Life of the Dead Box Set [Books 1-5]

by Urban, Tony

  "It looks like there's a third way in, but it'll take us a few hours out of the way. Maybe more, depending on the roads."

  Ramey watched him closely. He thought she could see through him like a pane of glass and tried to avoid her gaze.

  "Wim? Are we there?"

  Wim didn't answer. He tried to think of a decent fib, but before he could come up with one, a metallic clang on the pavement got his attention.

  Ramey heard it, too, and they looked to see a canister not much larger than a soda can spewing a cloud of yellow gas. That was joined by four more.

  Wim tried to grab Ramey, to get them back to the Bronco, but his head was foggy. He saw Mina fall to the ground. Then Emory.

  "Wim?" Ramey called out, her voice sounded miles away.

  His feet felt like they weighed a thousand pounds each and he couldn't make himself move. He reached for Ramey, but he could no longer see her through the thick smoke.

  He thought he heard something akin to heavy machinery, but before he could make a point to listen, the world went dark.

  I'm so cold, Wim thought as he slowly regained consciousness. Why was he cold? The day had been hot. He felt like someone was pricking him over and over again with icicles.

  His eyes fluttered, then opened. Everything was white. He thought that was due to the brightness and that his eyes hadn't adjusted yet, but as things came into focus, he saw white walls. A white ceiling.

  He turned onto his side to avoid the icy assault. He saw a figure wearing, of course, white. Its face was hidden behind an opaque mask. The figure aimed a hose at him and something cold and wet like water, but with a chemical smell, rained on him.

  As his mental fog cleared, he realized the person hosing him down was wearing a HazMat suit. He climbed to his knees, and when he did, he saw he was naked. He tried to cover himself with his hands and the person with the hose laughed.

  "No need for modesty. I'm the one who stripped you down in the first place."

  When he finished spraying Wim, the person handed him a towel. "Wipe yourself down good so there's no residue. There's new clothes over there." He pointed to the corner where clothing was folded in a neat pile.

  The man left and while Wim dried off, he wondered about the residue. He couldn't make sense of any of this. How did he even get here?

  After he dressed, he moved toward a slit in the plastic wall through which sunlight spilled. Wim pushed at it and stepped into the open.

  He saw two identical tents, but not the man with the hose. Or anyone at all. Parked nearby was an M-35 Cargo Truck with an open air bed. He remembered the rumbling engine he'd heard in the fog and assumed that might be a match. But there was no driver. He decided to explore the area and hoped to locate his friends.

  Wim found them clustered together a dozen yards away from a floating dock. In his glee to see his companions, he didn't give much thought to the dock or the lake beyond it. He barely noticed the motorboat tied off there, or the man inside it.

  Instead, he rushed to his friends. They all wore white drawstring pants and white cotton shirts, the same wardrobe Wim had been given. Ramey saw him approaching and her face lit up.

  "Wim!" She ran to him and threw her arms around his neck.

  "Where are we?"

  She shook her head. "I just woke up a few minutes ago. We all did." She ran her hand through his still damp hair. "You got a bath, too?"

  "Yep. Not a very pleasant one, either."

  She tried to smile, but couldn't force one through the fear. Wim wanted to hold on to her and tell her everything was going to be okay, but he knew she'd see through that in a second.

  He had no time to say anything, because the man in the boat shouted. "Down here!"

  Another man dropped over the hill behind them. He approached the foursome.

  "This way, please." He ushered them toward the boat.

  Wim hesitated. "Can you tell us what's going on?"

  The man shook his head. "They'll give you more information at registration."

  "Registration?"

  The man didn't elaborate. "Climb aboard, friends. You're safe now."

  Wim and Emory exchanged a skeptical gaze. Wim put his hand on Ramey's shoulder and squeezed it. He leaned in close to her ear. "I don't think we're in a position to protest."

  "I think you're right."

  The man on shore helped them into the boat. The driver gave them life vests.

  "Safety first."

  He flashed a warm smile. Once they all suited up, the boat took off.

  Their journey by water took less than fifteen minutes. They reached another dock where the driver tied up, then helped them step off.

