Serial Killer Z [Book 1]

by Philip Harris

  A standpipe stood outside each shed, a misshapen soap on a rope hanging from the women’s. I spent a good half hour in the men’s latrine—a simple thing like toilet paper becomes a treat of epic proportions when civilization falls apart. A shower, even a freezing-cold one, is an incomparable luxury. When I finally stepped out, I felt clean and refreshed. Putting on my old clothes took away some of the pleasure, and I made a note to check the bedrooms for anything that would fit me.

  Back in the lodge, I had a breakfast of peanut butter and apple. It was a welcome change from jerky, Chinese Bar-B-Q flavor or otherwise.

  I ate quickly while the shadow berated me for wasting so much time. I still needed to check the rest of the camp. There were four more cabins that held who knew what—zombies, maybe the missing campers. Or maybe there’d be more food or equipment I could use. And if the camp was clear and I really was going to stay here, I’d need to get the bodies out of the room upstairs.

  As soon as I finished the food, I went out to the cabins. From the outside, all four were identical. Wooden numbers nailed above the doors were the only distinguishing feature. Inside was a completely different story. The furniture was standard—two bunk beds, a couch, an armchair, a chest of drawers big enough to hide a body in, and a coffee table. All of it matched the wooden furniture in the lodge. But beyond that, each cabin had been decorated in a radically different style.

  Cabin one was painted with subtle pastel colors, blues and greens mostly. The beds were draped with soft, green covers, and the gray seating had been livened up with a handful of scattered cushions in more pastel shades. A wooden frame was attached to one wall, and the painting inside it showed a landscape of rolling green hills beneath a gloriously blue sky. It created the illusion that the viewer was looking out through a window. The painting itself was unexpectedly good, and the effect was remarkable, soothing almost.

  There were no signs of any occupants. Everything was in its place, and there were no cases or clothes lying around. The chest of drawers was empty.

  The second cabin was almost the complete opposite of the first. It looked more like a garage than a place someone would want to sleep. The walls were covered with discarded bicycle parts. Everything from wheels to chains, handlebars, and even a full bike frame. Four old snowboards, scratched and dented, hung from the ceiling. A stack of battered skateboarding, bicycle, and skiing helmets stood in one corner. The pile reached almost to the ceiling and leaned at a precarious angle. Everything in the room was damaged—scratched, bent, or broken in some way. The chest of drawers, bed, couch, and even the floor had been artfully gouged and scraped.

  As if that wasn’t enough, the walls had been covered with graffiti in a sense-assaulting kaleidoscope of colors. I couldn’t read most of it, although the wall that had been painted as a window in cabin one had KA-BOOM BOX painted on it in letters that were taller than me.

  The bedcovers were made from dozens of T-shirts stitched together. I recognized some of the bands on the shirts from my teenage years, and others were classic rock bands that spanned multiple generations. The rest I’d never heard of.

  The cabin was as unoccupied as the first, and judging from the dust on every surface, I’d been the first person inside it for quite some time.

  Cabin three did have signs of being used. It didn’t really have a theme, just a bright color scheme with a few abstract prints and a multicolored blanket thrown over the couch for good measure. There were three suitcases, two matching hard shells and a third, much larger gray case that looked as though it had been through one too many baggage-handling systems. The cat-shaped luggage tags on the hard cases read Ruby Donaldson, while the battered one had belonged to Clara-Jane Welch.

  The cases themselves were empty. The contents had been neatly folded and placed in the chest of drawers. I guessed the top two drawers belonged to Ruby—their contents included a long nightshirt with Purrrrfect and a picture of a smug-looking cat on it. Her clothes were practical but smart. Clara-Jane, on the other hand, had favored a more eclectic wardrobe of well-worn T-shirts, faded denim jeans and shorts, a couple of thin blouses, and a white skirt.

  The rest of the cabin had a lived-in feel. Bedcovers weren’t quite straight, couch cushions were squashed, that sort of thing. But the layer of dust was still there. Ruby and Clara-Jane hadn’t been in the cabin for several weeks.

