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

by Urban, Tony

  I knew the most important thing, aside from staying away from large crowds, was having the proper weapons. I didn’t know much about guns and didn’t trust them. Not in a pinch. So, I raided a sporting goods store and turned an unbreakable hockey stick into a dual bladed weapon. It was long, which kept me out of arm’s reach of the zombies, lightweight, and deadly as hell. It served me better than I could have ever imagined.

  Initially, I had plans to head west. Out to one of those states that most people can’t even point to on a map because they’re so remote and sparsely populated that they’re pretty much forgotten. Some place like Wyoming. That’s a state, right?

  Staying anywhere close to the cities was a bad move and I knew that, but I ended up running into a big motherfucker named Bundy and we teamed up for a while.

  Eventually we found some others. Or they found us. I guess it depends on your perspective. I thought it might be good to have a group of survivors, especially early on when we were all trying to figure shit out. More people to gather supplies, to watch your back. Strength in numbers and all that happy horse shit. Good theory, right? Well, not so much in execution.

  All I wanted to do was to survive, to teach them some of the knowledge I’m going to share here. But, they didn’t care to listen. They were too interested in falling in love or running around on fool’s errands trying to find missing family members who, let’s face it, were almost certainly dead. Dead and walking. And eating. God, so much eating. No matter how hard I tried, they didn’t listen so, one night, I hopped on my motorcycle and left their drama in the rearview mirror. I ain’t got time for that.

  This is the apocalypse. The end of the world probably. But, I’ve still got a lot of living left to do.

  I’m Mead and I kill the dead.

  1

  Early July

  It’s been a few weeks since I left those stupid fucking fuckers at the warehouse.

  Time has not, as the saying goes, healed all wounds. I’m still pissed off at the way they acted - Ramey trading me in for Wim without a second thought, Mina going all googly eyes at fatass Bundy – and the way they treated me. Like a wad of chewing gun stuck in the tread of your shoe that you can’t get rid of no matter how much you try.

  Over the weeks, I’ve lost count on how many zombies I killed, but I know it’s in the high three digits. Hell, I killed over a hundred in Cincinnati alone. I crossed Ohio, Indiana, and Illinois, but turned back when I realized everything in the Midwest was flat as shit and monotonous as fuck.

  I was back in my old stomping ground of Western Pennsylvania, the motorcycle careening down the highway. I won’t lie, I was going way too damn fast, even if it was the end of the world and speeding tickets were a thing of the past. I’d been driving all night when I hit a rust bucket coal or steel town which was situated along a river that was grayer than a 90-year-old widow. The only reason I stopped was because more than two dozen zombies crowded my route across an ancient, iron bridge.

  When I’d first come across the Indian motorcycle, I’d had visions of driving into a crowd of zombies just like this one, all the while swinging my zombie dicing hockey stick and slaughtering the monsters without so much as squeezing the brakes.

  In all my travels so far, I hadn’t put that plan into action, always erring on the side of safety and common sense. But that day I was experiencing the perfect storm of boredom and rage and disappointment and general pissed off-ness that I decide to give it a go.

  I was still a little unsteady on the bike, and a part of me knew the idea was mad, but I was so filled up with anger and hurt that I thought a blood vessel in my brain might explode if I didn’t somehow get it all out.

  I reached over my shoulder, feeling for the stick which was fastened to my back. On my first try, my fingers caught the nylon strap that held it to my body and, for a second, my hand was stuck. The bike wobbled, and I overcorrected as I tried to steady it, sending me careening to the right. Before I knew it, I was hurtling toward the barriers that marked the edge of the bridge. I jerked my hand free and got the bike back under control just in time to avoid the collision.

  My heart was racing even faster than the bike. My pulse beating so hard in my ears that I could hear nothing else. I turned the motorcycle toward the zombies and picked up the pace. Fifty miles per hour. Sixty. Faster.

