The Dark Times: A Zombie Novel

by Dane Hatchell

  The injured leg proved to be too great a hindrance. The nearest carnivore closed in and pulled her to the ground.

  As the two crashed to the street, withered hands from all sides jutted forth, digging filth-encrusted fingers into her soft flesh, ripping her apart. Blood splattered into the air—flying in all directions.

  Rogan stopped, took aim, and shot the zombies where it counted as they feasted on the kill. As soon as one fell to his bullet, another fought its way in to share the prize.

  Wells arrived at his side with the dash of heels pounding the ground from the other members of his platoon following.

  Wells gloated, “Got one . . . and another. Got that one . . . Missed . . . Wait . . . got it. That last one’s head exploded like a frog sucking on a cherry bomb. I’m up to about eight points. How many d’you get?”

  “This isn’t a video game. This is serious stuff, man,” Rogan said, squeezing off a carefully aimed shot.

  The additional six members of the platoon took down the mass of undead like corn chopped in the field. Apparently, the temptation of the fresh kill was too alluring for the group of zombies to notice the soldiers in the distance.

  After a few minutes of combined gunfire, the last of the zombies fell to the street. It took a bullet to the head as it climbed over a pile of its companions, reaching out for a half-eaten piece of thigh. It didn’t get the satisfaction of a final bite before returning to the grave.

  “I’m glad that’s over,” Rogan said.

  “If this had been the carnival, I would have won one of them stuffed gorillas. You know, big and puffy—with that bright blue fur and a goofy look on its face.” Wells bugged out his eyes and poked his tongue to the corner of his mouth.

  Rogan turned away, his lips tightening.

  Wells rubbed his chin and scratched his head. “At least we found the best way to kill a whole bunch at once.”

  “Overwhelming fire power wins every time it’s tried. Nothing really special about the way we killed them,” Rogan said.

  “That ain’t it. You and I could’ve took out these goobers by ourselves.”

  “How on Earth do you figure that?”

  “Well, Mr. I’m so smart, it’s as plain as the nose on yer face. You saw how they acted. They had only one thing on their mind. Dinner. They’s didn’t even know we was here as long as they had something close by to eat. The way to take out a pile of zombies is to keep their attention away from you.” Wells grinned from ear to ear. “All you gotta do is use the right bait.”

  ***

  Reports of the dead returning to life were the same the whole world over. Fortunately, the event had been short lived. It only took a few days for authorities to restore order, although it did take a few weeks to eliminate the stragglers. Some areas had been hit harder than others had, but after the initial shock wore off, life for most returned to normal. Casualties in general were few. More people had died in the panic from heart attacks and accidents than had been killed by the reanimated dead. Many, though, did suffer from scratches and bites, most unhindered from the injuries.

  Killeen remained the sleepy little town it had always been, just as life went on after the September 11th attack on the Twin Towers. Church attendance had picked up too. Televangelists across the country wasted no time in taking advantage of the situation and raked in huge piles of money.

  The people of the world demanded an explanation. Scientists determined the event was a fluke of nature—with a billion to one odds for it to have happened.

  It all started when a group of asteroids traveled through Earth’s orbit. The asteroids pulled a massive cloud of dust with them. Whereas the Earth escaped the barrage of space rocks, it wasn’t so lucky with the dust.

  There was little concern when the Earth ran into the cloud. A slight haze filled the sky, but the world didn’t go dark as some religious zealots had predicted. Pandora’s box didn’t open, unleashing hell on Earth. Planes even continued to fly uninterrupted. Active volcanos had more effect on commerce.

  The moon at night did take on a slightly different color through the prism of dust. It had a twinge of yellow never before seen. The dust affected the clouds too, and the rain that fell similarly carried the pale yellow color.

  It took scientists some time to isolate a unique microbe found in the rain. A group of French geneticists made the first discovery. The microbes resembled a virus—as it had no means to self-replicate. The saving grace of it all was that the alien microbe’s DNA was incompatible with DNA found on Earth. There was no fear of some new hybrid plague spreading across the world and destroying all life.