  The fourth and final cabin had been decorated using every hippie cliché you can imagine. Psychedelic swirls covered the walls along with sprawling, bubbly graffiti phrases like Peace Out and Love Is, Man. Variations of the ubiquitous yellow smiley were plastered everywhere, including a single giant one with multicolored spirals for eyes that dominated the ceiling and made me dizzy just looking at it.

  The bunk beds had patchwork quilts draped over them that broke every rule of good interior design. Each square of the quilts was a different color. Hearts, swirls and yet more smiley faces had been sewn onto most of them. The result was so disorientating I had difficulty believing anyone would be able to sleep with one of the quilts in sight.

  But someone had, because this cabin had also been occupied. There were four suitcases this time, three black cloth ones that looked brand new and a large brown one that didn’t. An old wooden trunk sat at the foot of one of the beds. Its lid was curved, and that, combined with the metal bands that held it together, made it look a lot like a pirate’s treasure chest. It wasn’t locked. When I opened it, I found half a dozen old horror paperbacks, a few blankets, and some leather notebooks similar to the one I’d found in the lodge, but empty. There was no fortune in gold doubloons.

  The brown case didn’t have a label, but the black ones did. They belonged to one Arlo Chan, from Vancouver, and were empty apart from a couple of spare address labels.

  Whoever owned the brown case hadn’t bothered to unpack. The contents were a jumbled mess of T-shirts, jeans, socks, and men’s underwear. A faint smoky smell hung in the air near the case—cigarettes rather than cigars. When I leaned closer, I got a whiff of the same smell.

  The stale air was starting to give me a headache, but I checked the chest of drawers. Inside, there were six neat stacks of clothes. I pulled out a pair of jeans. They were fairly new and looked roughly my size. There were shirts, too. I found a plain blue one that looked like it might fit along with some underwear and a black T-shirt. I almost changed then and there, but I still needed to move the bodies.

  Fresh clothes in hand, I went back outside to the fire pit. I halfheartedly scanned the ashes for anything that might give me a clue as to what had happened here. Until recently, there had been at least seven people living in the camp. Unless Eric the zombie was somehow one of them, four were still unaccounted for.

  Despite the presence of Eric’s partially mutilated corpse, there was no indication that the camp had been attacked. But something had made the counselors kill themselves. They had to have known what was going on in the rest of the world. I’d seen the radio, and in the early days of the pandemic the rising number of casualties was the only thing pretty much all the stations talked about. But was that really enough to drive them to suicide?

  Pushing aside the questions for now, I took the clothes inside and put them on the couch.

  Next stop was the tarpaulins beside the lodge. Something furry and unnervingly large scampered away as I pulled the first of the heavy sheets back to reveal a red quad bike. I’ve never ridden one, but I had owned a motorcycle when I was younger, and I guessed the principles were pretty similar. Quad bikes were probably easier to ride, in fact. It was bigger than I would have expected—there was room for a couple of people on it, and it had a storage rack on the back.

  The bike looked well used, one mudguard had a big dent in it, and the whole thing was scratched and spattered with dried mud. Another quad bike sat beneath the second tarpaulin. This one was blue and in slightly better condition. They both seemed to have gas in them, and I wondered how hard they were to drive. I’d seen kids on them, so presumably
pretty easy. Nestled between the two bikes were four sets of ski poles and a large metal toolbox. It was rusted, and a big dent ran along one side, but the tools inside were in good condition. They’d come in very useful if I decided to stay at the camp.

  I covered the bikes back up and moved around to the clearing behind the lodge. There wasn’t much to it, just an expanse of grass that was beginning to get out of hand. I found a pair of tennis rackets and a couple of balls buried in the grass, none of which helped me work out what had happened to the campers. There certainly weren’t any signs of a zombie attack. I’d been right about the boots: there were four pairs by the back door.

  I was about to head inside when I spotted a path. The grass in the clearing was long enough that it was barely visible, but there was a definite gap in the trees, and some attempt had been made to clear away the undergrowth.

