The Rotting Souls Series (Book 4): Charon's Coffers

by Ray, Timothy A.

  Charon’s Coffers

  Book 4 of the Rotting Souls Series

  Timothy Ray

  Charon’s Coffers

  A Ray Publishing Book/ June 2017

  Published by

  Ray Publishing

  Tucson, AZ

  All rights reserved

  Copyright © 2017 by Timothy Ray

  Cover by James Price

  Also by Timothy Ray

  The New Age Saga:

  The Acquisition of Swords

  Pure of Heart

  Phoenix Rising

  Prophecy

  Coalescence

  The New Age Saga: the Acquisition of Swords,

  Pure of Heart, Phoenix Rising

  Rotting Souls:

  Charon’s Blight: Day One

  Charon’s Blight: Day Two

  Charon’s Debt

  Charon’s Coffers

  Rotting Souls: the Complete Series

  Charon’s Blight: Day One & Two

  Slipstream:

  Focal Point

  for the readers that have

  made it this far,

  thank you

  “You can breathe. You can blink. You can cry…

  Hell, they’re all gonna be doing that.”

  Negan

  The Walking Dead

  Prologue

  Manhattan, NY

  Kendra sat with her back against the cold hard tiles that lined the subway platform and prayed that someone would come save her. She had been headed home from the Robin Museum of Art when the world had gone to shit and knew that her parents were either dead, or assumed she was. Either way, there was no way they were still looking for her and she harbored no hope of ever seeing them again.

  She lived in an apartment complex just down the street and had been unable to get there in the chaos that erupted with zero notice; the shit just came out of nowhere. Cars flying through the air, undead tearing into everything within reach, the panic had overwhelmed her; forcing her to bolt down the stairs heading to the subways or get caught in the horrific massacre unfolding on the streets above. It broke her heart to know she was that close to her home, yet it seemed to be a million miles away. It didn’t matter; it would be nothing but an empty apartment to return to now anyhow. Her parents, if they had lived through that first day, had probably left thinking she was dead. She couldn’t blame them, she completely understood; she felt dead.

  It had been four days—four days of sitting here in the dark, in the cold, the only heat coming off the other survivors that had sought refuge here as well. Some had disappeared down the tracks, while others heatedly discussed whether it was safe to go above ground, daring each other to go and check; so far no one had.

  Dead bodies had been piled up at either entrance into the subway and they all prayed nothing came down the tunnel looking for food. Rats scurried across the floor, unseen in the blackness that had become her life. The lights had gone out the day before, either they had cut the power or the military had bombed so much of the city above that the power grid was completely destroyed; most-likely the latter. Was there even a way to get up there? Or was the entrance to the subway completely blocked by rubble? She didn’t know and was afraid to find out.

  Her stomach was hurting. It had been days since she had eaten and her throat burned from thirst. She hadn’t eaten since the morning it all began and regretted only snatching a bagel off the table before heading out. As last meals go, that sucked. She would not be able to stay here much longer or she’d end up starving to death, yet her body felt too weak to even try and get up. Her breathing had become shorter, her neck swiveling slowly as her hand went to her aching stomach. Her fingers slowly rubbed, as if trying to soothe the ache, but even that little bit of exertion was wearing her out; how could she ever get to her feet if it took all she had just to remain sitting upright?

  The sounds of heavy breathing and groaning echoed along the platform, her ears and nose the only source of input the world was able to give. She knew that there was a body to her right, and someone had fallen asleep by her feet, but plenty more were spread out around her. Any attempt to leave would mean a very slow, careful exit full of floundering hands and quick apologies.

  She told herself she needed to get moving, but her energy levels had gotten so low that she was barely able to stay awake. Reaching for her bag, she fingered the straps and tried to will herself to slide it back on; they refused to answer. “Come on girl, get your ass moving,” she croaked, but it came out as a squeak, barely noticeable to even her own ears.

