The Dead & Dying: A Zombie Novel Read online

Mommy always told me that hate was a strong word and that I shouldn't hate. But I really hate him and I can't help it. And I really think that in this case Mommy would understand.

  CHAPTER FOUR: CARL

  Might sound sick, but – on some level— I’d always hoped this would happen. Not the dying part. To put it mildly, that kinda sucks. But everything leading up to it had always been tucked away in some little corner of my mind: if I was taking a walk on a Sunday morning and heard the wailing of sirens in the distance, I would think, This is how it begins. I'd see smoke billowing on the horizon and feel a little rush of adrenaline hit my veins as I took stock of everything around me, searching for potential weapons and what have you. But it never amounted to anything more than a house fire or a three car pileup on the interstate. So, I just went about my life waiting for the unthinkable to happen.

  See, in my previous life I was just Carl Teegarden: three-time employee of the month at the Pit Stop down on Route 47 and two-time loser where it really mattered. But in a world turned upside down, I thought I could be somebody; I thought I could make a difference and be the one who busts through the door at the last possible second to save the day.

  After all, I'd seen all the movies. I'd read the books and even played some of the games. I thought I knew the rules, ya know? Which is more than I can say about life. One of those bastards gets too close and a round to the head takes them down, plain and simple. You listen outside of doors before opening: if you hear moaning in there, then you either leave that sucker closed or bust right on through with all guns blazing.

  Turns out it's not always quite that simple. Sometimes a single bullet to the forehead will drop one of those suckers, but sometimes you hafta pump in a couple more before they finally drop. And they're so damn quiet it doesn't matter how long you listen outside that door. You might hear some scuffling on the other side, but is it really one of them? Or just some schmuck trying to be as quiet as possible because he hears you out there and thinks you might be one of them? You go in like Rambo and there's a good chance you won't accomplish anything other than killing some poor bastard who just happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time.

  For a while, I traveled with a fellow who went by the name of Doc. Big guy who looked like maybe he played a little football in high school. A lot of people we came across seemed to assume that Doc wasn't too bright right off the bat. Maybe it had something to do with the way his brow and beard made him look a little like the caveman in those insurance commercials. I don't know. But, truth be told, that man had one of the sharpest minds I ever come across.

  The way he saw it, a single shot didn't always work because the bullet would tear through different parts of the brain. He told me about a chicken he'd read about named Miracle Mike: apparently, back in the forties or fifties, some farmer tried to cut off this rooster's head. Only he botched the job a bit. Mike's head came off all right, but there was still some of the brain stem or something like that left over which kept this headless chicken alive for a year or so as he toured across the country in sideshows.

  Doc said he reckoned the zombies are a lot like 'ole Mike: if you don't wipe out the part of the brain that's in control, they'll just keep coming at you until you do.

  He also said it makes sense, when you really think about it, that they don't make much noise. To get sound, you've got to force air over the vocal cords. And these bastards definitely aren't breathing. Oh, you might hear some gas pass out of them every now and then. Sometimes that gas might even bubble up through their windpipes and cause this soft, little wheeze; but they don't moan and groan like I always thought they would. Hell, I've been doing more moaning than they ever dreamed of.

  And you don't need to be bit to become one of them either. Don't get me wrong. Bites like the one I got right here speed up the process, that's for certain. But sooner or later we all die one way or another. And when you do, you're coming back. Plain and simple.

  Pain tends to make the mind wander, doesn’t it? I was originally thinking about how I always thought I was prepared for this. Truth be told, even though that little part of me always half expected this to happen I still didn't recognize it when the news reports started rolling in. In the beginning I thought, like plum near everyone else, that this mystery illness I kept hearing so much about was some sort of terrorist attack. It just seemed to make sense, ya know? People getting sick in New York, DC, Los Angeles: pretty much all the major cities, all at the same time. And then the reports of what they originally thought to be riots and widespread violence. Sounded like some sort of nerve gas or biological agent. Al-Qaeda type shit.

