Brutal Planet: A Zombie Novel

by Sean P. Murphy

  BRUTAL PLANET

  Northeast Coast, United States of America

  A zombie novel

  By

  Sean P Murphy

  Table of Contents

  The Island

  Chapter 1 ~ Dry Places

  Chapter 2 ~ On the Boat

  Chapter 3 ~ Plague

  Chapter 4 ~ Refuge

  Chapter 5 ~ Guests

  Chapter 6 ~ Leaving Bangor

  Chapter 7 ~ Shopping

  Chapter 8 ~ A Bigger Boat

  Chapter 9 ~ New Friends

  Chapter 10 ~ Lost Souls

  Chapter 11 ~ Murder by Numbers

  Chapter 12 ~ Blood and Oil

  Chapter 13 ~ Run

  Chapter 14 ~ In the Navy

  Chapter 15 ~ A Bright Light

  Chapter 16 ~ The Battle for Long Island

  Chapter 17 ~ Cassandra

  Chapter 18 ~ The Tone of the Thunder

  Martha’s Vineyard

  Definitions/Abbreviations

  Are the Green fields gone?

  Herman Melville, Moby Dick

  The Island

  A poet from the ‘Show-Me’ state once declared that the end of the world will come with a ‘whimper’. I now know he is wrong. It will come with a roar.

  May 30th

  The Providence is a 35-foot Beneteau First 35s5 sailboat, beautiful, sleek, sleeps eight and was considered somewhat of a status symbol in the old days; this was not the old days and there were thirteen of us on board.

  It has been almost forty-eight hours since we made it to the boat. At first, it was a relief at last to achieve the goal for which we had sacrificed so much. A chance to distance ourselves from the horrors of the past week when we fought our way through the hordes of the undead and watched as friend after friend died. We deserve a time out. We are exhausted, out of food, almost out of water, and each desperately in need of some space and time to come to terms with what the hell had happened. What happened, for humans, at least, were the closing stages of the end of the world.

  It was hot and humid with almost no breeze, so coming upon the island was seen as nothing short of a Godsend. We were absolutely going nowhere near the mainland; didn't know our exact location since all the nautical charts were on Robert's old boat, but Robert could guess. Cell phones worked sporadically, but whom would you call? We all knew what had happened. It should be the start of tourist season here in Maine. I used to love summer, looked forward to the warmth. Now I pray for winter.

  The island was essentially just a big flat rock, maybe two acres in size and about two hundred yards from shore, a decent safe distance. It had a small, one boat dock with a set of weathered wooden stairs leading steeply up to a massive two-story house. I’m thinking mid-nineteenth century; grey shingled, gabled roofs, lots of oversized windows with big shutters to keep out winter storms and a wrap-around porch. The building just oozed New England.

  Everyone crowded the deck as we looked for signs of movement, and maybe, just maybe, some signs of real life. All of us wanted a break, and I needed to get the fuck away from some of these people. Cautiously, we motored in and scanned with our binoculars. After growling something about not capsizing the boat, Robert used a sharp blast and whoop-whoops from the siren on the bullhorn to see if he could attract anyone, or anything’s attention. I searched the island and house using binoculars with a magnification of 7 X 50 with no real clue as to what that means, but I could clearly read the writing on a calendar through the kitchen window. Looks like Neil was supposed to be making a shipment of lobsters and quahogs this week. Well, if this works out, we should be able to find our own. Most of the curtains were drawn back and when the light was right, I had a decent view of some of the houses first floor interior. Nothing was moving. Maybe that break was finally coming our way.