  Ahead, a sprawling, wooden wall stretched twenty-five feet into the air. A gate large enough to fit a tractor trailer swung open from the top down and it reminded Wim of a drawbridge without a moat.

  Ramey leaned in close to him. "What the hell's going on?"

  "I haven't the foggiest."

  The boat driver pointed to the opening. "Head inside. Registration's to the left."

  He sped away, kicking up a spray of water.

  They trekked the twenty yards to the opening. When they passed through, they discovered what looked like a village.

  Dozens of people tended to gardens, did construction on buildings, and went about life as usual. A few children dashed back and forth, tossing and chasing Frisbees. Wim even saw something that made his nerves almost disappear: chickens roaming freely and a half dozen pigs loitering about.

  Registration was located inside a yurt. A middle-aged, brunette with her hair pulled up in a bun stood inside and checked them in, asking their names, age, and home state. Ramey was up after Wim.

  "Ramey Younkin. Eighteen. New York."

  The woman looked confused or surprised, Wim couldn't tell which. She scurried to a man with a long gray ponytail and they traded whispers. Wim tried his best to eavesdrop, but they were too far away.

  As they finished their private conversation, the man made a beeline to Ramey. "Hello, Ramey. I'm Victor. Please, come with me."

  Ramey held her ground. "No. I won't leave my friends."

  The man chewed his lip and Wim noticed he was rocking on his feet.

  "How about you pick one?" Victor said.

  Ramey chose Wim and the two were whisked away. Emory raised his eyebrows as they passed. Wim shrugged his shoulders.

  Once outside, Ramey demanded, "Tell me where you're taking us."

  Wim didn't expect her to get an answer, and was surprised when one came. "Nothing to be worried about. We're going to see Doc."

  "Who's Doc?" she asked.

  "He's our founder."

  Victor didn't expound further because they stopped outside a small log cabin.

  "Now what?" Ramey asked Victor.

  He gave a wide, warm smile. "Go in. Doc's waiting for you."

  He strolled away, leaving them alone. Ramey looked to Wim, unsure. "What do you think? Should we go in?"

  Wim felt apprehensive about what laid behind the door, but the map had brought them all to this point. It was time to find out what really waited for them at the X. He nodded.

  Ramey took his hand and pulled the door open. Together, they stepped inside.

  The cabin was dark despite two large skylights in the ceiling. Wim saw the shape of a man behind a large desk. A manila folder covered his face.

  "Hello? They said you were expecting us," Ramey said and Wim noticed a quiver in her voice he'd never heard before. It wasn't exactly fear, but it was close.

  The man peered up and a kerosene lantern cast yellow light onto his face. The first thing Wim noticed was a large, purple birthmark on his cheek. Its shape made him think of learning geography in elementary school. "Italy is the boot."

  When Doc's face came into view, Ramey dropped Wim's hand. Doc broke into an ecstatic grin.

  Ramey ran to him. "Daddy!"

  They collided in an embrace. Wim heard her sobbing. He suddenly felt very much like a
third wheel and tried to distract himself by looking around the cabin.

  The walls were covered with maps and diagrams of chemical structures that may as well have been some alien language for as much sense as they made to Wim. He spotted a large calendar for the month of May. One day was circled in red and the word "Philadelphia" was written inside it.

  Wim remembered that time well. It was only two days before life on his farm ceased to exist. A shiver ran up his spine, but he tried to ignore it.

  It seemed like hours passed before Ramey and her father broke their embrace. When they did, the man wiped the tears from her eyes with his fingertips. "Oh, Ramey," he said. "I was so worried."

  Ramey composed herself, at least somewhat. "I was, too. I thought you were dead. Like everyone else."

  "Your mother?"

  Ramey gave a quick nod.

  "I'm so sorry. So, so sorry, Ramey. But I'm glad you're here. This makes me happier than you could ever imagine."

  Ramey turned to Wim. "Wim brought me to you. He saved my life."

  Her father strode toward him and shook his hand. His grip was firm, but Wim thought his hand clammy. "A million thanks to you. Wim, is it?"

