The Dark Times: A Zombie Novel

by Dane Hatchell

  The computer geek turned his head from the fray and frantically cried, “Help us!”

  Pop charged with the bat cocked over his shoulder and swung. The two men kept their distance to give Pop room. The blow missed the creature by inches, but Pop brought the bat back around and connected with its side.

  Pop might as well be hitting a punching bag, Rico thought. “Step away from it!” Rico shouted, stepping forward with the pistol raised.

  Pop was in the zone. He showed no sign that he had heard Rico. The one arm of the zombie hung limply by its side.

  “Pop, back away. I got this!” Rico went to move closer but the bat came back to deliver another blow. The swing connected, but it was Pop whose knees wavered as if he was about to fall down.

  The two men in the wait to help Pop scattered as Rico stepped up with raised pistol. The geek’s attempt to flee was haphazard. The computer nerd stumbled against a bar stool when he tried to step away and fell to the floor right in front of the ghoul that had been chowing down on muscle man’s fingers.

  Rico fired a shot. The bullet burst through the back of the zombie’s skull. It fell limp, landing on the separated shoulder that Pop had hit with the bat. Rico turned his aim toward the zombie on its knees, but he was too late. The mouth full of fingers must have not been enough to satisfy it. The zombie fell on the computer geek and sank its teeth into his face. Blood gushed out from the nerd’s nose. The crunch of cartilage separating by teeth crackled in the air. It continued to gnaw on his face.

  One guy by the wall bent over, heaving like a steam locomotive. He erupted over the floor and fell to his knees. The rank emesis wasn’t enough to cover up the rotting stench of putrid flesh.

  Rico lowered his pistol and pressed it against the side of the kneeling creature’s head.

  He pulled the trigger.

  All three zombies were dead and motionless on the floor. Finally, it was over.

  The man with the injured hand no longer leaned against the bar and slid down to the floor, still conscious, but had lost all color in his face. The computer geek lay on his back. His chest jerked. Blood spurted from his mouth, cascading his already crimson face. His nose was a caved in mess of nothingness. Blood bubbles formed where his nose should have been and popped the second his back jerked again. He turned his head and coughed. This time, the blood splashed across Rico’s police issued boots.

  Chapter 3

  A mellow sax played over the music system at the bar. Pop had recovered from his dizziness and surveyed the damage while massaging his hands. A few of the women sobbed while others tried to comfort them. Two patrons hovered over the computer nerd, who was alive, in obvious shock, and bleeding from various bites on his face. His left ear half missing made him look elfish.

  Rico leaned against a table, fearing his shaky legs might give out. He felt his blood pressure rise in his face and the mixture of alcohol and the hamburger from lunch rose from his stomach. A few steps to the right had him over a trash can filled with empty bottles and plastic cups. Thankfully, he had time to keep the up-chuck off the floor.

  “You okay, Rico?” Pop said—his face had aged ten years.

  Rico spat a few times. The sour odor of decay and Jim Beam trapped in his nostrils threatened for him to swear off whiskey forever. “I’m fine. Stomach’s upset over these rank-ass bastards on the floor.” He looked around the room. “Anybody call for an ambulance?”

  A voice from the crowd huddled together by the bar said, “I called 911.”

  As if right on cue, the wail of a siren sped past the tavern with lights flashing. The ambulance didn’t even slow, and the siren faded into the distance. All eyes in the bar turned on Rico.

  People were such hypocrites. Being an officer of the law is one of the most despised professions known to man. The thieves, the drug dealers and prostitutes, all criminals would just as soon kill a cop as look at them. The thing that hurt the worst, though, was that law-abiding, ‘good’ citizens weren’t much better when push came to shove. How many times did he pull over a motorist and was told, ‘Why aren’t you off chasing criminals?’ Ironically, they had broken the law, and he, in fact, was doing his job. Somehow, those driving BMW and Lexus luxury cars felt they were above the law. ‘I’m paying your salary.’ ‘Yeah, no shit. I pay taxes too, so I guess I’m paying my own salary.’ He usually just thanked the motorist and handed them the ticket. Nothing was worse than getting into a fray with an old woman. Not even a gunfight. He had been attacked by a purse wielding, graying avenger at least five times. What was he to do? Fight back? There’s no way he’d live that down at the station. It never failed that at some point the woman would hurt her hand and stop, and then threaten to sue. Thank goodness for video cameras catching it all.