  As the boat came round to the dockside of the island, I inspected the shore and could see a collection of houses maybe half a mile down the beach south of us. It really didn’t matter. I could see Them and They clearly saw us. They were running up the shoreline in our direction, not as a cohesive group, but more like a spastic mob. Robert slowly edged the boat closer to the dock. We weren't under sail, so how the hell did they see us so quickly? Yeah, Robert fired the siren, but these guys did the distance like a bat out of hell. There were four in front and three behind, already almost even with the island. Damn, they're fast, we’re talking Olympic fast. They were all in good shape and had all their limbs attached. As I watched them get closer and closer, and more dots coming from the south, I thought, could we really be safe here? We believe, so far, they can’t swim and... I put my binoculars down and glanced backwards. Everyone was armed and staring at the top of the stairs, ready and waiting… for me.

  In case a quick retreat was needed, we didn't tie off. Robert stayed at the helm with the motor idling. You could sense he did not like being left out, but it was his boat. He knew her best and the rest of the passengers were his responsibility. So I armed myself. The Mossberg felt right but I instinctively checked. The Ruger was ready to go. I took the number two position and stepped onto the dock. There were five of us, our own little Special Forces team. I have no clue, but since the start of our little endeavor, I always seem to end up near the front. I was definitely not macho or brave; maybe just impatient. Okay, I am a bit of a pain in the ass, and by now, a little crazy. No. I mean really crazy.

  We were a bunch of scared civilians playing a very serious and deadly game of S.W.A.T.; you know, like that old 70’s TV show with the cool opening theme that I used to watch as a kid. We had no real clue what we were doing, but at least we could make it look good.

  Silently, we crept up, using hand signals and alternating right and left with several steps between us. Doc, a tall lanky guy with an odd sounding southern drawl, was first with his M-16A2, never did find out where he got it. One day, it was just, ‘Hey, Docs got an M-16.’ I didn’t know if he knew how to use it or even if the safety is off. I was second with my shotgun, which I knew how to use and had already switched the safety. Zack was third with his AK-47, then Mary and Matt. If we were attacked now on these steep stairs, in these tight quarters, I would definitely get shot in the ass. This sucks.

  From below, I could hear some commotion and realized the rest of the boat must have noticed our welcoming party on the beach. I didn’t look over. My heart was racing. Sweat was just pouring off me in sheets and screwing up my glasses, but I kept my mind on the moment. My whole world was the top of the stairs. We inched our way closer. Doc quickly glanced over the lip, looked back to me, and nodded. I shook my head, gave him a thumbs-up, and sent the word down the line. He held up his right hand and started the countdown by dropping his fingers, and at zero, we acted aggressive and stormed the top. I followed his lead, ready for war, looking everywhere at once. He fanned left, and I went right, leaving just enough room for the other three. We all know from experience just how fast these things are, and that distance and a whole lot of firepower was our best chance at staying alive. Then… nothing! No movement and no crazed berserkers, just some seagulls sitting on the porch railing casually looking at us.

  Good, looks like no one is outside. We hadn’t done that much house clearing. In fact, we had never done this before. Someone thought it would be a good idea to put the shotgun in front. Thanks! The few people I have done the wild-west tango with, and would love to have at my side right now, are either dead or not here. I had the most experience, so it kind of made sense, but I have never played indoors. Just when I had started to relax, and think it was okay to forget, I was back in an absolute state of terror.

  We stayed as a group with Mary and Matt covering our backside. Matt was a hyper quiet middl
e-aged guy with a Glock and a general ‘can do’ attitude. He seemed like a nice person, but he was in the other Winnebago and in the week or so we have been together, we have never talked. Mary was in her early seventies; razor-sharp, and full of energy. Hammer introduced her to me as a ‘pistol of a gal’, which is funny, since her weapon of choice was the largest handgun I have ever seen. Think, Dirty Harry meets the grandma from Beverly Hillbillies. Although I had already been convinced you don’t screw with Mary, her performance back at the dock with the cartoonish cannon made me a true believer. That means that should I get shot on this endeavor, it will, more than likely, be from Zack or Doc. Doc was an unknown but he was always cool and collected, about my age and one of the founders of this whole adventure. Zack, in his early thirties, smart, friendly, 6-2, thin, jet black hair, with a two week old, ‘I don’t give a shit’ beard, chiseled chin, and piercing blue eyes. Zack had the complete ‘guy I wished I looked like’ package. All males secretly wished he would die in a grease fire. He was okay in a fight, but his weapon was an insane AK-47 with no butt or whatever it’s called to aim from your shoulder. He would quite literally be shooting from his hip. I don’t think I have seen him fire this weapon or anything from his hip. Damn, I am going to get shot. But we had become friends and in the middle of a very close trivia game, so I guess that would be okay, but might constitute cheating.

