More than Survival (A Zombie Apocalypse Love Story Book 1)

by Kate L. Mary

  “Michael,” I whispered.

  “Diana?”

  Daisy grabbed my arm, but I couldn’t look away. I was stuck in a time warp that pulled me back to a life that now felt more like a dream than reality. To a man who was long dead, but somehow sitting right in front of me.

  The man turned his face again and Michael disappeared. I shook my head, the spell broken, and closed my eyes. The pain in my chest was so sharp it took my breath away. I felt disoriented. Lost. Confused.

  “Diana?” Daisy said again. I opened my eyes to find her brown eyes trained on me. “Are you okay?”

  “I’m fine,” I lied.

  “Smith, Foster,” Sergeant Anderson barked, drawing our attention his way.

  He was a burly guy, despite our rations. Short and stocky, with forearms that seemed too big for his small frame and light brown skin that made him look like he’d just come back from a vacation in Florida. He’d been active duty Army when all this went down, and even though most of the military guys had long ago stopped trying to keep their hair regulation length, he was one of the few who still found time to trim his dark hair every few weeks. His beard, however, was so out of control that I sometimes wondered if every hair he cut off his head hadn’t somehow found a home on his face.

  “Sergeant Hendrix and her platoon could use some help getting settled in,” he said when we stopped at his side.

  He nodded to the tall woman next to him. She had wild red hair that was so wavy it defied the ponytail she’d tried to capture it in, and freckles dotting every inch of her exposed skin. Her broad shoulders brought the Olympics to mind, and made me remember the female swimmers I’d once loved watching so much. They’d had bodies just like the woman in front of me, all lean and muscular and ready for action.

  “I’d love to help them get settled in,” Daisy purred.

  “That’s not what I meant,” Sergeant Anderson said, and then he narrowed his dark eyes at her. “Son of a bitch, Smith. Have you been drinking?”

  “Champagne.” She shrugged because she didn’t scare easily, but also because she and I were no longer members of the militia or home guard or any other unit that still existed. “It’s been five years.”

  “Shit.” Anderson’s eyes snapped to me. “You sober?”

  “Sober enough to show a platoon around.”

  The sergeant rolled his eyes before turning back to the exhausted platoon. “Foster here is going to show you around,” he called, and I saw the man at the back, the one I’d mistaken for Michael, perk up. “She’ll show you where the showers are, but keep them short and sweet. We like to conserve our water and the rain’s been light this week. When you’ve all had a chance to get cleaned up she’ll get you a bunk. Get some rest. Dinner is at 0600. Don’t be late.”

  He nodded once to Sergeant Hendrix before turning away.

  The female sergeant gave me a once over like she wanted to make sure I wasn’t going to fall on my ass. “Lead the way, Foster.”

  “Diana,” I corrected her as I started walking, motioning for her to follow me.

  Hendrix only nodded, which told me that she wasn’t really interested in being on a first name basis. Not that it mattered. These guys would be in and out in a matter of days. This was just a pit stop for them because platoons like this had no permanent home. They traveled the country trying to infiltrate the now quiet hives that were set up all over the country, braving the new world we lived in. It was a noble thing to do because being out there was creepy as hell. Like stepping into a science fiction movie or through a portal to another planet. In the city it wasn’t too bad because they had settled in more open areas, but once you got out into what had formerly been farms and fields and forests, the world was a different place.

  The bomb that had destroyed the mall and my life had only been the beginning. The explosions had happened all over the state, all over the country, and probably all over the world. The craters that were left behind by the blasts had been huge, deep and wide and seemingly endless, but they hadn’t been the worst part. Less than twenty-four hours later things had started growing out of them. Foreign vines and plants that wove their way across the ground and over anything in their path, they’d covered cars and roads and buildings and continued to spread out while above us the skies grew darker. The clouds blotted out every inch of blue sky, making it impossible for even a single ray of sun to get through, slowly killing most of the plants that were native to this planet. The animals weren’t far behind. Species dropped left and right, dying when the food or people they’d depended on disappeared. That was why we lived in the city now. That was why we were crammed into office buildings instead of living in houses and enjoying the world. Because the world we had known five years ago no longer existed.

