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

by Urban, Tony

  "Only my left arm. I think maybe I broke it. The rest I can deal with."

  "What about your legs? Can you feel everything? Can you wiggle your feet for me?"

  Wim rocked them to and fro. "Nothing the matter with my feet or legs. It's my arm."

  Despite the assurance, Aben ran his hands up and down Wim's legs, checking for injuries. Then he moved to his pelvis and waist.

  When he started unbuttoning Wim's shirt, Wim managed a smile. "I'm not sure we know each other well enough for this."

  "Just wait till I check your prostate."

  "That's not even funny."

  Aben pulled his shirt apart, but any time he got close his left side Wim lost his sense of humor. Instead of trying to remove the shirt the usual way, Aben took out a knife and cut it away from Wim's left arm.

  "I liked that shirt."

  "Oh, shut up," Mead said. "You've got another dozen just like it."

  Wim knew that was close to the truth.

  "Can you bend your arm for me, Wim?" Aben held onto his wrist, providing surprisingly gentle support for being such a rough character.

  Wim gave it his best shot but before he'd moved it an inch, his head was swimming. Aben must have seen the pain on his face. "That's okay."

  "Is it broke?"

  Aben stared at Wim's shoulder and Wim turned his head sideways to see what was so interesting. He saw a large, fist-shaped ball a few inches below his shoulder joint. That certainly didn't look good.

  "Not broke. But you definitely dislocated it."

  "So how do we re-locate it?"

  Aben turned his eyes from Wim's shoulder to his face. "Well, it won't be fun."

  A few minutes later and Aben had managed to straighten his arm, an act which caused more pain and more woozy, floating feelings in his noggin. The big man sat on the ground perpendicular to him and had one foot in Wim's armpit and the other against his neck. In his meaty hand, he held Wim's wrist.

  "Ready to give this a spin?"

  Wim kept his gaze turned skyward. "I don't reckon I have much choice."

  "Not if you want to use that arm again any time soon."

  "Well, then, get on with it. Are you gonna do a three count or--"

  Aben didn't count. He leaned back, using his body weight to pull Wim's arm taught. Wim felt like his upper arm was filled with broken glass which was shredding his muscles and tissue and whatever gooey bits were under his skin. He fought against fainting as the pain rocketed from a six to an easy nine.

  Aben pulled and leaned, easing back slowly, millimeters at a time.

  "You're gonna pull his arm off," Mead said from the sidelines.

  "I don't plan on it."

  Further. Further. Wim almost wished his arm was gone. He thought about telling Mead to give him a machete and cut the sucker off, but he couldn't squeeze out any words through the pain.

  "I think we're getting close, buddy."

  Some curse words passed through Wim's thoughts, but he kept them inside and gritted his teeth together as if that would somehow dull the pain.

  And then it popped. It wasn't audible, but Wim felt it through his whole body.

  "Son of a bitch!" Mead yelled and that made Prince bark.

  "Is it done?" Wim dared look and he found the fist-sized bulge was gone and his arm looked normal enough. "Can I move it?"

  "You tell me," Aben said.

  Wim tried bending it. There was a bit of pain, but it was a raindrop in the ocean compared to what he'd been dealing with. Then he raised it up and across his chest.

  "Take it a little easy." Aben said. "It's back in place but everything in that joint's going to be stretched out and inflamed. You go too crazy and it's liable to pop out of place again."

  "Then I won't go crazy." Wim sat up, ignoring the ache that lingered.

  "I'd even consider a sling for a week or so," Aben said.

  "I wouldn't go that far." Wim climbed to his feet, careful not to use his left arm. He looked down at himself and saw a variety of cuts and scrapes, but when he glanced at the bridge twenty feet above, he felt himself more than a little lucky.

  "Well, boys, I'm sorry about all this. I really thought the bridge would hold."

  "The bridge did," Mead said. "Some rotten boards was all it was. No one's fault. Just bad luck."

  "Worse for some then others," Wim said as he looked to the wagon. "I'd say we bury him, but I didn't bring a shovel."

