pain. He had forgotten that one of Pete’s wild and misplaced shots had grazed him. He had also forgotten that his ankle had been injured. The pain of both injuries had been subdued by the adrenaline that had been pumping through his veins.

  Chris pulled an old rag from his pocket and held it to his cheek. The thought of infection from the old rag crossed his mind as he limped to one of the aisles and began looking for some medical supplies. He found some medical tape and gauze and a box of bandages but no rubbing alcohol to clean the wound with. He was caked in filth from running through the woods the day before and from the filth of living in a world that was now owned by the dead. Chris’s eyes wondered towards the back of the store and to where the beer and alcohol was kept. He could seem various boltless of aholehole. If it was good enough to use during the civil war it is good enough to use now. Chris thought as he pulled a bottle from the shelf and walked towards the stockroom. He glanced over his shoulder and looked at Tiny’s lifeless form and then out at the world outside. He wasn’t sure how long he had until Hawkeye and his men would find him. He stepped through the double doors and headed for the bathroom that was located inside the makeshift bedroom. Chris turned the light on and had a look at the wound. He was sure the gash on his cheek needed stitches, but he had no way of doing it himself. He opened the bottle of whisky and took a long pull of it and then a deep breath. He knew this was going to not only hurt like hell but burn like the flames of Hell themselves.

  Chris held his breath as he titled the bottle up and to his cheek. It wasn’t but a second until he let out a slew of curse words. His hand shook as he sat the bottle of alcohol onto the sink’s countertop. He took another pull from the bottle and then a breath and did it three more times before he could do it no more. Chris’s legs felt weak. He could barely hold himself up. He sat on the commode and took a handful of deep breaths. The fiery hot pain of the wound that was now covered in alcohol took his mind off the pain of his ankle. You twisted your ankle and you’ve been shot. All of this in less than twenty-four hours. What’s next. He thought while looking down at his ankle and holding a gauze pad to his cheek. The swelling of his ankle wasn’t as bad, but it still hurt like a son of a bitch. Chris was still guessing that it was just a bad sprain and not broken. He reached out and took the bottle of alcohol from the sinks countertop and took another quick swig. He could feel the effects of the alcohol starting to take ahold. He couldn’t allow himself to get drunk. No more. The voice inside his head ordered. Get something to eat and take some of the painkillers.

  Chris sat the bottle down and then took a deep breath while looking at his dirty feet. He then looked at the shower stall in front of him—images of the old world passed through his mind. Thoughts of taking long hot showers. Thoughts of being able to bathe without worry of being eaten alive. It was a luxury that he and everyone else that had survived the outbreak had taken for granted. He sat there staring at the shower stall and wondered if he could get a quick shower before Hawkeye and his men caught up to him. It had been a long time since he had felt the hot spray of running water against his body. His bathing ritual had been reduced to pans of water heated over an open flame. A whore’s bath. He thought.

  “To Hell with it!” Chris grumbled.

  Chris stood from the commode and began stripping. He wasn’t going to pass this opportunity up. He knew he could be caught by Hawkeye and his men and he also knew the gunfight could have a million walkers headed his way. The lust for hot water and a bit of normalcy won out. Chris turned the water on and waited for it to heat up. He looked at the bar of soap inside the shower stall—it was just as grimy as he was. It turned his stomach to think of it having of been used but at this point he didn’t give a damn. He wanted a hot shower and to feel clean. Chris stepped into the shower and felt the tension in his muscles release. The hot water and powerful spray splashed against his body and caused him to forget about the world
beyond the shower stall—beyond the gas station itself. He dunked his head under the water and held it there for a moment. He chuckled a laugh and then felt the urge to shed a tear. Chris took the grimy bar of soap in his hand and held it under the water until the grime melted away. He lathered his body up and then washed it off. He used the bottle of shampoo to clean his hair. The wound on his face burned but Chris paid it no attention as he stood under the water for what felt like hours. His flesh now looked like a prune.

