Freaky Florida Mystery Adventures Box Set

by Margaret Lashley

  AS WE HEADED BACK TO the RV, I turned to Grayson. “Do you still think this is just another domestic homicide?”

  “No.”

  “What changed your mind?”

  “The pieces don’t fit. A deer—even a crazed one—wouldn’t stomp a man until every major bone in his body was broken. Wells is right. Animals don’t waste energy on revenge.”

  “What would, then?”

  Grayson kicked a stone out of the path. “Someone playing a game.”

  “Pan?” I scoffed.

  “Maybe. Or one of his friends.”

  I opened the RV door. “What are you talking about?”

  “Lester Jenkins was less than what you might consider a stellar representative of the human race.”

  I climbed the first step. “Yeah. So?”

  “Maybe the folks upstairs decided to crush Jenkins for his own repugnance.”

  I turned and looked Grayson in the eye. “That’s pretty brutal.”

  He shrugged. “No worse than you stepping on a cockroach.”

  Huh. I guess he had me there.

  Chapter Forty-Three

  I WAS IN DREADMORE Village.

  And they were after me.

  Hordes of rigor-mortis-faced zombies with earthworms and green goo dripping from their mouths.

  Struggling for breath, I stumbled as I ran from their eerie, Frankenstein shuffling. Frantic, I scanned the falling-down hovels for a refuge. My eyes fell upon a familiar one. I ducked inside the tin-roofed shack. My eyes darted around at the glowing green tanks of spirulina.

  In a dark corner to my left, something moved. My knees knocked together audibly. To my horror, old man T-Rex lunged at me, naked. He jabbed a tablespoon of green slime at my face. I bolted past him through the dirty plastic flaps and into the compost area.

  I climbed inside one of the wooden boxes to hide. As I sank into the dark, crumbly dirt, worms began to wriggle up and down my body. I wanted to scream, but the gurgling, snore-like breaths of nearby zombies made me hold my breath instead.

  I closed my eyes and prepared to die.

  Something tapped me on the shoulder. I turned and saw Grandma Selma. She was inside the box with me, stirring a pot of black goo. She lifted a spoon from the pot and offered me a taste. It looked and smelled like sh—”

  “You okay there, Drex?”

  I blinked. I was sitting in the RV banquette, a mug of coffee in front of me. “Uh ... yeah.”

  “Where were you? Didn’t you feel me tapping you on the shoulder?”

  “I ... oh. Yeah. I felt it. I guess I was just having a daydream.”

  “About what?”

  I cringed. “Dreadmore. Everyone there was a zombie.”

  “I hope it was a dream and not a premonition,” Grayson said as he sat down across from me. “I hate to say it, but this zombie deer disease is a real powder keg. If it goes ....” He shook his head. “We could be looking at the tip of the iceberg, Drex—at a whole new ball game.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “These preppers. They’re waiting on the apocalypse, right?”

  “Yeah.”

  “But what if they are the apocalypse?”

  Grayson sat back and laughed bitterly. “It all fits. I should’ve seen it before. It’s a classic ploy from the universe’s twisted mind.”

  I stared at Grayson. “What are you talking about?”

  He blew out a breath. “The universe has a history of turning goons with guns into mindless assassins.”

  “Okay.”

  “While you were toasting marshmallows last night, I did some research. Do you know that sixty-eight million Americans own survival gear?” He shook his head. “There are over four million hardcore preppers out there, Drex. All sitting around waiting in fear of the total collapse of society. But what if it’s a self-fulfilling prophecy? What if, by preparing for the end of the world as we know it, they bring it on themselves?”

  I swallowed hard. “You mean by becoming zombies?”

  Grayson smiled wryly. “You have to admit, it would be the ultimate irony. And you know how the universe loves irony.”

  “But what about—”

  A knock sounded on the side door. I sprung from my seat to answer it, glad for the distraction.

  Officer Wells was at the door. “I just came back from checking the bunker at Jenkins’ house. If there was any deer meat in there, it’s long gone now. Somebody left the bunker door open.”

  I sighed. “Great. So, now we might be looking at an army of zombie raccoons and possums, too. Come on in.”

