Blood Soaked and Contagious

by James Crawford

  Blood Soaked and Contagious (Blood Soaked Book 1)

  Title Page

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  About the Author

  JAMES CRAWFORD

  A PERMUTED PRESS book

  published at Smashwords.

  ISBN (trade paperback): 978-1-61868-106-5

  ISBN (eBook): 978-1-61868-107-2

  Blood Soaked and Contagious copyright © 2011, 2013

  by James Crawford.

  All Rights Reserved.

  Cover design by Karen Fletcher

  This book is a work of fiction. People, places, events, and situations are the product of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or historical events, is purely coincidental.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author and publisher.

  Version 3.30.13.1.

  Chapter 1

  Brain spattered on asphalt doesn’t look very much like anything at all, especially if the asphalt is new. Older asphalt, gray and cracked from years in the sun, shows more of the fatty gelatinous smear but leeches away much of the color.

  Standing there in the late morning sun outside the evacuated shell of what used to be one of the best bakeries in town, I couldn’t help but feel a little sad. The headless body on the ground didn’t feel anything at all. I strongly suspect that the head, after I’d spread it over fifteen feet of asphalt, didn’t feel anything either. I suppose that’s a good thing.

  Really, if the zombie still felt anything after fighting with me, it would mean that I had not done my job very well. It would also mean the zombie had won.

  A zombie winning the fight means you die.

  In my case, thankfully, dying would get me out of his way. I’m an annoyance, rather than a possible food source, and that might mean that my transition from this world to the next would be somewhat uneventful. Depending on the personality of the victor, it could as easily mean that my final moments would be even more hideous than being eaten alive. An undead sadist is still a sadist.

  The world of “Kill or Be Killed” has only one prize and only one type of fame. You’re the one still alive. Pat yourself on the back!

  I’ve been doing this gig, Freelance Zombie Extermination, for just over a year and a half. My claim to fame is simple: “Hey! I’m still alive!” Better, I’m sure, than the other options.

  The post-fatal menace that I had finished off outside the old bakery had been harassing a small community of squatters who had appropriated an office building two blocks away. One of my previous satisfied customers had told them about me and they had tracked me down, in the hopes that I’d be able to help them out before anyone else was brutalized.

  My profession is not one that pays well, especially since the economy is mostly shot to Hell. All the same, this pleasant group of people offered me a good barbequed chicken lunch if I could make their unctuous bother disappear. Believe me, I don’t usually work for so little, but they were quite kind and polite. I really didn’t want to see them killed off one by one, so we made an appointment for me to drop by on the most likely day their local Trouble would be back and obnoxious. Apparently, he liked to stick to a schedule.

  I’m anal about being punctual and keeping appointments, so two days later, I grabbed a few things after my morning coffee and took a walk. Walking served a couple of purposes. It gave me an opportunity to settle my thoughts and get my Zen on. Perhaps, even more importantly, it was a chance to survey the local landscape. The overall impression that I had, as usual, was that we were much better off than a large portion of the United States as a whole.

  There is still a government, albeit at a reduced level; the nation’s Capital needs to function. The city of Arlington, Virginia, depending on where you’re standing, is within five miles of Washington, DC. Many of the people who live out here in the suburbs continue to commute into DC or work at companies that were nationalized in order to keep everything afloat. We have power more often than not, and even phone service. There are actual stores and restaurants that are struggling to provide services, unlike other parts of the country that look like Mad Max gone to Hell.

  All and all, it was a pretty enjoyable walk, even if there were a lot of abandoned homes and businesses along the way. Most of the inhabitants had fallen victim to the epidemic in one way or another. My clients were squatters, but they had a certain established feel to them because they’d been in that office building for a goodly amount of time. They sounded like an interesting group of people and I had hoped to talk to them for a little bit after my hunt and reward luncheon, but that wasn’t how it worked out.

  At some point before my appointed time to come around, their friendly neighborhood zombie killed every single one of them. As near as I can tell, he got wind of my impending arrival, and decided to show off his creativity. The cold-blooded bastard did a brutal, methodical, and sadistic job of slaughtering innocent people.

  It wasn’t difficult to tell something was wrong when I arrived that day. He’d left me a trail of bloody parts to follow.

  The job had changed from a paid gig into revenge—nice, uninfected people should not be killed, willy-nilly—it offends me on a primal level.

  He was strong enough, smart enough, and far cleverer than he needed to be. In other words, he was not easy to kill, and he made the best of it by explaining to me everything he’d done in Technicolor detail. When I finally got the drop on him, I did not feel a single pang of remorse or twinge in my conscience as I decapitated him. I will admit that I went a bit overboard when I smashed his skull open.

  I’m only human.