  She knew in her heart that she was going to die. Her heart quickened, her adrenaline slowly flooding her veins, and for the first time in days—she began to move.

  What she didn’t know was that the man on her right had died a few minutes before from starvation, and when his eyes opened a few seconds later, he surged forth in search of the food laying so abundantly available around him.

  Dayton, TN

  “You kids need to quit playing with that thing and get home or I’ll tell both your Dad’s to whoop yo’ asses!” yelled a man standing in the flatbed of a rusty Chevy truck. He had a straw cowboy hat on and a rifle in his right hand, the left was pointing east towards the nearby neighborhood the kids lived in.

  “All right Mr. Cooper!” his buddy Jesse called back.

  The truck sped away and he withdrew the stick he’d been using to poke at the corpses on the other side of the fence, bits of flesh pulling free and flies dispersing in panicked waves. Maggots floundered about, their feeding disrupted; he felt an urge to jab the stick back in and crush them to death. Sighing, he turned and looked in the direction of the parting truck and marked its progression down the street.

  They stood on the corner of Young Drive and Double S Road. Their parents had been working on throwing every corpse they found back behind this rusted ol’ fence filled with old cement donuts. They had overheard their dad’s talking about setting fire to it once they were done and the boys had spent the morning heatedly discussed coming down and checking it out. The dark excitement had won them over and they’d snuck out while their parents were away; intent on seeing what remained of their old friends and neighbors.

  A few hadn’t been quite dead, and he and Jesse had been goofin’ off; teasing the creatures that could do nothing more but mash teeth and glare at them with desperate hunger. It had created a wicked rush of glee and he felt a stirring in his lower regions that he did not recognize.

  All of that came to a grinding halt when ol’ Mr. Cooper rolled up in that crappy Chevy his son drove. Now, formally chastised for their disobedience, they walked along the fence back the way they came. Spencer slid his stick along the metal, letting it bob as they went, the soft moans of the undead rattling in response. “You think they got ‘em all Jesse?”

  “Dad thinks they do. Says they are beginnin’ ta rot,” his buddy returned. His short dirty blond hair whipped with an afternoon breeze and the early signs of acne glimmered with sweat as they angled west.

  The northern corner of the fence was approaching and he came to an abrupt stop, his senses picking up on something his brain hadn’t yet interpreted. “You hear that?”

  Jesse kept on walking as if nothing was wrong—problem was, the whole world was wrong. “You’re freaking yourself out. Come on, let’s get home before my dad whoops us. Says he can now, no one to stop him.”

  A soft rattle sifted through the air. Then intense pain seared his exposed right leg and he screamed in agony. A copperhead flashed out of sight just as he whipped around to see what had gotten him. Urine coursed down his leg from fear that an undead creature h
ad taken a bite out of him and the brief sight of the snake almost didn’t register. The rattle drifting out of the brush intensified, but was quickly smothered by the wails coming out of his mouth. “Jesse! Help! I got bit!”

  His best friend glanced his way, eyes wide. “You got bit?”

  More pain as the snake struck again and he leapt forward, trying to get away from it, but his legs weren’t responding quickly enough. “Please, Jesse, help me!”

  “Fuck that shit, I’m getting my dad!” his best bud returned, then took off at a run down the Double S Road, not once looking back.

  Maybe he should have told him it wasn’t a zombie?

  “Come back! Please!” he screamed in panic. His body caved into the pain; he impacted the ground before he even knew he was falling. Flaring waves of agony coursed up his leg and threw his heart into overdrive. As he crawled his way forward through the grass, the rattle drifted softly upon a breeze, sending his body into a frenzy to pull itself away.

  “Jesse!” he sobbed as the creature struck him again.

  By the time Jesse returned with his dad, Spencer was already dead. His father led him towards the crouched figure on the side of the road, his undead friend feasting on the snake that had bit him.