  At least that was the original finding. Now, no one knew what to expect.

  Chapter 5

  Six months later

  It was two o’clock on a warm Wednesday afternoon in October. The sun beamed through the window shades and shined on the tables at the rear of Pop’s Lounge. The after-work crowd had started to trickle in. Happy hour always attracted an interesting bunch into the bar. College kids knocking down a few pitchers after class. Businessmen in suits relieving stress from the circus of the day. The lonely guy. The lonely girl. People with nowhere to go. People who had places to go but didn’t want to be there.

  Rico stepped in but stopped at the entrance. He looked around and remembered the events that happened back in the spring. In a way, it seemed like it never really happened—that it was just a movie in a faded memory. A dream even. The attack of the undead was certainly something he wished he could forget—wished had never happened. However, recent reports in the news wouldn’t let him. Scientist had an answer for what brought the dead to life, but it was what some others speculated that had him back at Pop’s Lounge this day.

  He had left his motorcycle helmet on his Harley-Davidson Sportster but brought his duffle bag with him. It was his personal bike with a ‘Property of Killeen P.D.’ sticker on it. For the three years he owned the bike, no one had ever bothered it.

  Pop had his gaze fixed to a television screen and was mindlessly drying a beer mug when Rico stepped up to the bar.

  “Hey, Pop. How you doing?” Rico waited as Pop turned his attention toward him and gave him an up and down.

  The curious expression disappeared as his eyes widened.

  “Rico… That you?”

  “Yep, it’s me. A trim buck ninety on the ol’ pounds meter. Been hitting the gym more these days.” Rico patted his belly.

  “You look great, son. So that’s what you’ve been up to since—” Pop hesitated for a moment, “since the last time. Come, sit down.”

  Rico reached out and shook Pop’s hand. He dropped the bag to the floor and sat on the wooden bar stool in front of Pop.

  “What to drink?”

  “Uh . . . .”

  “On the house.”

  “Thanks Pop, but I’ve given up drinking.”

  “Ah, come on. A soft drink then, or just some water.” Pop placed a cup full of ice in front of Rico and waited to push one of the plethora of buttons on the elaborate drink nozzle.

  “Ginger ale.”

  “Coming up.”

  “Thanks.” Rico waited for his glass to fill. “You know, I feel bad that I haven’t come to see you over these last few months. The last time I was here really changed my life.”

  “Tell me about it. A lot changed for everybody.”

  “Well, I’m not talking about those dead things that attacked. I mean the talk you gave me before any of that happened. Everything you said about me and my life was true. It was things I already knew, but it’s like when you said them, it… it made it seem possible for me to achieve. Your talk pushed me over the edge and allowed me to take control of my life. I started to eat healthy, backed away from the booze, and spent my off time at the gym and not lying around on my ass in front of the TV sulking over Mary Etta. I just wanted to come by and thank you for that. And to check on you, you know, because of the news.”

  Pop made a shy smile. “I didn’t do nothing. It was all
you. And don’t you go worrying about me. I’m as healthy as a horse.”

  Rico wasn’t so sure about that. Pop looked a bit more haggard than the officer had expected. Sure, he was an old man that only got older every day—but that wasn’t it. No doubt running a bar seven days a week would wear out even a young person. Maybe that’s all it was.

  “I’m sure you know what’s going on in France.” Rico didn’t really know how to get the conversation started without sounding too nosy. Plus, he wanted Pop to open up and not be on the defensive side.

  “Yeah. To think it took the Froggies to figure out what brought the dead back to life. What are we paying all our tax dollars for? Hell, our government told us there was nothing to worry about in that space dust.”

  “At least they got the part about the asteroids missing the Earth right. That cloud of dust that followed has everyone concerned now.”

