Dead Beginnings (Vol. 1)

by Apostol, Alex

  Dead Beginnings

  Volume 1

  ASIN: B018KKJ5VQ

  ISBN: 978-1518792137

  Text Copyright © 2015 by Alex Apostol

  Cover Design Copyright © 2015 Pfeffer Haus Publishing

  http://authoralexapostol.com

  Cover Image Copyright © 2015 IStock by Getty Images www.istockphoto.com

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means- electronic, mechanical, photocopy, recording, or any other- except for brief quotations in printed reviews, without the prior written permission of Alex Apostol.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales or persons, living or dead, are entirely coincidental.

  FOR MY DAD

  WHEN THE zombie APOCALYPSE BREAKS OUT I’M GOING TO NEED MY SWORD BACK

  I.

  A young man with wheat-colored hair cut in military fashion looked out the passenger window of an old Ford truck with the Chicago skyline shrinking in the side mirror. The run-down houses of the south side whizzed by in a blur of dingy brick and shabby rooftops as the truck merged onto the I-90. It stopped at a toll booth and the man’s father shoved a few crumpled dollar bills at the woman in the window before taking off again, grumbling something inaudible under his breath.

  Welcome to

  INDIANA

  Crossroads of America

  “I just can’t fucking believe you got kicked out of the Army, boy,” Lonnie Lands heard his father clearly that time. “The Army! How do you even do that? I thought they were happy to take any retard who signed up.”

  Lonnie Lands continued to glare out the window, though his ears started to burn a bright red. He tried his best to block out the condescending words of his ignorant redneck father, but in all his twenty-two years he had never been able to fully accomplish the task. He took a deep breath in through his nose and closed his eyes.

  “They said you were tossed ‘cause you clocked some nigger? That true?”

  Lonnie finally turned to Buddy Lands, a weather-beaten, thin man in a worn-in White Sox cap that covered his graying hair and an Allman Brothers t-shirt. There was a bulge in his lower lip that stuck out like a tumor.

  “Don’t call him that,” Lonnie spat.

  “Sorry, your highness, oh Prince of politically correctness and shit. I heard you called him worse than that and then some, but whatever you say, son. Was that Afro-American your friend or somethin’?” Buddy Lands let his beady eyes drift from the road. He gave a wheezing laugh as he grit his yellowing teeth flecked with tobacco. “Well?”

  Lonnie furrowed his brow and narrowed his eyes, which shot daggers at the one man in the world he abhorred beyond all recognition. “Yeah, something like that, so knock it off.”

  “Oh, we got a tough guy here!” Buddy laughed louder, burrowing deeper into his son’s nerves. The excitement made him hack into his hand where he caught sopping chunks of dip. He wiped it of on his shirt and continued on like nothing happened. “Mr. Tough Guy got somethin’ to say?”

  Lonnie seethed. His body sat as close to the passenger door as he could manage away from Buddy, Bud, the Bastard Dad from Hell.

  “OK tough guy, why don’t you tell me what he did to make you go bat-shit crazy enough to throw away the only shot you had at somethin’? What is that little filly you tricked into agreeing to marry you gonna say when she finds out her fiancé is nothin’ but a dead-beat, broke, asshole with nothin’ to offer? Five days. You couldn’t wait five fucking days till you graduated that joke of a fucking boot camp? Boy, I thought I raised you smarter than that.”

  Lonnie turned to stare Buddy Lands in the eye. His thin lips curled up into a smirk. “You didn’t raise me at all, Bud.”

  Without warning, he was knocked in the side of the head with a clenched fist that felt like a rock.

  “What did you say to me, boy?!”

  The blue truck swerved, causing the car next to them to honk wildly as the driver thrust up her middle finger. The tires squealed as Buddy tried to right himself again. He gripped the steering wheel and turned around to catch another glimpse of the woman he felt was in the wrong. “Stupid bitch.”

