Life After The Undead Omnibus

by Pembroke Sinclair

  Life After the Undead: Copyright 2011, 2015, 2016 Pembroke Sinclair

  Death to the Undead: Copyright 2011, 2016 Pembroke Sinclair

  This work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial-No Derivative

  Works 3.0 Unported License.

  Attribution — You must attribute the work in the manner specified by the author or licensor (but not in any way that suggests that they endorse you or your use of the work).

  Noncommercial — You may not use this work for commercial purposes.

  No Derivative Works — You may not alter, transform, or build upon this work.

  Inquiries about additional permissions should be directed to: pembrokesinclair@hotmail.com

  Cover Design for both books by Greg Simanson

  Life After the Undead Edited by Marisa Chenery

  Previously published as Life After the Undead, eTreasures, 2011, Booktrope, 2015

  Previously published as Death to the Undead, etreasures Publishing, 2011, Booktrope, 2016

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to similarly named places or to persons living or deceased is unintentional.

  Life After the Undead:

  ISBN-13: 978-1533257925

  ISBN-10: 1533257922

  Library of Congress Control Number: 2015951539

  Death to the Undead:

  ISBN-13: 978-1533258274

  ISBN-10: 1533258279

  LIFE AFTER THE UNDEAD

  By PEMBROKE SINCLAIR

  PROLOGUE

  I will never understand peoples’ fascination with the apocalypse. Why would you waste so much time and energy worrying about something you can’t change? Besides, most of the time, it never comes to fruition, anyway. Remember Y2K? I don’t. I was too young, but I’ve heard stories. What a hullabaloo that was. People were so afraid of computers failing and throwing society back into the Dark Ages, they stockpiled supplies and moved into the wilderness so they could get away from technology. Why would they move to the wilderness? If technology was going to fail, wouldn’t they be just as safe in a city? I guess they were afraid when it did, everyone would go crazy and start killing each other. Either way, it didn’t happen. I wonder how those people felt afterward.

  Then there was the whole 2012 scare. This one was supposedly based on an ancient prediction, so you know it was reliable. Are you kidding? Even the Mayans didn’t believe their own ancestors’ “vision.” What happened was there had been a tablet that had the Mayan calendar carved into it. The end was broken and faded, so no one knew what it said. Our culture, being the pessimistic lot we are, automatically assumed it was an end-of-the-world warning, but, again, nothing happened on December 21, 2012. Christmas came and went, and I think everyone everywhere, even the skeptics, had a little something more to be thankful for. Life went on as usual, and all those doomsayers faded into obscurity.

  The day the world did end was pretty nondescript. By that I mean there was no nuclear explosion or asteroid or monumental natural disaster. There weren’t even any horsemen or plagues to announce the end was coming. The world ended fairly quietly. I couldn’t even give you a date because it happened at different times depending on where you were. It was never predicted, and I’m sure a scenario no one even considered. Who really thinks the dead are going to rise from the grave and destroy the majority of the population? No one but Hollywood, and we all know those are just movies, but that’s exactly what happened. Those of us who survived were left wide-eyed, mouth agape, trying to figure out what to do next.

  There were a few who were able to pull their heads out and organize those left behind. They made sure the populace had food, shelter, and protection. They were saviors, the United States’ heroes. Life wouldn’t have gone on without them, and it was pretty difficult those first few years after the zompocalypse.

  Sometimes it’s difficult for me to remember what life was like before the rise of the undead. I was a teenager, though I hesitate to say normal. I wasn’t deformed or anything, but my classmates thought I was strange. I had a fascination with the dark, the macabre, although I wasn’t a Goth or Emo. I read books and magazines about serial killers. I didn’t idolize them or want to be like them—hell no—I was fascinated with how evil and black a human’s soul could get.

  I wanted to be a psychologist and work with the criminally insane, maybe figure out why they did what they did. Apparently, when you’re fifteen, your friends think you’re weird if you have desires to help someone other than yourself. While they were worried about becoming popular and getting the right boyfriend, I tried to figure out how to make society better.

  Of course, those dreams will never come true. Society doesn’t exist. Everything I once held dear is gone. I lost my parents to the horde, like a lot of kids. Unlike some of the others, mine weren’t taken by surprise or in some freak accident. They were taken because of their own stupidity. Some days I miss them a lot, but others I believe they got what they deserved. I might sound callous and uncaring, but what about them? Why would they abandon their fifteen-year-old daughter? It used to keep me up at night, trying to find the answer to that question, but I’ve given up asking it. No reason wasting time on things that could’ve or should’ve been.

  As I stare out the passenger side window of the semi, I’m reminded how bleak the future has become. The truck rolls down a once heavily traveled highway that has been reduced to a cracked trail. Gas stations and towns dotting the landscape have been abandoned and are crumpling into the weeds that are taking them over. There are a few areas that still resemble pre-zombie destruction, and these are the military outposts set up along the road, used for protection and refueling. I use the term “military” loosely because there is no formal military anymore. It’s a rag-tag group of men and women who were lucky enough to get guns. I chuckle to myself. It’s been two years since I was last out in the world, and a lot has changed since then. I still remember the day the zombies attacked. It’s as clear as if it’d happened yesterday.