  The showers were on the first floor at the far end. We were fortunate enough that this building had installed a gym for its employees, and that some genius had figured out how to collect rainwater from outside and funnel it in. We had a pretty regular supply thanks to our new atmosphere—apparently these assholes liked to be wet—but we still had to ration it because we needed water to drink too. The showers weren’t hot, that was a luxury we’d probably never have again, but it didn’t matter. These days, no one would complain about the temperature of the water during their bi-weekly showers.

  The platoon didn’t talk much as I led them through the building, but I could hear Daisy’s quiet chatter at the back of the group and I knew she’d found her guy. When I glanced over my shoulder I could just see the top of her blond head. The guy at her side was her typical type: tall and broad and not white. Daisy was as white as the flower she was named after, but I hadn’t seen her hook up with a single white guy. Hispanic, Black, Indian, and Asian, yes. White, no way. I’d asked her once why and she’d simply told me that she preferred diversity in her life. Not that I cared who she slept with just as long as they didn’t give her anything or get her knocked up.

  We reached the locker rooms and I nodded to the door as I turned to face Hendrix. “This is it. Everything you need should be inside.”

  The sergeant nodded once before turning to her platoon. “Let’s get in and out so we can grab some shuteye. We have five hours until chow time and less than seventy-two hours until we head out again.” Her gaze zeroed in on the guy Daisy had latched onto. “I want everyone’s focus on rest.”

  The guy nodded, but the way his dark eyes focused on Daisy told me sleep was the last thing on his mind. He was around thirty, older than her but not by much, and I was sure that anyone who wasn’t nursing a severe case of heartache would have said he was attractive. He’d shaved his head and his jaw was just as smooth. Next to Daisy his skin looked dark, but it was just because she was so freaking pale, because his complexion would be better described as caramel than brown.

  “Foster,” an unfamiliar voice called out.

  I turned at the sound of my name only to find that the guy I’d mistaken for Michael had done the same. That’s when I realized who he was. Foster wasn’t an uncommon name and if I hadn’t already mistaken this guy for my dead husband in a moment of drunkenness I would have passed it off as nothing, but it would be impossible to now. Shit. He was Michael’s younger brother.

  Want to read more? You can grab The Blood Will Dry on Kindle and Kindle Unlimited!

  Broken World

  Chapter One

  The car sputters when I maneuver it into a space, but it doesn’t die. Not yet, anyway. The small orange light screams at me from the dashboard—check engine. Ten hours, that’s how long I’ve been on the road. I didn’t really believe this piece of shit would make it all the way to California, but I’d hoped it would at least get me halfway there.

  I squeeze my eyes shut and rest my forehead on the steering wheel, right between my clenched fists. The orange words dance across the back of my eyelids. Even with my eyes closed I can’t escape them. They taunt me. Check engine. They may as well be you failed. That’s what it feels like.

  I jer
k the keys out of the ignition and grab my travel papers off the dashboard, shoving them both in my purse. Leaving the papers behind would get my car broken into for sure, plus I’ll need them if I run into a cop. If my papers get stolen, I’ll be stranded.

  The diner is the type of place I would normally avoid. It’s nothing more than a truck stop really, probably fifty years old or more. I’m sure the walls are coated in grease, and the bathrooms most likely haven’t been cleaned well since the late eighties. It’s full of truckers and white trash. People who remind me of the life I ran from. But I don’t have a choice. I have to pee, and this is the only route open that leads to California.

  The inside is exactly the way I imagined it. Old booths with cracked seats covered in duct tape, the walls brown and grimy. The grease invades my pores and nostrils the second I step in. It goes down into my lungs and coats them in a thick, oily film. I want to get in and out of this place as fast as possible.