  Wells grimaced at the prospect and stepped inside.

  “I’d say at the moment, that’s the least of our worries,” Grayson said. “So, where next? Jenkins’ cabin?”

  “I was just heading over there,” Wells said. “You guys mind giving me some backup?”

  “Be happy to,” Earl’s voice sounded from the open door.

  Wells’ boyish face drooped like a soggy piñata. “Great.”

  AS WE DROVE PAST REXEL’S house on the way to Jenkins’ cabin, I noticed his military-precision lawn had gone to pot like the rest of the abandoned subdivision.

  “I hope the poor guy doesn’t have mad deer disease,” I said.

  “Maybe he’s just off his meds,” Earl said. “Which way?”

  “Follow Wells,” Grayson said.

  “Can’t. He stopped back yonder.”

  I glanced in the rearview mirror. Wells’ patrol car was pulled to the side of the road in front of one of the dozens of vacant lots. He was waving for us to go on ahead.

  “It’s just straight up there at the end of the road,” I said to Earl. “We’ll stop there and wait for him.”

  Earl pulled Bessie up to where the abandoned road disappeared abruptly into swampy pine forest and palmettos. The three of us climbed out of the monster truck and fed a few mosquitoes while we waited for Wells to catch up.

  “How far back in them woods is it?” Earl asked, swatting the back of his neck.

  I envisioned the zigzagging trail and wondered if its erratic design was intentional, or if it was a sign that Lester Jenkins had been losing his mind for some time now.

  “As the crow flies, I’d say a tenth of a mile,” I said. “As the possum trots, a good half mile, minimum.”

  Grayson shot me an amused grin. “Possum trots?”

  “Here he comes,” Earl said.

  Wells pulled his patrol car alongside us and climbed out slowly. His face was as pale as talcum powder.

  “What’s happened?” Grayson asked.

  “You’re not going to believe this,” Wells said. He shook his head. “I don’t believe this.”

  “What?” I asked.

  “I just got a call from dispatch. Someone reported finding a pile of coffins dumped along the road to Dreadmore.”

  “That’s weird,” I said.

  “That’s not the weird part,” Wells said. “According to dispatch, the person who called in the report said that two of the coffins contained dead bodies.”

  “Well, they are coffins,” Grayson said.

  Wells shook his head. “That’s not the weird part, either. The dispatcher said he was on the line with the caller when the guy screamed, ‘They’re coming back to life!’ Then the connection went dead.”

  Chapter Forty-Four

  THE SEARCH FOR INFECTED deer meat in Jenkins’ cabin would have to wait. If Wells’ police report about people in coffins coming back to life was true, that meant Earl had been right, too. A zombie apocalypse was well underway—and ground zero was Dreadmore Village.

  “Climb in, Officer Wells,” Earl hollered. “From what Bobbie told me, that puny little patrol car of yours’ll never make it down the road to Dreadmore.”

  Wells took half a second to concede Earl’s point and yelled back, “I call shotgun.”

  We scrambled up into Earl’s monster truck and wedged ourselves in for the ride. Grayson and I were the ham and cheese between two slices of
American white bread—one at the wheel and the other barking directions out the window.

  “Take a left,” Wells said. “Then a straight shot down SR39.”

  Earl hit the gas, then eased off. “Hold up. You think this might be a trick?”

  “A trick?” I asked as we coasted down the road.

  “You know. By all them zombies. Think they’re just trying to lure us out to Dreadmore so’s they can eat our brains out?”

  “The one that got you would starve to death,” I said. “You think maybe we should stop by Walmart and pick up some torches and pitchforks?”

  Earl shook his head. “Some monster hunter you are, Bobbie. Everybody knows you got to shoot a zombie in the noggin to kill it.”

  I glanced over at Wells. Good thing he was by the window. He looked as green as a dill pickle. “Let’s get going,” he said. “I’m the only cop responding.”

  “Why?” Grayson asked.

  The tendons in Wells’ neck tightened. “Thanks to my brother and you guys, I’m the department’s official ‘Monster Boy.’”

