Dear Readers,
The following are the first four chapters of my zombie novel, Blood of the Dead, a fast-paced story about guns, bullets, blood and, of course, the undead.
I hope you enjoy what you read here. If you'd like to support this book and this author, Blood of the Dead is available at all major on-line retailers like Amazon, or through your local bookstore.
Please be sure to visit the book's official site at undeadworldtrilogy dot com and the publisher's website at coscomentertainment dot com
Please also check out my blog at apfuchs dot wordpress dot com
If you'd like to read more, please say so via the comments feature of this site and I'll post more.
Thank you for reading.
Enjoy.
Best,
A.P. Fuchs
Joe Bailey: Zombie Hunter
"Whattsa matter, baby? Never made love to a zombie before?"
The man's voice was filled with sarcasm but, looking on from the shadows, Joe Bailey couldn't help but think the guy meant every word and that he truly did want the girl to mess around with the dead man in front of her.
The girl, a blonde of probably seventeen or eighteen, frantically tugged at the iron collar around her neck. Joe knew that getting it off would be impossible. The collar was attached to a long iron rod. On the other end was the guy who wanted to see her come apart at the prospect of defiling herself with the undead.
Who knew what they had already done to her before now. What was once an off-yellow dress was mere tatters sagging off her frame like a torn shower curtain. Her cries were muffled by the band of silver duct tape across her mouth. From where Joe lurked off to the side, he could see how her long blonde hair had been pulled forward across her cheeks and stuffed into her mouth to help keep her quiet.
The air stank with booze and dope and the funk of the dead.
The man holding the rod jerked it to the right and left, whipping the girl side to side as he steered her toward the dead man across the basement floor. Four of his friends looked on, yipping and cheering. All five men were eager for what was about to happen. Three were on one side of the room, including the man holding the pole; two were across the way, both gripping a similar iron pole. This one was attached to another collar, one clamped around the neck of an overweight gray-skinned man with a blood-stained white shirt, brown dress pants and only one shoe. The fat man, Joe supposed, had probably been a hard worker when he was alive. Though he was now dead but somehow back to life, he still carried a look of innocence in his eyes, a look of pleading behind the rage and mindless hunger that consumed him.
The jerks cackled and cheered and stepped closer as their buddy forced the girl toward the monster, the dead man trying to step forward with arms outstretched, wanting to grab her. The two guys holding the zombie at bay fought with each tug against the pole. It was a wonder the zombie didn't spin around and take those guys out in an effort to break free. Then again, intelligence was never in a zombie's favor. Joe had been around them long enough to know that much.
Joe remained in the shadows behind an old furnace off to the side. The creeps holding the girl hadn't heard him break in through the first floor window of the house and sneak down the stairs into the shadows, each too consumed with the idea of bringing this girl to the edge of torment and despair before, finally, shoving her off the edge.
"Oh come on, girlie-girlie. It ain't so bad," her captor said. "The dude's just hungry, that's all. You know as well as I do that they need to eat now and then, just like anyone else."
The girl's muffled screams, grunts and heavy breathing through her nose sent a shockwave of apprehension through the air.
The guy holding the iron rod shook off his beaten leather jacket, first his right arm then, after switching his hold on the rod to the other hand, his left. He wore a blue T-shirt, one which reminded Joe of what the sky used to look like before it had permanently clouded over in a sickly mix of gray and brown.
"Whoo-hoo-hoo-hoo-hoo!" Blue T-shirt sang. "One, two, the dead's coming for you!"
The girl screeched behind her gag. Blue's friends howled. They shoved each other playfully like drunks.
"Ready, Betty?" Blue asked.
If "Betty" was the girl's real name or not, Joe didn't know nor, right now, care.
He cursed himself for sitting in the shadows so long, having to watch as Betty inched toward her doom, but if he didn't time this just right, neither he nor she would make it out of here alive. You didn't have to be paranoid to know that each of the men were packing heat, something that had become commonplace once the dead had taken over.
The zombie snarled and a gob of bloody-spit spilled from the corner of its mouth. It violently lurched forward, catching the men holding the iron rod off guard. A muffled pop came from the zombie's neck. It had broken it from the force of the pull.
And it still kept moving.
The men holding it at bay yanked back on the rod, jerking the dead man back a step. The zombie grunted, but kept its feet firmly planted so it only leaned back against the air at an impossible angle before tugging itself upright again. The dudes holding the rod lost their grip and the second the iron rod clanged against the concrete floor, the girl screamed, muffled and scared.
"You idiots!" Blue shouted. Indecisiveness flashed across his eyes. He wasn't sure what to do.
Joe pulled the large X-09 to shoulder height, cocked the enormous hammer, and got ready. As was his custom, he counted to three then kissed the tip of the thick barrel before settling his finger around the trigger. One cock of the hammer was good for two shots. He had designed the X-09 himself, a large handgun, black and smooth with a Western flare that packed more punch than a double-barreled shotgun. He could have made a fortune off it if the world was the way it used to be.