  "Probably not much to bury anyway," Mead said. Aben threw a scowl his way and Mead shook his head. "What? It's the truth."

  "I feel like we should say something, at least. A few words on his behalf. You both knew him better than me."

  Aben and Mead exchanged a glance that, to Wim, made it clear neither wanted to take the reins on this and it became a staring contest for a good half a minute.

  "Okay," Mead said. "I'll do it."

  The three men turned toward Pablo's resting spot. Mead pushed his hair out of his face before starting. "Pablo was one of the best men in Brimley. He worked hard and would take on any chore assigned to him, even though before all this shit he was an educated man. He enjoyed hot peppers and playing the harmonica and he even sang a little when he had a few drinks in him. He loved his family and, in the end, was able to get some closure on that whole mess. He was a good man. And he'll be missed."

  Mead looked to them. "Anyone else?"

  Wim and Aben kept silent.

  "Well, then. Pablo deserved a less shitty end than getting crushed by a wagon, but I guess we don't get to choose our grand finale. So, with that, goodbye and God speed."

  "To Pablo," Aben said.

  "To Pablo," Wim repeated.

  "Is that good enough?" Mead asked.

  "That was fine, Mead. Just fine. Thank you."

  Mead nodded. "Now I want to get the fuck home."

  Chapter 23

  After more than two weeks clean Saw woke up and realized he'd slept through the night without the need to puke into the bucket, or on the bed, or on himself for that matter. When it came to regurgitating his stomach contents, where they ended up tended to be a mystery.

  As he sat up in bed his head went for a swim and he closed his eyes to regroup. The feeling passed soon enough and, when he opened them again, he was surprised at how good he felt. His head ached, of course. That dull throb, like someone tapping on his skull with a ball peen hammer every three seconds was never-ending, except when the opiates had drowned it out. But, in a way, the familiar feeling of pain reinvigorated him.

  He rose to his feet, stretched, and ripped a loud fart all at the same time. That made him grin and when the rank smell of it hit his nostrils, the grin turned to a full-on smile. It was pure sulfur and made him hungry for eggs. Sunny side up if possible, but scrambled would do just as well.

  Saw was naked as the day he was born and when he looked down at himself he was surprised to see his pecker swaying lazily in the morning light. He couldn't remember getting such a good look at his prick in years and he went to the bathroom to see what else had changed.

  He pushed his way past stacks of garbage, moving through the maze of trash that had overtaken the hallway. When did the house get so bad, he wondered? They'd had a girl come and clean once a week, but the lass clearly hadn't been up to task. He added that to his mental 'to do' list.

  When he got to the bathroom and caught his reflection, he might have thought he was looking at a stranger if it wasn't for the hole in his head. His jowls were gone, his spare tire had vanished. He'd always been a fire hydrant of a man but now he was well on his way to being a bean pole. He couldn't recall any point in his life when he'd been so slender, and he didn't like it one bit. Yet another thing he'd need to fix. But first he needed to get dressed and eat, in either order.

  The trash filled hallway was a harbinger of the rest of the mansion he and Mina had called home for a few years. It looked well on its way to being a garbage dump complete with flies dive-bombing him as he descended the staircase and moved toward
the kitchen.

  He almost lost his appetite when the smell of rotten food hit him. The flies in the rest of the house were only the first wave. The bulk of their forces had taken residence in the kitchen and when Saw saw maggots writhing amongst half-eaten food on dirty dishes, he was tempted to look for a match and light the whole place up. Maybe a fresh start was what they needed.

  He abandoned the kitchen, heading to the dining room when he saw Mina in the back yard. She sat on a wooden lawn chair and held a liquor bottle in her hand, occasionally raising it to her lips and taking a drink before going back to staring at nothing.

  Is this my fault, he wondered? He'd always been quick to fall in love - or lust - or obsession - or however he wanted to label it, and Mina was no different.