  Chris quickly dried off and began putting his clothes back on. The feeling of being clean vanished as he put his dirty clothes on. The fresh clean feeling faded within a blink of an eye. He stepped over to the mirror and looked at himself. He ran a comb he found through his hair. He somewhat resembled the man he used to be. Chris quickly bandaged the wound on his face and downed a handful of painkillers. He had eaten a bit of beef jerky and some peanut butter while packing his gear and a few other items to take with him. He loaded the Jeep outside with various goods and then headed back inside to retrieve the rest of his things. He would take the Jeep Tiny and Pete had been using. The CB radio inside the Jeep was tuned to the command center back at base camp. He would listen to it while driving in hopes of hearing some reports about Hawkeye and his group and about Deacon’s other groups of scavengers.

  Chris grabbed his gear and stepped out into the afternoon sun. The day before had been a rainy cold mess—today it reminded him an early spring day. He stood there for a moment and leaned his head back and allowed the sun’s rays to heat his chilled face. He took a breath and breathed a sigh of relief as off in the distance a bird chirped and sang something so beautiful. He couldn’t remember the last time he had heard a bird chirping and singing. He couldn’t remember the last time he had been to a park without having to dodge the dead that were trying to eat him. His eyes were closed and for that moment the world felt familiar. It felt safe. It felt as if he had gone back in time and none of the bad things he had witnessed or had done existed. He was just a normal human being living a normal day. He was Chris Anderson. He was an officer of the law. He wasn’t a survivor of the outbreak that had turned their world upside down and into a cesspool of shit.

  Chris opened his eyes and looked around. It was just a daydream—wishful thinking. The world was the same cesspool it had been before he had closed his eyes and let the sun’s rays lull him into the past. It was dangerous to allow that to happen. You need to stay alert. Hawkeye and his men are hunting you. Deacon wants you to pay for your sins. Chris narrowed his eyes and gritted his teeth. He had no sins to ask Deacon to forgive. Deacon was a man made of flesh and bone just as he was. He was a man that had pure evil dwelling within him. Chris would only ask forgiveness from that of his Heavenly Father. Not the bastard who ruled the group of survivors like Hitler had ruled over Germany. First chance I get . . . I’m going to kill that son of a bitch. Chris thought as he walked towards the Jeep and tossed his backpack into the passenger seat. He took his rifle off his shoulder and placed the barrel of it pointed down at the passenger floorboard. It was within reach if he needed it quickly. He touched the handgun on his side and knew he could reach it quickly while driving.

  Chris turned from the Jeep and took one last look at the field behind him and then at the gas station. The windows that faced the parking lot had been blown out by a handful of bullets that Pete had fired wildly at him. The gas station had gone unscathed by looters to only be ruined by Pete. Chris shook his head as he lifted himself up and into the Jeep and started it. The engine roared to life. He leaned back into the seat and placed his hands onto the steering wheel and breathed a sigh of relief. He felt a sense of calm rushing over him. It was a false sense of calm—something he needed to not let get a hold of him. He knew he couldn’t keep letting his guard down and to keep doing so meant that he would end up dead. He put the Jeep in gear and pulled out of the parking lot and raced down the road. He looked in his rearview mirror at the gas station behind him. It was growing smaller and smaller with each second that passed. He was thankful to have found the place and wished that he could have taken more supplies with him. Chris was going to give what he had loaded into Jeep to the group of survivors he was now heading to meet. Carl Yassa had given his life for these very supplies. He had given his life to protect his daughter. Chris would honor Carl’s memory by doing what he had been unable to do himself. He would not only help the group but protect Brandy.

  “Tiny!” a voice echoed through the speaker on the CB radio.

  Chris damn near jumped out of the Jeep as the radio crackled to life and voice on the other end echoed through the vehicle. His heart was pounding like a drum. He looked at the radio and then back at the road. The voice was that of Jake. Jake had been an electrician and a Ham Radio operator in his spare time. It was a hobby that had saved his ass during the outbreak. Jake had gotten word about the outbreak hours before it had started on American soil. He had been talking to a friend overseas. Chris couldn’t remember if it was England or Germany. Not that it mattered. Europe had been the first to be hit with virus that turned the living into the undead.

  “Damn it Tiny, if you don’t answer me, I will kill you myself when you get back,” a long pause filled the air before Jake spoke again, “That is if Deacon lets me,” another brief pause, “Damn it . . . the two of you better not be out there fucking around.”

