The Longest Road (Book 1)

by Thompson, A. S.

Steve nodded.

  Alex took in a deep breath of sea air and allowed a moment of silence for all their lost family. “So, what’s the game plan?”

  Steve hadn’t thought about that at all. His first and only goal was to make it out of the castle alive. “I guess we head north and keep driving?”

  “Sounds good to me. But can we at least enjoy the beach for a little while?”

  “Definitely. For now, how about we go get some breakfast?”

  “Deal.”

  Both cousins plowed through the sand and sat down with the others. Sarah brought out some hidden bags of chips and Tom’s Beef Jerky. It wasn’t exactly the continental breakfasts they had become accustomed to, but it was filling.

  Out of nowhere, Jenny turned to Steve and began tugging on his shirt. “How did you get away from the monsters?” she asked.

  All eyes fell on Steve.

  “Yeah, man, Jenny told us you were a goner. How’d you do it?” Alex followed up.

  “You never did answer me in the courtyard,” Sarah concluded, nudging him in the shoulder. “I think it’s time for an explanation,baby.”

  “Taking things up a notch, are we?” Steve quipped. He looked surprisingly cheerful as he tossed in a mouthful of jerky. He took a gulp of water, swished it around his mouth and swallowed. The others sat at the edge of their seats, waiting for an explanation.

  “All right, so I was trapped. The bathroom door was about to give at any second—wait, what’s that?” Steve said, staring out into the distance.

  “We aren’t falling for that, bro. Stop changing the subject,” Alex said. “How’d you do it?”

  “No, seriously, what is that?” Steve said, leaving the table and pointing out a distant stretch of the highway.

  Seeing his seriousness, the others rose and followed him to the parking lot for a better view.

  Driving on a lone stretch of road, an unmarked Jeep was heading their way. The survivors couldn’t tell how many people were inside, or if they were hostile. Not taking any chances, Steve, Travis, Josue, and Alex ran back to the RV to retrieve their weapons.

  “Spread out, guys,” said the seasoned second lieutenant. “The rest of you, get in the RV.”

  Four rifles were pointed at the Jeep as it pulled off the highway and into the parking lot. The driver must have noticed the weapons, because the Jeep’s speed decreased to a slow roll and twenty feet out, the Jeep stopped. The tinted windows and cloud coverage made it difficult to see how many were inside.

  “Hands where I can see ‘em,” Travis shouted.

  The driver’s door cracked open, and a middle-aged woman dressed in military-issued pants and a dirty white tank top stepped out. Her shoulder length brunette hair was pulled back into a ponytail. “No need for the weapons, I’m not here to hurt you,” she said, shutting the door slowly.

  “Joey, go check her out,” Travis ordered.

  The Argentinean walked over and patted the woman down. “She’s clean,” Josue said, walking backwards to join his compatriots.

  “Who are you and what do you want?” Alex said, keeping his M16 pointed at her.

  “My name is Doctor Diane Phillips. Please lower your weapons. I assure you I am not a threat,” she said calmly.

  “Okay, Diane, that’s half the answer. What do you want?” Steve said, motioning for everyone to lower their guns.

  “I’m looking for Colonel Seaton. I’m an old friend of his. He wrote me telling me to come to his residence in Uster,” Diane answered, walking over to the cluster of four men, “but I’ve been busy with the HHS. I was the chief medical officer in charge of studying the disease responsible for all of this.”

  No one but the second lieutenant knew what the abbreviation stood for. “What’s the chief medical officer from the Department of Health and Human Services doing here? Shouldn’t you be in a lab somewhere, trying to find a cure?”

  “Iwasstudying the disease. On the front lines, actually,” she retorted. “That is, before the president ordered a questionable nationwide pullout of all personnel from hot zones. I stayed behind with a few dedicated scientists, but time was not on our side. There were five of us when we left the CDC in Atlanta, after the power finally ran out. Now it’s just me.”

  “It’s a good thing you were late,” Travis said. “We barely made it out of the castle alive.”

  Diane snapped back to attention. “I was watching the firefight from the hills to the east of the castle. I saw your RV leaving the compound. I tried to follow, but lost you as soon as you hit the highway.”

