The Zombie Uprising Series: Books One Through Five

by M. A. Robbins

  D-Day wiped his mouth with a napkin. “We’ll do that first thing. There was too much military activity on the road last night to stop anywhere. We need to be careful.”

  “All they know is we’re heading toward Colorado,” Jen said. “Couldn’t talk once Zeke told me about some new Homeland Security agents that were sitting near them. Couldn’t take the chance on the wrong person finding out where we were.”

  “And their destination was changed from Atlanta to Pittsburgh and no one told them why,” D-Day said. “There’s something going on.”

  Jen took a swig of her orange juice and placed the glass on the table. “They’re in danger. I just know it. Just like I know the government would be on us like flies on shit the minute I used my government phone.”

  “They can take care of themselves.” D-Day gestured to the TV screen. “Looks like Butler’s going to come to us if we wait for him.”

  The screen switched to a commercial from Homeland Security. A woman in hair rollers and with a shotgun explained how to detect and report zombie activity.

  “We’re in what, eastern Missouri?” Jen asked.

  D-Day nodded. “Sikeston.”

  She dropped her fork on her plate and sat back. “We have to go to Butler, not wait for him. There are too many people between the horde and us. Too many that’ll die.”

  “Can’t we just find a leader so you can touch it and talk to Butler?”

  “I don’t know,” she said. “Every communication through a leader has been Butler contacting me. Don’t you remember that one we ran into just before we left Georgia? Couldn’t get shit out of it.”

  “Maybe you weren’t close enough to Butler. We’re hundreds of miles closer to him now and he’s heading this way.”

  Jen shrugged. “Worth a try. I had a few numbness episodes overnight, but none lasted long. They must be getting killed as soon as they turn.”

  D-Day pushed his plate forward. “We’ll need to top off the gas tank before we go anywhere.” He hitched a thumb over his shoulder. “Saw a convenience store with fuel pumps nearby when we pulled in last night. We can pick up a phone there, too.”

  Jen emptied her orange juice and stood. “Let’s do it.”

  D-Day started the Harley. Black smoke chugged from the exhaust as it rumbled to life. He motioned for Jen to get on, and she wedged herself between him and the sissy bar. “Wish we’d kept the sidecar,” she said into his ear. “This seat hurts my ass after a half hour.”

  “A sidecar limits our maneuverability and uses more gas,” D-Day said. “Besides, you’ll get your own bike as soon as we find a decent one we can steal.”

  Jen put her arms around him and propped her feet on the passenger foot pegs. “I’ve never ridden a bike on my own.”

  D-Day tilted his head back and laughed. “You ride four-wheelers and snowmobiles, you can ride a bike.” He accelerated and rode around the motel, then pulled onto an empty Highway 62. Almost immediately, a convenience store came up on the right. He pulled in, stopped at the pumps out front, and turned off the engine.

  Jen squeezed herself out from behind the burly biker and walked up to the closest pump. She jiggled a padlock on the nozzle. “Locked.”

  A ding came from the convenience store and a twenty-something man in dirty jeans and a blue T-shirt that had seen better days sauntered toward them. Jen automatically adjusted her sunglasses to make sure they were secure on her face.

  “Sorry,” the man said. “Gas is only for those with ration vouchers, law enforcement, or government officials.” He took a wide stance next to the pump and folded his arms. A pistol was strapped to his side.

  “Then we’re just the folks you can help.” Jen reached into her back pocket and the man’s hand went to his pistol grip.

  Jen froze. “Just getting my ID.”

  The man glanced from Jen to D-Day, and back again. “Go ahead.” His hand didn’t leave the pistol.

  Jen drew her ID and held it up. “Homeland Security.”

  The man squinted, then nodded. He pointed at D-Day. “Him, too?”

  She nodded.

  The man’s shoulders lost all their tension and he gave her a smile. “Sorry for the caution. Had a station in the next town last week where an attendant was murdered. Sumbitches wanted the gas.”

  D-Day unscrewed the Harley’s gas cap. “How about that lock?”

  “Oh, yeah,” the man said. He fished in his pocket and pulled out a ring of keys.

  Jen nodded at the convenience store. “I’m going to pick up a few things. Need anything?”

