by M. D. Massey
I was shocked by what I learned.
Chibueze said, “I blame myself. I stuck myself with a needle I had used on an Ebola patient. I knew right then I was in trouble. I hoped and prayed that I wouldn’t be infected. I went to Church; I lit candles. But I got sick. When I checked into the Staff Clinic, everything seemed kind of weird.”
Emma interrupted her. “Were there policemen guarding the front door with assault weapons?”
Chibueze answered, “Yes. I was OK with that, though. I don’t know why. I guess I figured, being out in the jungle, there was some kind of problem going on with the drug gangs again. I was actually thankful for the protection. It made me feel safer as I confronted my panic over Ebola.”
Emma simply said, “Oh.”
I looked in my rearview mirror at the young women in the back seat. Emma was biting her lower lip nervously while looking intently at Chibueze. Chibueze, with a faraway look in her eyes, continued, “It was in the actual examination room that things got weird. I wasn’t checked by any of the regular doctors. Being a medical resident, I know them all. Instead, I was seen by two doctors: A CDC doctor named Dr. Vivian Parker and a WHO doctor named Dr. Luke Laflamme.”
Emma grabbed Chibueze’s arm and interrupted her. “Oh my God, I had the same doctors! And after that, I was given injections and intravenous drips and started going in and out of consciousness. At one point…” Fighting back tears, Emma continued, “…Dr. Tovar, that creepy doctor, came into my room with a group of other physicians and guys with guns and told someone to give me a shot of Mutation Z. I don’t remember anything else that happened until I woke up three weeks later in a hospital bed in the prison. You were dragged in there a few days later…What happened to you from the day you stuck yourself with a needle until they put you in the prison?”
Chibueze turned her head to stare out the window. “I don’t know. My experience was the same as yours. There’s a missing period of time I don’t remember.”
Something dawned on Emma. “You know, when it looked like Akachi had died…I mean, I’m sure he was dead at least for a short while; Dr. Steele had actually called Time of Death…he was quickly given a dose of some kind of vaccine by the CDC. A CDC worker told Dr. Steele that Akachi would need two more doses and she said to move him over to a ‘research facility.’ I saw him being transported by ambulance.” Tears started streaming down Emma’s face and she had difficulty continuing. “It was absolutely horrifying to see what had happened to Akachi. He was such a sweet little boy. He had bled from every orifice, even his eyes. His bowels had let loose…And his pillow was covered with blood…Then the next thing I knew, he was being stuck with needles full of experimental vaccines and shipped to God knows where…” Emma’s eyes gleamed in the lights of passing cars. “That’s when I got stuck with something. I went into the records room of Building 5 to look through Akachi’s records and find out where he’d been taken. I found a paper signed by Dr. Steele giving instructions for Akachi to be moved to a facility called The Vaccine Laboratory. I then tried doing a computer search for that facility to find out its location. Nothing showed up. As I was trying to research different possible locations for it, I experienced a sharp, piercing pain in my neck. I thought maybe I had been bitten by a bat. That was followed by a crushing headache and blurred vision. Then I passed out and woke up in my bed. No one ever mentioned bringing me there. No one followed up. The next day, I felt incredibly weak and had muscle pain everywhere in my body, so I walked over to the Staff Clinic…”
Chibueze grasped Emma’s hand and looked intently into her eyes. She said, “You know, I think I know where The Vaccine Laboratory is located. I think it’s the prison. It never made any sense to me at all that there would be a prison on the same grounds as an Ebola treatment camp.”
Emma said, “Oh my God, you must be right. I just always assumed it was a more secure facility for criminals with Ebola.”
We drove the rest of the way in silence. I had not called Dr. Rojas ahead of time. I didn’t want to risk government surveillance of any phone calls to his place. I trusted he would be home. Emma and Chibueze eventually fell asleep in the back seat.
As we drove over the bumpy road leading to Rojas’s shack, the women woke up. Emma asked sleepily, “Are we there?”
I said, “Yes.”
She looked out the window and commented, “My God, the facility in Africa was so much more modern than this.”
I told her, “This is Dr. Rojas’s own secret treatment center. He works for the very modern Chen-Zamora Pharmaceutical Company. Although they appear to be the ones making people sick with their experimental serums, he’s not on their side. You’ll be in good hands here. As far as we know, none of the authorities know anything about this place.”
The two women grabbed their things. We knocked on Dr. Rojas’s door. It was the middle of the night. Rojas peered out his window to see who was there. Then he flung open the front door. “Hello! Hello! What brings you here?”
We told Dr. Rojas our story. He immediately agreed to treat Emma and Chibueze. He told me I should visit them and he’d keep me informed. He warned me, “I know you’re a journalist. Do your job. Investigate Chen-Zamora and their connection to politicians, but don’t write about me or the patients I’m treating. If you do, my clinic will be raided by the authorities and everyone here will die…or, worse, continue to be used as experimental subjects.”
