The Night

by Steinwachs, Mark

  The

  Night

  Mark Steinwachs

  The Night

  ©2020 Mark Steinwachs

  eBook Edition; First Edition

  All rights reserved

  Mytocks Publishing

  Edited by Lee Andrew Forman

  Cover design by Nina D’Arcangela

  All characters and events appearing in this work are fictitious. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  License Notes:

  This book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This book may not be resold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for the recipient. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  Dedication

  This book is dedicated to my mom, Donna Steinwachs. I miss you every day.

  The Night

  Acknowledgments

  The Beginning

  The Recovery

  The Burden

  The Riot

  The Curfew

  The Rescue

  The Dance

  The Discovery

  The Game Show

  The Interview

  The Quiet Moment

  The New Beginning

  About the Author

  Acknowledgements

  Growing up, I read acknowledgements in books often wondering what led to them but never truly thinking I would write my own. While the act of writing a book is a solitary experience there is no way a book comes to life without the help of many people. Without my friends and family this book wouldn’t have been possible.

  To my family; Heather, Donna, Liam, and Gwyn. Thank you for giving me the time to pursue this idea and the countless hours away from the house clacking away at the keyboard to get it done.

  To my friends; Crystal Bryant, Jadah McCoy, Kim Justice, Robert Crow, Luke Woodard, Nikki Nelson-Hicks, Dana Brantley-Sieders, Will Madden, Sharon Gross, Terese Fenlser, Andy French, Jesi Seifert, and Jason Cowan. Thank you for pushing me to be better, reading crappy early versions, giving me advice and guidance, and being the general badasses you all are to help make this book what it is.

  To Sirens Call Publications; Nina, Lee, Erin, and Gloria. Thank you for believing in this book to put in your time, effort, and energy to bring it to life.

  To everyone that worked at Bell Road Starbucks. From my first table by the window, to the table in the back, and finally my spot at the bar, thank you for keeping me properly caffeinated and putting up with me at such early hours.

  Finally, until I wrote my own book I never fully grasped what it meant for an author to have their ‘go to’ person every step along the way. For me that was Karen Newman; There is not a chance in hell this book is written without you. The hours, effort, and energy you put in this rival mine. Thank you for going above and beyond at every turn.

  The Beginning

  It happened overnight. Everyone always joked that it would go that way. It was a shock that it did. Happening so quickly was probably one of the two reasons it didn’t completely spread throughout the world.

  One night. That’s all it took for the world to change. First a person started feeling sick, a spring flu is all. Take a little NyQuil and you’ll be fine in the morning, no big deal. How many spouses do you think said that that night? How many kids were put to bed early by their parents?

  It was a quiet death. They stopped breathing. That was it. The body simply stopped.

  Stopped.

  Then it started again. Just like in the movies. That was the second reason it didn’t spread like it could have. Movies, books, and video games had prepared us for this.

  There was no other word for it, nothing fancy and scientific. Nothing to make it seem like anything other than what it was.

  Zombies.

  Ten percent. Ten percent were turned that night. Think about that. In one night thirty-five million people died.

  Died and came back to life.

  Excerpt from “The Decade”

  Dr. Rudolph Graham

  Recorded 22-April

  At Tom Harkin Global Communications Center

  Centers for Disease Control and Prevention

  Atlanta, Georgia

  Everyone in America was affected that first night. Families were torn apart as they reacted to the situation. Mothers killed daughters, fathers killed sons, wives killed husbands. It was nothing short of brutal. The surviving members of families rarely lasted long together. It was too hard, too much all at once. They would split up and go their own ways looking for safety, or they would get careless as they started to lose the will to fight. Either way, the zombies got them. The first month saw untold horrors, but worse than that were the first couple of days.

  Everyone was learning how to cope with this terrible new disease. If you could call it coping.

  Excerpt from “The Decade”

  Dr. Rudolph Graham

  Terror pierced the morning air. Jon heard screams from the hallway outside his bedroom door.

  He opened his eyes, his brain coming to life.

  Mom?

  He couldn’t make out any words, only screaming.

  Jesus, it’s like someone is trying to kill her.

  Jon grabbed his bat, which he kept beside his nightstand since his first year of Little League, rolled out of bed, grabbed the doorknob, and stopped.

  There could be guys with guns out there. If I bust through the door, they may get jumpy and shoot all of us. Gotta think this through …

  He opened the door a crack, just enough to see the hallway. His mother had her back to him and she was struggling with someone, somebody smaller than herself. The screams filled the whole house now.

  Where the hell is Dad? What’s going on?

  His hand gripped the bat tighter as he took a step into the hall. His mother turned, grappling with her attacker. Jon nearly dropped the bat when he saw who she was fighting with—his thirteen-year-old little sister, Jill.

  “Mom?”

  “Jon?”

  “What the hell is going on?”

  “Help me,” she yelled as Jill pushed her hard and she fell to the floor between her two children.

  Jon stood in shock for a second as his brain tried to take it in. Jill was something else, not Jill anymore. Snarling and drooling, her eyes devoid of color. Her skin was gray and marbled with dark blood-pooled splotches. Her eyes … there was nothing there. No intelligence of any kind. She looked like a wild, angry animal acting on instinct.