  By the time the infection, or whatever the hell it is, hit Harrisburg there wasn't anything that could really be done. It spread through our town like the clap at a whorehouse, I tell ya. One minute it's just another dead-end hole in the wall and the next all Hell's breaking loose.

  I remember looking back over my shoulder at the Pit Stop, watching the flames licking at the night sky like the tongues of hungry demons, the smell of wood and burning rubber; I watched from a distance as the pumps finally caught ablaze. A big orange fireball shot up so high the tops of the pines out back started burning as well and even from afar I was buffeted by this wind so hot that it nearly took my breath. A few seconds earlier, I'd heard tires screeching and turned just in time to see a pickup plow into the station. There was just enough time for me to start recognizing some of the people piled into the bed of the truck before they were all engulfed by the explosion.

  But even then one of them was still coming for me. He was all lit up, covered from head to toe in flames and leaving burning footprints in his wake. If he felt any pain as the skin and muscle crackled and dripping fat hissed like frying bacon, he didn't give any signs. Just kept staggering down the middle of the road. Like something from one of those movies I used to love so much. Only this wasn't some stunt man in a special suit covered with flammable jelly. It wasn't even really a he: this human shaped torch was all that was left of what had used to be Bob Hightower.

  Me and 'ole Bob had grown up together. We played little league and went fishing and shared most of the same classes when we finally hit junior high; the first sip of beer I ever had was filched from Old Man Hightower's cooler... the first breast I ever saw was from peeking through the keyhole as his sister undressed for the night. But if he coulda made it to me, he wouldn't have been reaching those fiery arms around me for a brotherly hug. I knew this as surely as I knew that no living man could be so engulfed by fire and live longer than a minute or so.

  And, at that moment, I knew things would never be the same again.

  Shit, I'm cold. So fucking cold it feels like I should be able to see my breath. At the same time, though, there's this sheen of sweat on my chest and my hair is so damp it's practically plastered to my skull. And that damn gash just keeps right on oozing.

  I'm almost out of clothes to use and flies have started buzzing around the ones I've thrown to the side like it's a flippin' buffet or something. When I switched out the t-shirt for the sweater I've got pressed against me now, I stole a little peek at the wound. Can't believe I'd actually almost convinced myself that maybe it wasn't really so bad. That maybe it was just a flesh wound that was bleeding like hell.

  But looking into that bite was like gazing into a canyon of meat. Crags of torn muscle jutted out from the walls of the chasm and I could see glints of bone down there, like the fossil of some extinct beast preserved for all eternity. And at the bottom of the canyon there was this crimson lake that seemed to throb and pulse with subterranean forces.

  I saw a fish leap out of that pool, it's scales flashing brilliant silver in the mid-day sun before splashing back into the thick, red liquid. And, nestled between a clump of gristle and a severed artery, a lizard poked its head out as if making sure no predators were circling overhead before committing itself to basking on the canyon walls.

  And then I felt like I was falling, the wind buffeting my hair and whistling
in my ears as the bottom of the chasm grew closer with each passing second. There was no fear, no moments of regret or wishing my life had turned out differently: I saw myself reflected in the lake of blood below and was perfectly content to simply watch as my scarlet twin grew ever larger.

  When I hit bottom there was a blinding flash of pain that dissolved the world into an infinite field of white. I heard screaming, the sound distant and hollow like it was reaching me from the far end of a cavern or tunnel.

  The scream grew louder and I began to feel a burning in my throat; at the same time I realized that the voice calling out in such agony and torment was my own the blank whiteness shattered like an exploding light bulb. These tiny shards of reality pierced the wound in my side, brought everything back into sharp focus real quick like.

  But for a moment, delirium and substance must've bled into one another: and in that fraction of a second I thought I saw Josie standing across the room, her entire body glowing like a lantern in the fog, as beautiful and serene as in those final moments of her life. Maybe even more so.

