“Andy, it doesn’t do any good to close your eyes. You’re still up in the air the whole time,” Steve Rogan said.
“I don’t care what you say. I’m skeerd of heights.” Andy had latched his thumbs around the shoulder straps to either side and held on for dear life. “I didn’t sign up to be no paratrooper. They drafted my ass for this.”
“Well, there aren’t as many of us around as there used to be. You’ve got to suck it up and do it for your country. Besides, we’re not jumping out of here with a parachute.”
“It don’t matter. I don’t like hangin’ my ass off no ladder.”
A voice broke over the radio. “Not much activity on the ground. Don’t know what’s inside. In position now. Good luck, guys. Keep your eyes peeled.”
Rogan and two others unsnapped the seat belts and rose.
“Andy, this is ridiculous. Come on.” Rogan tossed the ladder off the side. It fell toward the roof that had a large S.O.S painted across it.
“Oh, all right.” Andy Wells fumbled his way out of the seat belt and put his rifle over his shoulder. Rogan waited with an open hand to help him. The other two troops had already made the descent to the roof.
“Come, on. Piece of cake.”
Andy turned his gaze down. “Hmm, looks a whole lot better when yer only twenty feet from the ground.”
Rogan raised a thumb and followed Andy down the ladder onto the roof.
It was dark inside the store. Everyone had night vision goggles on and carefully stepped down the aisles.
“Collins, you and Horwitz go that way and look for survivors. Stay in touch on the radio. Expect the unexpected. Wells and I will see if there are any guns and ammo left.”
Both men raised a fist. Collins led the way toward the front of the store.
“This place sure is creepy.” Andy pointed to the mounted animal heads on the wall.
Rogan shrugged it off and headed toward the glass counter along the back. Today was the second day they had been off base to search for more supplies. It had taken three months to secure enough infrastructure and regroup to have the resources to go out on missions again. Conditions hadn’t improved enough to go out on pure search and rescue missions to find others alive. The military was still too thin to do that. But if they came upon survivors needing help, they would do the best they could to bring them back.
Broken glass crunched underneath Rogan’s boots. The glass cases had been pilfered of all handguns. The racks along the wall holding long guns were empty as well. No ammo of any kind remained on the shelf.
“Jackpot!” Andy called out.
Well, if there are any zombies in the store, they’re sure to find us now, Rogan thought.
Andy delightfully giggled.
Rogan turned the corner and saw Andy with a stack of caps in his hand.
“Lookie here, lookie here. The official NFL Dallas Cowboys 2017 Super Bowl Champion cap. I always wanted me one of them.”
“Andy, I . . .” Rogan took a deep breath. “Never mind.”
Collins and Horwitz double timed down the main aisle and approached Rogan. Horwitz held something in his hand.
“Store’s empty. No zombies, and no one left alive,” Collins said.
“So there were people here at one time?” Rogan asked.
“Yeah. Found the remains of one by a tent. Over in front of a bathroom, we found a bunch of zombies killed by headshots. Looks like there were three inside the bathroom that didn’t make it. The door was ajar so I guess the zombies eventually broke down the door and overwhelmed them.”
Rogan turned his gaze to the floor and then looked up at Horwitz. “What are you holding on to?”
“It’s a notebook. Looks like a girl named Debra used it for a diary.” Horwitz handed the notebook to Rogan.
The front of the notebook had hearts drawn all over it. Inside each heart, a name was written. ‘Drew,’ ‘Sarah,’ ‘Steven,’ ‘Malinda,’ ‘Q,’ ‘Rico,’ and ‘Angie.’ There were two hearts intersected with one another; ‘Debra’ was written in one heart and ‘Patrick in the other. He opened the notebook and flipped through the pages.
“I guess it tells the story of the group until the end,” Horwitz said.
“I guess so.” Rogan closed the notebook. “I can’t imagine how many different stories of these dark times will be recorded before this war is over.”
The End
Read on for a free sample of Epidemic Of The Undead: A zombie novel by P.A Douglas
About the Authors:
P. A. Douglas has written a bunch of books. Some of them long. Some short. Some fun. Some serious. He has written music. Traveled more than the average person. Does Design and graphic work. Even feeds his dogs every day. Too many things…
Visit him at: www.indie-inside.com
Follow him at: www.twitter.com/indie_inside
Dane Hatchell is the author of the novel: RESURRECTION X, the collection: MIND HEMORRHAGES, co-author of the novella: SLIPWAY GREY, and the novel: INSURGENT Z. Multiple short stories by Dane have appeared in various anthologies over the last few years.
Chapter One
He didn’t come down with the first heavy swing until she’d taken a chunk out of Mark’s neck. Before this thing went down, he had never harmed another human being in his life. He had never even considered it. With a metal bat covered in blood and rank chunks of meat, Chris had committed the unthinkable, the unimaginable, act of violence against another human being.
She deserved to die. But wasn’t she dead already? Did she even have a soul? Was there anything behind those ravenous cloudy eyes that contained a spark of her previous humanity? How was he supposed to prepare for something this horrendous? The world had changed so fast, so unexpectedly.