  These people in the bar all looked to him to tell them what to do. Rico was the unanimous leader by default. He was the one wearing the blue uniform.

  “Everyone remain calm.” He turned to muscle man, who was trying to sit back up. “How bad is your hand?”

  The man pulled at the rag around the bite, and it showed no evidence it was bleeding. “Not terrible. Hurt’s like hell, but I would expect a bite to do that.”

  “Pop, can you put some alcohol on it, or something to kill the germs until EMS arrives?”

  “Sure. I got nicked up a little too, when I was slinging that bat. I’ll get some towels for the guy on the floor and get him fixed up.”

  A man pulled a girl away from the bar by the hand. “All the other things that were by the window are gone. I’m ready to get out of here.” A series of gunshots from outside froze him in his tracks.

  Rico raised both hands. “I don’t want anyone to leave just yet. We don’t know what’s going on out there, and we should stay together until we know it’s safe.”

  “How long will that be?” the man said, pulling the girl tightly in his arms.

  Rico rolled his eyes and shook his head. “How the fuck would I know that? I was here having a good time just like you when all this shit started. I don’t know where these dead looking things came from, if any are still out there, or what else is going down around us. Common sense tells us our decision making will be better when it gets daylight. We just need to stay calm until we learn more.”

  “Pop, I need a drink,” someone by the bar said. A few others chimed in agreement.

  “No.” Rico’s voice boomed. “No more drinking. Only water. We need to keep our wits about us.” He turned to a guy standing under a television set. “You, see if you can find us some news. Anybody else with a cell phone start searching for answers.”

  Blank stares from the crowd answered back.

  “For Christ’s sake, people, snap out of your funk and do something,” Rico commanded.

  “But what about them?” a woman asked.

  Rico jammed both sets of knuckles on his hips and surveyed the dead bodies on the floor. “Nothing to worry about. They’re not ever going to get up again.”

  “But they scare me. They stink, too. I want them out of here,” the woman’s voice cracked.

  “Ma’am, since people are dead, we can’t disturb the bodies until police arrive and photograph the evidence.”

  “You’re a cop. Make a report. Take a picture with your cell phone and draw a chalk line on the floor. Just get them out,” her voice sounded even more desperate.

  Rico rubbed his hand over his face. “Ma’am, this is a possible crime scene. It doesn’t work that way. Please go find some place to sit down—as far away from them as you can. Have some water. Play Angry Birds on your phone. Do whatever you need to take your mind off those things.”

  “But—”

  “Now!” Typical, she forced him to go there. It was difficult to reason with people—especially those who were distraught.

  The woman scowled and defiantly dismissed him with her nose in the air before heading to the farthest barstool.

  Now he was a dick, an asshole, whatever undeserved label fit. Didn’t people realize it is
they who made him act that way? Nope, ultimately, they would test him until he put his foot down. Human nature, he guessed. That meant human nature hadn’t evolved much from the animal world. The strong ruled. If animals ever learned how to fire automatic weapons, humans would find themselves in trouble.

  He turned back to the crowd. “Anybody here a doctor? Nurse? Some type of care giver?” Most had broken from their trance and were either speaking hush-hush among themselves, or fingering cell phones.

  “I’ve had some first aid training,” one man said, tending to the computer nerd as Pop handed him some towels. He had already covered the bite wounds with cocktail napkins and quickly covered the shivering victim with the towels.

  “How’s he doing?” Rico asked.

  “Didn’t lose that much blood. He’s just in shock. I wish that ambulance would hurry.”

  Far away sirens and gunfire crept in to chill the scene further. Pop stepped over by Rico.

