Apocalyptic Beginnings Box Set

by M. D. Massey

  Paxton, Nate, and LuLu sat at the dining room table, downing coffee and devouring a package of about-to-expire Oreos while arguing over which Fast and Furious movie was “mo’ betta.” How many of those blasted movies did they make? They seemed to be at a stalemate.

  “What do you think old man? What’s your fave?” Paxton interrupted Dean from his novel.

  Without looking up from his book, Dean retorted, “Raiders of the Lost Ark. They sure don’t make ’em like that anymore,” Dean grumbled, trying his hardest to ignore their rowdy Fast and Furious banter.

  “Justin, get yo bony ass in here,” Nate wailed. Justin came smirking in from the kitchen. “What’s yo fave Fast and Furious flick?”

  Justin opened his mouth, most likely to spout off one of his usual sarcastic remarks; instead, an obnoxious “Ringggg” abruptly stopped the conversation. Is that the kid’s phone? Scarlett rushed into the dining room with a surprised expression on her face.

  “What in tarnation!” Dean shook his head in disbelief.

  “Ringgggg . . .” Dean recognized the annoying, buzzing ring of a facsimile machine. Why in tarnation did the kid choose that blasted ringtone? One of the few decent things about modern technology was that a fellow could choose his own ringtone these days. Dean puzzled over that instead of the fact there might be someone at the other end of the call.

  Ella came running out of the kitchen. “Answer it, silly,” Ella exclaimed. Everyone turned to look at Ella.

  “Yeah, silly—answer the fuckin’ phone,” Paxton said in a little-girl-like whine, a poor attempt to mimic Ella.

  “Ye-ah, this is Justin.”

  The room was finally quiet of the babbling chatter driving Dean batshit crazy.

  “Dude . . .”

  Everyone waited, eyes darting around at each other.

  “No Problemo!” Justin shouted.

  Justin put the phone back in his pocket, snatched his zombie gear sitting in the corner on the credenza, and then ran out of the dining room. Everyone else remained in their chairs, glancing at one another as if the young man had gone completely bonkers.

  Justin must have caught on that no one had followed him, and he poked his head back into the dining room. “Guys, come on—” he said impatiently.

  “Well, son, who in blazes was that?” Dean questioned.

  “Luther. He’s in trouble. He needs our help—like now!”

  Suddenly, chairs raked across the floor as Nate, Paxton, and Dean rushed to their feet. Scarlett already had her bat in hand, which she usually kept at the foot of the stairwell. Dean wondered why she was always ready for action inside the safety of the hotel.

  “Who’s Luther?” Paxton appeared concerned.

  “A fella we heard from the other day,” Dean offered vaguely.

  “Who’s driving?” Paxton asked.

  “Nate, you take your truck. Paxton, take yours. Justin—ride with me,” Dean decided as they scrambled to the door.

  “I’m coming too,” Scarlett announced.

  “Need you to stay here and monitor the gate,” Dean ordered.

  “I’m coming,” she demanded.

  Dean looked at her as sincerely as he could. “Scarlett, I’m not trying to be an SOB. Fact is, we need you to close the gate when we leave. And open it when we get back,” he said calmly, knowing full well it would be impossible to get LuLu or Ella to monitor the gate. Hell, they’ve never stepped foot outside this hotel. Scarlett nodded in agreement, but he could tell she was none too happy about it. Scarlett sure could be stubborn as all get-out at times. Most likely the reason she survived this long.

  “Justin, talk to me. Where to?” Dean said, patting himself down, making sure he had his gun and flashlight. He always kept the crowbar in his truck.

  “Luther’s trapped in a food joint on Orange Drive.”

  “Which one?” Dean asked.

  “He didn’t say. He had to go—he didn’t sound so good.”

  “Follow me,” Paxton interjected surprisingly. “I’ll track him down.”

  “Hell yeah! Paxton can track down anyone,” Nate hooted.

  Dean glanced in the rearview mirror as Scarlett closed the gate he had made. What had she called it—a chintzy 4-H Club gate? He had meant to secure the front entrance last week but had never gotten around to it. So many things to do . . .