But those days were gone.
The zombie scrambled toward the girl. She veered to the side and breathed a shrill wheeze when the collar stopped her stride.
Blue yanked her back then threw her and the pole into the zombie. He and his buddies spun around and ran for the long flight of basement stairs.
Joe jumped out from behind the furnace, aimed at the two yahoos scrambling up the steps in front of Blue and sent a bullet into each of their backs. The sounds of the double gunshot froze Blue in his tracks and by the time he turned around to see the source of fire, Joe had already cocked the hammer again and had the barrel aimed between Blue's eyes.
"What the—" Blue started. He was cut off when the girl shrieked and the zombie, who was now on top of her, growled. "Me or her. What's it gonna be, hero man?"
"Both," Joe said and pulled the trigger.
A blood-red hole the size of a quarter sprang to life at the center of Blue's forehead, the back of his head spraying outward in a rain of flesh and bone. Eyes still gazing at Joe, the dude dropped to his knees then toppled face first onto the floor.
Joe turned and dove to the side as the two guys who had earlier held the zombie at bay aimed their pistols at him and fired. He pulled the trigger in mid air, sending a bullet into the zombie's back, the impact forceful enough to send the dead man rolling off the girl and to the side.
A numby bang rocked Joe's shoulder when he hit the ground. Fortunately the long, brown rain-ruined suede trench coat he wore was padded top to bottom so the pain wasn't as sharp as it should have been. He cocked the hammer.
The girl rolled onto her side and tried to get up, but the awkwardness of the neck collar and attached pole screwed up her balance and she fell back down, landing on her stomach and face.
The two men with the pistols opened fire.
Joe sent off two shots, tagging each of them in the heart. Their chests exploded almost simultaneously in a burst of blood and they hit the floor.
The zombie rushed on all fours and tackled the girl, slamming its forehead into the back of her skull. She lay there, still.
Joe got to his feet, cocked the hammer, and took three huge strides over to it. He yanked the dead man up by the collar. The creature turned its head toward him, its bloodshot eyes filled with malice. It reached for Joe's arm.
Joe pulled the trigger.
The shot took off the top of the dead man's head, everything from the eyebrows up. The syrupy splash of brain matter and the soft sound of bone hitting the concrete followed right behind.
Now no longer moving, the dead man's body suddenly weighed a ton and Joe needed both hands to dump it off to the side.
He got down on his knees beside the girl and checked her neck for a pulse. It was there, still frantic from the ordeal.
He turned her over and grimaced at the sight of her bloody face, a deep gouge caused by teeth on her left cheekbone.
"Crap," he muttered.
Her tearstained eyes opened slowly then rolled back in their sockets. When they rolled forward again, a soft smile rose on her face.
"Thanks," she whispered.
Joe stood, sighed, and aimed the gun between her eyes. "You're welcome."
Billie Friday: Punk Girl
Where were you when it all began?
The words had sat on Billie Friday's computer screen for the better part of an hour and, try as she might, she couldn't quite figure out what to say next. How could she? How could anyone describe the transition between blue skies and sunny days to a world of perpetual gray and a moon that never shone? How could someone describe graduating from high school with hope and promise, a planned life of being a veterinarian by day and DJ by night, to going into hiding and secreting yourself away from legions of the walking dead?
"This is pointless," Billie said and shoved her thick-framed glasses further up her nose.
The goal had been to write a letter, a short one, something she could print then copy and distribute to the lingering survivors of the human race, a letter asking them to stop and reflect on where they had been before the devastation began, the hope being to urge them to continue living—continue surviving—in a world gone awry and where the notion of a normal life was nothing more than a farfetched dream.
If she was to do only one thing with her life, one thing that made a difference, this would be it.
"Face it, girl, you got no class. No style." If you did, you'd be able to write this thing no problem.
She glanced over to the small, standing mirror beside her computer monitor. The girl staring back was but a shadow of the one she'd known in a life that ended a year ago. Her bob-cut pink hair, normally a perfect sphere around her head, sat in disarray. The bags under her eyes were so big that they hung below the frames of her glasses. Yet, she supposed, she shouldn't look any different. Anybody stuck hiding out in the bottom corner suite of an abandoned apartment building would look the same.
Fortunately, for her, the power was still up in this part of Winnipeg. The suburb, North Kildonan, dubbed by those who lived there as the "Haven," had become a secret safe area for those trying to piece together some semblance of a regular life. She only knew of a handful of living souls in this part of the city and they had a rule about not interacting with one another, each person to their own abode, unless there was an emergency. If they had joined together and formed some kind of communal living arrangement, and if they were discovered by the undead, they'd most likely be wiped out. This way, being scattered, if something did happen, the losses would be minimal, hopefully only a single casualty, and therefore only a single person added to the undead's number. Given the rate of the undead's multiplication, that was a good thing.
