The Good, The Bad, And The Undead : A zombie Apocalypse (The Wild Wild Midwest Book 1)

by Gill, Bonnie

  The Good, The Bad, and The Undead

  The Wild, Wild Midwest Book 1

  Bonnie Gill

  The law is gone.

  Zombies are here.

  Will Raven and her misfit friends survive?

  Raven Murphy is a prepper, but not for the same reason most other folks do it. She’s the reason her ex-boyfriend went to jail. If he ever gets out, she’ll need to grab her sister and head off-grid. In the meantime, she’s a top-notch auto mechanic with an entire arsenal of her much loved firearms in the closet of her trailer. She’s ready to go to war with the ex if she ever needs to.

  The people in her trailer park in Fox Lake are a unique community. A little quirky, and some are downright weird, but for Raven, they’re family. But when a plague hits the country, victims of a creepy virus are headed toward them. Raven teams up with pals, including a couple of ex-Army guys, to protect her neighbors.

  Whatever’s coming, the good, the bad, or the undead, Raven and her gun-shooting, bomb-making, booby-trap-setting team aren’t going down without a fight.

  To my family.

  Copyright © 2020 by Bonnie Gill

  All rights reserved.

  This book is a work of fiction. The names, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, business establishments, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  Formatted by Paula Millhouse with Vellum.

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Afterword

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Also by Bonnie Gill

  1

  I look out the window, a cup in my hand. I love early mornings. The hot coffee and peace and quiet of a fresh day brings a smile to my lips. Safe and sound. I’ve only felt this kind of tranquility over the past year. My gut tells me this won’t last, but I keep hoping. One day, I’ll be back on the road running for my life or stuck behind bars. That much is inevitable.

  An older woman with a long braid of black and silver hair chases a boy around her trailer. He dodges to the left and right. She swings her fly swatter like the pro she is and smacks him in the arm. “You get back here Thomas Washington.” She taps him again.

  The boy, about ten years old, grins at her over his shoulder and laughs.

  I open my door and step down the stairs. A brisk, northern gust of chilly April wind blows my hair and a shiver creeps up my neck. “Good morning Mrs. Garcia.”

  She snatches the hood on the back of Tommy’s coat and turns to look at me. “Hello, Raven.”

  Thomas swings his arms and pulls, trying to get away. But Mrs. Garcia holds tight.

  “I see the pests are in full swing this morning. Is Tommy giving you trouble?” I ask. Tommy is one of three boys who lives a few trailers over. I’ve babysat them a few times when their parents were in a pinch. I’ve never had a problem with any of them.

  “He broke my fence.” She nods to the white pickets. They’re the kind you stake in the ground and stand about eight inches tall. One section flops in the breeze.

  “I’m sorry. I swung my backpack, and it accidentally hit the fence.” Tommy holds up his hands and shrugs.

  “Well, you’ll make it up to me after school. I have chores you can do. I’ll let your mother know.” Mrs. Garcia sneaks a smile at him. She’s lonely and loves having the children of the mobile home park over. Her so-called “chores” will include feeding her cat and painting colorful rocks to put in her garden. She has hundreds of them piled up around her daisies and coneflowers. In the summer, her yard is bursting with a bright kaleidoscope of colors.

  A yellow school bus rounds the corner of the trailer park.

  “Go on, you need to catch your bus. You don’t want to be late for school,” Mrs. Garcia says as she swats him in the butt with the flyswatter.

  Tommy takes off down the street, his backpack swinging from side to side.

  “He’s a good boy. He just needs his energy put to good use.”

  I nod.

  “Tonight is poker night. Do you want me to save you a spot?” Mrs. Garcia hosts poker at her home every Friday night. Three of her friends come over, and they play for pennies. These grandmotherly type women are ruthless when it comes to cards—they’ve cleaned me out of pennies more than a few times.

  “I don’t know. It depends on if I have to work late tonight.”

  “We’ll have margaritas,” she says in a sing-song voice. Mrs. Garcia makes the best margaritas. I can almost taste the tart slushy lemon-lime and salted rim.

  “I’ll let you know.”

  “Speaking of late, your sister and her rowdy friend made a bunch of racket at three o’clock in the morning. If they’re going to be out all hours gallivanting, they need to tone it down when they come home or move into one of those singles apartment buildings.” She winks at me. She tries to come across as a cranky old woman, but her heart is huge.

  My sister, Star, and her friend, Daria work at a bar. They often come home during the wee hours of the night. But they know better about making noise. “I’ll talk to her. I’m sorry if she woke you.”

  Mrs. Garcia swipes her hand in front of her face. “No, I was up already. I don’t sleep very well.”

  “I promise I’ll talk to her. Is there anything you need while I’m out today? I can stop at the store after work.” She often asks me to pick up snacks for her friends.