  So away we went, door by door, room by room, and closet by closet. First floor was all clear with large open rooms, rooms we had a good view of from the boat, and a small apartment for the innkeepers. The second and attic were all guest rooms. The basement was large and like the first floor, mostly an open area that once housed a bowling alley. The zombie’s aggressiveness would work to our advantage, since once, they saw or heard us, it was off to the races. I have never seen a zombie target something that did not absolutely dominate its attention. Our activities in the house were not subtle. When finished, we were confident it was empty, and a very nice house it was. At last, we had caught a break.

  It took over an hour to clear the place and when done, I ran to the top of the dock stairs and signaled all clear. Yes, time to breathe. It was then that I looked over to the shore. The original half a dozen or so from earlier, had now turned into at least thirty. Most of them just stood there staring at us, many with their arms folded and leaning from one side to the other. Some sat, and a few paced back and forth, but none went into the water any further than maybe knee-deep. There were men, women, and children, but no hierarchy or any obvious organization. They just waited. Either we would come to them or they would get to us. If I had my binoculars, I might be able to identify the wounds I knew they all had. Each injury told the individual's story of how they died. How they became part of the undead. A torn throat here, a lost limb there, or some large unspecific blood stained piece of clothing covering who knows what. I knew that a scratch breaking the skin would rapidly turn into a horrendous fatal infection, but sometimes not. Bites, well, bites are another story and always fatal.

  The house had been a bed and breakfast called Molly's Rock, and the small town a summer beach community, South Kingston. The beach was one of those rare exceptions on the Maine coast, where you actually have sand, and not rocks. Although the water is so cold, I wondered if anyone actually got in. From the reservation book, it looked like things were going well, being full for the entire summer. The good news was that the B&B had plenty of food, fully stocked bar, bottled water, a walk-in refrigerator, and lots of space to spread out. The bad news was that the generator had run out of fuel a couple of days ago. There were a dozen bedrooms, all decorated in a quaint old nautical New England theme. You know, part of me actually thought that I would bring Liz here when I am done with this shit. We could walk up and down the beach, holding hands, and I could tell her about the time when…

  We ate as a group, scattered around a large sunny parlor with paintings of old boats and sea captains, dominated by a beautiful river-stone fireplace. Even though it was ninety-plus outside, I still wanted a fire. I wanted the comfort of a fire. No one said that much, just some small talk about making this our home base for a few weeks, gathering supplies, getting another boat and heading south before winter set in. No serious planning, just something to get our minds working, give us some new direction, and something to focus on. Poor Madeline is deaf and none of us knows sign language, so she just curled up on a couch in an isolated corner. Up until two days ago, it was just, get to the boats and head south. Even with all that happened and everything we left behind, we could now really start thinking about the Caribbean. We still had hope.

  After eating and more casual talk, people drifted off to one of the rooms or a corner of the house, some to sleep, most just to be alone. Robert and I moved out to the seaside portion of the porch, since a cool ocean breeze had started to come in. We plopped down in a couple of Adirondack chairs. From above, I heard someone crying and felt jealous. My time will come. The two of us didn’t talk. We just stared out into the vast expanse of the indomitable Atlantic Ocean. The sea was a blank, no ships in sight, and the immensity was both disturbing and comforting. In front of me was normality. The Atlantic was the same and always will be, but behind me on shore, everything had changed. Since making it to the Providence, I haven’t spent much time looking at the shore.