  “Josie”, I croaked as I stretched my hand toward her, “Josie, baby, I l.... ”

  But then I saw him as well: the boy. I saw the flesh peeling away from his small round face, hints of bone and teeth where lips should have been. And his eyes, glaring at me, challenging me, hating me with every ounce of his being.

  “I... I'm sorry.” Tears spill from the corners of my eyes and I wrap my arms around my stomach as if I can somehow hold back the tide of blood flowing from my body. “I'm so, so sorry.”

  Funny thing is, if anyone was around to ask, I couldn't really say if I’m talkin’ to Josie... or the boy.

  CHAPTER FIVE: JOSIE

  When I first met Carl, I was traveling alone. Somehow, the idea had gotten into my head that I should try to make my way across the country, all the way to what used to be California. Maybe I was lured by thoughts of palm trees and beaches; maybe there was still some mythical appeal to this land by the ocean. Or maybe, it was more practical.

  Winters are bad enough when you have to strip clothes off the rotters you've killed just to have one extra layer between your skin and the bite of the wind. You think about lighting a fire, of rubbing your hands over the crackling flames and deeply inhaling an aroma that would bring back memories of camping and bubbling marshmallows impaled on a stick. But you know better. A campfire would draw them in from miles around; they would slowly tighten the circle until there was no hope of escape. So you shiver and try to ignore the stench wafting up from the sweatshirt you just pulled over your head: you cope and survive.

  But, if that wasn't bad enough, the winter also works against you in other ways. Once the temperature dips below freezing, freshies stave off deterioration much longer. Without decomp breaking down muscle tissue, they can stay fast and cagey almost indefinitely; and even the rotters' slow march toward mulch is put on hold.

  Some argue that you can hear them better as they crunch through the icy crust of the snow; and that, if it piles up deeply enough, it slows down the freshies enough to give you more of a fighting chance. But these idiots have apparently never experienced what an Illinois winter can do to the human body.

  You see, the cold can devour you as quickly as one of those damn zombies. It starts with the soft parts of your face, your nose and cheeks, the earlobes and lips.... At first, it almost feels as if your skin is tightening, as if it were trying to pull away from the danger and hide deep within the warm safety of the skull. Undaunted, the wind continues its attack with invisible teeth and soon you begin to feel needles of pain, like tiny pieces of flesh are being stripped away. The pain quickly grows into a burning sensation and you flirt with the idea of rubbing snow across your skin to find a modicum of comfort. After a while, however, it recedes and there is only numbness; at this point, you know these parts of your face have been totally devoured and no longer exist. The cycle then starts over then as the cold begins to feast on your toes and fingers, its hunger insatiable....

  It had been nearly two hours since I'd left my last shelter and, as these thoughts went through my head, I began to wonder if I'd made a mistake. With its single point of entrance and exit, the old silo hadn't been exactly the safest of strongholds; but it did provide a screen from the wind and a place where I could stretch out free of snow. But, as I laid there listening to the little pops and creaks of the metal, I began imaging a veritable army of corpses tightening around the outside of my resting place.

  I could picture them trudging through the snow, their numbers growing with each passing moment, coming closer... and closer... ever closer.

  What at first had seemed like a cavernous room now began to feel as dark and constricting as a coffin. It was almost as if I could feel the walls pressing in and the air suddenly seemed thin and dry, making each breath an act of sheer will power.

  That screech echoing through the darkness: was that a wire raking against the outside of the silo? Or broken and jagged fingernails scratching against the metal, desperately searching for purchase?

  My heart pounded in my chest and I clutched my tire iron closer to me, the metal warm and slick in my moist palms.

  “Damn it, girl, you had to go and drop the gun didn't you? Shit.... ”

  I pictured the shotgun, laying at the bottom of what could have either been a very large stream or an extremely small river. Probably trapped beneath ice by then, the way the temperature had been dropping. And I knew exactly how it felt: cold, isolated, and useless.