The inside of Dr. Rojas’s home was quiet. I asked him, “Do you still have the patient I saw here last time?”
Dr. Rojas said, “Yes. He seemed OK after the last full moon, thank God. He’s resting quietly in his room, mostly watching TV and reading books.” Then he asked if we were hungry.
Discovering that we were famished, he whipped up an incredible breakfast of eggs, bacon, sausage, and hash browns. Then he excused himself and unlocked the steel door to his basement. When he returned, he had a young emaciated man with him, bald spots all over his head where clumps of hair had been torn out. Dr. Rojas said, “I’d like to introduce Emma and Chibueze to Marco Antonio.” He said to me, “You already know him.”
My jaw dropped. I stuttered as I asked, “Is…is th-that your o-ther patient?”
Rojas didn’t smile. He just said, “Yes.”
I gathered my wits and explained to Emma and Chibueze how sick Marco had been the first time I saw him.
Chibueze shared what she had found out about Mutation Z. I handed Rojas the report Chibueze had given me earlier and Emma pulled notes out of her purse that she had in her possession regarding the purpose of Mutation Z.
Rojas simply said, “My God, to think that Marco and I have been employees for the company making this stuff.” He walked over to a copier, made copies for himself and handed me the originals. He said, “As a journalist, you may need this.” Chibueze and Emma agreed.
We swore an allegiance to each other. We promised to become a force of resistance, discovering a way to fight those in power. Dr. Rojas promised to work night and day to find a cure for those in his care.
A few hours later, I headed off to the Houston Airport. I needed some time at home. Sophie’s condition had worsened. Sick with fever, she was sometimes delirious.
Holding Sophie in my arms in an emergency room back in New York City, I noticed how bloodshot her eyes had become.
Before tracking down further information about the connection between Chen-Zamora and the disease infecting Emma, Chibueze, Dr. Rojas’s patient and who knows how many others, I planned to stay with my little girl for at least a little while. I was scared to death we might lose her. I had to see to it that she got the medical care she needed before going off to fight a biological war I didn’t understand. Sophie was very sick; but, thank God, she didn’t have that same haunted look in her eyes that Chibueze and Emma had. Sophie needed her parents, some comforting stuffed animals, and good medical care. I promised myself that Claire and I would deliver on all of that. As soon as Sophie stabilized, I’d return to saving the la
rger world.
About the Author
USA TODAY and WALL STREET JOURNAL Bestselling Author Marilyn Peake writes in a variety of genres, mostly Science Fiction and Fantasy. She’s one of the contributing authors in Book: The Sequel, published by The Perseus Books Group, with one of her entries included in serialization at The Daily Beast. In addition, Marilyn has served as Editor of a number of anthologies. Her short stories have been published in numerous anthologies and on the literary blog, Glass Cases.
AWARDS: Silver Award, two Honorable Mentions and eight Finalist placements in the ForeWord Magazine Book of the Year Awards, two Winner and two Finalist placements in the EPPIE Awards, Winner of the Dream Realm Awards, Finalist placement in the 2015 National Indie Excellence Book Awards, and Winner of “Best Horror” in the eFestival of Words Best of the Independent eBook Awards.
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Marilyn Peake’s website:
http://www.marilynpeake.com
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Newsletter Sign-up:
http://www.marilynpeake.com/newsletter.html
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All six books in the Mutation Z Series are now available, as well as three boxed sets (Books 1-3 Boxed Set, Books 4-6 Boxed Set and the complete Books 1-6 Boxed Set). You can find links to all these books and boxed sets on her website and other author pages. Her website: http://www.marilynpeake.com
Taking on the Dead
THE FAMISHED TRILOGY BOOK ONE
Annie Walls
ANNIE WALLS
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Printed in the United States of America
All rights reserved.
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Taking on the Dead
Book One
The Famished Trilogy
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Copyright © 2013 by Annie Walls
Cover Art by Stephanie Mooney
Book formatting by JT Formatting
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ISBN-13: 978-1478276258
ISBN-10: 1478276258
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Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of the author of this book.
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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.
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For more information about author Annie Walls, visit www.anniewalls.com
You once told me, “Life is like a road. What you want out of life is at the end of it. You can take the straight road to get there, but it’s a hell of a lot more fun on the curvy road.”
Sometimes I talk to you, sometimes I dream of you, and life isn’t the same without you. That’s why I dedicate my first published novel to everyone you’ve left behind.
Prologue
Some people say you can’t change overnight. I’m sure this is true, most of the time. In my case, I changed within seconds, never to be the same. Within those seconds, most people in the world changed, just not in the way I did.
I’ll never forget my first zombie. Malachi and I wandered the small carnival as the sun set. The glowing lights of the spinning rides replaced the fading sunlight, and the smell of funnel cake wafted in the air. I could still feel Malachi on my skin. It wasn’t surprising since we had a spontaneous tryst in the parking lot. At twenty, we had our whole lives ahead of us.