  “Could use a cold one,” D-Day said.

  “Any particular brand?” she asked.

  The gas attendant pulled the padlock off of a pump. “Here ya go.”

  D-Day grabbed the gas nozzle. “Get me anything that’s not light.”

  Jen smiled. “You’ve got it.”

  She crossed from the fuel pump island to the convenience store and pushed the glass door open, causing another high-pitched ding.

  Standing in the doorway, she surveyed the store. Small and packed with goods, it looked like any of the thousands of stores across America. The glow from overhead lights bleached everything out, making it harder for Jen to see any detail through her sunglasses.

  She picked up a small bag of chips from a display in front of her and noticed an older man behind the counter with his eyes locked on her.

  Creepy.

  She walked up to him and stared back. “Where can I find the beer?”

  His gaze never wavered as he pointed behind her. “Fridge on the back wall.”

  “And a disposable phone?”

  “Got ‘em right under here.” He patted the counter. “Remind me when you cash out and I’ll fish one out for you.”

  The door dinged and the attendant walked in. Jen made her way down an aisle between displays of pastries and cookies on one side and magazines on the other.

  She pulled the fridge door open and studied the beer singles.

  Mumbling came from the register, and she glanced over at the attendant and old man speaking in hushed tones. The attendant pointed toward the pumps and the old man shook his head and jerked a thumb at a corkboard on the wall. He then shooed the attendant out of the store.

  As she turned back to the fridge, a sharp pain stabbed Jen’s gut, and bile rose in her throat. She put a hand on the door handle and steadied herself. “Zombie. Somewhere close.”

  She grabbed a sixteen ounce can of beer and turned. Need to get to it before it’s killed.

  Catching a flash out of the corner of her eye, she stood on her tiptoes and watched the old man disappear behind a door marked Employees Only.

  “Are you shitting me?” She trudged to the counter and placed the beer and chips down. “Held up by an old man’s bladder.”

  A muffled voice vibrated through the wall. Jen cocked her head. It was the old man, but wasn’t clear enough for her to make out any words. He does seem excited, though. What the hell is he up to in the bathroom?

  She gazed out the window. The young guy had engaged D-Day in conversation. The biker stood with his arms crossed, and nodded.

  Come on, old man. Got to go.

  Her gaze drifted to the counter. The old guy had left a half cup of black coffee and an open hunting magazine by his seat. Cigars and cigarettes spanned the display case on the wall, well out of reach of any light-fingered customer. Jen leaned over the counter to see where the phones were. “A freaking padlocked drawer?”

  Fishing in her pocket for some bills, she plopped a ten on the counter. “Dammit. I’m just going to leave the money. We’ll get the phone somewhere else.”

  She picked up the beer and chips and turned to leave, glancing at the corkboard the old man had been pointing at earlier. She stopped. “The fuck?”

  A poster was pinned on the upper middle of the board. A Wanted Poster. Jen’s black-and-white eyes stared back at her from it.

  “Son of a bitch.”

  She tore the poster
from the board and examined it. The picture was the one on her Homeland Security ID. “Ten thousand dollars for information leading to the arrest of Jennifer Reed,” she read. “Do not approach. Consider her armed and dangerous.”

  “Time to go.” She folded the poster, stuck it in her pocket, and picked up the beer and chips. The Employees Only door slammed open and the old man stood there, a shotgun pointed at her gut.

  His face chiseled in stone, he aimed down the barrel. “Don’t move.”

  2

  Zeke yawned and his gaze fell on Wayne snoozing next to him at the back of the nearly empty train car.

  Oh, yeah.

  Two Homeland Security agents sat up front across the aisle from a sleeping Dr. Preston. The larger agent, Dickson, turned around and stared at Zeke. He had a phone to his ear and nodded before facing forward. The other agent, a slim older man with a bald head and a permanent scowl, leaned in to Dickson and said something Zeke couldn’t hear.

  Wayne stirred next to him. “How far out are we?” he muttered.

  Zeke looked out the window. “I asked Preston a few minutes ago. He said Pittsburgh’s not far.”

  Wayne straightened and scratched his head. He pulled his phone from his pocket and flipped it open. “Hear anything from Jen or Dr. Cartwright yet?”