  The gap led to a narrow path. Nature had begun to reclaim the trail, but I could just about make out where it wound off into the forest. It didn’t occur to me not to investigate. If I was staying, I needed to know the surrounding area. And I still had the rest of the campers to find.

  Chapter 7

  The Path

  Once I got into the forest a little way, the path was actually quite wide, and I made good progress. I had to push past brambles and other vegetation, but at one time there had probably been enough room for a couple of people to walk along the trail side by side.

  Wooden planks formed bridges across mudholes and, at one point, a narrow stream that crossed the path. At another spot, a makeshift set of steps provided a way over a large tree. Someone had taken a wooden ladder, cut it apart, and nailed the resultant pieces to the tree trunk. It was crude, not to the quality of the camp buildings, but it was effective.

  I’d been on the path for maybe ten minutes when I reached a narrow wooden bridge across a ditch. The bridge was built from three thick planks of wood. Dark moss had colonized the edges, but the upper surface was dry and wide. I didn’t pay much attention to it and stepped onto the planks without thinking.

  About halfway across there was a crack. The wood shifted beneath my feet, and the plank tilted sideways. I lost my balance and fell into the ditch. It wasn’t deep, maybe three feet, but the fall took me by surprise. I ended up sprawled in a pile of leaves and branches. I cursed loudly.

  The only casualty was my pride. I brushed a few stray twigs off my hands and stood. The ditch’s sides were steep but rocky enough for me to clamber up. Near the top, I grabbed a solid-looking root protruding from ground. Muttering, I hauled myself back onto solid ground. I got to my feet and brushed the dirt off my pants. Then looked up to see a zombie coming for me.

  Fumbling for my knife, I recoiled in horror, and my foot slid over the edge of the ditch. I tumbled backward. My clumsiness probably saved my life. The zombie lunged for me, and its hands brushed my face. I hit the bottom of the ditch. The impact knocked the breath from my lungs. Before I could get up, the zombie followed me over.

  I rolled out of the way, and it landed half on top of me. Its face hit a rock, and its skull cracked. For a moment, I thought it had killed itself trying to get to me, but it was still moving. I struggled to get out from underneath it, but the cramped conditions made it hard to maneuver. My foot caught on a stray root. Panic welled up inside me.

  The zombie’s fingers wrapped around my wrist. Ragged nails sank into my flesh. I yanked my hand away, but it was as though I was chained to the thing—and the movement only pulled it closer. It made a dry, rasping sound that was part moan, part cough. A flap of skin hung loose where the rock had split its cheek. Its teeth snapped together. There was a crunch, and the corner of one tooth fell from its mouth.

  I grabbed the zombie’s forearm and twisted. The bones splintered, but its grip remained as tight as ever. I tried to pull myself free again. There was a tearing sound, and its wrist broke apart. With its hand still clinging to my arm, I shoved the zombie backward. It was small and light, and I had enough leverage to roll it away from me. I carried my momentum over and ended up pinning it to the ground. It twisted and snarled. Flecks of spittle and blood flew from its mouth as it fought to get at me. My heart was tearing itself out of my chest, and my hands were shaking, but there was no way it was going to get to me.

  By the look of its blue overalls, the zombie had worked at the same garage as Eric. I couldn’t read its name patch—it was smeared with gore—but the logo looked the same. Its face was desiccated, the skin drawn tight over high cheekbones. The few scraps of hair that still clung to its head were long and blonde. It was hard to tell for sure, but it seemed to be female.

  The panic was fading now, but I was still breathing heavily. I counted to four then pulled my hunting knife from its sheath. The blade glinted in the light. I felt the shadow move as though it had been summoned by the weapon. The forest around me receded until it was just me and the zombie. I slammed the knife into the side of the zombie’s head. The skull broke easily, and the knife sank to its hilt.

  I felt a rush of energy. The edges of my vision turned black as the shadow started to overwhelm me. I wavered and almost fell. The world dimmed further. I clenched my fists, digging my nails into my palms. The pain was dull, but it was enough to keep me grounded in the real world. Gradually, the shadow retreated, and I regained control of my senses.

