by TW Brown
Simon’s romance was not the only one to bloom. However, one romance in particular went so bad so fast that it left the entire community reeling for quite some time. After a thorough investigation, one of the community’s couples actually provided a lot of information in their tragedy.
The pair in question had one thing in common with Simon and Wamil; the woman in the relationship had survived a bite. That blessing turned into a curse when she transmitted the catalyst that turned her lover into one of the infected. The first night they were intimate, the man woke and went to the bathroom where he discovered the black tracers in his eyes. After strangling the woman, he hung himself.
It was Nelson’s security team that smelled the distinct stench of the undead and entered the house to discover the woman in the bedroom. Of course she had turned shortly after dying which is what led to Dr. Kincaide and Dr. Asan hypothesizing that the infection remained in the person who proved immune to the bite. Upon death, whatever was causing people to turn would become active.
The disease could be passed on through fluid exchange. Simon and Wamil waited for almost three weeks to see if she would change. When she didn’t, the guess was that she shared in the same immunity that Simon possessed. She declined to test the theory by allowing an actual zombie to bite her.
Three months later, when Caron became involved in a romance with a man who had lost three of his fingers to a zombie early on, the conclusion about those who had been bitten and proved immune being able to engage in physical relationships without concern were all but confirmed.
Of course the other side of the conversation came from those who were not sure of their status, and it was determined that all who were known to be immune had to declare it. Physical examinations of the entire population ensued and three individuals who had attempted to hide their status were banished from Micklefield. There was even talk of making all those who were known to be immune relocate immediately to New Micklefield; however, Geoff and Simon were eventually able to quell those demands.
By the first snowfall of the second winter, Micklefield was almost thriving. Five greenhouses were given top priority, and another surprise came when wild game apparently bounced back to a state of abundance that kept the community extremely well fed over an even harsher winter than the one before. The long, cold nights also gave the people of Micklefield one more cause to celebrate when the second spring arrived.
Eleven women were visibly pregnant.
Many commented that it was like seeing those first shoots of grass poking through the snow. Life was finding a way, and just maybe there was reason to hope that humanity might endure.
Epilogue:
Happily Ever After?
Simon stood on the platform and looked out across the trench at the approaching horde. By his best guess, there had to be over ten thousand. This was the second such mob in the past three weeks. He looked back and saw the people of Micklefield heading to their positions in response to the ringing of the bells at the church that signaled an attack.
“Good thing we extended and deepened that trench,” Nelson huffed as he climbed the ladder and joined Simon on the platform.
“Yeah, but I am starting to wonder how many more of these we can endure.” Simon began to stretch out his arms, making circles. He knew that his shoulders were going to be very sore by the end of the day.
“Da!” a tiny voice called from down below the catwalk.
Looking over the edge, Simon saw Wamil with two-year-old Elizabeth on her hip. The little girl’s black hair fluttered in the gentle breeze of the day. As soon as she saw her daddy, she reached out for him.
“Da, up!” the little girl insisted.
“Not right now, little one,” Simon answered with a shake of his head. “You have to stay with mommy for a while. Daddy has work to do.”
“Mroarrrr?” the girl mewled in a surprisingly good impersonation of a zombie. She strained to look over her mother’s shoulder after Wamil kissed Simon on the cheek and headed to her station to prepare and receive any of the injured that might occur during the coming fight.
“Yep,” Nelson chuckled, “that’s your daughter.”
“Yesterday she was having her teddy bear pretending to eat her other dolls,” Simon muttered. “I have a hard time believing that is the extent of the trauma she endured.”
He was referring to an incident three weeks ago when a mob almost the size of this one managed to breach a section of the community’s defenses. It was like watching footage of a dam bursting. There was this small trickle at first, and then the section of wall collapsed and the undead poured in through the hole in a torrent. Several of them managed to get all the way to the safety square.
The safety square was a fall back location of last resort. It was made from old train cars; more precisely, the sides of the train cars that were cut away and used to create an eighty-by-eighty square that housed the entrance to the underground bunker. It was a double failsafe that had taken most of a year to complete. They actually thought that it would be a defense against the living.
When the zombies broke through, a few of the people who were running for the doors of the sanctuary got pulled down. Against protocol, the people manning the door ran out to try and help. Of course they were pulled down as well, and the zombies were soon within the enclosure.
Elizabeth had been set inside the door by Wamil who went to shut the door despite the screams of protest from some of the others who were insisting on sending out even more people to try and help the growing number of casualties. Apparently the little girl had a perfect view of the carnage.
“Has everybody been briefed and reminded about the fallback zone?” Simon asked as Nelson took his spot on the wall.
“At least a dozen times,” the man confirmed.
“I sure hope that patchwork repair we did on that section of the wall holds up better,” Simon said between clenched teeth as he readied himself for the coming wall of undeath.