From what she could tell from the bits she caught on the Internet, the situation was similar worldwide. Pockets of people hid out here and there, communicating via message boards and news lists and email. Thankfully, the zombies were, frankly, idiots, so there was no fear they'd learn of the survivors' whereabouts or what plans were in motion to try and overcome the army of the dead.
Where were you when it all began?
There were those words again.
Billie remembered exactly where she was. It had been the last day of high school, the excitement of prom night hovering on the air. The only damper to the feeling was the thought of squeezing into a formal dress, something she'd hated since as far back as she could remember. No date, just her and some friends, ones she'd known since elementary school.
It had been late afternoon and school had just let out. The sudden relief of having made it through twelve years of schooling—fifteen, if she counted her two years of preschool and one of kindergarten—lifted her heart and melted the stress and weight that had plagued her all year as she studied her butt off so she'd one day be accepted one province over into the University of Saskatchewan's Western College of Veterinary Medicine.
As always, she made her way home alone, a walk she looked forward to every day, a chance to unwind and plan her evening. And, as always, the plan was to get home, make a tall glass of chocolate milk and hide in her room so she wouldn't have to face her parents when they returned from work. It wasn't that she hated them, but she was tired of hearing from them day in and day out that she should quit dying her hair (though during the school year as per school rules she had to dye it "natural" colors, which then led to her dying her hair white and raising a ruckus with the principal and teachers; "Hey, white is a natural color!" she told Mr. Landon. "Only if you're eighty!" he shot back), stop listening to Green Day and that "devil music," and for once, just once, tie her shoelaces before leaving the house.
She also wanted to avoid her geeky sister, who always sided with her parents. Audrey took this same path home, but whether her sister was ahead of her or behind, she didn't know.
Taking a deep breath, she stopped her stride when the air shifted and suddenly grew heavier.
"Now it's gonna rain and guess who's going to be stuck in it?" she muttered.
With each step, the air grew thicker and thicker, the smell no longer that of clean earth and green trees and grass, but something . . . off . . . like the kind of smell that surfaced when you swore you just passed a BFI bin but there was nothing there.
That's when the clouds rolled in, dark and gray, thick and dense, threatening to dump blinding sheets of rain.
For a long time, the clouds hovered there, taunting the earth.
On the opposite sidewalk, others walking home kept glancing up as well, everyone bracing for a storm.
Then a drop fell and landed on Billie's hand. The droplet was warm and gray, like paint mixed with water.
"What the—" she said, glancing up.
The rain was a drizzle at first, spiky, tiny gray pellets falling from above.
Those across the way squealed and stopped walking, checking themselves over as the rain dyed their clothes dark gray.
Panicking, Billie ran and shoved her way through a group of kids further up the sidewalk.
The rain picked up and soon thick, sticky drops of gray doused her clothes and blanketed the street and sidewalk, hindering all visibility.
Keep going straight, she told herself, mouth clamped shut for fear of accidentally imbibing whatever this gross liquid was.
A group of teenagers was running down the sidewalk up ahead. Sprinting, she quickly caught up to them. They must have heard her coming from behind because when she veered to the right to avoid crashing into them, they tried moving out of the way and went to the right as well. Billie smashed into a heavyset redhead. Instead of banging shoulders and running past her like she expected, the redhead went limp on impact and toppled to the ground. One of the redhead's friends stopped to try and help her up. Billie and the others kept running, but guilt quickly smacked Billie's heart. She knew the right thing to do would be to turn around and see if the redhead was all right. When she spun around, she could no longer see them, the sheet of odiferous gray rain coming down so thick that it was like trying to find your way around in a steam room.
Great, now they're gone and I—
Boomp! Her feet smacked into something and she tumbled over, her elbows skidding across the grass as she broke her fall, her skin stinging.
Soaked to the bone in this funky gray substance, Billie looked over her shoulder and saw the bodies of the redhead and her friend lying there.
"Hey, are you okay?" she asked.
No answer.
She crawled over to them and shook them. "Hey! Wake up! Let's go!"
Nothing.
The redhead lay face down; the other was face down, too.
She rolled the redhead's friend over.
Her breath caught in her throat.
It was her sister.
"Audrey!" she screamed and with slippery hands pawed at her sister's face, trying to wipe away the gray slick covering it. She hadn't recognized her earlier, not with the liquid gray coming down.
Audrey lay there, unmoving.
Crying, Billie scooped her hands under her sister's small body and, squatting beside her, set her feet up against Audrey's side, ready to lift her.
Audrey coughed.
"Audrey! Thank God!" Billie shouted.
Her sister coughed again, then belched and threw up a pasty mix of puke and blood. It splashed onto Billie's hand and arm but she didn't care. Her sister was all right!
"Come on, I'm getting you to a hospital." She pulled her hands out from under her sister and stood. "Help! Somebody help!"
Screams broke through the sound of pouring rain in reply. Others called out for help as well.
"Help! Please! Somebody!" To her sister: "It's going to be okay, Audge. It's going to be—"
Her sister remained on the ground, eyes wide and white, the pupils and irises gone.