  “Ah, it don’t bother me none. Other than that yellow rain it caused and the people who recently died coming back to life, there’s nothing else going to happen. People who have died since then haven’t come back. Like they said, it was just a fluke. They’ll figure it out one day. I even heard one scientist say he thinks that’s how life originally started on Earth. Alien microbes mixing in with the soil and producing DNA.”

  “But the microbes they found in the dust couldn’t self-replicate. Its DNA wasn’t compatible with ours. It shouldn’t have done what it did and raise the dead. They’re saying now it mutated. What happens if that alien stuff mutates again? And . . . and what do you think about all those people that got bitten or scratched when the dead came back?” That was the million dollar question. Rico wanted to know if Pop suffered from any of the symptoms others had reported.

  Pop’s gaze turned to his left forearm. Rico saw what he focused on. A red welt a half inch wide and three inches long streaked across his bicep.

  “Is that where you got scratched?” Rico asked.

  “Yeah, when I was slinging the bat.”

  “That the only place?”

  “No, I got a couple smaller ones. There’s one on my elbow and another on a knuckle.”

  “You been to the doctor?”

  “Sure. Those damn places would never heal so I went to one of them walk-in clinics. They cleaned up the scratches and gave me some ointment and pills. Nothing’s changed. They’re still there. Big deal. Don’t bother me that much. Itches from time to time though.”

  “How about the symptoms others are reporting? Fever, congestion, runny nose, and runny eyes?”

  “I don’t know. I got allergies. I don’t have fever, but I’ve lived most of my life with congestion.” Pop raised his hands. “I know what you’re concerned about, but I think the news is trying to make a mountain out of a mole hill. This is an off year for politics so they’re looking to make news.”

  “I don’t know, Pop. It’s coincidental that those who were cut or bitten when the undead attacked are all having similar symptoms. Those who have shared bodily fluids with them since then are affected too. I heard a conservative estimate put a number of those affected at fifteen percent of the population. Some say it could be as high as thirty. That means millions of people may have some type of illness that no one will know how to cure.”

  “So what? Colds have been around for years and we can’t get rid of them. They’ll come up with some more over-the-counter medicines to ease the symptoms. The pharmaceuticals will make millions.”

  Rico lifted the plastic cup to his mouth. “I hope you’re right. I sure hope you’re right.” Ginger ale fizzed on the back of his tongue as he took another swallow. The walls of the bar felt like they were slowly closing in. Faded memories of the harrowing night stirred as Rico cast his gaze about the room—half expecting to see a slimy handprint on the window. For the first time in a long time, he thought how a shot or two of vodka would mix with the ginger ale.

  “Hey, Pop, you ever think much about that night?” Rico felt the creeping fear of that living nightmare return.

  “Me? Sure. Well, not as much lately. Right after it happened, everyone who came in here made me retell the story. Business picked up quite a bit, and I had to take on some extra staff. I think the last time I told the story I had killed ten zombies using a toothpick with an olive on the end. I ate the olive after I put the last one down.”

  Rico chuckled. “Yeah, you should hear some of the shit the guys told at the station. One man Rambos—all of them.”

  “Remember that bat? Look behind you.”

  Rico twisted around and saw the muck covered bat hanging on the wall displayed in a rectangular glass case. It had a brass engraved nametag that read ‘Denise.’

  “You gave the bat a name?”

  “Ah, you know. It helps the story—makes it part of the legend. I named the bat after the nastiest red head I ever met in my life. Denise Wannamaker, I sure had a thing for that gal.” Pop’s distant gaze reminded Rico that lost loves remained with you forever.

  “Pop, it’s been great catching up. I’m going out of town for a few weeks—taking all my vacay at once. Just hitting the road, and wherever I end up, that’s where I’ll be.”

  “Good for you. I hope whatever you’re looking for in life you’ll find.”

  “Me too, Pop, me too.” Rico slid off the bar stool and picked up his bag. “So, you sure you’re okay? Healthy as a horse, like you said?”