  “I’ll call you if I need anything. You better get ready. I hear your boss is strict.” She laughs.

  My boss runs a tight shop. He also lives on the other side of the mobile home park. When I get into work, there will be a line of cars waiting for repairs. They’ll need alternators replaced, oil changed, and tires patched. The glamorous life of an auto mechanic. Personally, I like to be called an automotive technician—we do a lot more technical work than mechanical. Most cars these days are packed with more computers than the first space shuttle.

  I guzzle my cup of coffee and head into the shower.

  I get dressed, French braid my hair, and drive to work.

  As expected, five cars are waiting when I pull into the parking lot. I finish three oil changes and replace an intake manifold gasket before noon.

  My boss, Dean, sits at the counter with a cup of coffee in his hand. He’s tall and thin, his hair is gray, and he has dark skin. He looks around fifty-five, but I wasn’t about to ask his age.

  He takes a sip and twists his lips. “Maybe we should invest in a new coffeemaker?”

  It’s true. We need to do something. I’ve tried cleaning the machine with vinegar, but the coffee sti
ll comes out bitter.

  “We could blow it up. I don’t think it’s salvageable.” I pour myself a cup.

  The newscaster on the television pops up on the screen. Thousands of cases of the Gabhart virus have been reported. Chicago and St. Louis are now on the outbreak list. Officials are talking about quarantining Chicago. New York and Los Angeles have a curfew, and they barricaded the roads. If you show symptoms, please wear a mask and stay at home. You need to go to the hospital if your fever is over one hundred and four. Symptoms include running nose, cough, vomiting, and fever. Stay at home and shelter in place.

  Looking at the images on the screen behind the newscaster, I calculate over three-hundred people lined up in front of the hospital. All ages; young, old, and even people who look to be in their twenties. They all have a weird grayish tint to their skin, dark circles around their eyes, and are coughing up loogies.

  The newscaster finishes up by saying, we have an exclusive interview coming up with Dr. Ralph Gabhart. Stay tuned.

  I look at Dean. “How the heck are they going to quarantine the city?”

  He turns off the television. “Who knows? The water pump on that Cavalier won’t replace itself.”

  The Cavalier has an overhead camshaft engine and the water pump is buried beneath it. I’m an hour into replacing the water pump when I hear Dean talking to a customer. The man is wearing a suit, and he coughs out every other word. I can hear the mucus slurping up and down his throat. I want to gag.

  “Can I get you some water?” Dean asks.

  “No, I’ll be okay. My wife and kids gave me their nasty cold. They’ve had it for over a week.” He signs the receipt and hands Dean the pen. “It’s not the virus.”

  Using a paper towel to avoid touching it, Dean tosses the writing utensil into the garbage and hands the man his receipt. “Thank you. I hope you feel better.”

  After the man leaves, Dean runs to the sink and washes his hands. I’d do the same and maybe use some alcohol for disinfecting, too. People need to stay home when they’re sick. Instead, they think they have to prove to everyone how strong they are because they can function while they have a fever. All they’re proving is that they’re douche bags. They spread their germs to everyone who comes within a few feet of contact. Which is why we now have an epidemic.

  I try to remember if I wore rubber gloves when I worked on his car. I usually do, but from now on, I’ll make sure I wear them at all times. The last thing I need is to catch some kind of crud. If I don’t work, I don’t get paid. If I don’t get paid, the rent won’t get paid. Star works at the bar to pay for her schooling. I pay rent, utilities, and groceries. As long as she’s in school studying hard, I don’t mind.

  When our mother was alive, she was a waitress and always worked long, crazy hours. I wanted Star to choose a career where she has the potential to make some decent money. I do okay. Maybe someday, I’ll own my own shop. Right now, I make enough to pay the bills. Living in a mobile home isn’t bad. I’ve gotten to know my neighbors over the last few years. We have a unique community—some people are kind of quirky, and some are downright weird, but they care about each other. To me, that makes them family.

  “How’s that water pump going?” Dean calls out with the phone in his hand.

  That’s right. It seems like every person who brings in their car expects their repairs done within the hour, even when we tell them the job will take over four hours. They also don’t realize that a bunch of other people have also brought in their vehicles. It’s just me and Dean working here. We can’t perform miracles.

  “I forgot my magic wand. Give me an hour or so,” I say. “I still have to bleed the coolant system, and then it should sit overnight. Unless you want to take a chance, and let it go early?”

  “Right. I’ll let them know they can pick it up tomorrow. Are you coming in?”

  I would really like a Saturday off. I haven’t had one off in over three months. “Yeah, I’ll be here.”

  A couple of hours later, I finish up the repairs and hand him the last set of keys.

  He leans against the wall, intently staring at the TV. We advise everyone to stay home, the woman newscaster says.