"Audge?"
Audrey, unblinking despite the fierce rain, stood slowly and started ambling toward her.
Billie took a step back. Then another. Then another.
The redhead convulsed once, coughed, and puked up a similar wad of blood and mucus. She, too, slowly got to her feet and started moving toward Billie. The redhead bumped into Audrey. Audrey didn't flinch as the redhead walked past.
"What's . . . what's happening? What's happening?" Billie kept moving back and stopped when she bumped into something. Turning around, she saw that that something was another student, a black guy around six feet tall. His eyes were solid white.
The gray rain poured down.
Billie darted away from him and tore through the thick, gray droplets, not caring where she'd end up other than away from whatever had become of her sister, the redhead and that guy.
Home. She had to get home.
The ground went uneven beneath her and she knew she was running on grass. Then the ground dropped as she ran over the curb. Her foot folded beneath her and she hit the slick pavement.
"Ow!"
She scrambled to her feet and tried running again but had to settle for a limpy jog as her left foot refused to land flat on the ground, the pain in her ankle simultaneously sharp and hollow.
"Someone . . . help . . ." she managed between rain-soaked gasps.
Shadows in the rain, just up ahead.
"Hey! Over here!" she screamed.
The shadows turned to face her but didn't run toward her like she had hoped.
She kept on toward them, wondering what she'd say once she met up with whoever that was and how she'd describe the sudden change in appearance of her sister and the others.
With each footfall, she chanted her sister's name, a part of her wanting to go back to try and save her, another scared to death of going near her.
The shadows grew larger and soon five people appeared: two adults and three kids, all gray and wet. The adult woman walked toward her and raised a hand, reaching out to her. The man walking beside her did the same. Then the kids followed their parents' example and stumbled toward Billie, their arms raised, some shoulder height, others only up to their folks' stomachs.
A sharp ache in her lungs, Billie skidded to a stop when she noticed these people had white eyes, too.
Breaking down, she forced herself to wipe the tears from her eyes, turned to the left and ran away.
She ran forever.
She didn't know how much time had passed until three shadows appeared against the rain.
Wheezing, she stopped, put her hands on her knees, and tried to catch her breath. Only now was she able to taste the salt of this bizarre rain on her tongue. Spitting it out, hoping it wouldn't make her sick or do to her what it had done to her sister, she tried calling out to the three shadows. Only a small squeak escaped her lips.
Audrey emerged from the rain, as did the redhead and the tall black guy.
The three walked at the same pace toward her, their footing weak and unsure.
Head dizzy from the exertion, Billie knew she was supposed to be doing something right now but wasn't sure what. It involved movement, but what kind? What was she supposed to do? Her head ached from the crying, the running, the frantic breaths of fear.
Run!
But it was too late.
Audrey picked up speed and grabbed hold of her while the other two kids with white eyes looked on.
Her sister held her in a bear hug.
With rubbery arms, Billie tried to push her away but Audrey was too strong. Her sister's steps were feeble and at one point in the struggle, Billie tripped over Audrey's feet. A spike of pain shot through her already-tender ankle. She fell to the pavement. Audrey jumped on top of her, her weight uncontrolled. Dead weight.
"What are you doing? What are you doing? Get off!" Billie shouted.
Audrey reached for Billie's neck. It was impossible to shove her sister's hands and arms away; her hands kept sliding off Audrey's rain-slicked skin.
Thunder boomed and for a moment Audrey seemed distracted. Billie torqued her body to the side but Audrey quickly snapped her back into place on her back, helpless.
Tears distorted Billie's vision, turning Audrey's gray face with red lips and blood dripping down her chin into some kind of funhouse mosaic.
Her sister dipped forward and set a pair of blood-soaked lips on her neck.
Billie tried to push her off but couldn't.
Teeth. Audrey's teeth pressed against her skin.
Something hard poked Billie's leg. She reached into her pocket and pulled out a pen.
She'd never forget the sound of the pen's tip puncturing the back of Audrey's neck.
She'd never forget the block of ice that settled in her stomach when she withdrew it then jammed it into Audrey's ear.
She'd never forget the look on her sister's face when she managed to push the head far enough away from her neck then off to the side: anger.
Billie couldn't remember what happened next, just the sense of freedom from being out from under the weight of her sister's body and the joy of leaving the other two white-eyed people behind.
But she'd never forget that rain.
It lasted for a week.
Des Nottingham: Zombie Wrangler
"Ha! And they said I couldn't stand up for myself," Des shouted, thinking back to the kids of four years ago who stuffed him in a locker at school. "Now I'm king and all you bozos are gonna pay!"
He hid just inside the mouth of an alley and peered out onto the dark street. It was littered with dismantled cars, each stripped for anything that might be useful or of value. The surrounding buildings were all dark. It was night, just the way he liked it.
Just him and the undead.
Several blocks down the street, four members of the dead ambled down the sidewalk, their bodies swaying awkwardly side to side as they planted decrepit feet down one in front of the other. It was because of them and those like them that the world was in the state it was in.
