Slow Burn: A Zombie Novel

by Mike Fosen

  It was just like zombies… The bastard had completely ignored an injury that would kill most.

  While processing all this information he took careful aim and fired another slug to the head of the intended target, which smashed everything from its eyes to the back of its head off in a haze of bloody mist. The man dropped motionless to the ground.

  “Holy shit!” Chris cried. “Zombies!”

  Chris’ brain sent a message that seemed to take forever to reach his legs. Once his legs received it, they took their sweet old time to read the message and then implement it. The message was simple…RUN!!!

  Chris turned and ran at a highly motivated speed northbound to the next intersection. The screams and shotgun noise along with all the emergency vehicles had drawn dozens of what he guessed were now infected people that almost had him boxed in. Chris noticed that the only gap in the noose was the elevated railroad tracks to his west. Reaching the tracks, he found it was too high to jump and reach the top, so he followed it to the north where a large support beam allowed him to climb and reach safety. Standing on top, Chris watched the chaos unfold below. Several car fires from the accident now raged out of control. Vehicles from stopped traffic were left abandoned in the street. Several kids left unsupervised and unaware of the danger were getting attacked by these “zombies”.

  He had a feeling that Interstate 80 was going to get real nasty in a few minutes. Chris could see a group of people on foot that were about to find out that the traffic jam was the least of their problems. Already, cries of pain and pleas for help could be heard in the distance.

  Disgusted by the scene, Chris looked to the other side of the tracks at a different part of the city. They had no idea what was happening just on the other side of the tracks. In this older part of Joliet, the streets were lined with large Victorian style homes. In the late 1800’s these housed the wealthy residents of Joliet. They were large and well made, still standing a hundred plus years later. Having been in several of them for police calls, Chris often observed what would have been servants’ quarters. What once had been expensive woodwork was now largely neglected, and the houses had been turned into multiple units. He could see several groups of derelicts and degenerates loitering about, drinking alcohol, smoking God knows what and listening to car stereos loud enough that Chris could make out the lyrics from his distance. Traffic on the streets was normal, like any given weekday. Chris was amazed that they seemed unaware what was going on so close to them, but figured they probably couldn’t hear or see what had happened.

  Motion from the south made him look back and observe what must be now dozens of zombie figures spilling out from under the train viaduct that passed over the street.

  They were in for a rude awakening.

  Chris reloaded his shotgun with spare ammo from his Go-Bag, contemplating whether to fire some warning shots. His radio crackled, and he heard dispatch yelling for assistance. He responded and advised he could try to make it back to the station and warned dispatch that there were zombies on the loose. Chris couldn’t hear the cheers that erupted from dispatch when they acknowledged, cutting off the latter part of what he said. The dispatcher was just happy that someone would try to reach them. In the background after the dispatcher replied, Chris could hear that others were telling someone to lie down. What he did not know was that person was infected was well.

  He took care to watch his step as he jogged down the tracks. He didn’t want to twist an ankle…that could prove to be fatal today.

  As luck would have it, the train tracks passed right alongside and to the south of the police station.

  If it looked like a lost cause, at least his truck was nearby.

  His mind was racing now, and a nagging cramp started to chew into his left side.

  Man, he thought with disgust, just out of the sand box for a couple weeks, and I’m getting soft already!

  “Officer Jacobs to dispatch,” he gasped, winded, into his radio, “be advised I am about three or four blocks away, on foot.” When dispatch acknowledged, he could again hear cheering in the background.

  “Don’t cheer just yet, ladies,” Chris replied off air. “I’m alone and I got trouble coming up right on my ass.”

  Fighting through the burning in his chest and legs, Chris picked up speed, hoping to reach the station in time.

  * * * * * * * *

  Back in dispatch things were going from bad to worse. Not only was the city almost up for grabs, but one of their own was injured.

  “Someone hold her legs and arms. She’s having a seizure,” Kelly, a senior dispatcher, ordered.

  Two dispatchers held Janice down with considerable effort while she jerked and flailed uncontrollably. To make matters worse, Janice also had a bloody nose and looked feverish. Kelly broke out a first-aid kit and tried to administer medical attention as Janice began to twitch.

  “Get something in her mouth so she doesn’t chew her tongue off,” Kelly said, taking charge of the situation.

  When nobody moved, Kelly rolled up a magazine and attempted to pry Janice’s sweat soaked jaws apart. Janice snapped open her eyes and latched her teeth onto Kelly’s fingers. She yanked her hand back, pulling Janice into a sitting position and freeing her fingers from Janice's mouth.

  "Fucking bitch just bit me!" Kelly exclaimed and jerked up. “What in the hell is going on?”

  Kelly backed up, and the entirety of what had been happening around the city began to sink in. She looked up at the wall mounted television set and saw a live shot of a riot in downtown Atlanta. She looked back around the room and began to tremble. The dispatcher holding Janice's legs crouched there in shock, frozen as Janice continued to struggle. That was until Janice reached out with both hands, grabbed two fists full of hair, dragged the screaming dispatcher across her lap and buried her teeth into her jugular. She barely had time to scream.

