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

by Wimer, Kevin

  “You okay, Hoss?” the man asked.

  Chris nodded.

  “Have you been bitten?”

  Chris shook his head. He was scared to utter a word as he looked up at the man whose eyes had narrowed a bit. He watched as the man looked him over. His eyes covered every square inch of Chris’s body—studying him while looking for bite marks.

  “Can you speak? Or does the cat have your tongue?”

  Chris started to nod his head but stopped. He took a breath and then spoke.

  “I haven’t been bitten . . . I was . . .” his voice trailed off for a second as thoughts of what he had been doing before the crash filled his mind, “I was in the Jeep when it overturned,” looking down over the hill and towards the road and to where the Jeep sat, “I think I was knocked out for a bit,” feeling a sharp aching pain above his right eye as he spoke.

  The man moved the lollypop from one corner of his mouth to the other as he squatted down onto his haunches. The two men were now at eye level. Chris could feel the man’s eyes boring through him and his soul. His heart ticked a beat faster as his mind filled with thoughts. Could this man be worse than Deacon? The man must have noticed the questioning look in Chris’s eyes. He pulled the lollypop from his mouth as he spoke.

  “No. We are not going to kill you Hoss,” smiling as he slowly rolled the stick of the lollypop between his fingers, “It looks to me like you’ve been through enough Hell for one day,” looking at Chris and then at the mangled Jeep, “What’s your name?”

  Chris cleared his throat. It burned and the need for a drink of water was overwhelming. He looked at the man and then at the others who were starting to walk back up the hill towards them.

  “Chris . . . My name is Chris Anderson. I’m from Harrisonburg. I used to be a deputy on the police force there.”

  Chris wasn’t sure why he was giving this man so much information. Maybe if he talked a bit more the man would keep him alive—at least for a few more hours.

  “Well Chris Anderson,” the man plopped the lollypop back into his mouth and held out a hand, “Mighty nice to meet you. My name is Texas . . . but everyone calls me Tex,” smiling as he spoke, “And yes, it is my real name. Says so on my birth certificate. Not that those things matter much anymore.”

  Chris nodded in agreement. Nothing from the old world really mattered anymore. He noticed the man spoke with a bit of a southern draw—maybe he was from Texas or somewhere else out west. It wasn’t the kind of accented draw that Chris was used to hearing in the Shenandoah Valley. It was unique to him. It made the man calling himself Tex stand out a bit more—that and his cowboy hat and six shooters on his hips. The guns hung in their holsters as a they would have if Tex had been a gunfighter in the old west.

  “Well my friend,” reaching into his pocket as he spoke, pulling out another lollypop, “It looks like we found you in the nick of time,” handing it over to Chris who slowly reached out and took it, “Those bastards would have made dinner out of you.”

  Chris looked at the bodies that lay at the foot of the hill in various displays of death. He looked at them and then it hit him. The walkers were far closer to him than he had thought they were. He hadn’t put the distance between them that he thought had. The thought of that made Chris’s heart tick a beat faster as the realization of how close to being eaten set in.

  “Yeah. I guess so,” Chris said, “I thought I had put more distance on them than that,” looking back at Tex, “I guess I was wrong.”

  Tex nodded. He looked at Chris and the cut above his eye. It was leaking like a sieve. He was sure the man was going to need some stitches. He was sure Chris had a concussion as well.

  “That cut above your eye,” Tex pointed, “I think it’s going to need some attention soon,” turning his head in various angles as he looked the wound over, “May I have better look at it?”

  Chris nodded.

  “I hit my head on the steering wheel when I flipped over . . . At least I think it was the steering wheel.”

  Tex moved the lollypop from one side of his mouth to the other as he examined the wound above Chris’s eye. Chris could hear the hard candy shell clicking against the man’s teeth as he moved it around his mouth. Tex was a bit odd to Chris, but he had a feeling about him—an overwhelming feeling that he could trust the man and his group. It was a gut feeling and his gut had never let him down before. Chris wished he had listened to his gut a long time ago. He wished he had left Deacon and the other survivors months ago. He knew the reason why he hadn’t left. He had feared being alone—scared of being out here without someone to watch his back. This wasn’t the kind of world that someone survived in alone. Chris winched in pain as Tex placed his hands near the wound. He flinched and gritted his teeth as the fiery white-hot pain soured through him. It not only hurt like hell but made Chris a bit nauseous.

  “Sorry partner. I know it hurts like a son of a bitch,” squinting his eyes while looking at the wound, “Take a few deep breaths,” noticing the man’s complexion had turned a pale pasty white, “It helps with feeling nauseous,” taking one last look at the wound before leaning back onto his haunches, “You have one hell of a goose egg above your eye. You said you blacked out?”

  “Yes sir.”

  “I’m betting you have a concussion,” Tex said as he pulled the lollypop stick from his mouth and tossed away, “You need stitches . . . I don’t have a suture kit on me to do it,” looking at Chris who looked a bit relieved that the man couldn’t stitch him up, “I think it’s a job for the doctor back at camp. We’ll get you back there and let the doc have a look at you.”

