Run!
Rich Restucci
Copyright 2015 by Rich Restucci
www.severedpress.com
Run! By R. Restucci
All Rights reserved.
Copyright© 2014. This is a work of creative writing. The undead are not real. At least that’s what my mom says. No part of this novel may be reprinted, televised, or made into a screenplay with Bruce Willis as the main character ultimately ending up as a summer blockbuster without express written permission and lots of royalty checks. Any similarity to actual people, or pieces of actual people, living or dead is purely coincidental.
For Donna, Danielle, Richy, and Chloe, whose unending patience with my prepping lent to the writing of this book. They thought I was prepping or playing video games in the basement and had no idea I was writing. Or that I could write. Or that I had a pencil.
The boundaries which divide Life from Death are at best shadowy and vague. Who shall say where the one ends, and where the other begins?
Edgar Allan Poe
Foreword by J.R. Jackson
Having read numerous apocalyptic novels that have in the last few years, focused on zombie-esque or global pandemic extinction level events, it was a privilege to be asked to write the foreword for Rich Restucci's Run!. Run! is not your typical zombie apoc novel. Sure, there's zombies, there's panic, there's chaos, there's the end of the world as we know it, all key ingredients for a horror/action/apocalyptic novel.
What's missing are the typical clichés, the standard, expected dialogue and the stereotypical, one-dimensional characters. Gone are those tropes so common in this type of novel or film. Instead, there is a world rich in diverse characters, unexpected events, and plot twists that will keep you on the edge of your seat.
Rich, whom I've known for a while and share similar interests with, wrote this novel during his lunch breaks. What does that say? That means that the cafeteria was obviously serving something that motivated him to use his spare time to produce a written work that far surpasses other novels in the same genre.
If this is your first time reading one of Rich's novels, then sit back, get comfortable, and prepare to be entertained.
J.R. Jackson
Author, Up From the Depths series
Military and Technical Advisor for Authors
Prologue
Disbelief can be a powerful enemy. Seriously, if a dishevelled guy in bloodied clothes stumbled out of an alley or a doorway and came at you, arms outstretched, what would you do? Some people would offer some type of assistance, and this would be their undoing. Nobody, prior to the onset of a plague of the living dead, would think Zombie! and run. The dead simply don’t walk. It’s a fundamental law of nature. You might think the offending flesh-eater was just a homeless guy looking for spare change and you’d walk away. Of course then the creature follows you, moaning, shambling, and generally looking vacant. You get pissy at his persistence and challenge him with the “Look buddy, I don’t have anything for you,” ploy. The undead continues to stumble at you and you point at him and tell him to get lost. He doesn’t. Some people would get scared and run from their pursuer. Some would decide that they don’t like being followed, and would confront the zombie-incognito. Game over. One bite, sometimes even just a scratch, and you’re playing for the other team in a day at most. Of course once you’re bitten, you either succumb right then, or you run, thinking the whole time: I hope that guy didn’t have AIDS or some shit… Then you go to the hospital, or go home, put on a bandage, and have dinner with your family. Either way you’re screwed.
In addition to dead things walking, which is strange in itself, the basic principles of weaponry cease to exist when confronting the undead. Weapons are supposed to kill through injury, but as the opponents on the business end of said weapons are already dead, most bodily trauma is ineffective. Knifing your average human will seriously injure them, but sticking a knife into the chest of an undead will achieve little. Shooting one in the shoulder will spin it around, maybe knock it over, but not for long. This is a difficult concept to grasp, and when the plague first popped up, hundreds of people died thinking they were safe behind the butt end of a nine millimeter. Bullets were useless, unless you scored a headshot, but really, have you ever fired a gun? Have you ever fired a gun, while scared shitless at people intent on eating you? Let’s assume the dead are coming for you, and apply the following parameters to your aim: you’ve never fired a gun before, you’re terrified, out of breath from running, hungry, thirsty, and haven’t slept in days. Now try to hit your fifteen shambling attackers in the head at fifty feet. Unless you’ve been trained in the use of firearms, and have practiced steadily, at best you would probably pop one in the noggin. Reload. Twenty feet away. They’re closer, so you get four more. Reload. Ten feet away, panic sets in, and you fire wildly, wishing you had the aim you did at twenty feet. Two more head shots and the remaining 8 creatures are dining on your innards. Still, you managed to thin the herd by six. Now, you’re thinking that the math is wrong: you destroyed seven, but you’re joining the party now, so only 6 have truly gone away. Not bad though, you did well, other than the whole being eaten part. Under normal circumstances, a six to one kill ratio would be excellent, ask any video gamer. These are not normal circumstances however, and nobody knew about the need for headshots until Boston was already toast.
The first outbreak happened in Boston. Nobody really knows how or even really where in that doomed city the first zombie went looking for lunch, but that’s where the end of modern civilization began. Nobody in other parts of the world thought the attackers were dead. I mean, that’s just ridiculous. The folks getting attacked suspected though. They poured into hospitals and police departments with stories about people attacking other people, and that the attackers could not be stopped. Initially, these folks were thought of as scared witless, but this would soon change for rescue personnel. Calls came in for the cops and firefighters and paramedics, and they too were attacked. Everyone who was bitten died. Absolutely everyone.