  Dean and Justin raced down Orange Drive, trying to keep up with Nate, who raced behind Paxton, dodging the vehicles on the debris-ridden road. Paxton slowed down at each restaurant they passed, always driving around the back of the building while the other two trucks waited for the all clear. Then Paxton sped off to the next restaurant. Paxton seemed to know what he was doing as he sped along, guided only by the pale gleam of the parking lights.

  When they neared the end of Orange Drive, Paxton pulled a sudden ninety-degree right turn into a Jack in the Box parking lot and turned on his headlights. Dean and Nate followed suit, turning on their headlights. Dean wasn’t prepared for the eerie scene of what looked like hundreds of roving arms, legs, and heads writhing about the building like a bulbous Medusa’s head. Their spine-chilling groans were even more insufferable.

  “Holy Mother of God!” It was all Dean could say.

  “Holy shit!” Justin jabbered nonstop.

  Paxton and Nate repeatedly flashed their high-beams and blasted their horns in an apparent attempt to distract the motley mass of monsters. It was the strangest thing. Normally dead-heads would be all over their vehicles. Not this time. They definitely wanted whatever was inside the building, either ignoring the men in their trucks or completely oblivious to them.

  “Justin, you’re the Zombie Expert. What do you make of this? They don’t seem to be obliging to your zombie rules,” Dean wondered out loud.

  The popping sounds of glass giving way and crashing to the ground filled the night, and the mass of roving arms and legs swarmed into the Jack in the Box.

  “Poor Luther,” Justin shrieked.

  If Luther’s in there, the fella doesn’t stand a chance in hell. Paxton got out of his truck and then tossed flares around the parking lot. Dean’s hand automatically tapped his heart when he saw the mobs of dead-heads approaching from all directions. The nightmare that threatened his dreams every night was occurring this very second.

  “Time to go . . .” Paxton warned, cautiously backing his way to his truck.

  “Hey!” a voice yelled, muted by the gurgling moans.

  “Wait, did you hear that?” Justin shouted.

  Dean squinted, trying to get a better view, wishing he had a pair of those night-vision goggles. Still, no signs of anyone . . . human. The visible perimeter highlighted by the flickering flares reflected dozens of spastic movements. Dean sat in the truck, thinking this wasn’t such a good idea after all.

  Justin kept blathering “Holy shit,” over and over like an old forty-five with an annoying skip until Dean gently Gibbs-smacked him on the back of the head.

  “Up Here!”

  This time, Dean spotted the source. “He’s on the roof!” Dean shouted and dashed out of the truck.

  “Don’t leave me!” A voice bellowed from the roof.

  A dull thud followed as a huge, dark mass crashed onto the dead flowerbed by the Jack in the Box entrance. Dean, Justin, and Paxton rushed to the fallen object. A man. They carried the man to the back of Dean’s truck, all the while stealing quick glances at the approaching horde lurching closer and closer.

  The massive mob swarming the restaurant must have heard the tailgate slam shut, for the colossal horde immediately twisted around. Their convulsing cockeyed bodies dropped off the building and began snarling toward the men. The ravenous creatures had them surrounded.

  Nate, still in his truck and seemingly unaffected by the sheer madness of it all, started ramming over the dead-heads as they evacuated the building. Dean, Justin, and Paxton scrambled into the trucks. The three trucks rammed their way through the advancing mob of walking corpses.

  Scarlett wait
ed restlessly in the dark. When she heard the roar of the trucks approaching, she quickly opened the gate. The trucks rolled in like tanks after a bloody battle. She plugged her nose with her fingers, the stench unbearable. The front grills looked like they had been drenched in spaghetti sauce, the extra-meaty variety. “I’m never eating spaghetti again,” she gagged.

  Scarlett ran up to Dean as he scurried out of the truck. “Did you find Luther?” She had to know.

  Dean nodded. “Hell, found someone—better be Luther.” He motioned to the back of the pickup.

  “Good God Almighty,” a voice wailed. “You all are about the craziest muthas . . .” The man in the truck bed hobbled out. “And thank God for that, or I wouldn’t be here.”

  Justin looked up in wonderment at the black man. The huge man looked like a giant compared to Justin’s small frame.

  “I’m Luther Jones. The guy on the phone?”