  He spoke in a whisper. “What you said earlier about this being a crime scene, am I in some kind of trouble for—beating up on that thing?” The event had really taken a toll on this poor old man.

  “Hey, Pop, look, don’t worry. I was here, and I ultimately am responsible. It’s my bullets that took them all down. You were trying to save lives. Everyone here saw what you did—what you had to do—to those things. You’re a hero, Pop. But events have to play out by the book.”

  “Should I get a lawyer? Whoever it was that I banged up might have relatives who could sue for desecrating the body. And what about the people here that got hurt?”

  “Well, having a lawyer in any legal matter is never a bad idea. And I hope your insurance is paid up. I’ll think you’ll be fine as I don’t see any criminal charges coming your way. But certainly if someone drops a civil suit on you, you’ll have to lawyer up.”

  “Ah, well. I guess I’ll just take it one day at a time.” Pop tried to act as if he wasn’t going to let him worry him.

  “You want to help me look those things over? See if we can find any identification?”

  “Sure.”

  Rico reached in a pocket and pulled out a pair of thin plastic gloves. He always kept a pair handy in case he handled a bloody victim, or he was sent on a drug bust where needles would be involved.

  He and Pop walked over to the first zombie Rico had dropped. The smell roiled Rico’s stomach but he managed to escape the feeling with only a dry burp.

  “This man died recently. Recent meaning within the last six months. Embalming doesn’t preserve the body as long as most people think. After a year, the body generally is nothing more than skeletons and teeth, with slight patches of tissue here and there.”

  “How do you know that?” Pop asked.

  “Eh? Oh, I had the chance to see an exhumed body once. Insurance company believed the guy was poisoned and didn’t want to pay the widow. I never found out what happened after that.”

  Rico carefully searched the clothing for identification and was surprised when he found an envelope stuffed in an inside pocket.

  “What’cha got there?” Pop asked.

  “Dunno. Let’s see.” The envelope wasn’t sealed. He opened the envelope and removed the letter inside. A rectangular piece of paper fell out. The letter read, ‘I told you I would pay you back,’ and signed, ‘Billy.’ The rectangular piece of paper was a hand written check for ten thousand dollars, addressed to Mr. Albert M. Davison.

  “People never cease to amaze me,” Rico said as he showed Pop the letter.

  Pop looked over the letter and then again at the check. He giggled—slightly—then a little harder. The laughter took control as tears pooled in his eyes and rolled down his cheeks in big drops.

  “Hey, Pop. It’s okay.” Rico reached out and gently squeezed Pop on his shoulder. “It’s going to be okay.”

  A police car screeched to a halt outside the door and an ambulance drove slightly past it before stopping. Help had finally arrived.

  “Really, Pop, everything is going to be okay.” Rico helped the old man to his feet and watched EMS spill out the ambulance. He was tired, but a whole new chapter of the day had to begin and end before he’d be getting any sleep.

  At least he freed his mind from pining over Mary Etta. That is, until now, and he started to hate himself for it.

  Chapter 4

  Two days later

  “There you go—a dog with false teeth,” Private Andy Wells said, after giving much thought to the situation.

  “What in the name of God are you rambling about now?” Private Steve Rogan asked.

  Three fallen war heroes shambled down an empty street in Cosper Ridge Estates. The bodies had been mysteriously reanimated to life.

  Two wore the dress blues of a Class A Noncommissioned Officer. An overseas service bar adorned each jacket, along with a combat service identification badge and service stripes. The other was naked and in an advanced state of decay—resembling a walking skeleton. There was no doubt they were on the hunt for human flesh.

  “The one on the right. That’s something I haven’t seen before. Look at it. How in the hell can it even walk?” Wells said, hiding behind the cover of an SUV haphazardly abandoned on the street.

  Rogan leaned around the vehicle for a better view. “Who knows? How can the dead come back to life anyway? Some force had to rebuild the remaining organic material and regenerate it enough to get the muscles working again. After that, the body expends energy so it has to find a way to replenish it. For some God awful reason these walking corpses need human flesh to keep going.”