  Jill let out a sound that was a cross between a shriek and a moan as she lunged forward towards their mother.

  Jon’s world went silent, his mind focused. Everything slowed around him and his eyes suddenly became high-def. He saw the muscles in Jill’s legs tense as she got ready to pounce. He saw droplets of saliva fly through the air from her mouth as she twisted her head side to side. She jumped and it seemed as though she hung in midair over their mother. Jon took a step towards her and swung the bat upward, catching his sister in the shoulder. Her bone popped up at a grotesque angle, ripping through the skin. Her body flipped sideways, sending her crashing into the wall. She slammed into a mirror, fragments of glass exploding around her.

  His world came rushing back to him. His mother kept yelling, her attention still directed at him. “Jonathan! Jonathan! What have you done? What did you do to her?”

  He looked at the floor, unable to do anything but lower the bat to his side. He stared at his sister crumpled there, her shoulder completely ripped free from its socket, and her head oozing blood.

  Fuck, she’s dead! I killed her. What the—? Oh, fuck. What did I do?

  His mother was on her feet. “What … what … what … Jesus, Jonathan!”
>
  His sister started to move … slowly pushing herself up with her good arm.

  No way. No way. This can’t be real!

  Jill’s head lifted up, heavily as if it were a bag of sand. Her soulless eyes met his. She snapped her head violently to the side and let out a deep, throaty growl as she reached out for their mother.

  “My baby girl. Let Momma help you ...”

  “Mom … no!” Jon grabbed his mother’s arm and shoved her towards his bedroom. He took a step back and to his right, positioning himself at the top of the stairs where he could get a better swing. Jill finished standing up and took a step forward, one arm hanging limply, the other raised to strike. Jon’s bat cut a smooth arc through the air and connected clean with her left temple. The gruesome sound of crunching bone rang in his ears as the bat caved in the side of his sister’s face. Her little frame was once again propelled into the wall. There were shrieks from both of the women in Jon’s life: his mother in anguish and horror, his sister in pain and anger.

  Jill turned to her brother. The left side of her face was crushed and bloody, the top of her nightgown stained a dark red. She focused on him, her intact right eye locked on his body. She growled and stepped towards Jon.

  I’m sorry, Jill.

  Jon turned his body sideways and brought his bat up. His body easily slipped into the batting stance he’d practiced for so many years. He took a swing as Jill approached. Their mother stopped crying out the moment before the aluminum bat collided with Jill’s head. The house was silent except for the sound of cracking bones and she hit the floor for the second time. Jon stood over her, his sister’s brain exposed from the multiple wounds he inflicted.

  Jon raised his bat.

  More blood splattered the hallway. The once pretty girl lay motionless, her face broken beyond recognition.

  Jon lowered his bat but kept it at his side. His body tense, ready, adrenaline coursed through his veins. His breaths were short and rapid. Jon looked at his bat, coated in red with only slivers of silver aluminum showing through. He shifted his gaze to his sister, almost headless, her body in a heap. Then he turned to his mother. She sat with her back against the door frame sobbing softly.

  What the hell happened? Where is Dad? What the fuck is going on?

  “Where’s Dad?” His voice was so calm it almost scared him.

  His mother looked up. “Wh-what?”

  “Where. Is. Dad?” he said slowly, carefully, letting each word hang in the air. Jon slowed his breathing, “Where is Dad? Is he still in bed?”

  “Ummmmm. Ye-ye-yes. Why?”

  She must be in total shock. Am I? I don’t feel different. I just killed my sister and I’m okay. Maybe I am the one in shock. Where is Dad? Is he dead already? Did Jill kill him? Is he … Oh, shit.

  He raced to his parents’ bedroom.

  Jon stood in front of their door, bat in his right hand, doorknob in his left. He started to turn the knob and stopped.

  It’s like some bad horror movie, everyone yelling at me not to open the door. Hell, I’d be yelling at me not to open the door.

  He let out an involuntary little laugh.

  This is fucked.

  Right hand gripping the bat tighter, his left hand slowly started turning the knob again.

  He pushed the door open gently. His father was asleep in bed. Jon took a couple of steps into the bedroom. The clock on the nightstand read 7:10. Five minutes had passed.

  He focused on the bed. Waiting, letting a few seconds pass. His father wasn’t breathing. He was lying there. Another few seconds ticked by; the room was silent.

  He’s dead.

  Jon brought the bat up and positioned himself in his batting stance. He stared at his father, not moving, not breathing. The clock changed to 7:11. Still waiting.

  Waiting.

  Did he breathe? No. No, he didn’t. What am I waiting for? What is he going to do, jump up and get me? Jesus, I’ve lost it. I’ve snapped.

  The clock read 7:12. Watching. Waiting. Waiting for something to happen. Anything. Not waiting for anything; waiting for something.

