by A. M. Geever
Love in an Undead Age
A.M. Geever
ZBZ-1 Press
Copyright © 2018 by A.M. Geever
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
“Good and Ready” © 2008 and “The Old Guard” © 2009 lyrics courtesy of Anti-Flag.
In Memory of Devin Patrick Geever, who loved a good zombie story.
* * *
And for Drew. I love you more.
Life is a horror show and baby, it will never stop.
Anti-Flag
Contents
Prologue
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
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
Chapter 57
Chapter 58
About the Author
Acknowledgments
Damage in an Undead Age, Chapter One
Prologue
Monday, September 14, 2026 - Santa Clara, California
* * *
Father Walter Brennan surveyed his dreary office through narrowed eyes. No amount of sprucing up could hide the fact that the Department of Mathematics and Computer Science at Santa Clara University was in a basement. At least my new office has a window, he thought, even if it was one of those long, narrow, almost near the ceiling kinds of a window. Sunlight still streamed through it, unlike his first office at the university in Galway, Ireland, not far from where he had grown up. That windowless hovel had felt like a dungeon.
Walter checked his watch: seven forty-five a.m. Enough time for a cup of tea, he thought, his mind already jumping ahead to his lecture. He reached for his keys but froze mid-motion—shouting, then a strangled scream from the hallway. What on Earth, he thought, hurrying to the door.
Walter would never forget the sight that awaited him. Allison Landry (Advanced Calculus) and Sebastian Nichols (Automata Theory and Formal Languages) sprawled on the floor at the bottom of the stairs that led down to the basement from the building’s south entrance. A slight woman in her early sixties, Allison had knocked the younger and stronger Sebastian to the ground. She was ripping Sebastian’s throat out with her teeth. Bright-red blood spurted in high, thin arcs before spattering on the worn linoleum. Sebastian’s strangled gurgles, punctuated by Allison’s animal-like grunts, sent cold shivers up Walter’s spine. Sebastian flailed without effect against his attacker.
For a moment, shock rooted Walter where he stood.
Holy Mother of God!
Walter dashed toward them and grabbed one of Allison’s arms. Allison turned and lunged at him, Sebastian’s blood dripping from her chin, then abruptly jerked back. A very tall, slender young man had grabbed Allison’s other arm, a visiting assistant professor but from a different department. Walter had met him but couldn’t remember his name. He was so slender he looked like he would blow over in a breeze, but he held Allison fast. Allison snapped and snarled between them like a rabid dog.
“What the hell is wrong with her?” the Visiting Assistant Professor asked.
Walter couldn’t answer. He didn’t know how to process what he was seeing, nor interpret it.
“Get something to tie her up!” Visiting Assistant Professor shouted.
No one heard him above the din of people streaming into the narrow corridor that ran the length of building. Allison thrashed like a wild animal. Despite her wasted appearance, Walter could barely keep hold of her arm. Her strength was simply unbelievable. They had to get her restrained before she hurt anyone else. Walter looked around for something that might work when he spied an extension cord hanging on the corner of an AV cart just a few feet away.
“I’m going to grab that cord from the cart,” Walter said. “I’ll only be able to keep one hand on her arm. Hold tight!”
Visiting Assistant Professor nodded. His fine sandy-colored hair fell into his eyes before he tossed his head to clear his line of vision. Walter reached for the cord. He almost lost his grip on Allison’s arm, but Visiting Assistant Professor proved loads stronger than he looked. Together, they tied Allison to a chair.
Walter turned to see Jan Sieszchula, the department chair, trying to staunch the wound on Sebastian’s neck with a gym towel. Sebastian had become very still. Walter could see he was not breathing.
“I think he’s gone. Why don’t you let me take over?”
“The ambulance will be here soon, Walter. They can help him!”
“I’ll just say a prayer then.”
Walter knelt beside Sebastian’s body. He felt wetness against his knee. Dear God, he had knelt down into Sebastian’s blood. He didn’t have any oil and could not remember if Sebastian was a practicing anything despite having known him for over five years. He decided it didn’t matter. He traced a small cross on Sebastian’s forehead with his thumb.