Des Nottingham waited, careful to remain out of sight. When the time was right, he would pounce and take the suckers down.
Just like at school: sneak up on ol' Des and snuff him out. Ha! Now it's my turn to have my way!
He admired his well-muscled arms, as rippled as sandbars. His body was a far cry from what it used to be and from what people remembered.
For a moment, he thought he should have had a gun then thought better of it, remembering that, for him, he just simply preferred to smash heads. Most folks just settled for popping a bullet between the creatures' eyes and left it at that. Des preferred to plow their skull into the pavement whenever he could, cracking the bone and smearing sweet goo and brain matter across the concrete.
"Can't live without yer brains, can you?" he said.
The dead men drew nearer. Each had been middle-aged when they'd died. Now they were mere shells of their former selves, all pasty gray skin and bulging eyes.
Leaning up against the wall inside the alley, Des went over the game plan in his mind. This was his favorite part, the few seconds before the kill (if killing something that was already dead counted as killing, that was).
He peered around the corner.
The zombies stopped, as if sensing his presence.
"Uh oh," Des breathed. Don't say "uh oh," you idiot! You knew you were going to face them. What's the difference if they saw you first? He smirked. Hmph. Life or death. That's the difference. Just don't let them bite you and you won't come back as one of them.
The creatures drew nearer, arranging themselves single file, each hugging the wall of the building beside them.
Sure, make it easier for me. Figures. No challenges left in life, it seems. Bummer.
He waited a moment longer and the second the shadow of one of the undead materialized at the mouth of the alley, Des jumped out, Black Sabbath's "Iron Man" playing in his head. He wrapped his fingers around the zombie's neck. Using the momentum from the jump, he swung on the zombie's neck to the side, yanking the creature down and taking it to the pavement. He landed on top of it then quickly got to his feet and sent the heel of his heavy, steel-toed boot into the back of the zombie's skull, cracking it like an egg. He brought his knee up and mashed his foot down again, further splitting the bone. A splash of black blood and mooshy brain burst from its housing and splattered onto the pavement. Des leapt into the air and landed on the zombie's head with both feet, squashing it like a melon.
The other three creatures came toward him, two of them with their arms raised, trying to grab him.
He took the closest one's wrist in his hands, spun on his heels so his back was facing it, then brought the creature's elbow down on his shoulder, breaking it against the joint. A sharp shard of bone popped through the remains of the creature's dust-covered navy blue suit jacket. The break didn't faze the dead man, not that Des expected it to, but at least this way the creature was with one less useful appendage.
Des kicked the creature in the gut, the force of the blow making it double over. He then grabbed the zombie by the ears, jumped up and sent a knee into the dead man's nose. The creature fell off to the side just as the other two came at him and worked together, each taking one of Des's arms.
"This the best you got?" Des said and chuckled.
He ran for the wall in front of him, dragging the zombies with him. He kicked out his right leg and ran up the wall, flipped over and freed himself from their grasp. He landed behind them.
The creature with the broken arm moved for him.
Des ran around it, jumped on its back, and slammed his elbow down into the top of the dead man's skull. The blow was enough to daze the creature. Des dismounted, grabbed the creature by the scruff of the neck and ran it into the building wall, smashing its face against the brick in a dark smear of black blood and scraped skin. He jerked the creature's head back then launched it forward again, breaking the creature's face and skull against the building like a water balloon. The corpse fell and hit the sidewalk and moved no more.
There were still the other two to take down and they were on him fast. He usually wasn't this slow.
Don't get distracted, he told himself.
"You punks ready for some more?" he said as they grabbed him, one with its arms around his chest, the other scooping him up by the legs.
They hoisted him off the ground then tossed him several feet in the air, sending him flying into the frame of an Oldsmobile that had smashed into a streetlight long ago.
Des lay there against the 'mobile, unable to move. Come on, get up. He still lay there. Let's go already! Slowly, he managed to right himself, then planted his feet on the ground.
"Okay, how about a little" —and he raised his arms, palms up, curling his index fingers toward himself a few times— "huh?"
The zombies moved toward him.
"Yeah, that's what I thought."
Des took off his boot, drew out the lace so there was some slack, then spun it around and around like nunchaku.
The buzz of the boot spinning through the air sent a wave of excitement through him. He let the nearest creature have it, whacking the steel-tip of the boot into the side of its head. It stumbled off to the side. The other came closer. Des let him have one, too.
"You really think you're gonna take me, don't you?" He socked each of the creatures once more with the boot.
Dazed, the creatures stopped moving for a second before redoubling their efforts. One grabbed him, holding him tight, while the other moved in for the kill. Des whipped up his left boot and nailed the zombie between the legs just as it was about to bite. The blow didn't faze it. Like kicking a heavy pillow.
As the creature's mouth opened near Des's neck, he realized he'd be done for if he didn't act immediately.