  Grayson stifled a grin. “In that case, better step on it, Earl. If lore is correct, you’re right. The only way to stop a zombie is with a bullet to the head.”

  My mind flashed back to my daydream, premonition—whatever it was—of zombies run amok in Dreadmore. I’d said I’d wanted to be at ground zero when the apocalypse happened. God had finally answered one of my prayers.

  Gee. Thanks, God.

  I grabbed my purse and scrounged for my Glock. I found the pink carrying case under a stack of coupons for Glade air freshener, which I kept forgetting to buy. I pulled out the gun case and yelled, “If this is it, I hope everybody’s packing plenty of ammo!”

  “THAT’S IT, COMING UP on the left,” Wells said.

  He pointed to a road that wasn’t much more than two orange clay strips worn into the knee-high grass of an abandoned cattle pasture. “Turn here, and try to stay in the ruts.”

  Earl hooked a left and Bessie’s fat tractor tires started mowing down grass on either side of the overgrown road. The first quarter mile wasn’t too bad. But when the pasture gave way to palmettos and the ground turned marshy, even Bessie began to struggle.

  “Last night’s rain didn’t help matters,” Wells said. “We may have to get out and push.”

  “Bessie don’t like people touching her rear end,” Earl said, and punched the gas.

  After flinging enough red mud to plaster a Zeppelin, Bessie maneuvered through an acre of swamp glop all the way to the base of a small hill. Earl shifted to low gear, stuck his tongue out for assistance, and steered the monster truck toward the top of the mound.

  “Woohoo! Thank heaven for Bessie!” he hollered as we reached the top.

  We all sighed with relief—until we rounded a corner and another patch of pasture came into view.

  Earl slammed on the brakes. But this time, the terrain wasn’t the problem.

  A black pickup truck was angled sideways across the lane. Behind it, scattered along the side of the road, lay a jumble of cheap wooden coffins, most of them broken open. Amongst them, three men were busy beating the life out of one another.

  A fourth man was already face down on the ground.

  “I’m confused,” Earl said. “Are they fighting to get inside them coffins, or out of ’em?”

  I cringed. “What the hell’s going on?”

  “Zombies,” Grayson muttered.

  “Which ones?” I asked.

  Given that all four men had bloody faces, torn clothes and stunk to high heaven, it was a fair question.

  “Only one way to find out,” Grayson said.

  “How?” Wells asked.

  Grayson answered his question, but I wasn’t listening.

  I didn’t want to know.

  Chapter Forty-Five

  “YOU KNOW HOW TO DRIVE this thing?” Grayson asked me.

  I tore my eyes away from the wrestling zombies. “Bessie? Yes.”

  “Good. You stay here. Keep the engine idling. We may need to make a quick getaway.”

  Wells and Earl were already out of the truck and getting a feel for their weapons. Earl had his trusty Mossberg shotgun aimed at the zombies. Wells had his service revolver aimed at the ground.

  “You got your Glock?” I asked Grayson.

  He gave a quick nod. “Always.”

  “Be careful,” I said, and scooted into the driver’s seat. I watched through the windshield as the three men took cautious steps toward the brawling trio.

  “Break it up!” Wells yelled.

  The three zombies looked up, surprised at the intrusion. I recognized one of the brawlers as Jake, the hard-faced survivalist who thought bugs and field mice were perfect dinnertime snacks. Another one was Lester Jenkins’ half-brother, Hank Chambers. The third guy I’d never seen before.

  “What’s going on here?” Wells demanded.

  “He did it!” Chambers yelled.

  “I did not!” Jake yelled back.

  “Did too!” the third man screamed.

  The three men went at each other again like bullies in a graveyard playground.

  Men. Even when they’re zombies, nothing changes.

  “Hold it right there,” Wells said, “or I’ll shoot all your kneecaps out.”

  The zombie-men stopped strangling and punching each other, and slowly turned toward Wells. Their faces, bruised and bloody, appeared, for lack of a better word, hungry.

  I swallowed hard. Now what?

  “Any of you armed?” Wells asked.

  “Only if you count treachery,” Chambers said.

