The Undead World (Book 1): The Apocalypse Page 8

  “Naw,” he said over his shoulder. “She didn't look so clean last night and in the light it hasn't gotten any better. And besides I was never into hood rats.”

  “Don't like the sistas? You're missing out.”

  “Sure I am,” he said to himself as he went to the other cars and checked them. One, a Subaru Outback, was still drivable, but it was out of gas, though this was nothing for someone as capable as he was. He yanked out a hose from one of the disabled cars and used it to siphon gas into a bucket he had scrounged.

  When they were done with girl, they were too tired and full to go on. Ram nearly left them. He had a car and a gun, but he would be alone. That night the girl stuck close to the biggest of the gang-bangers and Ram slept in the Outback alone.

  The next morning they crammed in the car and headed off, and still none of them knew where they were going. They were all just happy that there weren't many zombies about.

  Almost mid-way between Los Angeles and Las Vegas along Interstate 15, sits the dusty little town of Baker, California. In the last census there were a little more than seven-hundred souls residing there and unlike everywhere else in America, that number had crept upwards in the past few weeks.

  It was a strange fact given that the town is bordered by the Mojave Desert to the south and Death Valley to the north, and that for the last ten days the sun had blistered down with average temperatures over ninety degrees, and that not a drop of rain had fallen in three weeks.

  It hardly seemed like a place worth fighting for, yet for some insane reason the people of Baker clung to their slice of hell on earth with a tenacity that rimmed close to the insane.

  Ram and his little group came across the first sign: “Baker Closed” twenty miles earlier and had thought little of it. And then: “Warning Baker Closed” a few miles later. Finally, just before an exit for a place called Zzyzx they saw a number of bed-sheets arranged and spray-painted with the warning: “Trespassers will be shot. Detour”.

  It was here that they had to deal with their first real traffic since leaving L.A. That dead city had been choked with cars and overrun with zombies, but after that the roads were clear, save for the frequent zombies. These Ram took a perverse pleasure in hitting with the Outback until the two bangers who rode on top began to complain. The Outback just couldn't fit eight.

  Ram hadn't planned on taking the detour, however the highway had been purposely blocked. Cars were stacked one on top of each other and behind them were men with guns.

  One of them yelled, “Move on.”

  They were about forty yards away and Ram yelled, “Do you have any gas or water?”

  “Depends on what you have to trade.”

  They had little beside their guns and no one was willing to give up their guns—that was the same as suicide. The bangers looked at each other and then to the girl. “No!” she cried. “You can't trade me for some fuckin water.”

  Her attitude shocked Ram. “You'd rather stay with us and get raped every night? You're messed in the head.”

  “What do you think they'll do to me in there?” she asked, getting loud. She then squinted at the cars and the men. “Sides, they ain't gonna last no how. Them zombies gonna roll right over all this.”

  It seemed patently true, but that didn't stop the bangers from turning to Ram. “See what they'll trade for her.”

  Chapter 14

  Neil

  Montclair New Jersey

  For days on end Neil hoarded his food and kept his water jugs filled. He had six candles and he made them last by sleeping when the sunset and waking when it rose. Fearing the coming winter he pulled his mattress into his living room and broke apart his bed-frame for firewood, though as yet he was too afraid to use his fireplace, worried that it would attract more of the monsters.

  He then barricaded his doors and shuttered his windows, and turned his broom into a spear, although afterwards he was perturbed because he had a made a mess and had nothing to clean it up with.

  Zombies were a nuisance at first, coming along in dribs and drabs, and he assumed that the Hudson River was holding back the millions in the city, and he was right. Those that went into the water from Manhattan usually came ashore in south Jersey where humans had mostly ceased to exist.

  The great majority of the undead went north and crossed over the few remaining bridges at a rate of three-thousand an hour. In the prior two weeks more than a million had surged against the dug in army who were trying to hold the quarantine in place. Many turned aside, following the path of least resistance, looking for easier prey. They swept down New Jersey and their numbers proved too great for most.