  I pulled my knife from the now permanently dead zombie and stood. My legs were like jelly. I had to lean against the side of the ditch for a few minutes to stop myself from falling over again. Once I was sure I had control of my limbs, and the shadow, I clambered up to the path again. Then I wiped the mud from my hands, took one last look at the remains of the zombie, and continued on.

  A few minutes later, the trail widened, and although the forest still encroached on its edges, movement became easier. I picked up the pace. Someone had gone to a lot of trouble to make this pathway through the forest. Surely, there had to be something worthwhile at the end.

  Chapter 8

  Ash

  That something turned out to be another cabin. The single-story building was located in the middle of a natural clearing. It was bigger than the ones in the camp, although not as big as the lodge. It had clearly been built by the same hand, but it looked much older. The walls were made from actual logs instead of cut boards, and in places bark still clung to the wood. The cabin’s window frames were fitted with glass, but most of the panes were cracked. One of them was missing completely, and a flattened tin can had been used to fill the resultant hole.

  Nature was wearing the building down. Moss and the odd vine grew across the roof, and its walls were slightly warped. The roof was in pretty bad shape. Dozens of shingles were missing, and it was sagging in the middle. I couldn’t see any signs of life, and when I called out no one replied. The cabin’s door scraped across the floor as I opened it.

  “Hello?” I said, and waited.

  Silence.

  I stepped inside. The air was stale but laced with a faint hint of burning—smoke, ash, and charcoal.

  I’d been expecting another cabin similar to those back at the camp, but it was actually a workshop. A small sink and a few cupboards took up one corner, near the back door. The rest of the room was given over to wood and metal working.

  Two benches ran parallel to each other along the middle of the room. One was covered in cuts and saw marks. A sheet of metal was nailed to the surface of the second, smaller workbench. A large hacksaw lay on it, its blade dark with rust. Tables with shelves and drawers fitted beneath them lined the wall opposite the front door. All manner of tools hung on the walls—everything from simple hammers and screwdrivers to welding gear, and a metal device covered in clamps that wouldn’t have looked out of place in a medieval torture chamber.

  Two plastic boxes sat in one corner, filled with scraps of wood, metal bars of differing lengths, some chain, strips of leather, and two large rolls of wire. I picked through the scrap metal and wood, removed, examined, and replaced the tools, and jus
t generally explored the workshop for a while.

  Some of the wood was rotten, too far gone to be useful for anything other than firewood, but a lot was good quality. It was obviously offcuts from the construction of the camp or supplies kept handy for repairs. Likewise, most of the metal was rusty. But the wire was in good shape and plentiful enough for me to create a decent perimeter around the camp, particularly if I kept to just the lodge and a couple of the cabins.

  A machete hung from a hook near the back door. It was a definite step up from the hunting knife I’d been using to defend myself so far. I considered it for a moment, thinking back to the zombie I’d bumped into in the forest, then sheathed my knife, took the machete, and continued searching the workshop. I found a shovel and placed it by the door, ready to take it back to the camp.

  One set of the cupboards was full of a whole range of mechanical spare parts—carburetors, spark plugs, brake cables and pads, chains, and all manner of filters. The others held assorted nails, screws, hooks, door fittings, and hinges, all neatly sorted into mason jars. They were labeled, but the handwriting on them had faded to illegibility. There were half a dozen candles, thick and heavy with new agey names like Summer Serenity and Crystal Essence.

  The back door was near the kitchen. The smell of ash and burning was stronger in that part of the workshop. When I opened the door, I realized why.

  The ground behind the cabin was clear, and the remains of a fire sat in the middle of the space. The earth around it was scorched, but there wasn’t much else, just a scattered jumble of blackened wood. A recently dug-over patch of ground ran along the left-hand side of the clearing, preparation for a garden perhaps. Otherwise, it was just a rectangular piece of mostly bare earth.