  With that, all hell broke loose in the radio room. Two dispatchers tried for the door and raced down the hallway, trying to make it to their cars. The station’s surveillance cameras recorded their final moments when they failed to reach their destinations. The police station was supposed to be a place of safety, not a place to get eaten.

  Her fingers still bleeding, Kelly threw a large metal garbage can through one of the second story windows.

  "We need ta get out of here right now, girls!" she cried as Janice and her new infected friends tore into every living being in the room.

  8

  August 26

  Day 1

  Stephen dropped to his right knee, carbine swinging up onto target, and began rapidly firing into the infected horde flowing his way. Body after body fell lifeless onto the asphalt, spilling its blood and gore onto the hard, unforgiving surface. He didn’t realize how fast he had been shooting until the rifle’s bolt locked back.

  “Shit, out of ammo again!”

  Stephen reloaded, scanning the scene in front of him, and knew in his gut he was fighting a losing battle. There were far more zombies than the amount of remaining ammo he carried. Needing something to slow them down, Stephen began to feel panic setting in.

  “Get a grip,” he told himself. If he wanted to live through this, he had to slow these assholes down.

  Stephen didn’t hesitate any longer. He blasted away the few zombies between him and his squad car that was now twenty yards to his front, then started firing upon the squad’s nearly full fuel tank. Fuel splashed onto the ground from several hits, and pieces of the rear bumper and trunk fragmented from the rounds. His squad was still running, and Stephen hoped one of the rounds would cause an electrical short and ignite the fuel that was now pouring out from around the car.

  For a moment nothing happened and doubt started to creep in, and Stephen figured that it would not work after all, when a huge fireball blasted out into all directions. The force of the blast and the accompanying heat knocked him violently to the ground. The fireball raced skyward, and Stephen could see from where he had fallen that it had worked. A hug
e chunk of the zombie mob was now burning like candles, stumbling to the ground before finally becoming still. Stephen grimaced as he carefully picked smoldering chunks of zombie flesh off his uniform. He did not get them all, however, as many pushed past their fallen brothers and resumed their advance. Above the burning car Stephen heard a moaning noise and was again greeted by the sight of several shambling figures.

  Scrambling to his feet, Stephen was forced to beat a hasty retreat as several of the zombies escaped the explosion and now moved towards him at a faster pace.

  Looks like I pissed them off, Stephen thought as he loaded yet another full magazine.

  Knowing he did not have much of a window to rest, he headed southbound towards a nearby tree line, hoping the thick vegetation would slow down his shambling pursuers. Stopping between quick sprints to lay down fire and sweating like a whore in church, Stephen made the three hundred yards and slammed into the thick trees and brambles of the timberline. He found it difficult to make headshots on moving targets while out of breath and shamefully few lay still in the small horde’s wake. The thick vegetation worked against him as thorns and vines tore at his legs. The ground angled sharply downward, and after several painful minutes, Stephen burst out onto Woodruff Road. Knowing precisely where he was from working this neighborhood for the past few years, Stephen angled his path to the southwest, toward the second tree line on the other side of the road. He was not really sure of what his next move would be beyond losing his pursuers. He tried to be as quiet as possible in the deep brush, hoping the zombie-like people lacked any tracking ability.

  Eventually he made it out of the thick undergrowth onto pavement and was confronted by a huge fenced-in lot. The area in front of him was the sprawling East Joliet & Elgin train yard. Hearing a faint crashing sound approaching, he turned in utter dismay to see several pursuers closing in.

  “Fuck you!” Stephen screamed in frustration and sent several rounds their direction.

  One of them landed a direct hit as a female had the side of her head removed. She lurched and went down, twitching violently on the ground. Cursing that the thick trees and underbrush had not slowed them down, he turned back to the seven foot high chain linked fence. Stephen scrambled up the side near a pole and promptly got his chest rig caught up in the barbed wire that lined the top of the fence.

  “Son of a bitch, this is all I need!”

  Hearing the loud crunch of gravel behind him getting closer, Stephen struggled frantically to free himself. The panicked struggle only succeeded in getting his straps and equipment more tangled in the fence wire. With a frenzied burst of strength, Stephen managed to get himself flipped over the top of the fence but still had not freed up his gear from the barbed wire. After doing so, he found himself suspended by his vest on the inside of the fence with his back towards the enemy. He was also cut by the sharp wire and had a nasty gash on his arm.

  He guessed it could have been worse. At least he hadn’t ripped his balls off.

  He reached down and blindly groped for his knife sheath on his chest rig. He drew the blade and started to cut himself free by slicing through the straps of his tactical vest. A moaning sound made his blood run cold. He turned his head and stared as five zombies on the other side hit the fence forcefully. He saw frantically at the chest straps with the knife; the sudden movement worked the zombies into a howling frenzy, clawing at him through the weakening fence. Moments later, the last strap was cut through, and he fell to the ground hard just as the zombies broke through the fence themselves. When he hit the ground, he felt a sharp pain in his left knee. Trying not to panic but still breathing hard, Stephen looked at his body armor still hung up in the wire along with his Go-Bag containing his three extra magazines of 9mm rounds. Knowing he would need the pistol ammo for the handgun he now drew, he shot all five zombies in the forehead, dropping them in quick order at point blank range as they struggled to stand after falling with the fence. The last zombie Stephen shot had been mere inches from the barrel of his Glock.