  “Diane Phillips,” Collin said from the side door of the RV. “You’re the one who was studying the disease, from the emails. You’re DP?”

  “Yes, that’s correct. I’m sorry to be rude, but where is Mark? I need to speak with him immediately.”

  “Too late. The colonel is dead,” Travis answered bluntly. “He died in our escape yesterday.”

  Diane took a step back. “Mark’s dead?”

  “Yes. So you can just head back to whatever lab you came from,” Travis said coldly.

  “There’s no place left to go,” she mumbled. “Ineeded to see Mark. I needed to work with him.”

  “Work with him? Why?” Steve asked, tilting his head.

  “I think I may have found a vaccine.”

  The End

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  About A.S. Thompson

  Growing up in southern California, A.S. Thompson has always loved entertainment. So, after receiving his bachelor’s in communications, he decided to follow that love and has since gone on to explore the diversity of the entertainment industry. He has spent countless hours in music studios and worked on set and behind the scenes at TV and film production companies, searching for the right career. But when it’s time to relax, you can find him at a music venue checking out his favorite bands, at the movies seeing a new release or at home catching up on his DVR.

  A.S. has always been a creative individual. He plays multiple instruments, has written and recorded dozens of songs and performed live on stage in front of hundreds of screaming fans (well maybe not hundreds). Whenever possible, he enjoys writing and filming movies and helping friends out with their projects. He’s also the type of guy who’s always looking for something new; the next big adventure. Whether it’s learning a new skill like karate, pursuing a new hobby like becoming a pilot, or, if he could, spend his life traveling the world.

  In a screen writing class in college he discovered a new passion-writing. When it comes to writing music, books or film, he is always looking for originality, that new sound or idea that is going to set himself apart. His first book, The Longest Road, was created out of his love for the horror genre. To him, there’s nothing like the suspense and thrill of reading a horror novel or watching a scary movie...the heart pounding, the spine tingling, and that part in the back of your head that wonders what will happen next...

  Copyright © 2013 by A.S. Thompson

  Cover design and chapter artwork by Michael Boyajian

  All Rights Reserved

  All characters and events in this book are fictitious. Any resemblance to persons living or dead is strictly coincidental. The scanning, uploading and distribution of this book via the Internet or any other means without the permission of the publisher is illegal, and is punishable by law. Please purchase only authorized electronic editions, and do not participate in or encourage the electronic piracy of copyrighted materials. Your support of the author’s rights is appreciated.

  Acknowledgment

  God. I am who I am because of you.

  Steve O. My partner in crime...all those nights of zombie movie and video game marathons started this craving.

  My parents, brother, sister, G-Liz and the rest of the family...you’re my inspiration, I love you.

  All of my friends. You know who you are, and yes, I love you too.

  Special thanks to Michael Boyajian for all
of your help.

  Zeb and Jen you’re awesome. Thanks for taking a leap of faith with me.

  Finally, thank you to all the fans of this genre. Including all of the writers, directors, producers, and especially those of you who pay to be entertained by this particular horror. You are who keeps this genre alive, well undead obviously, but alive.

  Chapter One

  People that move to a subdivision do so for only a couple of reasons. Ours were price and location. Great price for the size of the house and great location since it was just on the edge of Asheville, NC, down by the French Broad River. Once the dead began to walk the earth, the price didn’t matter so much anymore. It was all about location.

  The Blue Ridge Mountains are part of the Appalachian Mountain range, a range that stretches from Georgia up to Maine. Our neck of the range is in Western North Carolina, specifically Asheville, known as the Paris of the South because of its eclectic mix of arts, music, and vacation possibilities. A long time destination for those that think outside the box, Asheville is surrounded by hollows (hollers), coves, gaps, and valleys, filled with generations of hard working North Carolinians that, while free thinking and independent, aren’t known for their outside the boxedness. Conservative through and through, most are used to making it on their own in the best of times. Come the apocalypse? That conservative pragmatism kicks into overdrive and sure comes in handy.