With a violent jerk, he swung his head into the zombie's, skull smacking against skull. The zombie teetered to the side, giving Des more room to maneuver.
He stomped on the foot of the one that held him, elbowed it in the stomach then yanked his arms free. Though he knew mashing down on its toe and hitting in the gut didn't do anything, it still felt good to do it.
Des grabbed his boot off the pavement and threw it at them, not caring which one he hit. The boot smacked the zombie he'd headbutted. Des pounced on its back and tackled it to the ground. He landed on top of it, straddled its back, then picked up its head by the back of the hair and plowed its face into the pavement over and over, breaking its head open. Wet brain and black blood splashed all over him. He didn't care.
Lost in the moment, he had forgotten about the last zombie until it grabbed his shoulders from behind, dragged him off its kin, and went to sink its teeth into his face.
Des punched it in the head square on then came in from the side and hook-punched its jaw, dislocating it.
"That'll teach ya not to French me, you slimy goober!" Sheesh. "Goober"? What a loser.
He wrestled out from underneath it, scrambled on all fours until he was behind it, stood, then grabbed the zombie by the shins and yanked the creature's legs out from under it. The corpse hit the pavement with a sickening smack.
Quickly, Des made for the body of the zombie with the broken arm, tore the broken arm off at the elbow, then returned to the last of the creatures and beat it with the arm, using it as a club to the creature's skull. He whacked it over and over until the zombie stirred no more.
He threw the arm to the side, stood and dusted himself off.
Black Sabbath still rang in his ears.
"I am Des Nottingham: Zombie Wrangler!" he shouted, fists clenched and arms raised above his head in victory.
Just then everything went black and Des was sucked off the street and back into the living room of his tiny bachelor apartment, reclining on his La-Z-Boy.
That was twice this week the power went out while he was in the middle of a game.
August Norton: Recluse Christian Dude
This wasn't the way the world was supposed to end.
No matter which way August Norton approached it, nothing—nothing—that had happened was supposed to have happened.
The dead were not supposed to rise. Ever.
The only Biblical prophecy that stated the dead would appear was Revelation 20:12-13, which spoke of the sea and death and Hades giving up the dead that was in them to face the White Throne Judgment at the feet of Christ. Then, and only then, would the dead rise and, even when that event occurred, the dead wouldn't be on the earth because the earth and sky would flee from the presence of Jesus.
But these weren't the "dead," he reminded himself. They were the undead. And they were on Earth and Planet Earth was still here.
Since the dead began to rise and transform any people unfortunate enough to be in their path, August had locked himself and his family away at his cabin an hour's drive out of town, at first for safety, then for answers.
Over the past year he had read the Bible three times. Read every Bible commentary he had in his library—four, all told—poured over the ancient End of Days prophecies countless times, sought the Lord earnestly in prayer—and was met with a dead end at every turn.
For well over two hundred days he promised his wife, two sons, their wives, and his five grandchildren that the Lord Christ was in control and that what happened the world over wasn't beyond God's remedy. Even when his family's faith began to falter he remained strong. Each morning they met in prayer. Each night they met again. Day in and day out.
Until the last day, the one that made him question God for the first time since being saved as a young man back in '62.
He had thought despite all the pain the dead had caused, despite being forced from his home, God would come to the rescue. It had been a hard life even before he became a Christian. Growing up with little to eat, not many friends in school, fighting in Nam, watching his friends being shot or blown to pieces from behind that helicopter window. . . . Even now he still dreamed about them once in awhile. He thought that after settling down and having a family everything would be fine. Peaceful. But life was seldom peaceful and especially not now with the dead roaming around.
His son, Jonathan, had gone outside for a midnight cigarette. He'd never came back in.
Jonathan's wife, Lydia, after lying in bed alone for over an hour, had gone out to look for him. She, too, never returned.
In the morning, August's other son, David, had gone looking for his brother. He couldn't go far. The rule was not to exceed the invisible, hundred-yard self-imposed boundary the Norton family had put around the property. Not long after he had gone out, David's wife, Jan, had wanted to join her husband. August permitted it, much to his later regret, and Jan, like the three before her, never returned.
That night, sitting around the kitchen table, August, his wife, Eleanor, and the five children ate dinner in silence, August's mind half in prayer, the other going over scenario after scenario as to what might have become of Jonathan, Lydia, David and Jan. Every scenario kept drawing the same conclusion: they had been taken and, most likely, transformed into the hell-birthed creatures that roamed the earth.
Eleanor looked up at him from her canned beans with blue, earnest eyes. She didn't need to say anything. The question was: what now? They were both too old to manage safety and the children on their own. August was sixty-seven; she was sixty-four. The kids, Jon junior, Bella, Finch, Katie and Stewart were nine, seven, seven, five and four, respectively. Jon, Bella and Finch, though kids, were old enough to handle themselves well enough, but Katie and Stewart needed a mom and dad.
August shook his head—I don't know—and poked at his own beans with his fork.
They finished dinner.