“Is it me, or are they starting to lose their stink?” Nelson chirped as he pulled his long staff from his shoulder and removed the protective tips that covered both ends where the steel spike tips were mounted.
“It’s just you,” Melena said from her spot in the tower on the right where she began to prime the pump that would send a mist of treated oil into the trench once the zombies began to fill it.
“You think this will ever end?” Dawn called from the tower on the left.
“Well, last I heard before the zombie uprising, we had a total of around fifty million people. I figure this will probably last for a while,” Simon called back.
“So basically we will be fighting zombies for the rest of our lives?” Caron groaned. “That sure as hell isn’t how any of the zombie pictures ended.”
“You’re right,” Simon quipped. “They usually ended with the last few people being overrun and wiped out.”
“Why would anybody want to watch something so depressing?” Niamh grumbled as she opened her case of bolts and readied her crossbow.
“How would you end a zombie movie?” Nelson asked with a gruff chuckle as he headed out on the catwalk that would put him above the leading edge of the zombies.
“And they lived happily ever after!” Melena crowed.
Dip your toes into a world that is perhaps more frightening than any zombie apocalypse…
Enjoy a sneak peek at—
UnCivil War:
A Modern Day Race War
in the United States
(Available now!)
Prologue
“We, the jury, find the defendant, Samuel James Anderson…not guilty of Manslaughter in the first degree,” the young foreman read from the index card in his slightly trembling left hand.
A moment of silence hung in the courtroom; then, like an avalanche on a snowy mountainside, the sound built to a tremendous roar. On one side, officers of the Seattle Police Department cheered and slapped each other on the backs. There were smiles all around. On the other, me
mbers of the African-American community glared, scowled, and cried out their protests at the injustice. Another one of their own had been shot and killed by a police officer…who would apparently get away scot-free.
“Murderer!” an elderly woman screamed as she fell into the aisle on her knees. “You killed my baby boy!”
Jerry Burns scanned the crowd, his eyes taking in as much detail as possible. As he exited the courtroom and headed down the mostly empty hall of the courthouse’s second floor, a buzz was already building in the hundreds who had not been able to secure a seat inside for the announcement of the verdict. He could actually feel the anger mounting around him. This was not going to be a pretty scene.
Seven months earlier, Officer Samuel James Anderson—Sammy to his friends—and his partner Adam Redding responded to a bank robbery in progress at the King Street branch of Pacific Savings and Loan. When they arrived, the suspect could be seen through the large front window brandishing a shotgun. Officer Anderson ignored protocol when the suspect seized a visibly pregnant woman and used her as a human shield while he moved to the door.
“You mother fuckers come closer and I spray this bitch’s head all over the sidewalk,” the young man yelled.
“Let’s talk this over!”
That is what the court transcripts claim Officer Anderson said in response. In truth, nothing was actually said by either officer. They shared a glance and Officer Redding got to his feet with his hands in the air. As soon as the suspect’s attention turned, Officer Anderson rose from behind the bumper of the squad car and fired. His bullet struck the suspect just above the right temple.
The preliminary investigation was already finished and hadn’t even garnered a mention in the Seattle Times. It wasn’t until an anonymous witness told a reporter that she had video from her cell phone that clearly showed no attempt was made to negotiate with the bank robbery suspect. Within two days, every local news station in Seattle was playing and replaying that footage.
During the trial, the defense attorney for Officer Anderson made a big deal about the poor audio quality and instead had the jury focus on the dollar figure paid to the shooter of that video by the media. The PR firm hired to represent the Seattle Police made it a point to trot out every non-white member of the force to “prove” that racism was not a problem in the city. Officer Anderson was regularly seen on the news returning from calls where he rescued kittens from trees and helped blue-haired, elderly ladies carry their groceries to their homes (that he just happened to be cruising past when the need arose).
Meanwhile, the criminal record of Lionel Wells was traced all the way back to his childhood where he entered the system at age nine after being caught shoplifting a pack of bubble gum from a Kwik Mart. The “habitual criminal behavior” of the late Lionel Wells included three traffic tickets and a fourth degree Domestic Violence arrest.
Jerry ducked into the men’s room and whipped out his phone. He’d purposely sat beside the door to the courtroom so he could slip out as soon as the verdict was read. He was going to get the story out first this time. After being scooped by Action News Radio during the mayoral race when the incumbent was caught leaving a gay bar arm in arm with a garishly dressed transgender male who looked nothing at all like his wife, Jerry was going to beat everybody to the punch—including Action News Radio.
“This is Shelly,” an agitated-sounding voice answered on the second ring.
“Not guilty,” Jerry said. There was a moment of silence where he was almost unsure whether anybody was still on the other end of the line.
“Not guilty on the Anderson story,” Shelly yelled without bothering to cover the mouthpiece.
“There’s more,” Jerry added after shaking his head to clear the ringing.
“There always is with you, isn’t there?”