  The wind whipped at my greasy hair which flew out behind me like a bizarre sci-fi helmet. An actual helmet was the one thing I lacked. I’d strapped protective sports gear all over my arms, legs and torso. I was padded up better than an NFL lineman. That was all to protect myself against the zombies - or more specifically their teeth.

  These zombies were close enough to smell. Their sickening sweet, putrid aroma reminded me of gone over meat and in this new world, that smell never failed to energize me. In a fraction of a second, the nearest zombies went from being yards away to within striking distance. I swung the bladed end of the stick as I rocketed into them.

  The blade caught a zombie who wore a florescent orange highway worker’s jacket in the forehead and lopped the top of its skull clean off. Chunky, black blood splashed into the air as it fell. That made me smile.

  I could feel their hands grabbing at me, their fingers clawing at me as I pressed through them. I swung again and connected with the neck of a woman whose dyed red hair was piled up in a beehive above her wrinkly face. Her mouth opened in a surprised Oh! as her head was severed from her body. My smile turned into laughter which was impossible to hold back as her shocked, disconnected skull toppled through the air, end over end.

  Next up was a short, shirtless man who was as big around as he was tall. To me, the belly button in his pendulous, gray gut made the perfect bullseye. I sliced his stomach from one side to another and the man’s intestines spilled out like dime store candy from a burst piñata.

  I slaughtered another half dozen zombies on my way through the crowd. When I emerged on the other side, I cast a glance backwards, admiring the carnage left in my wake. I was pleased with myself, but there were still more of the creatures up and walking than those who were dead on the ground.

  All my life I had a habit of leaving things unfinished. School, jobs, being a father. If I was going to turn things around, I needed to do a complete 180, not another half-assed attempt at change. And this seemed like as good a time to start as any.

  I made a slow U-turn in the road and returned to the zombies. First up was a man with a distended beer gut which was only half-covered by a Coors t-shirt. The blade caught him in the ear and arced upward, toward the split in his hair, lopping off a good twenty percent of the top of his skull.

  With the boozehound disposed of, my next target was a teenage girl who I couldn’t help but notice had almost perfect C cup breasts that pushed provocatively against her Pitt t-shirt. It seemed a real shame, but I used the stick to split her head in half horizontally.

  Next, I got in a glancing blow on a young boy who looked like he was barely old enough to walk. The stick hit the toddler in the jaw and broke the hinge on the left side. It hung from his face like a macabre Halloween mask.

  I was halfway through his return trip when I cut off the head of a tall, bald geezer. His oversized noggin tumbled onto the road and I was forced to jerk the bike sideways to avoid hitting it. That proved a bad move because I steered the bike straight into the pile of intestines I’d spilled earlier. When I hit the guts, the front wheel hydroplaned, and the bike kicked to the side, propelling me straight into two zombies who were far too undead and slow to make any attempt to avoid the collision.

  The bike bounced, then tipped sideways, and before I could blink I was thrown free of it. I hit the pavement hard enough to knock the breath out of myself and skidded a full five yards. The bike went further, not stopping until it smashed into the steel fence barrier with a crunching sound that I immediately knew meant game over.

  Worse still was my beloved hockey stick. I lost my grip on it when I hit the road and all I could do was watch as th
e stick bounced and slid across the pavement before making a perfect hole in one as it disappeared through the fence and into the river below.

  I didn’t have any time to mourn my lost weapon - the perfect weapon - because even though I’d come to a stop unscathed, I did so only inches away from a lanky zombie who looked almost like a giant from my low, on the ground perspective. The zombie snarled as it bent at the waist and reached for me.

  I hopped to my feet, relieved that no parts of myself felt broken or even injured. I took a moment to congratulate myself on having the forethought to stay so well-padded and again wondered why no one else realized how helpful I could be in the humans vs. zombies war. The battle to stay alive.

  I knew there was little time for ego stroking and dove into the zombie, shoulder first. I’d never played football or made a tackle but this one was just about perfect. I connected with the creature’s pelvis, driving it backward and toward the barrier at the edge of the bridge.