  Chris raised a brow and thought. Don’t worry Jake. Tiny and Pete are not out here Fucking around. The bastards are dead. I killed them. His eyes wondered to the radio and then back to the road in front of him. He was somewhat shocked and confused that he felt nothing for the two men he had just killed. He wondered if this world had hardened him to what he knew he would soon have to face. He would have to kill Deacon and anyone that Deacon sent after him in order to survive. His life of upholding the law had vanished within a blink of an eye and it had taken Chris nearly six months to realize that and that the world was never coming back.

  “Tiny, don’t make me go and tell Deacon that the two of you left without having backup,” Jake said, “I didn’t like this idea from the get-go.”

  Chris listened as Jake kept talking. He was starting to get more pissed off by the second as he rattled on. The two men had left the group and had gone out scavenging alone. Deacon hadn’t permitted this type of action. No one ever left camp alone. Deacon wanted his group to go out in numbers. It was a show of force for anyone that might be lurking. The two men had broken protocol and in doing so they had paid for it with their lives. Chris could feel a smile creeping across his face knowing that no one knew where Pete and Tiny were. He also felt a bit giddy that no one knew about the group of survivors in Broadway. Tiny and Pete had kept their mouths shut about the other group of survivors and forever would. Chris had seen to that.

  “Okay assholes, I’m betting that the two of you can hear me. If so, listen up. I just got word from Hawkeye. He has picked up Chris’s trail. He wants the two of you to head down Route 42 towards the town of Broadway. Hawkeye said to drive up and down that road and see if you see anything . . . If you do, radio back to me.”

  Chris gritted his teeth and gripped the steering wheel of the Jeep. He could feel his heart racing. It wouldn’t’ be long until Hawkeye found where he had taken refuge and where he had left the bodies of the two men to rot into eternity. He knew a world of shit would soon be heading his way. Deacon would send out a group of men—maybe his whole damn group of survivors. The group would hunt him down and kill him and anyone that was with him. The voice on the radio echoed through the Jeep as Chris reached for the mike.

  “Jake, it’s good to hear your voice man.”

  The radio crackled with static for a moment before Jake answered.

  “Listen asshole . . . Hawkeye is coming for you. You and I both know he will find you. Once he does you will be brought back here and killed.”

  “Yeah. I know,” pausing for a second, “That is what both Tiny and Pete said.”

  The radio fell silent. Ch
ris knew that Jake was trying to think of what to say next. He was sure Jake had sent someone to go and get Deacon. Jake couldn’t shit without Deacon’s permission. The bastard was just another lacky among many in Deacon’s cog.

  “If you—”

  Chris gripped the mike in his hand. He gritted his teeth while pushing the button on the mike in and cutting Jake off in mid-sentence.

  “It’s too late Jake. I gave both Tiny and Pete a chance. I told them to toss their guns away and I would let them go,” images of what had taken place filled Chris’s mind, “I had them dead to rights, but the bastards thought that they could kill me. I was defending myself. Not that it really matters when it comes to a bunch of murders.”

  Chris let off the button. He looked at the road in front of him as the static of the radio filled the cabin of the Jeep. He looked into his rearview mirror to see if anyone was behind him. He was still alone on this long stretch of road. He knew that wouldn’t last long.

  “Christopher . . . it is so good to hear your voice. We have been worried about you my friend,” Deacon’s voice boomed over the radio as it filled the interior of the Jeep, “It is good to hear that you are still alive . . . at least for now,” a coldness in his voice edged his words, “I am rather sad to hear about both Tiny and Pete,” he breathed a heavy sigh before continuing to speak, “but let’s face it Chris. We both know that is the way shit happens. Isn’t that right?” bellowing a laugh as he talked, “Nothing in our world is for certain. Nothing but death and zombies.”

  Chris took a breath and let it out with a heavy sigh of anger. Deacon had finally shown up. The cockiness in Deacons voice was something Chris hoped to one day put an end to. He hoped to end it with a bullet between the man’s eyes. He wanted to stand over his body and watch the life fade from his eyes. He wanted to watch as Deacon fade from this world as he entered the Gates of Hell. It was a thought that would have at one time sickened him. That time was no more. Chris could feel something within him changing. He was becoming a killer. You killed those two men. You killed Tiny and Pete without hesitation. Admit it . . . It was easy for you. Wasn’t it? The voice echoed through his mind.