“Through this holy anointing, may the Lord in his love and mercy help you with the grace of the Holy Spirit. May the Lord who frees you from sin save you and raise you up.”
Hearing Walter say the Last Rites seemed to get through to Jan better than trying to reason with him. He let go of the towel on Sebastian’s neck.
“What the hell is this, Walter?”
Walter shook his head. “I don’t know.”
He was about to ask if anyone had called 9-1-1 when he saw almost every student in the hallway filming the unfolding horror show on their cell phones. Walter covered more ground in three steps than he ever thought possible and snatched the phone out of the nearest boy’s hand.
“Hey!” the kid protested.
“What the hell is wrong with you?” Walter snapped at the students, his brogue stronger in his anger. He pointed to the north entrance at the other end of the building. “Get out of here. Now!”
The wail of approaching sirens signaled help was on the way. Walter turned back to his homicidal colleague, who growled and thrashed against the cord that held her fast. The blood on her face had started to dry, flaking away where the smears were thin. Blood still coated her teeth, as if she had no saliva to dilute it.
“Allison,” he said. “Why did you do this?”
No answer, just growls and moans.
“I met her last week. She compla
ined she was coming down with a cold but she looked fine at the New Faculty Reception yesterday. Now she looks like death warmed over,” Visiting Assistant Professor said.
Walter had seen Allison the day before as well. The transformation—sunken eyes with dark circles, shriveled and chapped lips, the reek of decay—was astonishing.
“She looks like she’s lost twenty pounds overnight,” Walter said. “And her eyes. It’s like she’s not even in there.”
The doors behind them burst open. Campus Security pounded down the stairs, followed by paramedics who knelt by Sebastian’s prone form.
A dark-haired female paramedic checked his pulse, then shook her head. “He’s gone.”
The Campus Security officers gaped at Allison and the bloody body at their feet. One of them shook himself, seeming to remember that he should be taking charge. “Who can tell me what happened here?”
“I suppose I can,” Walter said when no one else answered. “I heard shouting in the hallway—”
“Hey, he’s moving!”
The officer turned back.
Walter stepped forward.
Sebastian twitched.
The female paramedic put her hand to Sebastian’s bloody, ruined neck. “I don’t have a pulse.”
“The guy’s moving,” the other paramedic said, not looking up from the IV he had started prepping. “Get a dressing on his neck.”
“There’s no pulse,” the first paramedic insisted.
Her partner reached over to check for himself. Sebastian’s eyes opened. Then he turned his head toward the man’s extended hand and bit him.
“Aaacckk! Get him off me!”
The female paramedic scrambled to assist her partner. The Campus Security officer rushed into the fray. Sebastian’s arms and legs were moving. He let go of the screaming paramedic’s hand and the man scurried backward. Then Sebastian grabbed the female paramedic’s arm and bit her, too.
Things seemed to happen in slow motion and fast-forward all at once after that. Walter watched as more Campus Security streamed through the doors behind Sebastian and the paramedics, bottlenecking on the stairs. Sebastian had already attacked the first officer, but not before the man tased him in the chest. Sebastian never slowed down. He smashed the poor man’s head against the wall with a sickening crack before beginning to gnaw on him.
Bodies pressed against Walter as people tried to get away, their screams and shouts echoing off the walls. He was pushed into the AV cart and lost his footing as it rolled from the force of the impact. Walter stumbled, trying to right himself. People were panicked. He would be trampled if he fell. He extended his arm and when his hand hit the floor, he pushed hard. Regaining his footing, he got clear of the AV cart, which bounced like a pinball against the fleeing onlookers. He heard more screams behind him and looked back. Someone had gotten too close to Allison, who was still tied to the chair. The pandemonium intensified as Santa Clara Police entered the building from the other end of the corridor, blocking the only escape route. And still Sebastian lurched down the hall.
Walter felt two strong hands grab his shoulders. He cried out in panic and struggled against them but was pulled backwards into darkness. A heavy door slammed shut with a metallic thud. Walter heard a sliding lock shoved into place.
“Help me push this against the door,” Visiting Assistant Professor said, his voice barely a whisper.