  I felt it grabbing for me, clawing at my body, but I didn’t stop until we hit the barrier. Between my low angle and the zombie’s extreme height, the momentum carried it backward. Its arms flailed as it fell through the air and I watched, grinning, as it slammed into the gray water below.

  My happiness was short-lived because, when I turned around, I saw the remaining zombies were within feet of me. I grabbed a buck knife from my belt, searching for an escape route, but they were all around me.

  I knew I could take out a few, maybe even several, with the knife, but the blade was only good up close and personal. In a fight against more than a handful of the creatures, fighting with only a knife would be a death sentence. By the time I’d killed three or four or five there’d be another dozen on me and I didn’t have enough padding to withstand that kind of barrage.

  The closest zombie was within reach. It swatted at me and I lashed out with the knife, severing two of its fingers. The zombie stared at its disfigured hand, curious.

  The creatures were at my front, at both sides, and they were closing in. The only escape route was behind me. At my back, was the edge of the bridge. And, below that, the river.

  I risked a glance down at the gray water. I’d never been great at judging distance, but guessed the water was a good fifteen feet below. I wasn’t a very good swimmer and the idea of jumping into that abyss terrified me.

  While I looked away, a zombie moved within biting distance. It grabbed hold of my shoulder, fell into me and chomped down. When I turned back I saw a zombie in poorly fitting polyester suit chewing on the hard, plastic shoulder pads I was wearing. Thick, opaque saliva oozed from its mouth as it gnawed away.

  I was unharmed, and a little amused, but I knew time was not on my side. I rammed the knife through its eye socket, enjoying the pop as his eyeball burst. At first, the zombie looked up at me, its remaining eye staring in a pained ‘What did you do that for?’ manner. Then, I gave the knife a rough twist and the creature collapsed to its knees.

  The rest of the horde was within feet of me. As much as I dreaded jumping, it was my only out. I climbed onto the fence, my knees shaking so hard my entire body wobbled. That was when it occurred to me that I had no clue as to the depth of the water.

  What if it was only a few feet deep and I was crushed on impact? Or what I hit the bottom and didn’t die but broke my legs? What if the current was too strong to overcome and I drowned? Every moment that passed brought forth a new, painful worry and I realized it wasn’t getting me anywhere except closer to chickening out.

  I took one more look at the zombies.

  “Later, fuckers.”

  Then, I jumped.

  It wasn’t fifteen feet down. It was closer to forty and I was wholly unprepared for the impact, landing in something between a belly flop and a face plant. I felt as if I’d taken a swan dive off a skyscraper, like all the joints in my body were dislocated at the same time. And then I was sinking.

  I couldn’t see anything through the polluted, gray water. The metallic taste of it filled my mouth. Flooded my nostrils. I realized fast that I needed to move. To swim. Or else I was going to die.

  I kicked, but it felt pointless against the rapid rushing waters of the river and the weight of my padding dragging me further under. The irony that what was supposed to save me might now kill me, wasn’t lost on me. I windmilled my arms, trying to remember what I’d learned in seventh grade gym class, but I couldn’t even discern whether I was going up or down.

  My lungs felt like they were full of hot coals, yet I closed my mouth like it was a vise. I didn’t know how long I could hold my breath, but knew time was almost up. Maybe in more ways than one.

  I tried harder, to swim - or whatever frantic, desperate motions I was making with my arms and legs. I thought it was working. I was moving anyway, moving on my own now, and not due to the strength of the current.

  It seemed to be getting brighter around me. The water had turned from gunmetal gray to dirty dishwater. That gave me renewed hope and I kicked harder, flapped my arms with renewed determination.

  Finally, I burst through the surface, gasping for air and puking up river water at the same time. I didn’t care that, along with the water up came the remains of a few partially digested HoHos that stuck in my scraggly excuse for a mustache. I let the river carry me along as I recovered from that near-death experience.

  I was exhausted, in pain, and alone. I had no vehicle and no weapons. But I was alive. I could figure out the rest later.