  “Wow, this flu is getting serious,” I say.

  “Maybe we shouldn’t open tomorrow?” Dean asks.

  “I feel okay.”

  “It’s not you I’m worried about. It’s all the people coming in here coughing and snotting all over my shop. I don’t want to catch this. It seems nasty. People are calling it a pandemic. Are you still prepping?”

  I started prepping—preparing for a disaster years ago. Every week I buy something for my stash. Last week, I bought a campfire coffee percolator. The week before, I purchased another solar cell phone charger. I pick up extra cans of beef stew, hash, and tuna whenever I go grocery shopping. I have enough food to last me for about six months. I tell everyone I’m prepping in case of a natural emergency, but honestly, it’s because if Seth ever finds out where I live, I can disappear fast. Go “off-grid”. I figure I spend about twenty-five dollars a week on prepping, not counting weapons and ammo. “You know I am. Why?”

  “Have you looked on any of the chat boards lately? Everyone is speculating that this is the beginning of the apocalypse.”

  A lot of preppers post their conspiracy theories on different message boards—little green men, Bigfoot, and weather controlling weapons are big ones. They theorize that pharmaceutical companies are spraying viruses through airplane chemtrails so more people will get flu shots. That doesn’t seem too far “out there” right now. Every month it’s something new. But the result is always the same: life as we currently know it will end.

  I haven’t checked the boards in weeks since I wasn’t really prepping for their emergencies, only mine.

  “No. That’s crazy. It’s just the flu.”

  He shakes his head. “That’s what the government wants you to think. India and China have closed their borders. They’ve canceled all overseas flights. Oh, and Canada has closed their borders, too.” He points at me as if to say gotcha.

  “That doesn’t sense. Canada is usually so friendly. Maybe they don’t want to get sick?”

  “Exactly. I have a feeling nothing about life will be the same in a week. I’m thinking if we have to bug out, we should go to the fishing cabins.”

  Dean rents a small fishing cabin in Wisconsin for two weeks every summer. There are several cabins situated around a pond and no cell phone signal. I’ve gone up there on weekends to get away from everything. It’s peaceful, and the owners are pretty cool. Most people go to hunt, fish, or just to get away from the city. “That’s a great idea. I can hold down the fort here.”

  “Raven, you and Star should come with me. When the crap hits the fan, it tends to bring out the psycho in people. They’ll loot, and others will get hurt. Do you still have your gun in your truck?”

  “I do.” Little does he know, I have a whole arsenal.

  “Keep it with you from now on. It’ll be a free-for-all out there.” He looks off into the distance like a character in a horror movie, predicting the future.

  It gives me the creeps. “I sure hope it doesn’t come to that.”

  A warning about the flu scrolls across the bottom of the television screen. “I have to replace the battery in the BMW SUV, and then I’m going to take off. Do you think I can talk Star into blowing off work tonight?”

  “Good luck with that. You both have the same work ethic.” He winks at me.

  I think back to when I met Dean.

  I was on the run and headed to Wisconsin. Star and I had pulled into a little town called Fox Lake about sixty-five miles north of Chicago, and my belt tensioner started squeaking. I stopped at the first auto repair shop we came across. I’d only had a couple hundred dollars on me.

  “Hey there,” an older gentleman had greeted me. “It sounds like your tensioner took a dump.”

  “Hello. I was wondering if we could make a deal.”

  Fr
om the look on his face, he thought I would scam him.

  “I know my tensioner is bad. I’m a mechanic. I just don’t have my tools with me. I’m also a little short on cash. If you’d like, I can work the rest of the day for you. I have my ASE technician certification. I’ve rebuilt engines and transmissions.” I looked around and noticed there was a boatload of cars stacked up in his parking lot. “It looks like your shorthanded.”

  He rubbed his fingers across his short salt and pepper hair as if pondering the idea. “I could use some help. Are you any good?” He was a man of few words.

  I pulled my car into the shop, and it took me only fifteen minutes to replace my tensioner. He stood back, watching me work.

  “I’ll tell you what, I have five cars with regular maintenance waiting. If you complete all of them to my satisfaction, I’ll give you a little extra cash.” He handed me a clipboard with some repair orders on it.

  Throughout the day I worked on those vehicles. I changed oil, flushed fluids, and replaced spark plugs and wires. It was easy stuff, so I used two stalls. I’d always been an efficient worker. While the fluid drained on one, I worked on another. He must have liked what he saw because after I finished, he handed me sixty dollars.

  “I’m Dean. What’s your name?” he asked.

  “Raven Murphy,” I replied.

  He tilted his head. “You don’t look like a Raven to me. You look more like a Barbie.”

  It’s true. I have blond hair and blue eyes, the only “Raven” thing about me is my naturally tan skin. I shrugged. “It’s what my mom named me.”