  His father slapped him upside the head and nearly knocked him over. Then he thrust a gun into his son’s hands. “I told ya to stay in the fucking house! Now look what you done! You’re gonna clean up your mess, then I’m gonna march you over to the Baileys so you can tell them what you did. If they don’t whoop the shit out of you, I will. Now get her done,” his dad commanded and his body quaked with fear.

  Stumbling forward, his father hovering to his rear, he raised his dad’s gun and slid his finger onto the trigger. The boy that had been his best friend turned and glanced his way, eyes widening at the sight of fresh food. Panicked, he pulled the trigger just as Spencer surged to his feet, claws already reaching out, and blew the little boy’s head apart.

  Lincoln City, OR

  The morning sun had just crested the hill on his right as he made his way up Inlet Ave, his body aching from walking through the night. The blue two-story apartment complex below it looked abandoned, as did the Best Western on his left, but that didn’t mean anything. The dead hadn’t figured out how to open doors and could be just on the other side of the glass, waiting for him to be stupid enough to say hello. He may be braindead from exhaustion, but he still wasn’t that much of an idiot.

  The smarter choice would be the hotel. He could check the register at the front for assigned rooms, have more of a chance of finding a vacant one. He wouldn’t mind a hot shower and a working toilet, shitting in the woods was starting to give him a rash. Being exposed and vulnerable in the newly created world surrounding him was so frightening that he’d jerk with every sound and clean himself so hastily, his ass cheeks felt welded together.

  Salt water hung oppressively in the humid air, applying pressure to his every movement and making him wearier by the second. It had been a long journey so far; never in his life had he walked this much. He was headed north, away from the hordes spreading out of California, with hopes that the Canadian Mountains weren’t nearly as dangerous as what his hometown had become. Newport had once been a busy, friendly town, but now it was the home to a newer type of resident—one that preferred Man instead of a Whopper.

  The rest of his friends had died trying to leave town and as he began walking towards the Best Western’s parking lot, he couldn’t help but feel isolated and alone. It was a pipe dream, getting to Canada, and he knew it. There was too much between here and there, and Seattle would surely be the death of him. It wasn’t like he could just walk over mountain tops to get there and Mt. Rainer was not so easily conquered in the best of times.

  A jeep rounded a corner on the northern road and he jerked in that direction, hands reaching for the hammer he had slid into his belt loop for easy access. Three men were within the vehicle, their green fatigues giving them a distinct military look. That struck him as odd, since he hadn’t seen anyone in authority after the initial outbreak had begun; their city left abandoned to its fate. Wherever they’d been fighting, it hadn’t been in their part of the state.

  As the jeep ground to a halt, the lone rider in the back stood up and pointed a gun at him.

  He nearly shit himself. Immediately, he let go of his hammer and threw up his hands. “Don’t shoot! I’m not dead yet! And I don’t want to be neither!”

  “I could give two shits what you want. By order of the Governor of Oregon, all able-bodied men and women have been drafted into serving in the Oregon National Guard. Now, get your ass over here!” the man ordered, his face leaving little doubt that he was serious.

  This couldn’t be real. If the guard was active, then where had it been for the last five days? “I don’t want to—,” he began.

  The rifle bucked in the man’s hands and a bullet pelted the ground at his feet, throwing bits of asphalt into the air. “That’s your only warning. Get in the jeep or you will be shot. Resistance is surmountable to insurrection and will be treated as such.”

  He looked at the jeep with horror. There was gore on the front grill and a skull was mounted on the hood, flesh drooping, the jaw still working. He looked from the skull to the three men inside and knew that if he didn’t comply, he might replace the hood ornament. He felt his bladder let go and a warm sensation spreading down his thighs.

  “You’ve got til the count of—,” the man called out.

  “I’m coming! I’m coming! Don’t shoot me! You’re supposed to be the good guys!” he cried, running towards the idling vehicle, ashamed and scared to death.