Once it started, it spread quickly. Police and rescue crews were overworked and in constant danger from the beginning. It didn’t take long for authorities to realize that the bites were the main source of infection. Doctors at Mass General Hospital knew within hours of the first reported chewing that any bite, no matter how small or wherever the bodily location, was fatal. They didn’t get to communicate this fact though, because the hospital was overrun from within on the first night.
The news coming out of New England was sketchy at best, as communications were cut off by the military after the first few hours. Some type of super-rabies was popular on the news, as was a chemical attack by radical extremists. The rest of the world assumed it was a local issue and paid little attention. A breakdown in basic social services was inevitable, and it took less than fifteen hours for 911 to crumble in the Boston area. There was no one left to man the phones. They were running for their lives, hunting prey, or chewed chunks of meat in a rotting stomach.
The US Army was in town in force the next day, running sweeps and trying to save trapped civilians. They ultimately ended up in one of the three categories mentioned in the last paragraph. On the third day of infection, the Army pulled out. They left with a sixty percent casualty rate. The plan rapidly switched from rescue to one of containment. The idea was to contain the infection by isolation. Boston was cut off from the rest of country by Army cordon. The skies around Boston were filled with military aircrafts, patrolling a newly established no-fly zone. Tanks, Bradley fighting vehicles, APCs, Humvees, and eleven thousand troops encircled the city for a few days, allowing no one in or out. This was a monumental task as Boston is surrounded by dozens
of suburbs, and fleeing citizens didn’t want to stop for Army checkpoints. Anyone coming toward a blockade was ordered back into the city. Noncompliance was dealt with harshly. Soldiers killed as many fleeing civilians as they did undead in the first few days. The civvies didn’t want to stay dead though, and they joined the ever increasing ranks of the enemy. Outbreaks sprung up in the suburbs outside of Boston in the following days. Containment had failed, and the army pulled back further as they were reinforced. These attackers simply could not be dead, that is absurd.
On day two, A Channel 7 News helicopter took off from the roof of the news building after the cordon was put in place. They stayed low, but were spotted by military aircraft quickly. The intent of the chopper crew was not to escape the city, but report what was really going on. They were ordered to land immediately, but refused. A Cobra gunship was dispatched to help the news crew un-refuse. The Eye in the Sky helicopter got some excellent footage of the streets of Boston filled with thousands of milling bodies. They followed a fleeing convoy of military Humvees that was trying to escape the city northward. The chopper caught up with the convoy and hovered over them as they fled, the footage streaming directly to the internet. One of the Hummers in the convoy was cut off by a large group of infected, and General Timothy Powers, the commanding officer of Operation Steadfast Resolve, was eaten on live internet-television as he and his entourage tried to make a stand on the Zakim Bridge. News Center 7 Chopper 1 was shot down by the Cobra gunship when they would not acquiesce to the no-fly zone demands. The panicked screams of the news crew were heard across the planet as the crew saw the missile contrails from the Cobra’s M158 rocket launcher streaking toward them. In truly spectacular fashion, the wreckage landed on a Citgo gas station, and the resulting explosion and fires, could be seen for miles. Approximately one sixteenth of the city burned because of the fires. This got the attention of the entire world, but still no one believed it was the living dead that were our enemies.
Boston was consumed and considered lost in two days. By this time there were outbreaks in Hartford and New Haven CT , Manchester NH , Bangor ME , and Manhattan Island. The East Coast was in big trouble. If folks in Boston thought they had it bad, New York City was pure Hell. Boston ’s population of seven hundred thousand was nothing in comparison to New York ’s eight million plus. New York City was dead two days after the first reported case of infection. People started getting the message that this enemy was not normal, but living dead? Come on.
There were running battles in all of the cities of the East Coast, and local militias sprang up to defend the populace. Inevitably, the militias and the regular Army, who were becoming more and more spread out, butted heads. An entire town in southern New Hampshire fell to infection overnight. The Army had been there earlier in the day, but militia men would not let them into the town. Rather than have a fire fight with townies, the Army pulled back and discussed what to do. The following morning, soldiers were going to use their heavily armored vehicles to break through the militia roadblock and bring in supplies to the town. They got to the edge of town only to see it filled with moaning citizens, including the militia. The Army fell back.
The President went on national television on the third day after the Boston outbreak. He told his fellow Americans that we should all point our thoughts and prayers toward Boston and New York. He made his statements while on board Air Force One at forty thousand feet on the way to an undisclosed location. Immediately following the President’s press conference, outbreaks occurred in Washington DC. The East Coast of the United States, from Maine to Maryland was infected.
Flights out of the US were grounded but not soon enough. There were rumored reports of infection in Paris, and Tokyo. The infection was global in less than a business week.
Four days after first infection, Los Angeles saw its first cases. Of all the US cities LA fared the best, as they were the best prepared. It took seven days for LA to succumb to the dead plague, but by this time it was everywhere. Most countries were no longer being heard from. Europe was in shambles, and there was no word from Japan. China closed its borders, and was fighting its own infected. There were outbreaks in Johannesburg and Addis Ababa . Perth and Tel Aviv were burning, and Bombay was a nightmare.