  He liked her moxie from the time she walked up to his truck, after he'd killed several of her friends on the Ark and asked him to take her with him. The broad had guts. And while he never got the feeling that she loved him back, he was fiercely protective of her.

  When they found this house, she'd commented that it looked like something out of a show on the telly she used to watch, something about rich housewives of California and he could see the awe in her face, the want in her eyes. That look was the reason he stopped his violent march across the continent and settled there on the Texas/Mexico border, even though the land was shit and the climate was worse. He did it to make her happy, even though he knew that happiness and Mina were like oil and water.

  He crossed the dirt and weeds that passed for a yard and was a few feet from her when he spoke. "Morning, Love."

  Mina jumped in her seat like someone had fired a starter's pistol. The liquor bottle tumbled from her hand and landed on the ground. "Son of a whore!"

  "Me mum had her issues, but whoring wasn't one of them."

  Mina stared at him, still wide-eyed with fright and anger, but now confusion seeped into the mélange.

  "What?"

  "Did I ever tell you about the rabbits?"

  "What?" She repeated.

  "No matter. Anyway, I didn't intend to cause you a fright."

  She grabbed for the bottle but most of its contents were already in the ground. "Well you still did."

  "My apologies."

  She squinted into the bottle. There was barely a swallow left and she put quick work to that. Saw took the now drained bottle from her and set it on the table. Then he grabbed her hand.

  "We're going to town."

  "What for?" Her eyes were wary.

  "Well first and foremost, to get some food. I feel like my stomach's going to swallow me arsehole if I don't get something to eat soon. And after that, we're bringing a group of men back here to empty out the house and clean it up right good."

  She turned her gaze toward the ground. "I suppose I fell behind a bit."

  That was the understatement of the millennia, but Saw wasn't about to scold her. He took his rough fingers and lifted her chin so she had no choice but to see his face. "Don't you fret about that, Love. You know why?"

  She shook her head.

  "Because, even though I haven't been acting the part of late, I'm still the king around here. King Solomon. Wasn't he in the bible or something?"

  "Yes. He was very wise."

  "Well, I don't know how wise I am, but I'm still the fookin' king. And that makes you the queen. And last I checked, the queen don't got to do her own housekeeping."

  He thought something close to a smile pulled at her lips and he took that opportunity to lean in for a kiss. He could taste the whiskey in her mouth as he explored it with his tongue. He didn't like that she was half-way to drunk before noon, but he decided that nothing was going to ruin his good mood.

  Chapter 24

  Mead's feet felt like two sausages squeezed into heavy, leather casings. His steel-toed work boots weren’t meant for walking twenty miles a day and he was half-afraid his little piggies would be destroyed by the time they got back to Brimley.

  After the mess at the bridge, Wim rode Gypsy and Aben continued riding the younger, unnamed mare. Mead utilized Pablo's bicycle until he got a flat tire a few days later. Ever since, he'd been walking. And he grew more pissed off with each passing mile.

  Almost as bad as the throbbing pain was the fact that their already plodding pace had been further slowed. The other men needed to keep the horses at a slow trot so Mead didn't fall too far behind. The fact that he was bringing up the rear and constantly smelling horse farts and avoiding piles of steaming horse shit didn't do a thing to better his sour mood.

  So, when he heard rustling in a thicket of brush off the side of the road, he was more than willing to take a detour into the weeds and kill whatever was making the racket. It would do him well to take his frustrations out on something.

  He stuck his middle and index fingers in his mouth and let loose a shrill whistle to get the attention of the men who were ten yards ahead. They looked back to see what the ado was about.

  Mead pointed to the scraggly brush that lined the road. "Something in there."

  "Need some help?" Wim asked.

  Mead shrugged his shoulders. He imagined he could handle it on his own, but he'd seen plenty of overconfident men and women die the last few years. "Up to you."

  The men turned their horses in the road and trotted back to him, but Mead wasn't willing to wait. He looked down at Price who varied between walking beside him and the horses. He quite liked the dog, even if he thought Prince was just about the worst name ever, and he didn't want to put him at risk.