  “That’s some high dollar stinkin’ thinkin’ right there. You a college boy, Rogan?”

  “No, just high school. Shut your trap and take out the one on the left. I’ll take the one on the right. First kill gets to shoot the one in the middle.”

  “Wait a minute. There’s another thing I ain’t figured out yet. How is it that these zombies can break out of coffins and claw their way up from six feet of packed dirt? That’s a lot like pussy to me,” Wells said.

  “Pussy? How is that like pussy?”

  “I don’t get it,” Wells said with a grin.

  Rogan rolled his eyes. “I remember going to church and hearing the preacher say in the end times the dead would rise. Maybe this is prophecy come true.”

  “Not buying it. I might have been born at night, but not last night. If this was prophecy, then J.C. would have been riding in the sky on a white horse slingin’ a flamin’ carrot.”

  “You mean sword, don’t you? Jesus had a flaming sword.”

  “Well, the painting I saw, it looked like he was holding a flamin’ carrot.”

  Rogan shook his head. “I don’t really know how the zombies got out of the ground. What if they burrowed out like a mole?”

  “Sounds like bullshit to me. You can’t bullshit a bullshitter, and I’m one of the best,” Wells said with a nod.

  “How about this: Little men from Mars swooped down in UFOs and shot the graves with a super ray-cannon, disintegrating the dirt, and bringing the dead back to life.”

  “Now that could happen. That their theory at least is based in science,” Wells said, pointing a finger at Rogan.

  “Andy, they were in the ground, and now they’re out. That’s really all that matters. That, and the fact that,” Rogan’s mouth twisted, and he lowered the tone in his voice, “they’re coming to get you, Andy.”

  “Stop that! Yer scaring me. I was just saying . . . .”

  “Shut up and shoot,” Rogan said.

  Wells slapped a new magazine into his M16 and chambered a round. He leaped to the side of the SUV and peppered the chest of his undead target in full auto.

  Rogan steadied his rifle on the roof of the vehicle, took careful aim, and fired. The top of his target’s skull peeled back like a pull-top can. The zombie fell backward onto the asphalt, his mouth no longer chewing empty air.

  Repositioning slightly, Rogan shot the one in the middle dead center of its left eye. T
he head exploded, sending fragments of bone and black, putrid goo in all directions. Dead meat fireworks, he thought.

  Wells continued to shoot his target in the chest. The bullets went straight through, ripping out chunks of meat from the zombie’s backside. The dead walker advanced despite the direct hits. It violently shook as each bullet tore through.

  “Wells, what are you doing? You wasted a whole clip of ammo and it’s still standing. You know to aim for the head, not shoot it to pieces.” Rogan took aim and brought down the zombie with a headshot.

  Wells grinned. “I know. I was only having a little fun. Just think, if it was wearing a grass skirt, it would’ve looked like it was doing the hula dance. That gives me an idea. Let’s put a grass skirt on a zombie woman. You can get a video camera and film while I shoot her up, making her dance. Then, we can upload the video on the internet. We can put a music track on and everything.”

  Rogan raised a hand. “Wells, you can come up with the craziest shit.”

  “Are we’s going to do it or ain’t we?”

  “We’s need to concentrate on our mission. Search and rescue, remember? Some people are probably holed up in their houses, scared out of their minds,” Rogan said.

  “I doubt that they’s had much chance of surviving. Central Texas State Veterans Cemetery is so close that this neighborhood would have been the first course on the menu.”

  An old woman with a nasty limp ran screaming for help from around the corner, a half block away.

  “Good Lord,” Rogan said, turning toward the cries. A host of undead chased in hot pursuit. “There must be forty of them after that woman. Call for back-up, now!”

  Wells radioed their position and briefly described the situation. He ejected the empty magazine in his rifle and stabbed in a full one.

  “Run, lady, run!” Rogan sped off first, shooting as he ran. Bullets flew wide of her position and hit to either side, doing little to slow the advance of the aggressors.