  Wim nodded. "Thanks aren't necessary. Your daughter is more than capable of taking care of herself. She had little choice, being left alone."

  Doc flinched, a tic so quick it could have been easy to miss, but Wim noticed and he was glad.

  "She's a resilient girl. Always has been." Doc turned back to Ramey. "Let me show you both around."

  He led them out of the cabin and into the common areas. He showed them a schoolhouse, several small gardens, even some dairy cows. He pointed out a few dozen small houses. "Less than half are occupied at the present. We're hoping to bring in others. I heard there were four in your party?"

  "There were more, at one point," Wim said.

  Doc didn't acknowledge that comment. As he showed them a communal dining room, Ramey cut him off.

  "Daddy, what is this place?"

  Doc smiled. Perhaps Ramey found the look to be joyful, but Wim saw something else. To Wim, Doc's smile held the weight of a man who'd just won a war. His eyes were full of pride, and when Wim got another shiver up his spine, he didn't ignore it.

  Doc reached over and pushed a lock of Ramey's hair off her face. Like he wanted her to have a good look at what he had created.

  "This is the Ark. This is where the world starts over."

  The Ark

  Life of the Dead Book 3

  And every living substance was destroyed which was upon the face of the ground, both man, and cattle, and the creeping things, and the fowl of the heaven; and they were destroyed from the earth: and Noah only remained alive, and they that were with him in the ark.

  Genesis 7:21-23

  Part I

  Chapter 1

  The worst thing about this end of the world zombie shit is that women don’t wear yoga pants anymore.

  That thought rolled around Caleb Daniels mostly empty head as he approached the gym. Neon yellow paint above a row of glass windows declared it ‘Fanatical Fitness’. Yoga pants were pretty much the only reason he’d ever gone to the gym. He hadn’t even cared much about the size or shape of the wearer. Truth be told, he preferred if the girls were on the big side. Like his dad always said, ‘That’s more cushion for the pushin.’

  It had been over almost half a year since those assholes at the Ark abducted him. Him and Juanita, the woman he’d been traveling with at the time. And on days like this, he wished he’d have taken a different route south and avoided them altogether. The only good thing about the Ark was that it was safe. There weren’t zombies everywhere, waiting to eat your balls or rip your face off every time you rounded a corner, and he appreciated that. But Caleb Daniels wasn’t an idiot, or so he thought. And he knew that, as far as pecking orders went, he was barely above that hick farmer with the stupid name.

  Caleb didn’t hate Wim, even if his name was weird and the man was too damned quiet. He liked him for the most part. His annoyance stemmed from the fact that the two of them, plus whatever lackey Doc deemed dispensable, kept getting sent out into the danger zone. No one cared that Caleb and Wim risked their lives every time the Ark was running low on canned fruit or pig slop or fuel for the generators. The important people, Doc and his ass sucking followers, they never abandoned the safety of the walls. Nope, they stayed inside where it was safe and they could pretend the world was still hunky dory.

  Every time one of these missions (suicide missions, he often thought them) arose, Caleb told himself that this time he wasn’t coming back. That he would hot wire a car (an act he’d never so much as attempted, but it looked easy on TV) and hit the road for Texas. That place was so damned big he could build himself a ranch on about a thousand acres and never have to deal with this zombie shit again. That was the plan, but every time they went on a supply run, Caleb did as told and brought back whatever they wanted. No car. No hot wires. No Texas. No ranch. Only obeying.

  He hated that about himself. Hated getting bossed around all the time and never doing a thing to stop it. Even in the apocalypse, he seemed destined to be a follower. In life before zombies, his passive, do as he was told attitude had landed him a peach of a job pushing carts at Walmart for a buck over minimum wage. For that barely livable salary he had the pleasure of getting reamed out by the manager every time he moved too slow or blocked the aisles too long or didn’t flash big, fake smiles at the customers all day long. Like they gave two shits about the guy pushing buggies anyway.