  Bright stars danced around Lonnie’s vision as he swayed slightly in his seat. He didn’t turn to look at Buddy. He wouldn’t give him the satisfaction. Instead, he watched the cows disappear behind them as they exited the highway by the local Bass Pro Shop.

  “What the fuck is your deal? You act like you have some sorta skills you’re hidin’ from me that’ll enable you to take care of your fucking self for once, like you have anything else you can do ‘sides runnin’ in circles like a greyhound and shootin’ A-rabs. What in the Sam hell were you thinkin’?” Buddy kept his eyes trained on his stocky, thick-headed son as he merged the sputtering truck onto the scenic route of highway twelve.

  Lonnie Lands pursed his lips and kept silent.

  Buddy shook his head, worked the crank to roll down his window, and spat the wad of dip from his mouth. It caught the wind and hit the side of the truck, bursting into moist clumps.

  “You better get yourself straight, boy, ‘cause shit like this can’t happen again. I won’t have it. You’ll be outta the house faster than you can say “hoo-ah”.

  Lonnie wished he could remember exactly what happened three and a half weeks ago with recruit Jenkins, but the incident was a hazy, bloody blur. It started off like any other Sunday morning in boot camp. Mail had just arrived. Lonnie had been waiting four weeks to receive something from his fiancée, Amy and it was his lucky day. She’d finally written back. He clutched her letter in his stubby fingers as he searched the barracks room for a solitary place to sit and read it. Behind a row of bunk beds was as solitary as it got. Three other young men were spread out there as well.

  Lonnie sat down facing the row of windows, his back leaning against the metal fame of the bed. His hands shook slightly as he unfolded the lined, wrinkled paper. There was the exhilarating feeling of his stomach dropping when he saw the familiar scribbles of Amy’s girlish handwriting. He couldn’t control the smile that tugged at his lips, pulling all the way up to his light blue eyes till they crinkled in the corners. He held the paper in both hands tightly as excitement churned in his stomach and rose through his throat.

  Dear Lonnie,

  I’ve found someone else, someone who’ll be there for me instead of halfway across the world. Please don’t write me or contact me again. I think it’s best if we just move on.

  Amy Harding

  The letter shook in Lonnie’s hands. His jaw clenched together and his teeth ground back and forth. Sharp, small breaths of air burst from his nostrils. His eyes dart back and forth as he reread it over and over again.

  How could she do that to him? It had been her idea that he join the Army in the first place, so he could take care of her when they were finally a family. They’d been together since the beginning of high school. Eight long years he’d given her, his best years, and that was how she repaid him? By fucking some other random guy and telling him about it in a letter just before graduation?

  A hand slapped Lonnie on the shoulder, but he couldn’t tear his gaze away from her words. DeShawn Jenkins plopped down next to Lonnie on the warm tile floor and chuckled. His smile reached all the way up to his eyes where there were permanent crow’s feet.

  Jenkins had thirteen years on Lands, having joined the Army at the very last possible minute, just months before his thirty-sixth birthday and cut-off age of enlistment. Out of fear and having no better options, he shipped out of Cleveland, Ohio the sam
e day Lonnie left O’Hare airport in Chicago, both arriving at Fort Benning in Columbus, Georgia together.

  The two had bonded in the first few days with talk of their “old ladies” and comparisons over who had the worst dad. Jenkin won that one when he told the story of his old man whipping him with a leather belt when he was six-years-old because he ate the last Oreo in the house. He still had the wide scars across his smooth, dark back.

  “What you readin’, man?” Jenkins laughed as he jostled Lonnie’s shoulder playfully with his own. “Finally get that letter from your girl you been whining about for weeks?” He snatched the paper from Lonnie’s shaky fingers, which clenched into fists. “Anything dirty? My old lady hasn’t even tried to send me one picture yet with—”

  Before DeShawn Jenkins could finish, Lonnie lunged full-force and landed on top of him with all his muscular weight. His mind fogged over and his fists moved as if they had minds of their own. He saw nothing but red as he pounded away on any tender flesh he could find. Jenkins yelled and tried to block the shots, but they came from every angle. His nose busted, spraying the front of Lonnie’s green t-shirt in a fountain of bright red blood. Lonnie didn’t remember doing any of that, but that’s what they said had happened.