  Only the sturdiest doors and windows could keep out the voracious mob. Thankfully Neil possessed such heavy doors and windows. Out of fear of break-ins and the fact that he was against guns, he had long ago changed out his originals.

  He had suggested the same thing to the Randal Cattau, whose house was catty-corner to his, and he hadn't done anything concerning Neil's advice and now his family was all dead. In dread fascination Neil had watched from his guest room as the zombies had swarmed all over the streets and lawns of his suburbia. They banged on doors and punched windows, until the Cattau's front bay window gave and then they poured in by the dozens. And then there was only screaming.

  Mrs. Cattau and one of her three daughters became zombies. They had been horribly chewed upon and the girl could barely walk there was so little left to her. The others had been far too damaged to come back, or so Neil guessed.

  The gathering had come for him as well, many, many times. When it happened, once or twice a day for the last week, he would retreat up to his attic and sit there clutching his stick, wondering about the possibility of suicide and wishing he had a gun. Tucked away as he was, there wasn't much of a chance for the monsters to get at him, yet he knew that if they got in once he would never be safe and that had him also thinking about trying to make a run for the safety of the army.

  Surely they would let him through the lines. After all if they weren't going to protect the American people then what the hell were they doing?

  The one problem with the idea was that every day the sound of the guns firing seemed to come from further away and eventually they ceased altogether. This stopped his planning dead in its tracks and he gave up on the idea until two days later.

  His guest bedroom afforded him the best view of Grove Street and he liked to take his meals there when the zombies weren't out in full force. That day his lunch consisted of cold New England clam chowder—it wasn't bad if he took tiny spoonfuls, anything more made him want to gag. As he ate he watched the littlest Cattau zombie trying to get at a cat who sat just out of its reach in a tree. Cats seemed to have multiplied since the zombie plague had descended on the world. They were everywhere and unlike dogs, Neil had yet to see one zombiefied.

  He had never cared for any animal in a pet sense, but just then he was lonely and he rooted for the cat to live. And this seemed very likely because the derelict zombie girl turned away and stared at something out of Neil's line of sight. Even standing didn't help. Whatever the zombie was seeing was on Neil's side of the street.

  Then he heard a tapping on wood and a little voice whispering, “Hello? Can you let me in? There's zombies out here.”

  Neil ran to another room that had a better view, and there outside the Krauthammer's front door was a girl of maybe sixteen, knocking gently.

  Neil raised his window and whispered to her, “There's a zombie right over there.”

  “I know! That's why I need in.”

  Neil pointed to the back of his house and then ran downstairs to let her in. He expected gratitude, but instead he got a pistol pointed square in his face when the girl stepped across his threshold.

  “Thanks,” she said without the least hint of nervousness to her. “Who you got in here with you? Wife? Kids? Gay lover?” This last she said after giving his neat attire a glance.

  “I'm not gay,” he said petulantly. “And th
ere's no one here but me.”

  “Are you sure?”

  For some reason the gun wasn't scaring him as much as he figured it would and he allowed his anger to show. “Don't you think I'd know if I was gay? Trust me, I like women. I like boobies and vaginas and...”

  “I meant are you sure you're here alone? I don't want any surprises. People get killed that way, or worse.”

  “Oh. No it's just me. And sorry about the vagina thing. It's just when you're not the most masculine man around people make so many assumptions. And then...”

  She raised the gun to his face and said, “Shut up and show me where your food is.”

  “You're robbing me?”

  “Duh!” she answered. “Now turn around and don't be stupid, because I swear I'll put a hole in you.” She then dug in her pocket and pulled out a walkie-talkie. “Did you see which house I went in? It was the one with the green shutters.”

  Her radio squawked and a quiet voice said, “Yeah, but we got a few stiffs coming this way. Leave the back door unlocked and I'll be in soon, over.”