  “Dude, like what took you so long?” Justin chided.

  “Couldn’t figure out what to wear.” Luther busted out laughing and pointed to the rather bright Hawaiian shirt he wore.

  The man winced, his jeans ripped at the knee, and his left leg was bleeding. Dean ran up to him to steady the man as he hobbled about.

  “You bit?” Paxton yelled it like an ominous warning.

  “Yeah, he be bit!” It was Nate making the accusation this time.

  “Now, now, you all cool your jets. That’s an old injury. I banged it jumping off the roof. I don’t suppose you all have any medical supplies you can spare.” Luther seemed almost embarrassed to ask.

  “Holy shit, the front gate,” Justin yelled, “They're here!”

  In all the excitement, they had completely forgotten one of Dean’s golden rules: silence in the parking lot. They knew too well if a horde stormed the gate, the creatures would be everywhere in minutes.

  “Turn off those headlights,” someone yelled.

  “Everyone inside!” Dean commanded.

  The clinking sounds of bodies slamming into the chain-link fencing warned Scarlett not to look back. Their forlorn moans transmuted into high-pitched wails, piercing the night and her soul. LuLu opened the lobby door with a wild-eyed expression, expressing Scarlett’s anxiety—exactly.

  Once inside, Dean and Paxton set Luther on the stone-floor entryway and feverishly examined his body for bite marks.

  “He’s clean.” Paxton seemed disappointed.

  Scarlett rummaged through the first-aid kit and selected the items she needed. The man had a six-inch gash nearing the infected stage, running down his calf. After dousing the wound with a bottle of hydrogen peroxide, she gingerly coated the wound with a layer of Neosporin. However, she wasn’t sure if the ointment was strong enough to keep the infection at bay. She decided to use the antibiotics she had snagged on the last scavenger trip with Justin. Although, she really didn’t know if amoxicillin was the right type of antibiotic for Luther’s wound.

  “Here, take this.” She handed Luther a pill and a glass of water, hoping the amoxicillin would kill the infection before it was too late.

  Justin grabbed Dean’s arm, and in a whisper everyone overheard, he said, “I don’t think the fence is going to hold.”

  The terror in Dean’s eyes was unmistakable, but he remained calm. “Turn off every dad-blast-it light in the place. Use your flashlights. Everybody’s got a flashlight—right?” Dean presumed.

  It was another one of Dean’s golden rules: Always carry a flashlight at night, which most had velcroed to their pant legs for convenience. Scarlett automatically reached for hers and hoped the battery still had some juice left.

  “You want me and Nate to shoot the hell out of those bastards?” Paxton said, pulling out a rather large gun and ammo clips from the stuffed duffle bag he lugged everywhere.

  “Is that an Uzi? Where in tarnation did you get that? If you start shootin’ with that thing, we’ll have every zombie this side of San Francisco . . .” Dean stopped in mid-sentence. He continued in a calmer tone, “Why don’t we wait it out. You and Nate take point on your balconies—avoid shooting. This isn’t the time to go antagonizing them if you know what I mean, boys!”

  “Got it,” Paxton said.

  Paxton and Nate ran up the stairs, two steps at a time. Scarlett was surprised they hadn’t bothered to argue as usual. They must be worried.

  “LuLu, do you have a room ready for our new friend?” Dean asked.

  LuLu smiled. “Of course, we’re always prepared for guests,” she assured as if she were the hotel’s proprietor.

  “Scarlett,” Dean asked, “didn’t you say you found a pair of crutches—think Luther here will be needin’ them.” Scarlett nodded in compliance. “And Ella—” Ella stood there quiet as a mouse. “Why don’t you whip-up something for him to eat?”

  Dean had made all the crucial decisions in a matter of mere seconds. Scarlett dashed back with a pair of pink crutches graffitied with faded unicorn stickers. She showed Luther the pair of girly-crutches perfect for a ten-year-old and about one-fourth his size, expecting him to protest. Instead, Luther blinked his eyes rapidly.

  “Did I mention I’m allergic to certain types of antibiotics?” His voice faded.

  “Quick, get him a Benadryl,” Dean shouted. “Let’s get him to a room. He’ll be safer there anyway if they breach the lobby.”