On day twenty one, Beijing was obliterated by nuclear fire, raising the local temperature to a tad higher than ten thousand degrees Fahrenheit, incinerating some ten million undead, and a few hundred thousand uninfected humans. On Day twenty one, Homo Sapiens ceased to be the dominant life form on the planet.
At the beginning of all of this, on infection day zero, a little girl boarded a flight from Boston to San Francisco, where she was picked up by her father upon arrival.
Book One: Run!
1
“Daddy!” yelled a little girl, waving across the busy airport terminal. A man in the crowd waved back.
“I see you, sweetie!” the man called to her.
An airline attendant brought the young girl by the hand through security to the waiting man. “Thanks Debbie!” the girl said to the attendant.
“Of course, Sammy,” the attendant replied, “you were my favorite passenger.”
“Nobody calls me Sammy and lives!” the young girl said in mock anger. Sammy tried to tickle Debbie, and Debbie burst out laughing.
“You must be Sam’s father?” Debbie asked the man.
“I sure am,” the man replied, “I’ve been waiting for the little punk-sickle all day!”
“Daddy! I’m no punk! I’ll beat you down!” Samantha ran to her father and jumped into his arms. She squeezed him tight. “I missed you,” she said quite seriously.
“Me too, honey,” he replied quietly. “Thanks for taking care of this little creature,” the man said putting Sam down. He extended his hand and said, “My name’s Rick.”
Debbie shot her hand out, “Debbie. She was no problem at all, I was glad to hang out with her. I do need some form of ID, though,” she continued. “Regulations and what not.”
“Understandable,” Rick said, and dug for his wallet. “Will this do?”
“Wow, Detective… sure, this will do.” Rick handed her his ID, and she verified his name with some information on a card around Sam’s neck. “All set!” Debbie declared.
“Thanks again, pleasure to meet you.” Rick took back his ID and shook Debbie’s hand once more. “Let’s go, kiddo!” he said to Sam.
“Bye Debbie!” Sam called as she and her father turned toward baggage claim. Debbie waved at her and headed toward the exit, her small, wheeled luggage bag in tow.
“I liked her, she was nice,” Sam said to her father.
“Me too, kid,” her dad agreed, a thoughtful look on his face. Rick made a backward glance to catch one more glimpse of Debbie, but she was gone.
“Whatchoo lookin’ for Daddy?” Sam asked, a sly grin on her face.
“Don’t make me whoop you, girl!” Rick growled, in mock anger.
“OOOHHHH! Daddy you LIKE Debbie!” Sam cooed.
“She was pretty, yes, but I don’t know her. Maybe I shoul-”
Sam cut him off: “Shoulda asked her out, at least gotten her number, big dummy.”
Rick looked at his daughter with raised eyebrows. “Oh yeah… You’re gonna get it now.” He said. “Let’s get your bags, troublemaker.”
Father and daughter walked over to baggage claim and sat down on a bench. The baggage wasn’t on the carousel yet. The carousel wasn’t even moving.
“Looks like we got a couple of minutes kid, how was your flight?” Rick glanced up at the TV near the baggage claim. There was a news bulletin on, but the sound was muted.
“It was ok. Debbie made it fun, she stayed with me most of the flight.” Sam continued but Rick wasn’t really listening. He was watching the news unfold on the television. Although there was no sound, there were video clips of riots in what appeared to be Boston. The newscaster put his finger to his ear and looked down as he listened to some feed. The caster then turned to th
e left with raised eyebrows. He returned to focus on the camera, and looked grim. He said what was obviously the this is not for the faint of heart and children should look away now, line that anchormen live for. The feed switched to a local reporter, who looked quite frightened. A group of about thirty haggard people were encroaching upon a police barricade. The barricade looked to have been hastily erected, and consisted of two police cars parked nose to nose, with some barbed wire and sandbags a few yards in front of them. It blocked passage across most of the street. Behind the cars, the cops leaned over the hoods and trunks with weapons drawn. The news camera caught the reporter against this backdrop with the approaching crowd in the distance. Suddenly, and without provocation, the police opened fire on the group of unarmed civilians.
“Jesus!” Rick whispered to himself. Samantha didn’t notice and kept talking.
On the screen, the civilians jerked and shuddered, some falling immediately under the barrage of gunfire but the majority of the people didn’t even slow. Rick could see that there were terrible wounds on the people coming toward the police. At this point, one of the cops turned and shouted at the reporter, pointing back behind him and his camera man. The view shifted to the reporter and both members of the news crew fled. The camera remained on, and provided a bouncing image of the ground as the crew ran. The feed cut out after a few seconds, and the original anchor came back on. The whole scene had played out in a bizarre and eerie silence.
“Daddy? Daddy!”
Rick tore his gaze from the screen.
“Weren’t you listenin’?” Sam asked looking at him.
“Sorry honey, there was some important news on the TV,” Rick answered. The baggage carousel began to rotate, and luggage began to spit out from a square portal in the back wall. “Let’s get your stuff,” he finished.
Run: A Post Apocalyptic Thriller Page 1