  The girl, a goth chic in black, with short spikey hair, looked around, though her gun never wavered. She went through his cupboards with one eye on him and didn't seem to care that he still had his sharpened broom handle in his hands. He held it tight as though he thought the girl would take it from him.

  A minute later a brutish man came through the back door, he had a shotgun pointed at Neil. “Is it just him? Did you check?”

  She shook her head and pointed at the sink. “One cup. One dish. He's all alone and he's got some choice stuff. Look, hot cocoa.”

  The man unslung a large empty duffel bag from his back and started taking Neil's food, pulling down the neatly stacked cans in a rush. “What about his car?”

  The girl shrugged. “He looks like a Prius-fag.” When Neil dropped his eyes she laughed. “I can pick em. And no guns either, but don't worry, Mister we won't take your stick.”

  “Are you going to leave me any food?” Neil asked.

  “This can of asparagus,” the man said and tossed the can to Neil. “And this squash, blech.”

  In the end they left him four cans total and when they slunk back out into the dangerous jungle that Jersey had become, Neil cried. He didn't know how to live in the world anymore and with his food gone he didn't think he would make it for very long in his hermetically sealed house either. He cried because he was a fool and a coward, and he was lonely and so very depressed. Yet for all that, he cried for less than a minute and then, still sniffling and with damp eyes, he went back to his guest room and picking up his bowl, he watched as the pair worked their way down the street, looking for suckers to open their doors. The girl would go along acting all scared while the young man hung back in a big black truck that looked as though it could squish any zombie that got in its way.

  They were out of sight before Neil asked a question that had been bothering him in the back of his mind: “Why wasn't the girl scared?” She was smaller even than Neil and her pistol wasn't some “Dirty Harry” piece of hand artillery, either. It was little enough to fit her small palm.

  Then what was it that made her so fearless?

  Why didn't the zombies scare her and how could she rob people so easily when she was just a kid? What made her so special? Was she special because she was so courageous? Or was she courageous because she was special?

  Neil wiped his eyes and decided somewhat rashly to go outside, wondering if by acting brave he would be brave. He stepped boldly from his back door and then immediately hid back behind his rhododendrons. There was a pack of the zombies shuffling by, however they were going away from him and he fought the temptation to run inside.

  After a few minutes they were far enough away that he was able to come out of his hiding place. Looking up and down the street, he felt suddenly strong over his tiny victory—not running away equated to a victory for poor Neil—and he went along the side of his house breathing deeply the autumn air.

  “Now what?” he asked aloud. A few zombies were out, pecking about, and he felt stronger still when he decided to turn his back on them and walk across to his neighbors the Krauthammer's. He hadn't heard anything from then for a couple of days and now he knew why. Their front door was open.

  He glanced in, though when he heard something moving about he pulled back.

  And then he heard a leaf crunch behind him and he spun and there was the little Cattau girl zombie. Neil made a noise and then began to run for his back door, but then something gripped him around his heart.

  There wasn't any future left in his house. His future had been stolen from him...yet what kind of future had it been? One of slinking around in perpetual fear? Neil Martin stopped running and turned, deciding to fight for the first time in his life.

  It wasn't much of a heroic battle. As small as he was, he was still twice the size of the zombie-girl, yet he was shocked when he stabbed her in the chest with his makeshift spear and she kept coming, sliding herself up the smooth wood of the broom handle.

  In desperation he swung his end of the broom handle and with her weight suddenly shifting outward she slid off the stick and fell into the street. Next Neil tried to knock her upside the head with the silly spear. He cracked her a good one and he felt bone give; unfortunately his spear also split in two.

  Now he was defenseless and the girl was getting up again. Neil stared around him and even took a cowardly step back to his house when he caught sight of one Mr. Krauthammer's garden gnomes. A strange fury overcame him just then. It was part anger over his situation and part sadness for poor Mr. Krauthammer. And then in a rage he rushed to the gnome and used it to dash the little zombie's brains in.