  “I need to get the fuck out of Dodge now!” he decided as he retrieved his Go-Bag and rifle from the fence, knowing the noise would most likely bring more and there was now a hole in the fence.

  Sure enough, several dozen zombies burst in to the clearing and stumbled towards the fence. At least one of them was wearing a police uniform, and Stephen did not want to look too closely at him, afraid it was one of his fellow officers.

  “Goddamn, this is spreading fast!” Stephen exclaimed. He had to keep moving.

  Turning back to the seemingly empty train yard, Stephen pondered his next move. He reached for his radio and was dismayed to find that it was no longer on his person. The sprint through the thick undergrowth must have knocked it loose from his gun belt at some point, and in his haste he had not noticed its absence until now.

  “Just fucking great,” Stephen groaned. “What else can go wrong?”

  He painfully moved forward on his bad knee, trying to remember what officers he saw respond to the huge melee in the projects, wanting to figure out who might still be alive. He didn’t remember seeing Johnny and Ryan’s squad. Chris had been on an accident on the south side of the city, and Stephen seriously doubted that Chris had made it to his fight call. He went through his mental list, remembering that Mike had gotten called out early and had been dispatched to a domestic disturbance nearby. For the life of him, he could not remember where the hell he was sent. About the only officer that he knew exactly their location and most likely was still there was Mattie at the hospital. Luckily the long train yard ended literally across the street from the hospital. With a newfound purpose, he set out again at a pace that he hoped would keep him in front of his pursuers. Even though the train yard was mostly flat, it was at least a one mile chunk of yard that had tons of obstacles and hundreds of train cars sitting in it. It wasn’t going to be an easy stroll through the park to get there by any means. Stephen turned and dumped a couple dozen rounds into the approaching horde, and although he only dropped seven or eight zombies, it made him feel a little better and he set out.

  Soon Stephen was again gasping for air and struggling to put one foot in front of the other. He had badly wrenched his left knee, and now it felt like some demented carpenter was shooting his knee with a nail gun every time he put some weight on it. Nonetheless, he had no choice but to man up and keep moving. He could hear gravel crunching and the howls of ravenous zombies dogging his steps as he ran through the train yard. The massive tanker and cargo cars on both sides of him restricted his vision while he ran. Glancing over his shoulder, it appeared clear, but the tracks had a gradual curve to them, so after fifty or so yards the parked train cars blocked his view. His bad knee buckled from the shift in weight and momentum and he went down. Skidding to a stop on his chest, Stephen grunted and gasped in pain when movement to his left grabbed his attention. Glancing over, he caught a glimpse of an infected man who abruptly leaped at him from the coupling hitch between two train cars.

  Where did he come from? Stephen wondered for an instant. A hobo zombie!

  Whipping over onto his back, Stephen raised the muzzle of his patrol rifle as the man’s head descended upon him, leaving only a second to react. The barrel of his carbine slammed into the man’s open mouth and removed the backside of his skull when he fired. The zombie immediately went limp, and its head slid grotesquely down the barrel through the gaping hole in its head, stopping when it reached the now empty magazine.

  Yuck!

  He carefully pushed the man to the side and off of him, being careful that the blood and gore did not get into the nice road rash on his arms and face.

  “Yep, a hobo from the looks of you,” Stephen muttered. “A bloody, smelly hobo.”

  Despair hit him momentarily when he realized he was out of ammo for his AR-15 and couldn’t even use it as a club with it covered by the zombies’ brain matter.

  Fuck it. He had three more at the house.

  Leaving it embedded in the zombie’s
skull, he wearily limped down the tracks towards the hospital, grimly determined to make it, save Mattie, and get back to his house to hunker down. Stephen knew his close friends had plans to make their way to his place in a bad situation like this and hoped they would make it if at all possible. Crawling under the train car on his left, Stephen gauged that he needed to keep heading east about one hundred yards, and then due south to the hospital. His spirits began to lift at the possibility of an end in sight.

  Only a dozen or so train cars, it wasn’t too bad.

  * * * * * * * *

  Chris stood on the train tracks catching his breath from the run to the police station, staring helplessly at his destination. He was now aware why he was no longer getting an answer from dispatch over his radio. He counted well over two dozen zombies going in and out of the obviously unsecured structure. He checked, and only found around fifteen shotgun shells left on him after trying to thin the heard of zombies following him from below. It wasn’t tough to decide whether or not to try and enter the station. Scanning the building from this vantage point, the elevation of the tracks was enough to see into the dispatch center’s windows. The fact that blood splatter dripped from broken windows, and several women inside appeared to be infected, made it an easy decision not to try and make a rescue attempt. It looked as though one dispatcher had jumped out of the window and lay dead in the parking lot with a broken neck. Two others appeared to have made it out using a fire hose which was hanging out a window, and had made it to their cars, judging from the two empty parking spots. He passed the station and jogged the last one hundred yards down the tracks to the elevated parking lot and made it to his truck without further incident.