“This has nothing to do with us.” Jerry felt a headache, the kind that only Shelly could give him, begin to throb in his temples. “The folks in the courtroom are really agitated.”
“Did you think otherwise? After all, the police aren’t high on the African-American community’s list of favorite people as of late. Hell…as of ever.”
“No,” Jerry insisted, “this is something bigger.”
“So get the story.” Shelly was obviously done with this conversation. “That is what we pay you for.”
Just as he thumbed his screen to end the call, a loud crash sounded from outside. He quickly went to video mode on his phone in case there was something good that he could sell to one of the local networks, and opened the door. Almost as if on cue, a body slid past on the polished granite floor; not just any body, this was a uniformed police officer!
The next thing that struck Jerry was the wall of sound. The yelling, screaming, crying, and cursing were tremendous. Moving out of the doorway for a better look, he saw what could only be described as a free-for-all melee. He brought up his phone and started capturing video; this was going to rake in a fortune. The judge had demanded that all news teams keep their camera crews out in front of the courthouse building.
As his hand held the phone up to record the fight, his eyes scanned for anybody else who might be doing the same thing. He felt a surge of actual giddiness when he couldn’t find a single soul “rolling tape” on this scene. However, his reporter’s eyes were beginning to register something else: except for a few uniformed officers of varying shades of mocha wading in to help their comrades, this fight was clearly divided on a racial line.
Jerry’s eyes caught a sudden flurry of movement just to his right and he turned as three young gangbanger types—in their mid-teens at the most—wrestled an officer to the ground. One of the youngsters had pulled the police-issue handgun free from its holster. Jerry instantly brought his phone around just in time to catch the youth firing three shots into the chest of the downed policeman.
There was a split-second where the melee froze; it was like a Hollywood special effect. That was the moment it could have stopped. That was the moment Jerry would always think of when he wondered if things could have gone differently. What happened next was a furious escalation of the fighting. Packs of African-American men and boys mobbed the heavily outnumbered Seattle Police Department. It didn’t help that most of those in attendance were in civilian clothes or dress uniforms without even a set of handcuffs.
Jerry ducked back into the bathroom after he’d gotten what he deemed a sufficient amount of footage. Besides, after the shooting of the downed policeman, the rest of the footage was filler and fodder. He segmented the video with expert ease and sent the files to his personal email. None of this would matter if his phone was destroyed and the footage lost.
As he leaned against the door and took a moment to catch his breath, he began to notice an angry buzzing sound. With more caution than he was usually known for, Jerry took slow steps to the barred window. It only opened about three inches. Probably to keep some of the folks who come out on the losing end in the courtrooms from taking that last leap, Jerry surmised. Outside was chaos. It seemed that the fighting inside was simply the warm-up. Pockets of angry African-Americans—men, women, and even children—had been swept up in the fury he’d witnessed in that hallway.
“This is why I left L.A.,” Jerry grumbled as he tapped the screen on his phone to call the station.
Chapter 1
“…as reports continue to flood in about the possibility of riots flaring up outside the Seattle Public Courthouse in response to the ‘Not Guilty’ verdict of Officer Sam ‘Sammy’ Anderson—”
Click.
“…as many as seven injured according to unofficial sources—”
Click.
“…even rumors of shots fired—”
Click.
Shelly Casteel set down the remote after switching the television off. It had been over three hours since KTKK had cut into the midday call-in talk show with a ‘Breaking News’ report from Jerry Burns, live at the courthouse. Of course, by now, nobody except for commuters stuck in traffic
on the freeway were listening to their radios anymore. Once those first videos hit the air, it was all about the graphic footage.
Still, she had an ace up her sleeve. Unfortunately, it came wrapped in the package that was Jerry Burns; field reporter, direct link to the mayor…and ex-lover. Her phone rang and she saw Jerry’s newest Facebook profile picture show up on her screen. Jerry was grinning smugly at the camera phone he was obviously holding while leaning precariously out a window. Below, you could see the mob of people outside of the courthouse.
“When are you going to get here?” Shelly demanded as she answered on the second ring.
“Shells,” Jerry laughed; he knew how she hated when he called her that, “I may be a while. There is no sign this is going to die down, and I ain’t leaving this bathroom until it does. Have you seen what is going on? My lily-white ass would be pummeled if I go out there now.”
“The director from the network will be here in ten minutes.” Shelly pinched the bridge of her nose with two fingers. He’d promised to deliver exclusive footage that would blow everything else away.
“This is why you need to go to my computer and get my email.”
“Why didn’t you tell me this an hour ago?”
“I figured I’d be there in time and, quite frankly, I wanted to bask in the glory.”
“So how do I get in?”
“The password is ‘Sh3llB1tch’. The ‘E’ is a three and the ‘I’ is a one,” Jerry explained.
“Cute.” Why did she always hook up with such assholes? Shelly asked herself. “And you say that you won’t sell for less than fifty?”
“Trust me, when you see what is there, you’ll understand.”