  A few hours after being a complete scavenger, rooting over the things the poor squatters no longer needed, I knew I needed a break. Between the old bakery and my neighborhood, alongside empty storefronts and a burnt-out McDonalds, was an actual bar. Not just any bar, but a real, functioning drinking establishment that was still serving customers. A beer at that bar became the target of my desires, so I went forth.

  It was barely a short walk, all things considered, and before you can say, “asshole,” I was stepping inside Marvin’s dystopian bar and grill. The owner and his wife greeted me with their characteristic warmth, which is to say their grunting was somewhat less bitter than what one would normally receive. There was a beer on the bar in front of my customary stool, so I knew the grunting was just for theatrical ambience.

  No one has a beer waiting for you if they don’t actually like you.

  I was midway into my third beer when I noticed a new face at the bar. Anyone you’d never seen before, especial
ly if they didn’t look like one of the undead, was cause for pause. Being a gregarious soul, if a bit crusty around my rim, I decided to engage him on my favorite topic.

  “It’s like the whole Han Solo and Greedo thing. People are still slapping around whether it was the virus or zombies that showed up in the world first. They’ll be debating it from now until... I guess, until human beings die out all the way, or we don’t.” I locked eyes with him and attempted to draw him into the conversation by force of will and two and a half beers.

  “Regardless, there are zombies and there is a virus. There has to be a relationship, because wherever one appears, the other is soon to follow. Right? Some people are immune to the virus, and they’re generally left alone by the zombies. If you contract the virus, sure as the sun rises, you’re going to be zombie chow.”

  He stared back at me, this youngish scrawny fellow. What he did not do, however, was hold up his end of the conversational bargain. That’s the social exchange in which I give you a piece of my mind and you give me a piece of yours back.

  “You already know that the zombies will find you. They’ll kill you. Killing someone their way generally involves eating the liver and kidneys and sucking the blood out of the victim’s arteries like a copper-flavored milkshake. At some point, days or weeks later, the poor schlub will rise from whatever grave he ended up in and join in the bloody festivities.” He just kept looking at me, almost as though he didn’t speak any English, and he made no move to agree, disagree, or shush me. Emboldened, I continued.

  “Now, say they get you... and with any luck, I mean this from the bottom of my heart, someone will bash your head in or set you on fire. One or the other would be sufficient, but it never hurts to be sure. For my personal preference, head bashing is best because you don’t have to cope with a bacon-smelling fat candle that walks around, catching other things on fire before it finally falls over.”

  My brain rummaged around, grabbing at random things, in hopes of making a cogent point. Your average, motivated person could wreak all kinds of havoc on a zombie, and they’d do their damnedest to keep coming. The only real way to stop it is the classic way: destroy the cranium, pulverize the brain, and there will be one less walking horror in the world. Why? The brain appears to be the one thing the virus can’t or won’t regenerate when someone dies the first time. It certainly won’t regenerate if there’s nothing left to regenerate in the first place.

  Anyone infected with the contagion will reanimate when they die. But if their brain is not intact, all you’re left with is a body in a coffin that can’t finish regenerating because there’s no air for the body to breathe. Now, if a brainless body manages to come back to life prior to being interred, you have a critter that wants to hunt but can’t really manage the proper sequence of movements.

  All you have to do for them is round them up and burn them. Easy. Their cousins that reanimated with their gray matter intact, however, are a different story. Those have to be killed in a much more active fashion because they’re willing and able to fight back.

  It would also be simpler, of course, if they weren’t so personable.

  I pulled myself out of the alcohol-induced reverie, and addressed my companion.

  “Dude, I can’t tell if you’re getting any of this at all,” I waggled a finger at him while I contemplated beer #3.

  “Look, sit here with me in this dingy-ass suburban cantina and imagine this scenario. And I mean ‘dingy’ in the sweetest possible way, mind you! I think it will clue you into what I’m talking about.” The owners nodded at me, but this dude just kept staring like I had slugs using my nose for a love hotel. I wasn’t going to let him win this game of civil inattention.

  “All right, say: your little sister comes back as a zombie. That’s tragic, and I’m very sorry for your loss. Here’s the ‘but.’ The creature that used to be your hot Lolita of a sibling still looks, talks, and acts very much like you would expect her to.” I just kept right on going despite his lack of response, working toward my degree in dramatic monologues...

  “She still knows where you hid your porn. That time at the carnival when you swallowed the goldfish she had just won? She remembers that, too. You’ll find her memory has crystal clarity and her mouth has no internal editor whatsoever.

  “Did I mention there’s no expression in her eyes anymore, she’s got a deathly pallor, she’s incredibly strong, and her cute little fingernails are four inches longer and about 20 times thicker than before?

  “Oh. Sorry...