  “Takes one to know one, Judas!” Jake hissed.

  “Shut up!” Wells said. “Which one of you called this in?”

  The unknown man took a step forward. Wells, Grayson, and Earl trained their guns on him like a vigilante firing squad.

  “Don’t shoot!” the man said. “I’m the one who called!”

  “What’s your name?” Wells barked.

  “Samuel Simpson.”

  Wells grunted. “Come forward. Slowly.”

  Jake and Chambers took a step forward along with Simpson. Earl and Grayson shifted their weapons in their direction, stopping the two men in their tracks.

  Wells nodded at Simpson. “Just you.”

  Simpson resumed his slow shuffle toward Wells. When he got within six feet, the young officer held up his hand.

  “Hold it right there,” Wells demanded. “Show me some I.D.”

  “I’m truly sorry about all of this,” Simpson said, fishing a hand in his back pocket. He pulled out a wallet and held up a driver’s license.

  Wells took it. “What’s going on here?”

  “You won’t believe it if I told you,” Simpson said.

  “I might.” Wells glanced over at Grayson. “I’ve recently been working on expanding my belief system.”

  Simpson shot Wells a confused look. Wells tossed him back his wallet.

  “All right, Mr. Simpson. Why don’t we start with you telling me whose body that is over there taking a dirt nap?”

  “It’s Lester Jenkins, Officer.”

  While Earl held Chambers and mouse-munching Jake under armed guard with his Mossberg, Grayson made his way toward the coffins. He toed the dead guy’s head and called out, “Yeah. It’s Lester Jenkins.”

  Wells eyed Simpson. “So, you weren’t lying about that.”

  “No, sir.”

  Wells escorted Simpson up to the passenger-side window of Earl’s monster truck. “Here,” he said to me, and reached through the window.

  I leaned across the bench seat and took what he handed me. It was the tiny tape player Lester Jenkins had used to record the skywave transmission of War of the Worlds.

  “I want you to get this on tape,” Wells said.

  My brow furrowed. “What about—”

  “Just do it.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  I scooted across the seat to the passenger window, hit the rec
ord button, and positioned the device on the window’s edge to document the men’s conversation. For the record, I wasn’t too keen on the idea. I was worried we would tape over crucial evidence that no one in their right mind would believe without hearing it for themselves.

  But as it turned out, it was worth it.

  The story Samuel Simpson spilled was so bizarre it made the whole zombie apocalypse thing sound like a children’s nursery rhyme.

  Chapter Forty-Six

  “LOOK, OFFICER, I’M just a lowly coffin delivery guy,” was the line Simpson opened with.

  I bit back against innate revulsion.

  Simpson definitely had the right look for his profession. Pasty. Sweaty. Bony. Insectoid features topped with a greasy gray comb-over not even a mother could love. With any luck, the gash Simpson got on his chin during his scuffle with the other non-zombies would leave a scar. Then his face might have a feature worth remembering.

  “That’s my vehicle over there.” Simpson pointed toward the battered black pickup. “It’s not my usual delivery vehicle, but the road here is rough. And I was working ... sort of ... off the books.”

  Wells’ eyes flashed. “Explain ‘off the books.’”

  “I work for a company called Ash 200.” Simpson paused and grinned like a coffin salesman. “Perhaps you’ve heard of it?”

  Wells ground his teeth. “Not that I recall.”

  “No? Well, we help those of modest means with their transition.”

  “You sell cheap coffins to poor people,” I translated.

  Simpson shot me some side-eye. “That’s an uncharitable interpretation, Miss. But, yes.”

  “So you were transporting coffins to Dreadmore,” Wells said.

  “Yes.”

  “Why?”

  “You see, Officer, occasionally, we have damaged or defective coffins that don’t meet our high standards for customer quality. I have an ... uh ... arrangement with Dreadmore. They purchase them.”

  “What for?” Wells asked.

  One of Simpson’s thin, gray eyebrows shot up. “I never asked.”

  Wells’ eyes narrowed at Simpson. “And the dead bodies? Did Dreadmore ‘purchase’ them, too?”