  This makes for an interesting dynamic in the region. You see, when the dead began to rise from their graves, morgues, funeral homes, and other places, urban dead are supposed to stay dead, they pretty nearly wiped out the progressive, freethinking population of Asheville. Well, wiped out the living population; the undead population is growing and thriving. Let’s hear it for undead progress! This left a few urban survivor pockets (Whispering Pines being one), surrounded not only by a sea of undead, but by multiple groups, families, factions of rural survivor pockets hell bent on getting, taking, and scavenging what they can from the ruins of Asheville.

  Good times for all.

  So, I stand in front of my bathroom mirror, razor in hand, wondering what will become of my family, as I hear a stray gunshot here and there from outside our two-story, 2700 square feet, cookie cutter house. The image in the mirror is of a forty-year old man, blond-red beard, soon to be bald head (okay, balder head since growing hair hasn’t been my forte for years), six feet, 200 pounds, exhausted, and semi-malnourished. Yeah, I’m a peach.

  Another gunshot goes off and I set the razor down. Normally, I’d yell from the bathroom at the kids to find out what is going on, but that was pre-Z (pre-zombies). In today’s world, you keep your mouth shut and stay quiet. Noise attracts the undead. We take the whispering part of Whispering Pines, very seriously nowadays.

  So I’m a little more than alarmed as to why I hear gunshots. Guns are noisy. We’re an arrows, spears, slingshots, and other quiet projectiles kind of subdivision. This was signed into the covenants by the HOA (Home Owners’ Association) Board and ratified at one of our first post-Z HOA meetings.

  “Jace?” Stella asks from the bedroom door. “Have you heard anything?”

  Stella Stanford, my beautiful wife and mother of my two children (boy: Charlie, sixteen, and girl: Greta, thirteen), the rock that I rely on, and asker of the obvious.

  “You mean other than the gunshots?” I ask as I grab a shirt and pull it on before coming out of the bathroom.

  “Don’t be an asshole,” Stella says. “Have you heard anything over the Wi-Fi?”

  Wi-Fi, you ask? Oh, we have it. No internet, since the apocalypse ruined that, but local Wi-Fi which helps us all stay in touch in the neighborhood.

  “I haven’t checked my messages,” I reply. “Hand me my phone.”

  Stella crosses her arms and gives me a stern look.

  “Please?” I ask. “Sorry for being an asshole.”

  She hands me my phone and I see a text from Jon Billings, my best friend in the neighborhood and Head of Construction. Jon is one of the few people I truly trust in Whispering Pines. Everyone else we watch with caution and keep at a friendly distance. Makes it easier to shove a crowbar through their heads if you don’t get too attached.

  “Bums down by the gate,” the text reads. “You coming? You know Brenda is going to want you there. I’m sure she’ll pick apart any ‘weaknesses’ she sees in the gate.”

  “Who’s shooting?” I text back.

  “The bums,” his reply comes quickly. “Where the fuck are you, Hoss? Get your butt down here. Brenda is already trying to redesign the entire gate structure. Jesus…”

  Jon is also a minister which cracks me up when he texts. He saves all his cursing for texts to me. No one has a clue, otherwise.

  “On my way,” I text back.

  “Bums,” I say to Stella. “I need to bike down ASAP.”

  “Brenda?”

  “Yep. Brenda,” I nod as I grab my socks and hurry to the garage. I throw on my sturdy, steel-toed work boots and snag my mountain bike.

  I barely wave at the inquiring faces of my neighbors as I speed by, focusing on the twists and turns, dips and rises of the neighborhood. I race down the last hill towards the gate that is set at the entrance to Whispering Pines, blocking all access to the neighborhood from the former State Road Hwy 251. I say “former” because there really isn’t a “state” anymore, and I’m pretty sure the DoT has lost its jurisdiction during the apocalypse. Or maybe not. They could be planning to re-paint the yellow lines next week for all we know.

  “There you are, Hoss,” Jon says as I brake to a stop by him. “Brenda thinks we need more spikes on the outside, because spikes are apparently a deterrent to starving bums.”

  “Jesus,” I mutter.

  “Hey, Lord’s name and all that?” Jon smiles.

  “Smart ass,” I smile as I walk past him to the watchtower sitting to the side of the fifty-foot gate.