  I washed up on shore about a mile from where I made my leap of faith and I laid there for a while, contemplating what to do next. Daylight was fading and a night on the riverbank, which was littered with trash including used hypodermic needles, wasn’t high on my list.

  After dragging myself to my feet, I grabbed a rock that had decent weight, but fit comfortably in my hand, and started walking. After a while I came upon a ramshackle, ranch-style house with pea green siding and a Ford Tempo that was sixty percent metal, forty percent rust, parked in the driveway. Even though it was a bigger piece of shit than the Cavalier I’d started out this whole mess in, I thought it was the perfect solution to my current predicament.

  Those hopes were dashed when I got close enough to see the back end of the car was propped up on concrete blocks. The house wasn’t much better. Three of the five front windows were boarded over and the front door hung ajar. Nevertheless, I couldn’t even see the sun above the trees and it was better than nothing.

  As I poked my head through the open door, I could barely see into the dark confines of the house and I concentrated more on listening. It was quiet as a library, so I pushed the door open far enough to pass through.

  Once my eyes adjusted, I realized the house was abandoned. There was no furniture save for a couch that looked like it had been around since World War I, complete with springs poking through the cushions. When I got close enough to smell it, I realized the aesthetics were the least of its problems. The aroma of old piss wafted from the vaguely tan fabric and punched me in the face. And, as my eyes scanned the room, I discovered several plastic milk jugs filled with yellow/green liquid.

  “Oh, that’s fantastic.”

  I thought about leaving the hovel, but I supposed that, in the midst of a zombie apocalypse, I couldn’t afford to be too picky.

  Room by room, I checked and cleared the house. Aside from the containers of urine, the only evidence of a prior resident was a pile of dirty clothing heaped into the corner of what might have once been a bedroom, and a stained and tattered mattress setting on the floor. I’d rather sleep in a puddle of my own vomit, thank you very much. I decided to make camp in what passed for the kitchen. Even though the old linoleum floor was filthy, it didn’t smell like piss and that was as good as it got in that place.

  As exhausted as I was, sleep was slow to come and when it did, it was restless and dream-filled. For the first time since the initial appearance of the zombies, that day that seemed so long ago at the Buffet, I felt… not scared exa
ctly, but at a disadvantage. I didn’t like that feeling and I vowed to fix that in the morning.

  After vacating the chateau de urine, I walked another mile before coming across an old Jeep Wrangler sitting in the yard in front of a mobile home. It had no top and the seats were torn and worn through. Four gigantic tires raised the body so far off the ground that I thought I’d have to take a running leap to get into it.

  That fact made the Jeep more than a little intriguing. After all, the motorcycle had been something of an epic fail. Maybe it was time to go in the complete opposite direction. I wondered if would even start, but the keys were missing, and further exploration was required.

  I knew I was pressing my luck, with a three-pound rock as my sole weapon, but I climbed the rickety wooden steps and pulled open the trailer door. The smell inside was all too familiar. It wasn’t finely aged piss though, it was death. On the floor, I spied the body of a slender woman who could have been anywhere from mid-teens to mid-sixties. It was hard to tell since her face had been eaten away to the bone.

  Her body hadn’t fared much better. Her breasts were mostly gone, just a few mangled lumps of blackened tissue rising from her ribcage. Her stomach was torn open and it looked like something - someone - had burrowed into her innards, gnawing away an irregular circle so deep I thought I could see parts of her spinal cord.

  I considered clearing the trailer, to see if whoever had done this to her was still around, but the last time I’d ventured into a mobile home looking for keys hadn’t gone too well, and I had no desire to linger longer than necessary. I went to the kitchen and began the scavenger hunt.

  As I searched through the drawers, I found a pair of scissors and decided to add them to my collection. All I needed now was paper. In the third drawer I found a keyring with ten or more keys of various shapes and sizes. As I checked for one etched with the Jeep logo, my back was turned to the living room where the mutilated woman had lain. And, so caught up in examining the keys was I, that I didn’t see or hear her get up.