  Something clanged against the outside of my shelter, the sound causing a queasy warmth to spread through my stomach. I held my breath and listened for it to repeat, for even the smallest ting or pop.

  “Girl, you need to get up and get your ass out of here. You want to die in this place?”

  The voice in my head sounded reasonable, but I laid there for several minutes with images of rotting flesh and gnashing teeth looping through my mind.

  Could I really bring myself to kill them if I had to? And how many were out there? Just one? Ten?

  “Be a whole lot more if you don't get your ass moving.”

  I stood and walked to the entrance of the silo, holding the cold metal lever in one hand with the tire iron raised above my head in the other. Waiting. Listening.

  My heart pounded in my chest and I could feel beads of sweat forming on my brow.

  Another scraping sound, so soft that it could have been nothing more than a twig swaying in the wind.

  But was it really?

  Fuck this.

  I threw open the door and my head instinctively whipped back as I winced in pain. Tears streamed from the corner of my eyes and I backed away, swinging the tire iron wildly before me.

  When the door was flung open sunlight had flooded into the previously darkened silo. Intensified by the reflective blanket of snow, I found myself blind. Vulnerable. And trapped.

  There was a sound in the doorway. A soft crunching that could only be feet breaking through icy crust. At the same time, a stench wafted in, a smell that reminded me of coming back from spring break only to find we had left steaks sitting on the counter in our dorm room.

  I continued backing away, swinging the tire iron at what I imagined to be head level; trying to blink away the flashbulb-like explosions that obscured my vision.

  But, inside, I knew that it was pointless. The little voice that had urged me to leave while I still had the chance now whispered with quiet certainty:

  “Girl, you're going to die in this place.”

  CHAPTER SIX: THE CHILD

  He saw me, I know he did, I could tell by the look on his face. I knew he was just tryin' to ignore me and that he had to be able to see and hear me all along. I just knew it. And he can keep tryin' to pretend he doesn't but I know he can now so it won't do him no good. I'll keep yellin' and kickin' and hittin' and every time it looks like he might be ready to pass out or something I'll make sure he wakes back up. He has to feel every little bit of the
pain, has to suffer every minute 'til he dies. If Mr. Boots was here, I'd say sic 'em boy, go get 'em and I know he would 'cause Mommy always said Mr. Boots was my protector and would do anything to keep me safe.

  If Mr. Boots had been there that day in the creek, I know things woulda turned out different. He wouldn't have let that man point the gun at me and Mommy. I know he wouldn't.

  When he said he was gonna shoot us if we didn't say somethin', I started tryin' to talk but it was like my brain had forgot how to make words. There was kind of this feeling in my throat like maybe I had tried to swallow something a little too big and my belly felt all warm and sick.

  Mommy jumped in front of me and threw up her hands.

  “Don't, please, for God's sake, no.”

  The man looked like he was glad Mommy had said something, like maybe he really didn't want to shoot us after all. But now I think that it was all just an act.

  So the man said his name was Carl and he said there were a bunch of those things headin' our way and we'd best be movin' on if we knew what was good for us. Then he asked if he had any weapons or anything.

  Mommy told him we didn't, that it was just her and me and she didn't understand what was going on and just wanted to keep me safe and was trying to make her way to my Grandpa's farm. She started crying again and it was real hard to understand what she was saying after that.

  Mr. Carl kept lookin' over his shoulder the entire time and he kinda bounced from one foot to the other like he had to pee real bad. But he listened to everything Mommy was saying and for a minute it looked like he was about to cry too.

  “You two better come with me.” he ended up sayin'. “You won't last long out here without any weapons or nothin'.”

  So Mommy scooped me up in her arms and waded out of the creek, but the man looked at me and kinda frowned. He told Mommy that those things were really fast and if she was gonna carry me the whole way she better be darn sure it would be quicker than me runnin' alongside. He said those things didn't care if I was a kid or the King of England... that they would snatch me up the minute they had a chance.