During cleanup, August peered through the window above the sink and saw four shadows off in the field across the way. They moved slowly toward the cabin.
"E, you better get over here," he said as calmly as he could despite the urgent tone that forced itself through.
Eleanor finished drying her old hands, set down the dishtowel and joined him.
"What is it?"
"Straight across, there."
She pulled up her bifocals from the chain around her neck, set them on her nose and leaned closer to the window so she could see. "Oh no," she whispered.
"Get the kids."
She nodded and left his side. As she proceeded to the living room, she said, "Kids, why don't we go play a game in the bedroom?"
Jon junior held up the Superman action figure he had been flying around. "It's okay. Me and Supes're gonna save Bella and Katie from the evil Finch and his stupid sidekick, Stewboy."
"Not stupid!" Stewart shouted at him.
"I was only kidding, doofus."
"What your mouth, J.J.," Eleanor said. "Stewart is not stupid and you don't call people . . . I forget what you said. Now bring Superman and we'll go to the next room. I want to show you kids something."
"A surprise?" Katie asked.
"Come and see."
The little girl was on her feet in a jiff and joined her grandma's side. After a moment, the others, with a huff, stood and followed Eleanor and Katie into the bedroom.
"Now this is what I wanted to show you," Eleanor said as she closed the bedroom door.
Keeping one ear on their muffled voices, the other listening attentively for activity out front, August went to the closet near the door and pulled down his .22. It wasn't much of a weapon, but it was all he had and all he ever wanted to have.
"Oh, Lord, is it murder if they're already dead?" He tugged down the box of bullets from between the stack of gloves and old hats lining the top shelf.
He brought the rifle and bullets to the kitchen table and checked the ammo. Only about twenty shots, and the bullets were faded and worn. He couldn't think of how long they'd been sitting up there, probably since sometime in the '80s.
After loading the rifle, he snuck back over to the window and looked outside. The four shadows were closer now and, sure enough, they belonged to Jonathan, Lydia, David and Jan.
Whistling the first line of "How Great Thou Art" as loud as he could, he waited for Eleanor to whistle back the next line. She did. It was an agreed upon signal between the adults that something was wrong and the person beginning the tune had to leave the cabin. The response of the second line was affirmation that the departure would be okay.
August smiled to himself, proud of his wife. He knew her heart was breaking inside, but at the same time each were strong enough in their faith to know that, should something happen, it wasn't good-bye forever. It was "See ya till we meet again."
He checked the window.
Jonathan and Lydia were on the front lawn, ambling toward the door. David and Jan were no longer with them.
"Be with me, Lord," he whispered. He slipped on his old, brown boots.
Rifle at the ready, he took a deep breath, and unlocked the door. Once outside on the front steps, a chill swept through him. He should have put on a jacket over his brown-and-red-checkered shirt.
Jonathan and Lydia were not far away, maybe twenty feet, maybe less.
August locked the door, pounded on it twice, letting Eleanor within know he was still all right. She tapped twice on the glass of the bedroom window at the front of the property in reply. It was also another code, one that said "I love you."
He glanced toward the window. Eleanor had already closed the curtain.
August faced his son and daughter-in-law. Even in the dark, he could see the color was bleached from their faces, their eyes white, their expression cold and heartless and not just from being dead. A portion of Jonathan's cheek was missing and was a mess of red and black tissue. Lydia only had her brown hair on one side her head, the other side ripped away along with her ear. The damage to her head hadn't been enough to kill her though. Only change her.
August shuddered at the thought of what might have happened. But that didn't matter now. His family was inside and he had to protect them.
He stepped down the three front steps and set his feet firmly on the grass.
Jonathan and Lydia stepped toward them, their footfalls feeble yet strangely sure at the same time. He knew that if they could, they'd run at him and take him down.
Not tonight.
August raised the rifle. "Jonathan," he called. "You know I love you so I'm going to ask you once, if you can hear me somehow." Tears pooled at the bottom of his eyes and his voice cracked when he spoke next. "Turn around and walk away."
Jonathan's expression did not change nor did he give any sign that he understood his father.
"I love you, son," August said and lined up his shot.
BANG!
The shot hit him in the heart. Jonathan stopped, and then, as if nothing happened, kept advancing.
Shocked it didn't faze his son, August felt the corners of his eyes pinch with tears as he aligned his next shot.
BANG!
A hole appeared in the center of Jonathan's forehead and he dropped to the ground.
Tears leaked out of August's eyes and through blurry vision he watched as Lydia kept moving toward him, her arms raised, about to grab him.
"Good night, darling," he said and sent a bullet through her eye and into her brain. She hit the ground, as well.
Muffled banging came from the rear of the property.
The back door, August thought, eyes wide.
He propelled his old legs as quickly as possible around the cabin with the hope of catching David and Jan still outside.
The muffled thudding continued all the while he rounded the cabin and just as he arrived at the rear, a loud crackle-crack signaled the door had been broken. He got there just in time to see Jan squeezing her way through the three-foot hole in the door. David was already inside.