  "Stay, Prince."

  Prince flopped down on his hindquarters, his tail thudding back and forth, back and forth, back and forth.

  Mead grabbed one of his conduit spears and held it at the ready as he pushed through the weeds. They were hard and dry and clawed at his clothing like skeletal fingers and so dense he couldn't see anything but the thicket scraping past the mask of his helmet.

  He didn't like going in blind. He knew he should wait for the others. He often told himself that anyone who got killed by zombies more than a year into the apocalypse died from stupidity, not zombies, and he knew what he was doing at the moment was stupid.

  But he pushed on, confident that his protective gear, and the fact that he didn't have a single square inch of exposed flesh, would protect him even if something awful laid ahead.

  Three strides in and the brush thinned out. He could see a small clearing ahead and a muddy pond in the midst of it.

  Mead stopped moving, deciding instead to look and listen. To use his brains rather than his balls. He couldn't see anything moving, nothing that would have caused the noise he heard earlier. And now the noise too was gone. He waited, gripping the spear, but nothing came.

  Behind him he heard a muffled curse followed up with Aben growling, "Son of a bitching branches!"

  Mead smiled behind his visor. He'd grown annoyed with his companions being able to ride while he walked. They didn't care that he was wearing forty pounds of safety gear while they got by in regular shirts and jeans that didn't weigh five pounds combined. And they certainly weren't concerned with the fact that he had the worst case of swamp ass this side of Louisiana.

  Aben emerged from the thicket first, his face angry and a three-inch long scratch trickling blood high on his forehead.

  "You should watch where you're going," Mead said.

  Aben didn't smile. Didn't respond at all. Wim came through on his heels.

  "Must've been a false alarm." Mead lowered his spear and tilted up the visor. "Sorry, boys."

  Wim looked past him toward the pond. "Shame that's not clean. I sure could use a cool down."

  You could, Mead thought. It's fifteen degrees hotter under all this shit. He thought about saying that out loud, but before he could, something slammed into his back, pounding against his kidney and dropping him to his knees.

  What the fuck was that? He felt like he'd been shot with a canon. He reached behind himself expecting to find blood, or maybe his entire flank mi
ssing, but his glove came back dry.

  He was so confused that he didn't even realize that Wim and Aben were standing by idly, not only not helping, but laughing, until he rolled onto his back and saw their stupid, amused faces.

  Mead was so pissed off that he almost forgot about whatever it was that attacked him, but a stab of pain when he tried to sit up brought that back all too quick.

  And they still laughed.

  "What's so fucking funny?"

  As soon as the words were out of his mouth a broad, a gray shape appeared over him. His brain immediately associated gray with zombie and he reached for the spear, all the while wondering why his friends weren't helping him. Had the world gone even crazier in the last thirty seconds?

  "Don't!" Wim yelled, and there was panic in his voice, a foreign sound to Mead's ears. Wim was normally as monotone as could be. The oddness of it all made Mead slow down and put his eyes to use rather than rely on his instincts.

  He stared at the gray figure and realized it wasn't a zombie. It was too big. And on four legs. And the gray wasn't undead skin, but fur.

  "Is that a goddamn donkey?" Mead asked.

  Wim started laughing all over again. "It is."

  Mead stared at the animal which loomed beside him, its nose twitching like it was trying to figure out what type of cologne he wore.

  "I got tackled by a motherfucking donkey?" Mead climbed to his feet, trying to ignore the throbbing in his side. He pushed the animal's snout sideways. "You asshole."

  The donkey pulled back its lips, revealing over-sized yellow teeth, and brayed.

  Mead looked to the others. "Ready to go?"

  "Not so fast," Wim said. "I know it's gotta be rough walking all the time.”

  Tell that to my bleeding feet, Mead thought.

  "Well..." Wim looked from Mead to the donkey, then back to Mead.

  Mead looked at Wim, then the donkey. "You're not suggesting..." He turned back to Wim. "Ride the donkey?"