I remember grabbing his hand, my mind still with him in his car. Radiating affection, he looked at me, our shared secret reflected in his big, brown eyes, his messy brown hair glinting auburn from the sparkling lights all around. He dressed like he always did, wearing whatever was comfortable—a yellow Nashville Predators t-shirt and denim shorts. All his life, he played hockey, from peewee to amateur. He loved the game and continued to play as an adult.
Thrilling sounds of the carnival carried on the wind. I complained about how much we paid for the all-you-can-ride bracelets. There were only a few rides to enjoy, but the carnival charged too much. Some people paid an arm and a leg. The carnival was overflowing with people scurrying about the massive Ferris wheel and Tilt-a-Whirl. Children laughed and chased each other with innocent, painted faces—dancing, and skipping along with the fair music.
Malachi struck a beeline to a cotton candy booth. After the purchase, he stuffed a big piece of pink fluff in my mouth. I can still taste the sticky sweetness melting on my tongue. Although he did it provocatively, it wasn’t until later I grasped his motivation, which was to keep me from complaining. He was subtle that way.
Sometime later, we got off the Ferris wheel, both heated, clinging to each other and ready for another tryst, when we went off the beaten path to use the foul port-a-potties.
When I think about it now, I know the outbreak began early in the day. We had passed several wrecks, heard many helicopters and sirens and saw a few zombies, but we were too wrapped up in ourselves to notice. I blame it on being in love, but I swear if I saw a person walking down the street covered in blood or eating someone, I would’ve paid attention. Maybe.
We did when we saw a zombie attacking a frizzy, red-haired woman next to an old, rusted bike rack.
Only, we didn’t know it was a zombie. The woman’s shrill screams were like something from a horror flick. My blood curdled when a man bit into the woman’s forearm. Blood leaked down her arm and dress. Her shriek pierced my soul.
Malachi pushed the man off, trying to be a hero.
“Kansas, call 911,” he screamed, whirling to help the woman. I trembled, pulling out my cell phone and dialing, only to hear a busy signal.
When the man regained his stature, I caught sight of him. He looked crazed, his eyes were bloodshot, and the front of his thigh gone. Muscle tissue hung from the stark white bone. Blood covered his face, neck, and clothing—some kind of uniform—USPS which was weird and out of place on a Sunday. His stare drifted to Malachi. A ferocious growl came from his mouth before it clamped onto Malachi’s shoulder. Malachi’s face twisted in pain, but he still hit the jaw of the man, loosening the grip of the bite. Blood dripped down Malachi’s arm, dropping from his fingers onto the concrete. I swear I could hear the little splatters.
A scream erupted from my throat, freezing me to the spot. My trembles changed to full-on shakes while Malachi grappled with the mailman who, in my mind, had obviously eaten bath salts. The shouts from the carnival no longer sounded like amusement park screams. I saw a kid, no older than eleven or twelve, limping toward me. His dirty blond hair dangled in front of his eyes. One of his feet bent awkwardly. Blood disguised his face, neck, shirt, and hands from being recognized as human.
Something serious was going down. Malachi was still fighting off the hyped-up mailman. I was in some kind of shock but told myself to get a grip.
My insides hardened as time slowed and narrowed my idealistic world into a vast tunnel. I clenched my fists to keep them from shaking. That’s when I saw the bell. Over the bushes in the next section of the park, the “High Striker” game—the one with the hammer to strike and ring the bell—was lit with the colors of the rainbow, flashing trails up and down the length of the game. I ran straight through the bushes to find the game deserted. Plush bunnies still waited to go home with a lucky ringer. I found what I wanted—the sledgehammer.
The bushes scratched against my legs as I jumped through them to find more crazy people closing in on Malachi. Ice seemed to spread through me.
“Malachi! We have to go. Now,” I yelled, surprised to hear my voice clear and composed. He looked pale.
Gripping the sledgehammer like a baseb
all bat, I hit the mailman in the head. Malachi grunted as he kicked and shoved more people out of his way.
I bashed as many as I could. Most went still twitching and moaning. The mailman crawled toward us, his head bent at an odd angle. My stomach convulsed, but I swallowed the extra saliva as I slung the hammer to finish the job. His head split wide open, spilling things onto the sidewalk that should never be seen.
I glanced at Malachi to find him looking at me as if he didn’t know me. With my free hand, I grabbed him and we ran. I tripped on my cute wedge sandals, cursing myself for being vain enough to wear them. He helped me up, and we continued running around game booths. I clung to the sledgehammer like a lifeline, taking in the horrid sights before us.
A child ripped into water bags in a booth, devouring the little fish inside, all the while the man running the booth feasted on another person. The taste of sweet acidic bile came into my throat. The carnival had become a scene of macabre lights, blood, and screams. People were getting attacked and eaten alive all around us. Kids with face paint eating their parents. The parents screaming for help. Panic filling their brains when they noticed it wasn’t just them, unable to comprehend what was happening, as if they would wake from this nightmare. Fear dawned in their eyes as they realized they wouldn’t wake. This was real.