  “Doctor? You have a doctor?”

  It had been a long time since Chris had seen a doctor—let alone hearing of one who was still alive. He looked at Tex who stared back at him. He smiled and nodded his head.

  “Yes sir, we have a doctor. A real doctor. She isn’t one of those animal doctors either . . . Brandy look you over and get you stitched up in no time.”

  Chris felt his heart leaping into his throat as it began to beat a tick faster. He looked at Tex and wondered if this Brandy he spoke of was the same Brandy that he had the letter for. The thought of this doctor being Brandy Yassa sored through his mind. He had a million and one questions to ask Tex but the one question that burned hotter than any other was about Brandy’s last name and if it was Yassa. The second burning question would be about her father and if his name was Carl Yassa. He started to ask the questions when the group crested the hill and circled around the two of them. The group of well-armed men and women stood somewhat expressionless while looking at Chris. The group looked at him as if he was the first living human that they had seen in quite some time. He was sure that he was staring at them the same way. Chris had seen very few survivors in such a large group as the one that now stood around him.

  CHAPTER 7

  Tex looked at the group as he introduced them to Chris. He told them that Chris had once been a deputy with the Harrisonburg Police Department. Someone yelled from the back of the group and asked about the city—asked if it was still overrun with walkers. Chris nodded his head and said that it was. He told the group about the living conditions and how bad things had gotten over the last few months. The supply of food was limited. He looked around the group and at the eyes of those that stared at him. He told them the food supply was being controlled by a madman and his group of survivors—men wo made the walkers look tame in comparison. Tex knew that Chris’s comments would get the group riled up. He looked at each of them and raised a hand as the group began to chatter amongst themselves. He told them now was not the time to ask questions and to hold off until later. Chris was injured and needed medical attention. It seemed to quite them down a bit. Tex looked around the group and called out six names—those six people stepped forward. Chris looked at the men and woman who had stepped out from within the group. He knew it wasn’t names picked at random. The group of six didn’t look like ordinary citizens. The group looked like warriors—w
arriors that had seen the dawn of a new war. It was a war that they were living to fight but knew deep down they would never win. The dead would one day inherit the earth.

  Tex took a knee and placed a hand on Chris’s shoulder and told him to take it easy. He had a couple of vehicles about two hundred yards away. The group had been out scavenging for food—berries and wild game when they heard the crashing sound of Chris’s Jeep rolling end over end. It was the sound of gunfire and the hissing moans that had led them to Chris. Chris painfully nodded his head as he watched the group of six running across open ground. It wasn’t long until they were out of sight. He marveled at their speed and gracefulness as they crossed the open ground and then melted into the woods. It was ghostly. He had never seen anything like it before. The group were like ninja’s—masters of the forest. He wondered if Tex had picked them because of their skillset to disappear. He wondered if those six had been hunters before the outbreak. It made sense to him that they would have been. The ease in which the group had melted into the tree line was a craft that Chris himself didn’t poses. He had hunted in the past, but it wasn’t something he did regularly.

  Chris watched as Tex stood and began giving the group that was left behind orders. He told them to pick up the brass shell casings and shotgun hauls. He stressed the importance of gathering up the shell casings—how one day it wouldn’t be so easy to find ammo and how they would have to rely on themselves to learn the art of reloading. It was something Chris had not thought about—running out of ammo. He had been used to going to one of the local gun shops or Walmart for his ammo needs. Those days were over. He looked at Tex and thought the man was smart. He looked at the man and wondered if he had had some sort of military background—training that gave him the forethought to think the way that he was now thinking. Chris let his mind wonder a bit as he watched the group spread out and begin picking up the brass shell casings and shotgun hulls. He was a bit a lost in thought when Tex called out to one of the young men. Chris looked at the man Tex had called to. His name was Cubbie. He wore a blue baseball hat that had seen better days. It was the hat that tipped Chris off as to the young man’s name. He was a Chicago Cub’s fan. Chris watched as Cubbie handed the shell casings he had gathered to a young woman beside him. He knew the two were more than just friends. It was the two not only looked at each other but worked together.

  “Cubbie, I want you to stay with our new friend while I take a couple of men down to the Jeep,” Tex said looking at the young man, “Maybe there is something we can salvage from the wreckage.”

  Cubbie nodded.

  “Sure, thing Tex.”

  “Chris, this is Cubbie. Unlike me, that isn’t his real name. It’s just the one he prefers to be called by,” turning he looked at the young man standing beside him, “I prefer to call him asshole, but again, he just doesn’t prefer that name either.”

  Cubbie rolled his eyes as he held up his middle finger and told Tex to sit on it and spin. Tex chuckled a laugh and told Cubbie that he would enjoy it too much. Cubbie shook his head and laughed as Tex turned from the two men and began walking off. Chris watched as Tex called out to a few other men and told them to follow him. The men quickly dumped their shell casings into a canvas bag that was being carried by a couple of men and woman within the group. Chris watched as the men ran to catch up with Tex who was already at the bottom of the hill.