  CHAPTER 1

  I sat on the bench, my head bobbing and feet tapping to Korn’s Freak on a Leash as it pulsed through my eardrums. I mouthed the words until movement caught my eye, then turned. Carmen and her friends walked toward the school bus stop where I sat. Carmen walked by, and for a moment, our gazes met, then she flipped her long, blonde hair and huffed, averting her gaze to the sky. I smiled and turned up my iPod.

  Carmen and I used to be friends back in grade school. She used to be shy and awkward, like me, but when we got to Junior High, she broke out of her shell. She started making new friends, ones who apparently weren’t as weird as I am. She quit talking to me. I guess I embarrassed her. I called her friends the Baa-Baa Twins because they followed Carmen mindlessly and did everything she told them to do without question—like sheep.

  I stared at my feet, which once again tapped to the beat. Someone bumped me. The other students headed to the curb. Some of them believed they had to have the “right” seat on the bus, so they wanted to be first through the door. I remained seated. The bus was a little way down the block when it stopped. I slid to the edge of the bench to look, turning down my music.

  Carmen stepped off the curb and waved. “Helllooo,” she called, “we’re down here.” She placed her hand on her hip. “What are they doing?”

  I got up from the bench and stepped into the street. The sun reflected off the bus’ windshield so I couldn’t see inside. I paused my music. The only sound was the idling of the engine. Suddenly, the bus rocked. A thud, as if something hit the ceiling, echoed through the streets. All of us
froze. The doors slid open and the bus driver stumbled out, rolling onto his back after he missed the last step. He struggled to his feet and ran toward us. Two of the students, I recognized them as seventh graders, got off the bus. They almost fell down the stairs, and I wondered if they’d hurt their knees because they didn’t seem to want to bend them. As they stepped into the sunlight, they flinched and seemed slightly confused. They turned to their right, then to their left, and when they noticed me and the other students, they moved forward. As they drew closer, I noticed their eyes were bloodshot with dark circles underneath. They both walked slowly, and one of them dragged his foot.

  I was convinced they’d injured themselves. They were on the JV basketball team, so they could have fallen on the court, but I couldn’t figure out why they were getting off the bus. It must have something to do with the sound I’d heard. The one who wasn’t dragging his foot opened his mouth and let out a low moan. A shiver ran down my spine. The bus driver ran into the center of our group and grabbed Carmen by the shoulders.

  “Run!” he yelled.

  Carmen pushed him away, mumbling, “Eww, don’t touch me.”

  Baa-Baa One stepped to her side and whispered something I couldn’t hear. A look of disgust covered both their faces.

  He turned to another boy. “You’ve got to get out of here.”

  All the kids stared at him. Was this some kind of joke? A few of them grabbed their backpacks and headed away from the bus. Carmen watched the man, her hand still on her hip.

  “We’ve got to get to school, you know!” she said.

  The driver took off down the street, glancing only once over his shoulder.

  I stared after him and then back at the seventh graders. There was something not right about how they moved, something bizarre about their stare. I stepped a little to the right so the glare was off the bus’ windshield and noticed what looked like blood on the window. I pulled my earbuds out and grabbed Carmen by the arm.

  “We’ve got to go,” I said.

  Carmen jerked out of my grasp. “What’s your problem? We’re supposed to go to school.”

  Baa-Baa One stepped closer to Carmen, her lips pursed and her eyes narrowed as she cracked her knuckles. I think she thought she was being intimidating, but with her styled hair and manicured nails, I wasn’t worried.

  I rolled my eyes.

  “I think she’s right,” Baa-Baa Two said from the sidewalk. “I think we should go.”

  Carmen threw her a dirty look. “When I want your opinion, I’ll give it to you.”

  The seventh graders were now within ten feet, and I decided I wasn’t going to fight with Carmen. If she wanted to go to school, she was going to have to find her own way there. I ran halfway up the block before a scream caused me to turn back around. The seventh graders had made it to Carmen and held her by her arms. They bit deep into her flesh, and blood pooled on the sidewalk. Baa-Baa One tried to pry one of the boys off, but she only succeeded in tearing more flesh off Carmen’s arm. She lost her grip and fell backward. The boy dropped on top of her and gnawed on her throat. Baa-Baa One’s scream turned into a gargle. Baa-Baa Two took off running.

  I inhaled a sharp breath and ran for my house. When I got there, I slammed the door and locked the deadbolt. I looked quickly out the window, but the street was quiet. After running into the living room, I grabbed the phone and dialed 9-1-1. Oddly, I got a busy signal. I hung up and turned on the TV.

  “Krista?” Mom’s voice called from upstairs. “Is that you?”

  I didn’t answer. I flipped through the channels until I found the news.

  “Krista?” Mom said right behind me. “What are you doing home? I thought you left for the bus ten minutes ago.”

  “Mom, something weird’s going on. Two seventh graders just attacked Carmen and her friend.”