  She went down like the dead thing she was and Neil raised the gnome with a battle cry in his throat, only to choke on it. The zombies that had gone down the street earlier had turned around and now he saw there was a good chance that they would beat him in a race to his door if he dared to go back that way.

  He didn't. Neil's daring had left him and he ran the other way, down Grove Street. He ran, keeping low, close to the hedges because there were other zombies out. Mostly they seemed oblivious to him and so he kept going, yet where he was going he didn't know, not until he saw the big black monster truck rumbling on the side of the road a block ahead.

  And as he watched he saw the same brute of a man that had robbed him fifteen minutes earlier get out with an empty bag on his back and a shotgun in his hand. And then Neil had a wild idea.

  He couldn't go back. Even if he could get into his house safely what then? There was only going forward and that meant he was going to have to take some chances. Keeping even lower Neil scurried down the block until he heard the zombies behind him. He could hear their odd grunting and their slapping feet, and so, with his heart in his throat he gave up any notion of sneaking and took off at a sprint, running straight for the truck, praying that the door would open.

  It did! With a mad cackling laugh he climbed up the beast of a vehicle and set himself behind a wheel that was wider across than he was. Reverting momentarily to his former self, he adjusted the seat and checked the mirrors before driving off, bowling over a pair of zombies in his path and making a retching noise in his throat as he did.

  Chapter 15

  Eric

  New York City

  The chopper banked over the Hudson River and Eric puked into the water rushing below. It was his second time. Some of the soldiers with him chuckled, though they were grey in the face themselves. For them it wasn't from airsickness.

  Normal combat was a strain on the human psyche, fighting the undead, however took a toll that couldn't be measured. Hearing the thump of bullets striking a man and seeing him keep coming on and on had turned these soldiers old before their time. Still they were trained and experienced, and they handled their weapons with a sureness that Eric Reidy found comforting. His own ability was in such doubt that he wasn't allowed his ammunition until they landed. They were afra
id he would set his pistol off by accident and kill the chopper.

  The Blackhawk already seemed to have something wrong with it. It flared up and down, while at times it flew sideways and always Eric clung to the harness, that barely kept him inside, with a desperation that had his muscles vibrating.

  Finally the lieutenant in charge of the operation, a tall black man with sad eyes, spoke into his headset, “Thunderbolt, cut the nap of the earth shit. No one's got missile lock on you. All you're doing is making the Doc queasy and it isn't pretty.”

  For Eric, queasy had been thirty minutes before at lift off...he was well past queasy. Thankfully the helicopter's flight path flattened and they made straight for mid-town Manhattan.

  “One more time,” Lieutenant Mathers yelled above the noise of the wind and the engine. “Since we can't rappel down or fast-rope, we're going to land across the street from the hotel on another building. If for some reason we get turned around it's just to the east. East, you hear me? Across a two-lane road with, like hedges and shit running between. If you cross a street that doesn't have hedges you're on the wrong street and you're fucked, ok?”

  The men nodded and one shook Eric's shoulder and said, “Thanks Doc. I hate rappelling. Getting from point A to point B by the quickest route is such a drag, right?”

  Knowing he was being made fun of didn't help his nausea. And it wasn't his fault that he had never learned to rappel out of a hovering Blackhawk. Still, as one of the boys, Eric gave the soldier a thin smile anyways.

  “Zip it, Slim,” the lieutenant warned. “The mission is what it is. We cross the street and go up to room 4312 and yes that's the 43rd floor.”

  “Shit,” the M60 gunner swore. His was the heaviest weapon and everyone knew it would be a bitch to climb that many stairs toting a machine gun.

  “We'll make sure the Doc, helps you out, Smitty,” Mathers said. “He's travelling pretty light, he can carry some ammo. So we hit the room, get whatever we can lay our hands on and get out. If there are stiffs we go down the east side stairwell and if we have to loop around a couple of blocks we do it. Remember that firing our weapons is the last thing we want to do.”