  “I am sorry for your situation, folks,” Brenda says, trying to whisper and shout at the same time which comes out as some grotesque croak. “But Whispering Pines is a gated community and we are not taking new residents at this time. You will need to move along please. Again, I am sorr-.”

  Whomever she’s talking to replies with a pistol shot. Splinters of wood explode from the post next to Brenda’s face.

  “Where is Stuart?” Brenda hisses. “These bums need to be dealt with!”

  Bums are what we call the stragglers that come knocking on our quite impressive (if I do say so myself) gate doors. Survivors that have somehow managed to stay alive while avoiding the Zs and the not so friendly groups of people out there. We’ve been seeing less and less over the months, but they do show up. It isn’t hard for them to spot a beacon of living in the darkness of the world around them.

  James, “Don’t Call Me Jimmy”, Stuart, is suddenly at my elbow, looking up at the watchtower with his usual look of pissed off and slightly surprised that everyone else isn’t as pissed off as he is. Five feet and eight inches, late fifties, tight crew cut, wiry and strong, Stuart is a retired Marine Gunnery Sergeant. Head of Defenses (not to be confused with Head of Security, God forbid!) he sees anyone without the proper training and understanding of military tactics as a pain in his well-trained and tactical ass. Pretty much that means all of us.

  “Gates are holding,” Stuart says without looking at me. “What’s she bitching about then?”

  Stuart likes to end questions in “then” sometimes. It’s a strange affectation, but since he can kick the living shit out of me with his perfectly trimmed mustache, I don’t question it.

  “Bums,” I say.

  “Bums,” Jon echoes.

  “Padre,” Stuart nods to Jon.

  “Yes, my son?” Jon smiles. Stuart doesn’t smile back. “Right. Hey.”

  Stuart sighs with amazing discipline and skill and climbs the ladder into the watchtower. We follow. Once up there, he takes a key ring from his belt and unlocks the steel locker bolted to the watchtower floor.

 
“How many then?” Stuart asks as his hand hovers over the open locker.

  “Eight,” a mousy man answers, looking from Brenda to Stuart to me to Jon and back to Stuart. “Three adults and five kids. Look like they’ve been running nonstop. Didn’t think much of them until they started shooting.”

  “Let us in!” a dry voice cries from below. “Please!”

  “Kids?” Stuart asks, his eyes finding Brenda’s as he pulls an AR-15 and magazine from the locker. He slaps the magazine home and stares.

  Brenda Kelly is our HOA Board Chairperson. Short, fat, ugly as sin, she took control of Whispering Pines in the first few days of the apocalypse, giving some semblance of order in a world that went from normal to “HOLY SHIT I’M GOING TO GET MY FACE EATEN!” in less than twenty-four hours. Despite her lack of everything that makes a human being decent, she does make one damn good administrator. Once you get past that lack of human decency part. That’s a tough one to get past, believe me.

  “We don’t have room or resources,” Brenda states, her whisper like the hiss of a hidden viper. “You know that, Stuart. Resolution 856 was very clear on the subject of no new residents allowed. You were there for the vote, Stuart. Do I have to get---”

  “Shut up,” Stuart says. “I know the resolution. Just wanted to be clear before I do my job.”

  There are two sentries posted to the watchtower at all times, but they defer to Stuart when it comes to discretionary violence. Stuart is very clear on this point: no one kills the living except him, unless they are defending themselves. I have wondered more than a few times how many people Stuart has killed in his years as a Marine. I’ve personally witnessed him kill no less than fourteen souls since the apocalypse started. I can’t even count how many Zs he’s killed.

  On that subject, let me explain that the Zs we are talking about are your classic, shuffling, shoot the brain, zombies. The freshly turned ones have some more mobility than the veteran undead, but really can only break out into a half-run at the best. Kind of like a power-walking grandma at the mall. They can be outrun. But, as always, it’s about numbers. And the Zs out number our asses by an easy twenty to one. Okay, okay, I’m being delusional. They outnumber us by fifty to one. I just hate admitting that. What? Fine, fine, 100-200 to one. Sheesh.