This disease, plague, or whatever label man would put on it, was reanimating its victims into an endless cycle of cannibalistic fury. Where did the insatiable drive come from? Nothing seemed to slow them down. It had to be a part of the virus, or some dormant gene that activated within the body brought about from the bites. These people, these dead creatures who returned to life, had changed. Everything had changed, not only for those who had succumbed to death, but for everyone who had remained alive. For Chris Commons and his friends, life would never be the same. Nothing would ever be the same… for anyone.
Chris Commons was known for being level headed and calm under pressure. He was a little heavy in the midsection and definitely overweight for his height. Chris stood at a measly 5' 5". His dark brown eyes and scruffy completion matched the name. He was an average looking guy, common. The naturally curly hair didn’t help his appearance either. Although, he had a girlfriend or two in his time, at twenty-three, he found himself too busy for one now. Touring full time was a lot of responsibility, especially when it was all on one person to handle the band’s business. That person was him. The woes and surprises of touring trained him to be resilient when situations changed abruptly. He didn’t allow it to distract him, because he knew better than to have unrealistic expectations. If he found a problem, he easily stepped in the role of the fixer. At times though, even he had to admit, it left him wearing more shoes at the same time, than he cared to. That may have been why he didn’t see it coming, or why he wasn’t ready when it did. He was so wrapped up in the band’s business that he had missed all the warnings along the way.
The first sign things were going awry was with the phone reception. Not long after that, television and radio interference became just as annoying. It didn’t get serious until the real calamity spilled out into the streets. It became the dead against the living, and brother against brother. Chaos clamped down on the cities in an iron grip. Some called it the end of the world. It was Judgment Day and God himself was the one who had thrown the curve ball this time.
“Hey man, what the hell is the big idea here?” Mark waved his arms in the air. “Where the hell is everybody?” He said, shoving both fists into his hips.
“Hey dude, I don’t recall being the one w
ho booked us this gig. You did,” Chris said.
Chris stepped down from the side door of the converted cargo van onto the parking lot. He and his cousin, Mark, shared the vehicle that was used as a home away from home for the band. The insides had been gutted and a foldout bed installed. This still allowed for plenty of storage for gear and clothes. It even had a working sink and a window a/c unit that came in handy for those hot summer nights. Sure, the van had its unreliable moments, but what 1991 GMC didn’t?
“Mark, are you sure you talked to the promoter and got us on the right date?” Chris asked, as he approached Mark. “Look dude, if I’m going to start delegating some of the band responsibilities like you wanted, you’re going to have to start getting us real shows. We spent at least . . . .” Chris looked back toward the parked van. “Hey . . . Steve!”
Steve’s head popped out of the window, his face still tight from a rough sleep. He rubbed his eyes with one hand and made a wide animated yawn. He had slept most of the drive, which was par for the course. His long brown hair stuck to his warm drool covered chin. Steve was tall and thin, and had just turned twenty-two. The jeans he wore were form fitting. Others had accused him of wearing girl jeans, but they weren’t. To complete his look, he wore thick-rimmed glasses that appeared rather big for his head. Steve was too cool for school. All of the band members were. It was what was expected from musicians. The First Rule of Tour was, ‘Always Keep up Appearances.’
“How much gas did you put in the tank this morning, Steve?” Chris yelled across the empty lot.
“I don’t know, man. I think it was like a hundred bucks or something.”
“Did you at least get a receipt?”
“A what?” Steve began slipping on his shoes, and then stepped out of the van still half-asleep. “We early or something?” he asked, looking around. The van was the only vehicle parked in front of the venue.
“Never mind, man! And yeah, we’re early,” Chris said. Stepping past Mark, and using a sarcastic tone, he said, “A hundred bucks, Mark! A hundred bucks! The gig is barely going to cover our travel expenses.”
Chris Commons loved playing music. He loved doing it for money even more. This band wasn’t working out anything like he expected. It was a folk band made up of his cousin and slacker best friend. It would have been bad enough if Steve’s lack of productivity was the only problem, but he had to deal with his braggart cousin too. He couldn’t remember the last time Steve did anything other than just play the drums.
Mark proved to be a real piece of work. All talk with no real results. Mark bragged continuously that he had some great gig coming together with a bigger band. A record label friend was working up a contract and he was just waiting for that to be complete. It was all just talk. This unoccupied parking lot was a prime example of Mark’s real contribution to the band. His so-called connections had fallen through once again. Chris wondered why he ever agreed to put up with those two.
“At least, the place looks sweet. When’s load in?” Steve asked, as they all stood at the venue’s front door, looking in through the windows.
“Yeah… when is load in, Mark?” Chris glared at his cousin.
Today was Friday for crying out loud. If there was anything, they should have learned in the last three years playing countless shows, hopping state to state, was to never bust on a Friday. Friday was always a major payday that all bands counted on. Funds were getting low and gas prices in the summer were never friendly.
The three just stood there, faces pasted to the windows of the bar, straining to see any sign of life. The sun was beginning to fall in the horizon to signal it was getting closer to show time. If this gig was going to happen, load in should have already been going down. Where were all of the other bands or the people to open the bar? Where were the bartenders? Chris knew better. This show was a bust!