  The man in the passenger seat snorted. “Kid, there are no good guys anymore. There’s just the living and the dead. Get used to it.”

  Tombstone, AZ

  “Sir, we have been ordered to withdraw,” his Sergeant told him, a phone to his ear.

  He glared at the younger man, the wide eyes of the junior officer making him cringe inside. The world had gone to shit and he was stuck with a bunch of trainees who weren’t smart enough to double knot their shoe laces, much less fight in a war.

  “You tell those Sonsumbitches that there’s no fucking way I’m pulling out of here. We have civilians to defend. And if they think I’m just going to jump ship and march my men to Montana, they can go fuck their mother’s corpses and feast on their daddy’s cock. Do not paraphrase that, tell them what I said, word for word,” he returned, a cigar at the corner of his mouth blowing smoke in the young officer’s face.

  The man gulped. “Y-y-y-es-s S-s-ir,” the man managed, and began talking into his radio.

  “Better get that looked at, might have a tongue infection,” he snapped, stepping forward and putting a pair of binoculars to his eyes. “What you need is a nice piece of ass to help loosen it up.” He slapped the man on the back, “that’ll straighten you up right quick.”

  He scanned the battlefield before him and grunted. They were almost following orders. He was just outside of Tombstone and had his men deployed on the northern border of the town. They’d been fighting in Sierra Vista for two days, and now that he felt confident the city was cleared, he had moved his men to the southeast. It did no good to clear a city if new threats kept trickling in from the smaller towns nearby. He intended to clear the infestation of undead all the way to Douglas, then work his way back to Benson. The rest of the fucking army may be withdrawing, but he sure as fuck wasn’t. He would not give up his home without a fight. He’d whip these kids into shape come hell or high-water.

  “General, they say that if we all live through this, you’ll be facing a court martial for disobeying direct orders,” the Sergeant blurted, then cringed as if preparing for another onslaught.

  He chuckled around his cigar, eyes on his men, watching to see if they’d finally learned the tactics he was forcing upon them. “That’s quite a ways off, if ever, son. Now, put that shit down and tell B Company’s commander that I want the me
n more spread out, not so fucking compact. They’re practically right on top of each other.”

  “Yes, Sir,” the man returned, picking up his walkie.

  Why the hell did he need to go to Montana? He had everything he needed right here. The corpses walking around down there seemed to be withering at a more advanced rate than intel had described and whatever was bouncing around in their brain pans was dumber than a fly pouncing on donkey shit. He had learned a few tricks over the last few days, and he could see that things were finally start to come together.

  “Give the go-ahead to the Comanches, I want those bastards lit up,” he commanded, then focused on the fighting taking place before him. Arizona had one defense that came natural to it, it’s terrain. People bitched about the heat, about the lack of trees, how brown everything was, but he wouldn’t give it up for anything. That terrain was going to save the life of every Arizonan smart enough to use it.

  The zombies were driven by a need to eat, but they were dumber than shit when chasing their prey. They’d run or walk into a window if a man stood on the other side waving. He’d seen it on the streets of Sierra Vista, and it occurred to him that he could use that in the field as well.

  The Sonoran Desert had a lot of things, but what it had most of—was cacti. Barrel cactus were the most lethal, though the Saguaros had torn apart quite a few on their own. But that sweet barrel cactus, with its curved quills and only knee-level height, proved devastating to the undead as they rushed forward after his men and tripped over the cacti spread out between. The cacti literally tore their leg muscles apart, and unlike them damn movies he’d seen over the years, these things couldn’t walk if the muscles weren’t there to let them.

  He watched as a zombie ran straight for B Company, who had just begun to fan out as ordered. He tugged on the end of the cigar, eyes fixed, then a smile broke upon his face. A little fucktard corpse ran straight into a Saguaro and was pinned to its side, arms flailing despite its fatal predicament. His grin spread, as his men dispensed with it and focused on their next target. Good, they were learning after all.