  Mom rolled her eyes. “Of course they did, sweetie. Carmen probably deserved it.” She reached for the remote, but I jerked it out of her grasp. Mom huffed and placed her hands on her hips. “Krista, really. I don’t know what this is about, but I can imagine it has something to do with those serial killer magazines you’ve been reading. I’ll take those away if this is how you’re going to behave. I’ll be ready to leave in five minutes.” She turned and headed back upstairs.

  The news droned on about how nice the weather was going to be for the rest of the week before switching to local sports. I changed the channel, but there was nothing. I turned the TV off and switched on the radio. I found the local country station. A George Straight song was just ending, and the DJ came on the air, preparing to take the next caller.

  The woman’s voice was frantic. “Something is going on!” she screamed over the air. “Haven’t you guys had any reports? People…people are acting crazy.”

  “Whoa, lady, slow down.” The DJ’s voice was low and calm. “How are people acting crazy?”

  “They’re attacking!” The woman broke into sobs. “My husband…my husband.”

  “What about your husband?”

  “He’s dead.”

  There was silence over the radio.

  “Do you hear me! He’s dead and he’s attacking pe—” Her voice cut off.

  The radio crackled and the DJ came back on. “Sorry about that folks. We don’t screen our callers before they’re put on the air. We’ll be back after these messages with some good ole country to get you through your morning commute.”

  As the radio switched to a commercial, Mom came back downstairs and grabbed it out of my hand. “It’s time to go to school, my dear.”

  I stared at her. “I don’t think we should leave the house.”

  “Nonsense. Everything is fine. Now get your butt into the car.”

  I stepped back and shook my head.

  “Young lady, I’m not going through this again. Get your butt into the car right now.” Mom moved to grab my arm, but a pounding at the door interrupted her. “Who could that be?”

  Mom glanced out the window before unlocking the deadbolt and opening the door. Dad came flying into the house and slammed it behind him. He bumped into his wife, and she landed on her side.

  “Charlie, watch it!”

  He turned and noticed her on the floor.

  “Laura, I’m sorry.” He placed his hands under her arms and pulled her up. “Where’s Krista?”

  “I’m right here, Dad.”

  He breathed a sigh. “Get upstairs. Both of you.”

  Mom stared at him. “Charlie, what in the world is going on?” she asked.

  “I don’t know. Just get upstairs!”

  The panic in Dad’s voice caused me to take the stairs two at a time. Both of them were right behind me, and we went into the master bedroom. Dad locked the door behind us. He went to the closet and grabbed his 1911 pistol and two rifles, which he handed to Mom and me.

  Mom stared at him, wild-eyed. “Will you please tell me what is going on?”

  I cradled the weapon against my chest and stared at him.

  “I don’t know,” he said. “I was on my way to work and stopped at a red light. I noticed some people on the sidewalk, walking really slowly as if they were drunk, and they attacked the people in the car in front of me. They reached through the open window and bit them. There was blood everywhere. I would have helped, but a group of them converged on my car. I got out of there and hurried home as fast as I could.”

  “That’s what happened to Carmen,” I whispered.

  Mom pursed her lips and stared from Dad to me before shoving the gun into her husband’s arms. “Do you two really think I’m an idiot? I hate it when you get together and try to prank me.”

  “Laura, I’m serious.”

  “Mom, really, something is going on.”

  She rolled her eyes and headed for the door. “Fine. You two play your little game, but I have to go to work. Charlie, make sure Krista gets to school.” She flipped the lock and flung open the door.

  Normally, Mom would have been correct in her assumption. Dad and
I loved to play tricks. They were usually harmless—ice cubes with flies in them, replacing the regular coffee with decaf, or putting colored Vaseline in the jelly jar. There was one time we pulled a really bad one. Dad and I were goofing around in the front yard, whacking rocks with a stick, pretending to be golfing, and one of them broke the window next to the door. Dad thought it would be fun if we made it look as if someone broke in and killed us, so we poured some fake blood on the floor. We hid in the closet and waited for Mom to get home. She freaked when she walked in. We stopped her before she called 9-1-1, but she didn’t talk to us for two days.

  As we cowered in the room, I wished I’d never pulled any pranks on Mom. She never really trusted us after we pretended to be dead. Dad lunged after her, but she was already halfway down the stairs. I watched from the top as he intercepted her before she made it into the garage.

  “Laura, please, this is not a joke.” He grabbed her arm and tried to get her to stay in the house.

  She wiggled out of his grasp. “Charlie, seriously. This has gone on long enough.”

  Dad stuffed the pistol into his belt and grabbed Mom around the waist, flinging her over his shoulder. She kicked and screamed, but he wrestled her up the stairs and back into the bedroom. I locked the door behind them, watching as Dad tossed Mom onto the bed.

  Mom’s face was red and her jaw clenched. “I swear to god, Charlie.”

  A scream from outside interrupted her threat.

  The three of us went to the window and looked out. A neighbor, who lived three houses away, ran down the street in her robe. She had on one slipper and half her hair was curled. Blood dripped from her arm and the back of her leg. Three others behind her walked in the same slow, jerky manner the seventh graders had. She screamed again.

  Dad grabbed the pistol from his waistband. “We’ve got to help her.” He turned and walked to the door.