“Well, are we just going to stand here or are you going to call the promoter?” Chris sighed, stepped away from the building, as he scanned the surrounding structures.
Yellow and purple hues bled into one another among the clouds, the day had finally started to cool. Today had been a record book scorcher. Across the street from the venue sat a ghetto looking gas station with ridiculous tiger posters plastering the windows. A slightly smaller building called, The Beanery, sat next to it. It appeared that the coffee shop was open twenty-four seven. Mostly parking lots and bars were around the corner, lining the street, as far as he could see. What Chris found odd was how quiet and almost empty the street seemed. Where was everyone? He knew that Beaumont, Texas, wasn’t the most bustling city on the map, but it was Friday. The bars should be teaming with activity. Instead, it looked as if maybe one out of the dozen hole-in-the-wall pubs was lit up. Four cars and a few motorcycles sat parked in front. A large man at least six foot tall, covered in tattoos, stood by one of the bikes having a smoke.
Steve and Mark walked over to Chris.
“Well?” Chris said.
Mark put his phone into his pocket, and then replied, “No signal.”
Chris pulled his phone out and smirked. “Would you look at that? Full bars!” Chris shook his head at Mark. “What’s the promoter’s number?”
“I’ve got full bars too, retard! It’s giving me a weird busy signal or some stupid shit.”
“Yeah, man, me too,” Steve sighed, waving his phone.
“Well…” Chris said, putting his phone away. “Our next show isn’t ‘til Sunday, and it’s really not much of a drive. I’m going to see if that coffee shop has Wi-Fi. I say we just crash here tonight. I’ve done enough driving for one day.”
“So, when is load in?” Steve wondered, scratching his head.
“It’s a bust show, Steve,” Chris said, watching his cousin’s gaze drop to the ground. What was the point? Chris just let it slide.
“Hell, man, that sucks. You don’t bust on a Friday.” Steve said, following Chris back to the van. It was time to retrieve the laptops and backpacks before heading to the coffee shop across the street.
“Yeah, tell me about it.” Chris glared at Mark. This was the third show this month that Mark had botched.
* * *
The coffee shop was a small vintage style building displaying numerous antiques and old timey black and white photos of the local downtown area. The rustic brick interior was remnant of the late 1940’s and the faint scent of sandalwood drifted in the air. A large color poster of Marilyn Monroe stood out of place on one wall next to a sixty-inch flat screen TV. Aside from the three man band, a cute cashier sat behind the bar watching the local news. The place was deader than the proverbial doorknob. Food was a little pricey and the coffee was liquid crap, but at least Wi-Fi was available. If he had his way, the guys would be chilling here for the rest of the night. There was plenty of time to kill between now and the show on Sunday.
Sitting back and enduring his not-too-great cup of Joe, Chris took the opportunity to create a Facebook Event on his laptop and to send out a few tweets. Oddly only about one-third of his over 10k friends were logged in on the internet. He had never seen that before. Thinking it strange, he posted the events to Facebook in hopes that it would help promote the next show. Sunday’s show was a sure thing. He knew that because he was the one that had booked it. Although, he wondered now, if the attendance would be as great as he had hoped. No one seemed to be online.
“Dude, are you guys hearing this shit? Check out the freaking tube, man.” Steve was sitting at the bar, doing his best to score a few points with the cashier and watching the news. He had a knack of getting what he wanted in life. To Chris, it had always seemed that way. Steve grew up under the right roof with the right parents, who spoiled him from day one. That only blurred Steve’s expectations of the real world. It was as if he expected everything handed to him on silver platter. Chris noticed that behind Steve's ridiculously oversized spectacles, he was getting irritated at the cashier's lack of interest in him. She hadn’t even told him her name yet, which made Chris laugh.
“Hey guys, are you freakin’ seeing this shit?” Steve glanced over his shoulder, finding both Mark and Chris standing behind him, eyes on the TV.
“Hey, turn it up!” Chris said to the cashier.
“Some crazy shit,” Mark chuckled, eying the attractive blonde behind the counter, as she toyed with the remote.
She nodded, her bright blue eyes not leaving the flat screen. “Yeah, it’s airing the same stuff on all the channels. They’ve been talking about this mess all day long. Where the hell have you guys been, in a hole?”
“Something like that,” Steve said. “We’ve been on the road all day. We just came in from San Antonio.”
“And the roads weren’t congested?” she asked.
“Hell, I don’t know. I was asleep all day.”
“I didn’t notice.” Chris shook his head.
Truth was, he had noticed. The drive had taken two hours longer than it should have. But he thought nothing of it, too focused on finances and if tonight’s show was going to be any good or not.
As shots rang out again, the camera panned past the crowd to three odd looking people leaning over some poor unfortunate on the ground. There was blood everywhere.
“Dude, that guy got shot!” Steve burst out with a snicker.
“Steve, that’s not cool. That could be somebody’s dad or something,” Chris said.
“Somebody’s dad or something…” Steve mimicked with sarcasm. “Dude, sometimes you treat me like you’re my dad.”
The Dark Times: A Zombie Novel Page 28