  Zeke shook his head. “Haven’t tried in the past twenty minutes. Not being able to talk to Jen is freaking me out.”

  Wayne punched a button on the phone and put it to his ear. “Got me worried. We get diverted from Atlanta to Pittsburgh and Jen calls and says she’s heading to Colorado, then clams up. And now her phone goes straight to voice mail. Something shady’s going on.”

  “I’ll never forgive myself if something happens to her.” Zeke rubbed his thumb over the wooden hilt of the katana on his lap.

  “Shit.” Wayne made a face and closed the phone. “I’ve already left six messages.” He leaned in to Zeke and lowered his voice. “I don’t care what assignment Homeland Security has for us. When we get to Pittsburgh, I’m off to look for Jen.”

  Thurmond, the older agent, made his way back to them. His flat, black eyes fell on Zeke. “How’re you guys?”

  Eyes like a shark. “We’re OK. Just eager to get back.”

  He nodded like he sympathized with them. “Part of the job.”

  “Anything wrong?” Wayne asked.

  “Nope.” Thurmond leaned over and peered out the window. “But you guys hang tight when we arrive at Pittsburgh. We’re going to get the doc off first and get her to the CDC building then come back and pick you up.”

  Zeke glanced at Wayne and raised his eyebrows. This is new. “Why’s that?”

  “They’re picking us up in a smaller SUV.” He brushed the front of his jacket. “Can’t all fit at once. The train won’t be going anywhere, and you’ll be safer in it than on the streets.”

  A heavy feeling crept into the pit of Zeke’s stomach, but he smiled. “Sounds great.”

  Wayne maintained a poker face. “Yup. We’re in no hurry.”

  Thurmond smiled, a slow creeping stretching of the lips that revealed a set of teeth so white they practically glowed. “Good.”

  He straightened and loped back to the front, plopping down next to Dickson. They huddled together and spoke in hushed tones.

  Zeke tightened his grip on the katana’s hilt. “What the hell was that?” he whispered.

  Wayne opened his phone again and pushed a button. “Dr. Cartwright must know. Damn shame that Agent Rodriguez and Agent Daniels got themselves killed. They were all right.”

  Watching buildings pass by, Zeke frowned. “Not being able to talk to Jen has got me jumpy.”

  “I’m with you,” Wayne said.

  Zeke’s pocket vibrated and two seconds later a voice from it yelled, “Get to the choppa! Get to the choppa!” Zeke fumbled to pull out the phone while it continued to scream. The ringtone grew louder as the phone cleared his pocket. He flipped it open and pressed it to his ear. “Hello?”

  Dickson and Thurmond stared at him.

  The phone clicked. “Zeke, say that you’re sorry and you think I have the wrong number.”

  Sergeant Howell?

  “I’m sorry,” Zeke said, “but I think you have the wrong number.”

  “Who’s that?” Wayne asked. Zeke put a hand up.

  “Do not take the train into the Pittsburgh station,” Howell said. “Get off beforehand. You and your brother’s lives depend on it.”

  Zeke raised his voice. “I don’t know anyone named Curtis.”

  “When you hang up, take a look at this caller ID and memorize the number. Call me back when you get away.”

  “I can’t be any more clear, buddy,” Zeke said. “You have the wrong number.”

  “Good luck,” Howell said. The call clicked dead.

  “Don’t call back again,” Zeke said. He slammed the phone closed and slid it into his back pocket.

  Thurmond had risen and was halfway to him. Zeke swallowed.

  “Problem?” Thurmond asked when he arrived.

  Wayne looked back and forth between Zeke and Thurmond. Zeke willed him to be quiet.

  “Just a wrong number,” Zeke said.

  Thurmond’s scowl grew deeper. “Let us know if you need anything.”

  Zeke nodded and Thurmond rejoined Dickson.

  “What the hell was that ringtone?” Wayne asked. “Didn’t sound like Arnold Schwarzenegger.”

  Zeke licked his lips and glanced at the agents muttering between themselves. “It was from Left 4 Dead.”

  “What the hell’s Left 4 Dead?”

  “A video game.” Zeke leaned toward Wayne and lowered his voice. “That was Sergeant Howell on the phone. He said we need to get off the train before we reach Pittsburgh.”