  Scarlett fumbled through the first aid kit until she found the Benadryl. There were only two left, and they had expired two months ago. “Take these.” Scarlett put the pills in his mouth.

  The men grabbed hold of Luther. “Dude, you must weigh over three hundred pounds.” Only Justin would dare say that to a complete stranger.

  “About sixty pounds less than before the Summer-Super flu,” Luther garbled.

  Luther’s eyes fluttered to the back of his head momentarily. Luther fought it and clung to the stairway railing as they helped him up the stairs. Once they finally hauled Luther to his bed, he blacked-out instantly.

  Dean looked at Justin. “By George, you did it, son. Your cockamamie cell phone scheme paid off.” Dean good-naturedly slapped Justin on the back.

  “Who’s George?” Justin quipped.

  It was Dean’s turn to roll his eyes disdainfully.

  18

  Dean hustled to the dining room in dire need of another stiff cup of joe before he assessed the damage outside. Last night had lasted an eternity. The dead-heads forlorn moans and incessant pounding had taken over the night, consuming all rational thought. He had stayed up the entire night, guarding the lobby, praying the horde wouldn’t bust through while Paxton and Nate guarded the hotel’s back entrance. By midnight, he had finally sent Ella and LuLu to their rooms; their terrorized expressions had scared the living daylights out of him. It was Dean’s job to protect them. And by God, he’d do it, even if it ended up killing him.

  Justin and Scarlett had remained level-headed enough to keep him company by the fading beams of their flashlights. And as the night stretched on, he had been relieved he hadn’t been able to see the terror in their eyes. Or had it been the other way around? To this day, Dean struggled with his own demons, tormented by scenes from a movie he’d seen at the drive-in when he was a teenager: Night of the Living Dead. The low-budget movie had been the scariest movie he’d ever seen. Of course, he and his buddies had laughed the whole thing off after an evening of pranking each other.

  The thing was, after all these years, an irrational fear still spooked him—something about that movie. And he regretted ever watching the dad-blast-it movie. Being a sensible man, he knew nothing like that could possibly ever happen. Not in a million years . . .

  Looking around at the gloomy-groggy faces gathered around the dining room table, it was evident no one had slept. But everyone was there, most likely waiting for the damage report. Last night had been the first time their mini-fortress had been put to the test. Dean wanted to kick himself for not reinforcing the front entrance. Honestly, I never thought it would get this bad.

/>   Justin, hyper as usual, braved the predawn darkness and was the first to give the group the lowdown. “Ye-ah, they’re like everywhere, crashed-out in the parking lot. And Dean, your maze-thing worked. There’s like tons of Zs snagged on it. But, uh, guys—the gate and the front fence are totally demolished.” Justin’s voice faded into a monotone of despair.

  After a quick cereal breakfast, Dean chugged his coffee. “Best we clean that mess before those things start waking up.” He handed Scarlett the rifle with the scope, which he usually kept locked in his room. “Scarlett, on account you’re most likely the best shot, I hereby appoint you sharpshooter—you are officially deputized,” Dean announced in his best Marshall Dillon impression, hoping to catch her smile. Only a faint wisp of a smile crossed her lips, disappointing him immensely. The beautiful, headstrong woman always brightened his day (although he had never thought to tell her that), and it disheartened him to see her so blue. In fact, everyone was downright wretched, even Justin and Ella. It was Dean’s fault; he had let everyone down.

  “Post yourself on one of the second-floor balconies. Give us a shout-out if you see a mob headin’ our way. And keep an eye on those sleepers in the parking lot—might have some early-risers if you know what I mean.” Dean patted Scarlett’s shoulder reassuringly.

  “Paxton, what do you figure is the most efficient way to clear the parking lot—before they all wake up hungry?” Dean asked, rubbing his chin. It’s goin’ to be a long day.

  “We’ll take care of it.” Paxton motioned to Nate.

  Dean walked with them to the front door. Paxton and Nate tiptoed between the twisted, slumbering creatures cluttering the parking lot like remnants from a ghoulish, paper-mache, masquerade party left out in the rain to rot. The two men left the hotel on foot.