  I’ve only taken two steps when a man stops me. He’s big and round, and his face is red and sweaty. The pits of his shirt are stained an ugly yellow-brown color that smells as bad as it looks. Even over the grease and cigarettes his pungent odor burns my nostrils. He also has a gun strapped to his chest.

  “Papers.” He holds his hand out expectantly. His face is hard.

  My heart pounds as I pull the papers out of my purse and hesitantly hand them to the man. Hopefully, he actually works here and he’s not robbing me. I hold my breath while he slowly unfolds them, then exhale when his eyes narrow on the fine print. His mouth is pulled into a tight line when he nods.

  He folds the papers in half, snapping his fingers across the crease before handing them back. “Welcome.” It sounds more like a death sentence than a welcome.

  I return his tense smile and shove the papers back in my purse. “Where’s the bathroom?”

  He tilts his head to the right, but doesn’t say a word. I nod and head in the direction he indicated, keeping my eyes down, trying not to meet anyone’s gaze. I don’t need to look at the people to know what expressions they wear. It’s the same everywhere. Fear, frustration, hopelessness, and loss. It’s how things have been since martial law was declared six weeks ago. And I’m tired of it. I have my own worries. I don’t want to see the despair in other people’s eyes, don’t want to focus on anyone else’s problems.

  The bathroom is empty, thankfully, and just as dirty as I imagined it would be. I squat over the toilet, trying my best not to touch the seat. The pressure in my bladder is agonizing. I’d started to think I was going to have to pee on the side of the road.

  A sigh of relief whooshes out of me when I’ve finally relieved myself. I pull up my skinny jeans and head out to wash my hands. The mirror hanging above the sink is cracked and filmy. I can’t make anything out other than my tangled blonde hair. I work my fingers through the knots and look away from the mirror. Doesn’t matter how I look. There won’t be anyone to impress on this trip.

  I wash my hands and shake them dry before heading back out into the diner. No way am I eating here. It would be a waste of time. Plus, I have no desire to sit and breathe in this grease-filled air. But coffee is a must. I want to make it at least another four hours before pulling over for the night.

  A woman in her fifties stands behind the register. She wears the same uniform as the other waitresses: orange dress with short sleeves and an apron that probably used to be white. The entire thing is now splattered with food and grease, old and worn just like she is. Her hair is short and jet black, the kind of color that only comes from a bottle, and the creases on her face are so deep they’re probably just as full of grease as the walls of the diner. Her arms cross over her chest and she shakes her head, frowning at the man in front of her.

  “Please, I’m begging you. I was on a business trip when this all started. I’ve been stranded for weeks trying to get home to my family. I’ve spent every last penny I had on my physical and a car. I’m starving.” His voice is desperate, begging. Same story, different person.

  “No credit,” the woman says. She won’t budge. Why would she? People like her are making a killing off travelers. A few weeks ago, she probably barely made enough money to live on. And now…well, if this all blows over, she’ll be comfortable.

  The man pleads for a bit longer and I shift from foot to foot, waiting for him to get the point. I should have some sympathy for him. I should. But if I felt bad for every person I passed who was desperate and running out of time…if I did that, I wouldn’t be able to keep going. I’d sit down on the floor right here in the middle of this diner and never move again.

  The television mounted on the wall catches my eye, and I tune the man out. It’s an old tube TV and the reception is awful, but the news is on. Maybe there will be an update on the virus.

  “…travelers are advised to display their papers at all times and to keep to approved routes. Anyone who is found traveling on closed highways or without papers will be arrested immediately and held until martial law has been lifted.

  In local news, police are still on the lookout for two men responsible for robbing several convenience stores in the St. Louis area. They are described as two white males in their mid- to late-twenties and were last seen traveling in a dark blue SUV. They are considered armed and dangerous…”

  “That’s it,” the woman at the counter says, making me jump. She nods to the armed man at the door, then turns to me. I guess she finally got tired of listening to the desperate man. “What can I get you?”