August got the rifle ready and got as close to her as he could. With her body half fallen over the hole in the door, her rubbery legs kicking at the ground as she tried to crawl her way in, sending a bullet into the back of her head was easy.
"David!" August shouted. As if David could hear him, and even if his oldest son did, he wouldn't listen to him.
The back door had been locked ever since the Nortons arrived at the cabin about nine months ago so August reached in through the hole and fumbled around until he found the deadbolt. He tried opening the door. It opened a few inches then hit something. He tugged again. It wouldn't budge. He glanced down. Jan's weight on the door was enough to put pressure on the wood, causing the bottom corner to scrape along the floorboards and catch against one of them that had warped a long time ago. August had forgotten about that board and cursed himself now for having put off fixing it.
Grunting, he yanked on the door over and over.
Foomp, foomp, foomp. Banging from within.
Foomboom!
The children screamed.
"E!" August shouted. "Kids!"
"August!" Eleanor shrieked.
The kids squealed. Tiny footfalls echoed through the cabin. For a moment August expected a pair of them or more to find him. Instead, the screams were cut off one by one until silence reigned.
Shaking, tears running from his eyes, August turned and ran down the back steps and was about to go to the van out front and hightail it back to the city, when he stopped himself.
"I can't," he whispered. "They're . . . they're going to . . ."
He checked to see how many bullets he had left. Seven. He wished he had taken more. The rest were still on the table inside.
Sobbing, he walked to the front, expecting David and the others to appear and charge him. For a moment he entertained the idea of letting them. Why not. The world was going to end anyway.
But if they do, I have no idea if I will be truly dead or not. Will I still be alive or aware in some way? I refuse to let myself or, even, my spirit go over to them. He prayed, asking God to preserve the spirits of his family, that somehow his family was indeed dead and the creatures were nothing but demonically-possessed human shells.
David was the first to appear at the front door. He pushed it open, took the first step fine then stumbled down the rest. As he straightened, the others appeared, the kids first, then Eleanor. Each had a similarly hard time coming down the steps.
August jogged a good distance away, turned and aimed.
I love my sons the same. "David. You know I love you so I'm only going to ask this once. Turn around and walk away."
David, his body rocking side to side, a piece of his hip missing, kept coming toward him.
"I love you, son," August said.
Déjà vu flooding him, he pulled the trigger and knocked out the middle of David's face. His son's body dropped.
The kids stepped side by side, each with a hole in their necks, syrupy blood still oozing out.
"God, I am so sorry." He shot each of the little ones down.
Eleanor moved toward him, her beautiful face untouched. Her white eyes looked through him and even though he knew she was dead, he thought she could understand him somehow, understand what he was about to do.
He didn't know where David had bit her and if not for those white eyes, he could believe she hadn't been bitten at all and this was all some kind of act she was putting on to fool the undead around her.
Eleanor raised the fingers of her left hand. Two of them were missing.
"My darling," he said. "Forgive me."
He wiped his running nose with thumb and forefinger then caressed the trigger. He squeezed but the slickness from the snot was enough to make his finger slide off and tug the barrel down.
The bullet pierced his wife's neck and a stream of dark blood squirted out in a fast arc.
"No!" he gasped.
He was out of bullets.
Hand to his face, his heart raced, not knowing what to do. The strength drained from his legs, the adrenaline coursing through him too much for his old body to bear.
Eleanor neared and had both hands held out toward him. She grabbed hold of his neck and pushed, landing on top of him. He had never known her to be so strong. The notion of demonic-possession flashed across his mind again.
He wanted to speak, to ask the name of the spirit that had her, but the pressure around his neck was too much and he couldn't get a sound out.
God, help me! Jesus, help me! Over and over he pleaded for the Most High to intervene. Over and over he was met with silence.
He pushed against her arms. They wouldn't budge. Her face drew near to his, mouth open, teeth at the ready.
He took the rifle by the butt, stretched out his arm so the tip of the barrel was pointed at the side of Eleanor's head . . . and plunged it into her temple.
She stopped her charge, her dead weight settling on him. He let the blood oozing from the wound wash over them both and laid with her for several minutes, catching his breath and absorbing what he'd just done seemingly without thinking.
Now, three months later, August wondered if God had abandoned him that night.
Maybe God had abandoned the world.
Sucking back a shot of Tequila, August reclined in the chair in the living room and stared at his bare feet. The nails were long and curling. Same with those on his hands. He hadn't shaved nor cut his hair since that night his family died.
He glanced to the floor and in his mind's eye looked through it to the crawlspace beneath to where he had buried his family.
I'll be with you soon.
The food was almost gone. They had gotten a six-month supply originally but had made it stretch. It stretched even more once there was only his mouth to feed.
Let's see. I can probably make it a couple weeks without food. If I want to go sooner, I just won't drink anything for a few days. Either that or . . . He looked to the rifle leaning up against the door. There was one bullet in the chamber.
It was for him.