  “What?” Wayne said. “Why?”

  “He didn’t say and I didn’t ask, but I think it has something to do with our new friends up front.”

  Wayne’s hand rested on his pistol grip. “Why would they want to do anything to us?”

  Zeke shrugged. “Who knows? They’ve been on the phone a lot. Someone’s pulling their strings. And I don’t think it’s a coincidence that Cartwright and Jen are offline.”

  How they hell are we going to get off? It’ll have to be on the approach to Pittsburgh when the train slows. Zeke pulled his phone out and flipped it open. He studied Howell’s number, whispering it to himself several times as he read it. Closing the phone, he slid it back into his pocket.

  “You want to show me?” Wayne asked.

  Zeke glanced at the agents. “I’ve got it. I got good at remembering stuff when I did theater in high school, remember? Never forgot a line.”

  “Wait a couple of minutes and follow me.” Wayne stood.

  Zeke’s heart leapt. “What the hell are you doing?”

  Wayne strode up the aisle. Dickson and Thurmond turned.

  “What’s the problem?” Dickson growled.

  Wayne pointed to the bathroom door at the front of the car. “Gotta go.”

  He pulled the door open and stepped in. The clunk of the lock was loud enough for Zeke to hear it.

  Zeke’s heart raced, but he stayed seated and drew his pistol from its holster. A minute passed and the lock clicked. Wayne stepped out of the bathroom with a disgusted look on his face.

  “What’s wrong with you?” Dickson asked.

  “Someone made a mess in there and the toilet doesn’t work.” Wayne loped toward the back of the car. “I’ll have to use the one in the next car.”

  Thurmond’s mouth opened and closed, but nothing came out. He looked at Dickson, who shrugged.

  Wayne winked at Zeke just before he crossed to the next car. The door closed behind him with a thud.

  Thurmond and Dickson glared at Zeke. “He better be back before we get to Pittsburgh,” Dickson said.

  Zeke smiled. “How long till we get there?”

  “Not long,” Thurmond said.

  As if on cue, the train slowed
with a rattle. Zeke took a deep breath, stood, and strapped his sheathed katana to his back. “I’ll get him.”

  Thurmond stood. “I’ll go get him.”

  Zeke put a hand out in a calming gesture. “You two need to guard Dr. Preston, don’t you? I’ll bring him back. Take just a minute.”

  He opened the door and stepped through, letting it slam closed. Don’t look back.

  Passengers in the second car looked up as he entered. The bathroom’s lock said it was unoccupied, but Zeke opened it anyway. Empty. Where the hell is he?

  He smiled at an older lady in the front seat. “Did you happen to see where my brother went, ma’am? He came through this door a minute ago.”

  A man with a salt-and-pepper beard and eyebrows that looked like they needed trimming with hedge clippers jerked a thumb over his shoulder. “He went right through to the next car.”

  Zeke hurried through the back door and into the next car, glancing back as the door closed. His heart jumped into his throat as Thurmond stepped through from the first car with his pistol in his hand. He spotted Zeke and yelled, “Get back here.”

  The agent raised the pistol. “Stop.”

  Zeke took cover behind the door. Too many people for a shootout.

  Thurmond shot, and the glass in the door’s window shattered.

  Passengers in both cars screamed and ducked behind their seats. Zeke dropped to one knee and fired a shot at the ceiling over Thurmond. The agent dropped to the floor.

  Passengers had crowded the back doorway of Zeke’s car, trying to get out. Dammit.

  He peered through the broken glass. Thurmond was creeping down the aisle, his gun pointed ahead of him. His eyes locked on Zeke’s and he fired at him. Zeke ducked, and the last remaining glass in the window was destroyed.

  A scream from behind drew Zeke’s attention. A middle-aged woman trying to flee had been struck and had fallen to the floor. Blood pooled around her motionless body. The crowd surged to the rear door, plugging it up. No one’s getting through there now.

  The passengers in Thurmond’s car had escaped out the front, so Zeke shot at Thurmond. He missed. The door behind Thurmond opened, and Dickson joined his fellow agent, opening fire at Zeke. More passengers in Zeke’s car fell, the yelling and screaming reaching a crescendo before it stopped for a second, then went up another octave.