  “Well, Little Heidi, who now remembers everything down to the smallest detail thanks to the virus, as sure as the sun will rise, is now coming after you because you’re infected, too. She’s adorable, deadly, and will not stop until she’s dined on your innards. Just to put the polish on that, she is absolutely willing to do and say anything that comes to her ravaged mind in order to manipulate you into being an easier target.

  “Nice!

  “‘Tommy! These evil zombies are defiling my virginal, Aryan body! Ooo! Ack!,’ she might scream from beneath your window some night.

  “‘And I bet you’re up there yanking on your gristle because it gets you so hot. You’re an evil, nasty big brother. Come down here and show me how nasty you are! Heidi wants your gooey drippings!’

  “You’re looking a little pale around the edges, my new friend. I didn’t hit the nail on the head by accident, did I?” There was no way to know if I’d managed to pull something true from the fabric of uncertainty. That being the case, all I could figure was that my honesty was rippling around the recesses of his heart and giving him a nasty case of gas. I continued.

  “You are so screwed! Take a few deep breaths. That’s really the best thing you can do after someone has shared horrible truths with you. Good. Good.

  “I should tell you, if you manage to cripple Little Heidi, you have to deliver the cootie grace as soon as you can after that. The reason is pretty simple. She’s calling you every name in the book, tossing every secret you’ve ever had around as loud as she can, and is probably trying to seduce you at the same time.

  “After all, her brain is intact and she knows every weakness you’ve got. I guarantee that she will exploit everything in order to keep you from finishing her off, because she has not lost sight of the original goal: kill my brother and eat him. All she wants to do is stay alive, even if she’s been crippled by your attempts to save your own life. She won’t heal super quickly or anything like that, but at least she’ll be able to live until she can hunt again.

  “God forbid that you have this little confrontation in public. Can you imagine how insane it would make you to have to listen to that for any length of time or to see the faces of other people as they listen to the litany of bizarre excess spewing from her mouth while you delay in finishing her off?

  “Then again, it is possible that she’d take another route entirely. She could scream in a high-pitched, childlike voice. It’s classic and might even work. How long do you want to listen to something like that?”

  Apparently, he didn’t want to listen to that at all, because he tossed his cookies all over the floor.

  “That, my vomiting friend,” I said, giving him a friendly pat on the shoulder, “is why you kill them as quickly as you possibly can.”

  I probably would have kept going even after he upchucked because beer (for some reason known only to God) pulls down the panties of my good sense. But Marvin, the bartender, gave me an ugly look and a gentle suggestion.

  “Frank, get the fuck out before I slap you upside the head with a baseball bat.”

  He didn’t get any sweeter when I gave him my “you’ve wounded my heart” pout. I suppose that’s what you get from someone who used to be your landlord. Truth be told, that’s probably why I didn’t hang out in his place very often. He’s a good soul, but we’d shared some really fucked up times together.

  I got up and walked outside. A reasonable number of Coronas and being the bearer of bad news ruins the co
mfortable environment of any local watering hole. With any luck, Marvin and Shirley will let me come back in a few days. You have to let the memory of some things fade a little bit, but they know I will tell anyone and everyone The Way Things Are at the drop of a hat. Blunt, cynical commentary is a dying art.

  Then again, I’m a wonderful customer to have, and that goes for any establishment. I pay my bill virtually every time, and I am always willing to take out a pesky zombie. Zombies, on the other hand, do not pay, ever, and tend to murder your clients in the most unfortunate ways.

  I do have a certain gentle abrasiveness about me, but I like to think that is part of my overall personal charm. Then, like the Lolita Zombie Sister, I also have a tendency to say exactly what is on my mind without considering the possible consequences. Happily, no one to date has decided that it merited killing me, in or out of bars and restaurants.

  My reputation for being Johnny-On-The-Spot for Undead Pest Removal does a lot to overcome my quirks in public places. No one wants a zombie farting around in their establishment if they can possibly avoid it. It isn’t just the murdering and feasting—there’s also the smell. The walking dead do not, as a rule, give a flying politician whether or not they’ve bathed since they came back from the Big Quiet.

  Zombies call death “the Big Quiet.” Some say they remember dying, the parts after the explosive agony of being eaten alive and bleeding out. They say there’s nothing there, Out There, and that there is just this big quiet blackness that swallows you. If you can believe the walking dead have a religion, this is as close as it gets.

  The scripture would be short.

  “In the beginning, there was life and it was a random pattern of good events and bad events. In the middle, there was dying in a very nasty way, assisted by unfortunate mobs of undead cannibals. At the end of the middle came Death. Death was big, silent, and black. In the end, there is life after Death. That will also be nasty, because you have to eat your fellow man to stay alive.”