  Since his mother died when he was twelve he’d undergone serious rage blackouts, something he didn’t bother to mention to his recruiter when he signed up. The first time it happened, a classmate of his teased him about why his mother killed herself. He ended up in the hospital with a broken nose and three fractured ribs. No matter how hard he tried to fight it over the years, it snuck up on him like a cheetah on a gazelle. He vowed to learn to control his rage. He wouldn’t allow himself to be consumed by the darkness. Ten years after that very first blackout, he was still in the same place, no further along in learning how to stop what he couldn’t get a handle on.

  He let his head rest against the cool glass of the passenger window as the truck roared loudly down the two lane highway.

  II.

  Lonnie Lands tossed his green Army issued bag onto the floor of his room and slammed the door shut. He heard his father’s voice grumbling through the thin walls, his heavy boots stomping on his way to the kitchen, and then the unmistakable pop and fizz of a fresh can of beer being opened. Lonnie closed his thin eyes and took a deep breath, something he’d done several times on the way home.

  When he opened them again his gaze fell on the wall his single bed was pushed up against. Various pictures of Amy and him, happy and smiling, stared back. His breathing sped up as he let each photo seep deeper into his heart—the time he and Amy went camping with their friends and the two went midnight skinny dipping in the lake, the one where Amy allowed him to do an impromptu photoshoot with her standing in the bed of Buddy’s pickup truck in nothing but short shorts and a hot pink bikini top, the torn photograph of the two kissing that was taped back together after their first breakup and makeup, and their second and their third. Each one was like a punch to the gut. The muscles in his arms quivered and tensed the longer he let his eyes linger on the woman who had ripped his heart from his chest and tore it in two.

  Lonnie threw himself onto the bed and grabbed at the memories of his failed relationship with the ferocity of a wounded animal fighting for survival. His heart beat rapidly. His ears throbbed from the blood rushing through his body. His crazed eyes focused solely on the dark green wall until it was clear of every last heart-wrenching reminder that he was once again alone in his life. It was the same feeling he had at his mother’s funeral when Buddy wouldn’t even look at him.

  When there was nothing left to tear down, he let his knees buckle beneath him. He crumpled to the bed with a bounce, tiny pieces of photographs flared up around him and settled back down on the soft surface like a jigsaw puzzle waiting to be put back together. With his wide head in his shaking hands and his deep breaths flaring his nostrils, Lonnie gave in to all the feelings that coursed through his heaving, aching chest. Tears gathered in the corners of his eyes, but before a single drop could cascade down his rounded cheeks he shook his head and sniffed them back.

  “Stupid bitch,” he said low and gruff as he shoved himself up off the bed. “Two can play this game.”

  He snatched up his bag and rifled through it until he felt a small rectangular device clutched in his hand. He texted the one person who would understand what he was going through—the one person who’d seen him and Amy at their best and their worst and had always been in his corner during their four years at Chesterton high school together—his best friend, Ralph Sherman.

  Don’t know if ur back in town from ur Navy bullshit, but I wanna go get drunk tonite. U in?

  He hit send and exhaled the breath he’d been holding. The two had lost touch after graduation. Ralph left for basic training with the Navy after one last wild summer at Lake Michigan, leaving Lonnie behind to continue on with their childish ways. Late nights out around the bonfire with whatever redneck group Amy hung around with at the time had Lonnie convinced he was living the life. He had a good girl by his side, was constantly surrounded by drunken people doing stupid shit that made him laugh. Living to the fullest was what Amy had called it. That was, until two weeks before Lonnie’s twenty-second birthday.