  “My name is Brandon Deal . . . but don’t call me that,” he narrowed his eyes, “I have killed men for far less,” Chris raised a brow and swallowed what little saliva he could muster. Cubbie chuckled, “Don’t take this shit to seriously Chris. Its only the zombie apocalypse. Its not like this shit is real . . . Right?”

  Chris nodded. He liked Cubbie’s sense of humor—at least he hoped it was humor.

  “Yeah. I guess so,” taking a breath as he winched in pain. His body ached and his head was pounding. He wanted a handful of painkillers and a drink of water, “You wouldn’t by chance have some painkillers on you?”

  Cubbie shook his head.

  “Nope. The doc keeps all that stuff locked up,” looking at Chris he could see the man was in pain, “We’ll be back at the Zoo soon.”

  Chris wrinkled a brow.

  “The Zoo?”

  Cubbie smiled.

  “Everyone within the group calls our small little community, Graceland. I call it the Zoo. The place is a beehive of activity. It’s a madhouse at times . . . It reminds me of a zoo.”

  “Oh. Okay. I understand,” Chris said, picturing what Graceland must look like. He liked the sound of a community, “I don’t care what the name is . . . as long as it a good place with good people. I have had my fair share of bad.”

  Cubbie looked at Chris and could tell by the expression on his face and the distant look in his eyes that he had seen some shit. He was sure the man had seen things far worse than what most within the group had seen. Broadway had been active during the outbreak. Cubbie was sure the city had been far worse than their small town had been. He shivered at the thought of bigger cities—like New York. Cubbie’s mind drifted back to the first few days of the outbreak. He had been in hiding.

  “I can only imagine,” Cubbie said as he looked away and held up a hand and waved at the young woman who had been helping him pick up brass casings just moments before, “That’s Lailah,” looking at Chris who nodded his head, “Don’t go getting any bright ideas buddy,” raising a brow as if to tell Chris to back off and to stop thinking whatever it was he was thinking—which was nothing, “She doesn’t know it yet, but I’m going to merry her one day . . . One day real soon,” a smile slowly spread across his face as he looked at her, “She’s my world now,” taking a breath he let it out, “Lailah saved me just as much as Tex and the others in the group did,” staring at the young woman as a lump in his throat formed, “I think maybe Lailah and I saved each other.”

  Cubbie had met Lailah while out scavenging for food. It had been a little over a week since he had been outside his home—fear had kept him hunkered down behind his walls and hunger had drove him out and into the world of the infected. He remembered how the two of them first came into contact—both were more than just a bit leery of each other. Lailah would tell him days later that it was his kind eyes that had stopped her from killing him. She had been running from a group of survivors—men who had been scavenging for more than just food. The two of them had talked for about two hours when they first had met—both sizing each other up. Cubbie had fallen in love with Lailah instantly. Maybe she had too.

  “You are a lucky man,” Chris said as he looked at Cubbie who was staring at Lailah and seemed to be lost in thought, “You both are very lucky to have found each other,” sighing heavily as he spoke, “It’s hard to find good in this world,” looking at Lailah and at the others as they cleaned the ground of shell casings, “Hold onto her tight,” turning his attention back to Cubbie, “Don’t wait to tell her how much you love her. We only get once chance . . . Tomorrow isn’t promised.”

  Cubbie nodded his head in agreement. He knew Chris was right. He needed to express to Lailah how much he cared for her—how much he truly loved her. He loved her beyond words. He thought about the two of them—their conversations. He thought about how much Lailah had told him of her past. She told him about her parents and how they had died. Lailah’s father had been infected. He had been sick for a few days before the outbreak. He had been running a high temperature and had developed a harsh cough. Lailah’s mother thought it was the flu—a bug that would go away within a few days. If only she had known. Lailah told Cubbie how she remembered her father’s last breath. The sound of it. It was something she would never forget. Lailah told him about how her father had died with his eyes open—staring at both her and her mother. It wasn’t but a few seconds later that he awoke from death and began ripping her mother to shreds. Lailah had locked herself in her room as her father feasted on her mother. She prayed that it would all end. She prayed that it was just a dream—a terrible nigh
tmare. The nightmare ended when her father broke into her room and lunged for her. Lailah shot him between the eyes. It was the first time she had ever shot a gun. She guessed it was just a lucky shot.

  Cubbie couldn’t imagine the horror of what Lailah had gone through that night. The two rarely spoke about it—rarely spoke about family. It was a topic that had very little subject matter for him. He had grown up in the foster care system—bounced from one home to the next. He couldn’t remember having a stable place to call home let alone someone he called family. Cubbie had felt that he was just a paycheck his whole life. It was a hell of a feeling for a kid of seven to process. He was still processing it. It wasn’t until he had turned eighteen and was out of the system and on his own that he had found some stability—stability that he himself had created. It wasn’t until he found Lailah that he had found the love that he had craved for so long. The group of survivors at Graceland were the family that he had been wanting and missing his entire life. Tex was the brother he had always wanted. It took the zombie apocalypse to give Cubbie all those things and more.