  Then Jon saw it. He brought his bat up a bit higher. His father’s eyes popped open. Once green, they were now like Jill’s, devoid of anything human. His father leapt out of bed, covers flying off to the side. Jon stood his ground. His father snarled, mouth opening and closing as he took another step. Jon was ready. He stepped in and got a full swing as his father lunged forward. The bat connected perfectly. The sickening sound of breaking bone, something he had already heard too much of this morning, invaded him but he knew that first hit wasn’t enough.

  His father’s skull caved in and he was sent to the wall with a thud. Jon didn’t waste any time. His father was on his knees, the side of his head bashed in. Jon stood over him, raining down blow after blow. Another shot to the side of the head, the top, then one to the shoulder. Blood spattered all over the wall, the rug. All over Jon.

  Once more he hit his father’s shoulder, smashing it into his chest, another blow to the head, one connected on his face. The world around Jon was a mixture of red and broken human flesh.

  Jon didn’t hear the snarls coming from his father, only the sound of breaking bones. He couldn’t stop. He felt tears streaming down his face as the bat connected time and time again.

  A quiet voice spoke from behind him. “Jon, stop it. He’s gone. They’re both gone.”

  He turned and saw his mother standing in the doorway. Her face was streaked with tears and blood, her torn nightgown coated as well. “You killed them, Jonathan. You killed your father and sister,” her voice flat, defeated.

  Jon stood with his back to the thing that used to be his father, the bat swinging slowly at his side. He opened his mouth to say something but nothing came out.

  That wasn’t them. I didn’t kill them. They were already dead. They were … zombies. Jesus, this IS a horror movie.

  “Zombies. They were zombies.” Jon spoke calmly, casually, as if it made perfect sense. His mother looked at him and shuddered. She started to shake a bit more, tears welling up in her eyes.

  “Mom? Mom, stay with me. That wasn’t them. They were already dead.”

  Zombies. Okay. I killed zombies. Now what? How did it happen? Why did it happen? What the hell is going on?

  “Mom, we need to find out what is going on.”

  His mother stood and looked at him. He walked over to the window and pulled the curtain away so he could see the back yard. Nothing seemed out of the ordinary.

  What was I expecting … fires and explosions? This isn’t the movies. This is real life.

  He watched another minute. Neither he nor his mother moved. Nothing moved. It was just his normal back yard at quarter after seven in the morning. “I’m going down stairs to see if there is anything on the news about what’s going on. There is no way this only happened to us.”

  His mother took a pair of jeans and a shirt from the dresser and turned to follow her son. “Yeah, Jonathan. Let’s go downstairs.”

  Jon led the way. He stopped at the bottom and looked around. The curtains were still drawn, front door shut.

  Seriously, what am I expecting here? I must be in shock. That’s it. I’m in shock. Any minute my mind is going to catch up with me and I’m going to totally lose it.

  The smell of coffee wafted over him.

  At least I can get a nice cup of coffee.

  Jon laughed out loud, he couldn’t help it.

  He looked at his mother and shrugged. He opened his mouth to explain but stopped. She walked by him to their living room and sat on the couch. Jon went to the kitchen. He heard her turn on the television. He stopped at the back door and moved the curtain.

  No fires or riots. Good.

  He went to the counter to make his mother a cup of coffee. Grabbing the mug labeled ‘Wifey,’ he set it by the pot. Reaching over, he picked up the one that said ‘Hubby.’ How many times had he heard his parents call each other that? Then he opened a lower cabinet with hi
s foot and put the ‘Hubby’ mug in the very back. He stood up and poured the coffee into the two remaining mugs. Jon tried to grab the cups and only then realized he hadn’t let go of his bat. He looked around the room.

  What am I waiting for? What am I afraid of? Put the bat down, take the coffee to the living room, and see what is going on. Maybe it’s nothing. Maybe we are crazy. Maybe we snapped. Just put the bat down. Take the coffee. Go.

  With the bat still in his right hand, he picked up the mugs with his left, went into the living room, and sat on the couch next to his mother. She took her mug and sipped the coffee. She looked at her mug and exhaled a ragged breath, then turned her attention to the television. Neither said a word.

  “Reports are coming into the Channel 5 newsroom that a group of mental patients have escaped and are in the downtown area attacking anyone they see. Police are assessing the situation and are asking that only essential personnel enter the downtown area until the situation is under control.”

  Jon took the remote and changed the channel. Another talking head, a blonde woman with perfect hair and makeup, was caught mid-sentence, “…seem to have some form of rabies and are biting …”

  Click.

  “Emails and texts are now coming in from the outlying areas of more attacks of people in the street and in some homes.”

  Click.

  “… called in to put down riots in both the Riverbend Maximum Security Institution and the Charles B. Bass Correctional Complex.”

  Click.

  “… outbreaks are being reported from all parts of the country. No statement has been released from the White House.”

  Click.

  This time he turned off the TV. They sat in silence, his mother still sipping her coffee.

  “It’s not only here and it’s not only us,” he said. “Whatever it is, it’s happening all over the country.”

  He looked at his mother. She sat there with a blank look on her face. Even though she had changed into her jeans and shirt while he was in the kitchen, she still had blood in her hair and on her hands and face. He looked at himself and realized, for the first time, that he was covered in blood, bits of flesh clung to his shirt and shorts. He shuddered and stood up.