  ——

  It was three in the morning on a Saturday night. He was driving Amy home in the beat-up Pontiac he bought from some guy on Craigslist for twelve hundred bucks. There wasn’t a single light on the backroads they took home, no moon in the sky, the stars blotted out by the looming black clouds. They were trying to make their way back to the trailer Amy had recently rented in a park between Chesterton and Valparaiso, a part of town that had seen better days.

  The car swerved back and forth, crossing over the yellow line of the two lane road. There wasn’t another car in sight, no headlights to briefly light the path laid out in front of them. More often than not, Lonnie’s eyes lingered on the low neckline of Amy’s white tank top, her breasts shoved together and pushed upward by her leopard print bra. Her warm cleavage beckoned to him like a siren waiting on a jagged rock in the middle of the ocean.

  The impact of the right front side of the car smashing into the four foot wooden fence post jarred both of them forward. Lonnie heard the shrill cry of his fiancée next to him as his head propelled into the steering wheel, no air bag to cushion the blow.

  He woke up three minutes later with a searing pain in his left temple and dried blood on his face. Amy was squatted next to the passenger side door, pants down around her ankles, the most horrible sounds coming from her that Lonnie had ever heard as she rid her body of the alcohol and greasy food she’d had earlier that night. He let his head rest back down on the steering wheel and stared over Amy’s head at the corn stalks swaying in the breeze. Nothing about that night was how he wanted to live his life.

  ——

  Ralph Sherman texted Lonnie back immediately, a small picture of the sandy-haired, young-faced boy he knew from high school popped up by his response.

  Ralph Sherman

  Sure, I could use a drink. Just have to ask the wife first. She wanted me to watch the baby while she spent some time with her mother, but she can do that anytime.

  The wife? A baby? What the fuck? Lonnie glared down at his phone, his eyebrows pulled together. Where did Ralph Sherman find himself a wife and when the hell did they have a baby? It really had been a long time since they spoke.

  In the back of Lonnie’s mind, a rising burn of jealousy stoked the fire of his rage again. If Amy hadn’t gone and fucked some other guy he could be the one with a wife and baby by his side. If she hadn’t abandoned him, got him kicked out of Army, and ruined his entire life he might have someday had what Ralph Sherman had. But, because of Amy and her inability to keep her legs shut, there was a wall between Lonnie and Ralph he wasn’t sure he would be able to break through. Ralph was the married one and Lonnie was branded the single friend. No wife in her early twenties would be thrilled when her husband asked to go get drunk
with his “single friend”.

  Lonnie huffed through his nose and tossed the phone down on the bed. He peeled off the worn-in green t-shirt with his name stenciled in the bottom corner to reveal mounds of muscles in his arms and back, inked with black tattoos.

  He opened the dresser drawer and grabbed the first shirt he saw—a white band t-shirt from a Florida Georgia Line concert he went to with Ralph during that infamous last summer together as best buds.

  “Hey, Buddy!” Lonnie yelled in the baritone voice he unconsciously used when talking to his father. “I’m gonna need to use your truck tonight!” He opened the door to his bedroom and passed through the kitchen, grabbing a beer on his way to the living room in the front of the small, two bedroom house.

  Buddy Lands grunted, his eyes fixated on the box television set. He absentmindedly gulped the beer from the can in his hand as he watched a half fuzzy screen.

  Lonnie cracked open his own and sipped at the bubbles near the opening. His foot kicked at the small pile of empty cans lying on the brown shag carpet. Buddy’s head snapped at the sound, his dull eyes already red-rimmed and drooping.

  “What the hell are you making all that noise for, boy? Can’t a man get some peace and quiet when his shows are on?”

  There was the distinct soft sound of the VCR turning the wheels of the tape inside. Lonnie let out a gruff laugh. An old episode of Sons of Anarchy was barely visible on the washed out picture of the outdated set. Meanwhile, Buddy’s old Harley sat rusted out in the backyard for the last decade. Ironic. Lazy piece of shit.