  The first time Caleb saw zombies he was at work. He’d rounded up thirty or so carts and was steering them toward the entrance bay when the bastard came hauling ass across the parking lot. He slammed right into Caleb’s centipede of shopping carts without so much as an “excuse me.” He was a middle-aged man, only half a decade or so older than Caleb himself, and he wore a Marlboro jacket. There was blood smeared on his coat. Blood which was hard to see against all the red. Caleb remembered that specific detail because he always wished he could afford Marlboros. But he couldn’t, not on cart pusher wages, and he had to settle for generics that tasted like week old ass.

  The Marlboro man bounced off the carts and tumbled onto his skinny rump. Caleb was halfway to rushing to his side to see how bad he’d hurt himself when the man hopped back up and made a beeline for a woman on a motorized scooter. The old gal, who reminded Caleb a bit of his own grandma, floored the accelerator and the scooter lurched forward at three miles an hour. That wasn’t nearly fast enough and the smoker tackled her like a linebacker taking out the star QB. The next thing Caleb knew, the woman was screaming and a pool of blood ebbed out around them and turned the dull, sun-faded gray pavement black. Caleb grabbed his walkie, ready to radio in, but realized he hadn’t a clue what to say. There sure wasn’t a code for this. That was when he realized the Marlboro man was eating the scooter rider. He’d taken three big bites out of her double chin but seemed to lose interest when a trio of teenage girls stumbled onto the scene.

  When the zombie took off after them, the woman who’d been his midday snack climbed to her feet. At first, she stumbled around like she’d just come awake after a long nap, but then she shook her whole body like she was doing some exotic Indian rain dance. Then, she didn’t need the scooter anymore and in a half dozen lumbering steps she disappeared into the store.

  Caleb stood there, too shocked to move. Shrieks and squeals from inside Walmart spilled through the automatic doors along with a sea of shoppers, many bloodied and frantic as they dashed toward their vehicles. There were more zombies amongst them, running with and through the crowd. Occasionally there’d come some sort of guttural roar and a human would fall and the zombies would dive onto him or her, ripping and tearing and eating. It reminded Caleb more than a little of the nature shows he often watched where a bunch of lions or tigers would attack a herd of zebras. Only this wasn’t Africa and these were people.

  His walkie had crackled and he hear
d a voice he recognized all too well as that of Drayton Sawyer, the Assistant Manager, mumble something about ‘calling the fucking police’ and ‘blood everywhere’ but the noise was cut short and the box on Caleb’s thigh remained silent from there on out. Around him, the people who had been attacked and munched on were rising to their feet. One woman had an eyeball dangling to and fro from the socket. He watched it sway back and forth so long he worried he might get hypnotized by the movement.

  Hypnotized, he thought, realizing that he almost was. All around him chaos reigned and there he stood doing nothing but staring. Useless as a scarecrow.

  With a shake to clear his head, Caleb abandoned his carts and sprinted up the lot toward employee parking. He tried three times to pull his keys from his pocket as he ran. Finally, on the fourth try and five yards from his Ford, he succeeded. He dove into the driver’s seat and gunned the engine, drawing the attention of Lynn, a plain, but buxom girl he recognized from working in the ‘Beauti-que’ hair salon. She clutched a pair of scissors in her fist and Caleb thought he saw blood dripping from the blades.

  He waved her toward him. “Get in!”

  Lynn the hair stylist jogged in his direction, but she didn’t see the toddler. It was five years old tops, but the blood ringed around its plump lips showed it was just as dangerous as the other zombies. The tot jumped onto her, catching hold of her ample thigh and chomping down on the exposed skin below her denim skirt. Lynn flailed and struggled, knocking the kid to the ground, but Caleb had already seen enough to know she was toast. He stomped on the gas pedal and put his career pushing carts in the rear-view mirror.

  In the days afterward, when everyone else was dying, he clung to a small piece of hope. Not that things would get better, but that maybe he could be different now. Maybe he could be someone who mattered for once. That crashed down on his bald head when he met Juanita. She saved him from getting chomped by one of the zombies while he stood outside a gas station and tried to write his name on the concrete block wall with his own piss. He’d just finished the ‘e’ when he heard a rifle report, then felt the undead bastard crash into his back. Juanita was only 20-something, much younger than him, but she was already the boss.