  Robert and I had grown close since this whole thing started. He was part of the Roy’s original group and I was an outsider. I don't know why we gravitated to each other, maybe since we both had taught at the University of Maine, Orono. This link gave us that icebreaker and soon we knew more and more about each other, and that friend thing happened. He was a professor in mechanical engineering, retired, and I was in anthropology. He got most of my jokes and didn’t seem to mind my quirky sense of humor. We didn't talk that much, just seemed to think in tandem. Whenever there was a plan of action or crisis during our struggle to get from Bangor to the coast, we were always on the same page. If not, he quickly put me on his. It was no surprise that after about two hours of reflection, we got up, went inside, grabbed a large jug of water each, and started to head down to the dock. Zack and Matt were sitting in the kitchen smoking, talking in low voices and it looked like Matt had been crying. I told them we were going to make sure the sailboat was ready, work on the desalinization system and maybe tool over to some boats that were moored near South Kingston, siphon gas, get some charts and anything else we might need.

  “We’ll radio if there is going to be some shooting.”

  They just stared at me for a couple of seconds and Zack said, “John, why the hell would we care if you started shooting? You have the boat. Are we going to swim to your rescue?”

  You could tell that both of us were physically and mentally trashed, but that was a legitimate question. I was also a mess, but needed something to do, to keep moving. If I stopped now, I don’t think I could start again, I’m not sure I’d want to. Looking at them, it dawned on me how beat up we all were, I was. Spending more than a week impossibly stressed with no chance to bathe, no real sleep, no time alone, crappy food, oh yes, and just waiting for that second when you knew your life would end. I was surprised no one had taken it upon themselves to stop their suffering.

  After tidying up the boat and storing the water, I went back up to get my shotgun while Robert started a checklist of essentials. I always had a sidearm, but the feel of my now trusty Mossberg 500 gave me that extra confidence and was indispensable for the boat clearings we had ahead. The 500 is a tactical shotgun often used in law enforcement and was given to me by Roy at an overrun National Guard roadblock we passed on the day we left Bangor. Someone had tricked it out and although it was not good for distance fighting, it would clean house at anything under 100 feet. I was now more than competent with its use and limitations.

  The house was quiet and smelled of summer at the beach. Man, it would be nice to lie down for a couple of hours and just absorb the coolness and comfort of a freshly made bed and clean sheets. I knew that Ro
bert was also beat but wanted to get everything in a rapid go mode. There would be time to crash out tonight. A damn real thing to look forward to, things were looking up. I did see Zack again on my way out. As he went up the stairs, all he did was look at me, groan, pull out his little black book and give it a tap. I just nodded my head, Yes, Zack, I know you are going to win this one and I trudged down to the boat.

  As we untied, I looked at the dock and my brain was telling me, ‘What is wrong with this picture?’ We were ready to motor off when Leslie called down from the top of the stairs, asking if I could bring up one of her cameras. She was a cute twenty-something pain-in-the-ass grad student in film studies at the U of Maine, who had contributed exactly zero to our survival over the last few days. She had brought along two nifty handheld Sony Camcorders, the kind you use to preserve your kids first soccer game, Christmas, Halloween, or any of the thousands of things that are never going to happen again. All of us had taken turns at filming our brutal trip to the coast and the aftermath. I think we did it to prove to ourselves that this was really happening. We were recording our own Odyssey, but this time, you didn't need a Cyclops or Sirens to perk up the story. I don't think anyone has had the fortitude to review what we had recorded, maybe someday, but for me, I doubt it.

  I had just started looking through her duffel bag when I heard the first gunshot. At the time, I thought it was some idiot taking target practice at the zombies onshore and was pissed about the wasting of ammunition and the additional attention it might generate. As I reached topside, I heard a lot more gunfire, shouts, the sound of breaking glass and that now familiar dull moaning roar. Robert and I looked at each other, his face awash in disbelief. I glanced up and Leslie was gone. I had my shotgun at the ready and was just about to step off the boat when I saw the first one peer down from the top railing.