  “Don’t you worry about me none. I’m fit as a fiddle. And one thing’s for certain, I’m not guilty of sharing any of my bodily fluids with anyone else getting them sick, too.” The old man was hardheaded but Rico always loved his dry sense of humor.

  “What the hell? Why not? Give ol’ Denise a call. I bet she still has a head full of that red hair.”

  “That might be true, but at her age, I bet the carpet don’t match the drapes.”

  ***

  Meeting with Pop was just what Rico needed to clear his head before heading out on what he hoped would be his greatest adventure. He didn’t have much of a plan, and felt stupid when his partners at the station gave him hell for not knowing where he was going. Fuck ’em, he thought. Something inside pushed him to get away, as if a great reward—or an awakening of some type—awaited him just around the next turn in the road. The fog of depression hung wherever he went in Killen, especially in the gym while he ran on the treadmill. Most of it was because of Mary Etta, but there were other things, too. Failures he suffered in life, and hidden things he had done that no one knew but him. The future was about to change drastically for him. He could feel it, and he couldn’t wait for it to come.

  The passion he had once felt serving as an officer of the law had dwindled next to nothing. He couldn’t blame all of his state of mind on his divorce. It lied deeper than that. At least he’d become honest with himself. As simple as it sounded, that’s what really sparked the change in him. That, and ‘The Spook,’ the street name for the night the alien virus raised the dead.

  Hell, just about everyone left alive had taken on a different perspective in life. Some still hadn’t gotten over it. For him though, The Spook gave birth to an itch. An itch that could only be scratched by a throttle and holding onto the handlebars of his motorcycle as it glided down the highway. It was time to fly. His wife wasn’t his wife any more. She had made sure of that. After The Spook, she was bound and determined to end the marriage as quickly as possible. Rico had secretly hoped that one day she might change her mind and come running back after she initially left him. But she used scorched Earth tactics to push the divorce through as quickly as possible. Mary Etta could only see him as a fat failure in life and didn’t have room for him in the picture. He had despised her at first for that, but now he was happy to see her go. It was what he ultimately needed to grow. A little pruning always hurt, but the growth it produces is always for the better.

  He needed to change. He had lost his drive, his motivation to ensure he met every expectation of his duties. That attitude would get him into dangerous situation
s and he would probably get himself killed in the line of duty. Being a hero is something every officer strived to be. Dying a hero was just plain stupid. Two months after The Spook, he had written his resignation and presented it to his Chief, who eventually talked him out of it. Rico kept his resignation letter on a desk at home and looked at it every day. All he had to do was change the date, slap a stamp on an envelope, and it would be done, once and for all.

  His true destination didn’t lie on a map. Rico would know he reached it when he got there. He felt the chains of his life in Killeen stretch the farther down the road he drove. The wind whistled through his hair, and the mountains of problems shrank down to hills in his rearview mirror. Soon they would be but pebbles he could kick out of his way forever.

  The handlebars guided him into the future, controlled by his two hands. The speedometer kissed 75mph down the highway. He wished he had made the break a long time ago.

  A fresh start was what he needed, especially after what happened six months ago. Of all the things, his wife, the job, the dead coming back to life, what haunted him the most at night was the fight at the bar. The shots. They rang in his head any time he stopped long enough to think. No matter how many times he felt like he was over it, the images came back. That was why he was on the move. He needed to get away from that town. He needed to get away from his ex, and he needed to get away from that night.

  An aging Ford Ranger traveled up the other lane and passed him. The truck sounded like shit, and Rico wondered how long a vehicle in that bad of shape could go that fast before it fell apart. The truck’s engine sputtered and backfired, sounding like both barrels of a shotgun going off. Rico jumped in his seat and remembered the time he pointed his gun at the ghoul and pulled the trigger to end its existence. The loud boom, the bullet hitting the eye, the bits of bone and goop that shot out of the back of its head as the bullet smashed through. His bullets entered flesh. It might have been dead flesh, but it was still flesh just the same.