  Her gaze holds mine. Both of us avoid looking at the man as he’s dragged from the diner. Neither one of us bats an eye when he screams for mercy. Begs for help. My throat constricts, burning a little at his cries. But I can’t give in.

  “Coffee,” I say. “To go.”

  She nods and turns away, not even bothering to ask me if I have cash. She shouldn’t have to. Not with the giant sign over the register that says Cash Only, and not after the screaming man was ripped from the building.

  I lean against the counter and close my eyes for a second. My shoulders slump and my limbs feel weighed down, like they’re made of lead. I feel a hundred years old, not twenty.

  When I open my eyes, my gaze locks with a man a few booths away. Everything about him screams redneck. From his flannel shirt, unbuttoned to reveal his wifebeater and beer belly, to the bulge in his lower lip. His upper lip curls and his eyes go over my pin-up body. He nods in approval and raises an eyebrow. He’s in his thirties, probably getting close to forty, and he’s hard. Like he’s been dealt a rough life and didn’t have an issue giving some back. I’ve known men like him. Hell, I’ve dated men like him.

  There’s another man sitting at the table with him, but his back is to me so I can’t tell what he looks like. Probably more of the same. The first man grins and picks up a soda can, spitting into it. My stomach churns. He gives me the creeps.

  I turn away when the waitress comes back carrying a cup of coffee. “That’ll be five bucks.”

  I dig my nails into my palms. “Five dollars? What do you think this is, Starbucks?”

  She purses her lips and both her penciled-on eyebrows pull together. “I know this ain’t Starbucks, but I also know there ain’t another place to get a cup of coffee for ‘bout fifty miles. And that’s if you’re goin’ east. If you’re headin’ west, it’s further.”

  I’m going west, of course.

  I rip the cup out of her hand as violently as I can without spilling it and slam a five-dollar bill on the counter. “Don’t expect a tip.”

  I turn on my heel and walk out of the diner, keeping my eyes straight ahead so I don’t have to look at the redneck again. His eyes bore into me as I go.

  I make it three more hours before the car sputters and starts to slow. That’s all. My foot slams on the gas pedal, but nothing happens. The wheel is stiff as I turn it hard to the right and pull to the shoulder. A car blares its horn when it flies by. I probably got the finger, but my vision is too clouded b
y tears to know for sure. It’s over. This is it.

  The entire car jerks when the engine sputters, then dies completely. I don’t even bother putting it in park. There’s no point. It’s never moving again. I stare straight ahead. What do I do now? There’s a sign about fifteen feet in front of me, announcing that the next check point is twenty miles away. I can walk or I can try to hitch a ride. Both are a risk. But then again, so is sitting here.

  I grab my purse and pull out the photo, clutching it so tight the paper crinkles. Her blue eyes stare up at me, big and round. Innocent. Squeezing my heart and making my throat constrict. I just wanted to see her one time before it all ended. Just once.

  A horn honks and I jump, almost dropping the picture. A car has pulled to the side of the road less than six feet behind me. My heart pounds and every muscle in my body tightens. Good or bad? I don’t know. No one gets out of the car, and I can’t see in.

  My purse is still in my lap.

  I put the picture back and pull out my gun.

  Closing my eyes, I take a deep breath, then open the door and step out. It’s a dark blue Nissan Armada. A monster of a vehicle. The windows are tinted so dark there’s no way it can be legal. The outline of two men is barely visible through the dark windows, but I can’t tell who they are or what they look like. And I have no idea what they’re doing.

  I take two small steps toward the car and the driver’s side door opens. The redneck from the diner steps out.

  “Well, hello there!” he drawls. His accent isn’t southern exactly, more low-class than anything else. He keeps the door open as he steps away from the car, his own gun clutched in his right hand. “What a surprise. Thought I’d never see you again.” He winks.