Struggling to tamp down his panic, Walter realized he was in the building’s tiny maintenance room. Feeble light trickled in from a tiny glass block window near the ceiling. He could barely make out a drum of cleaning solvent against the wall. Walter pulled while Visiting Assistant Professor pushed. As his eyes adjusted to the poor light Walter saw three more people crammed in with them against the back wall.
The chaos on the other side of the door intensified. Gunfire and screams reverberated down the hallway. More sirens wailed, some distant, some near. Walter and the rest of the occupants of the tiny room huddled together as far away from the door as possible.
“Do you think we’ll be safe in here?” a young woman asked.
Visiting Assistant Professor said, “It’s better than the hallway.”
“There’s no way out but the door,” she said, not quite disagreeing. “We’re trapped.”
“I think we’re safer here,” Walter said. Under his breath, he muttered, “Please, God, let help be here soon.”
As soon as the words left his mouth Walter realized that the police and Campus Security were already here and he felt safer in this closet.
A man’s voice, high with fright. “The guy from Campus Security tasered him and he didn’t even slow down.”
No one had anything to say after that. They fell silent, listening to the screams and shouts and gunfire. Sirens seemed to be coming from every direction. Dark shadows flickered across the cracks of light around the door. The astringent smell of cleaning fluid and furniture polish permeated the stuffy air.
Walter looked up at Visiting Assistant Professor. “You saved my life and I don’t even know your name.”
A ghost of a smile lifted the corners of Visiting Assistant Professor’s mouth. Walter could not tell the color of his eyes, but the tiny expression transformed the young man’s delicate features into movie star handsomeness.
He stuck out his hand. “Doug Michel. Astrophysics, Florida State. I’m here to work with… Shit, I can’t even remember.”
“I’m Walter Brennan,” Walter said, before adding inanely, “I teach Algebra and Statistics.”
“What the hell do you get up to here in Math and CS, Walter?” Doug whispered. “I’m not complaining, but why is there a lock on the inside of this door?”
Walter looked at the lock, then back to Doug. “I’m sure I don’t want to know.”
1
October 2036
* * *
“You have got to be fucking kidding me,” Miranda said, bringing the Range Rover to a halt.
She squinted her eyes against the glare as she watched the stumbling figure near the Secured Expressway’s Tenth Street exit. The clothes of the one-time businessman hung in filthy tatters, fluttering in the breeze. The uneven gait and awkward balance marked it as a shambler, now the most common type of zombie, and its guttural moan carried across the distance.
Miranda twisted around in her seat to look up and down the deserted freeway for more zombies, then inched the Rover closer. A cacophony of snarls and barking erupted behind her, courtesy of Delilah, her caramel-colored pit bull. The fur along Delilah’s spine bristled as she lunged between the front seats. Fifty feet from the shambler, Miranda stopped the Rover. She pulled the handbrake and popped the clutch into neutral but did not turn the engine off.
“Delilah, stay,” she said, then opened the door and stepped out.
The stench of decayed flesh, rank and sweet, wafted toward her. Flies buzzed around the zombie like a dark full-body halo. She ran her hand over her auburn hair to make sure the up-twist was tight. Satisfied that her hair would not give the zombie anything to latch on to, she pulled the .50 caliber Desert Eagle from her shoulder holster and once more looked up and down the Expressway. A lot of people ended up as zombies because they failed to appreciate that while speed was not a shambler’s strong suit, persistence most certainly was.
She walked closer, then spread her feet wide so the kick from the gun did not knock her over. She took her time sighting up, not wanting to waste ammo taking a long shot. Just as she squeezed the trigger, the shambler tripped over its feet and tumbled to the pavement.
“For fuck’s sake.”
A scowl twisted her lips as Miranda walked closer. The zombie rolled onto its back, writhing on the pavement. The fetid reek of rotting meat burned her nostrils. Gray-filmed eyes turned toward her. The shambler’s mouth opened in a lipless grimace, its blackened tongue flicking back and forth. Stiff, bony fingers stretched toward her and still the zombie moaned. Even after all this time, the sound still raised the hairs on the back of Mira
nda’s neck.
She raised the Desert Eagle again and squeezed the trigger, but the shambler twitched its head at the last moment, like it knew she was trying to kill it. The bullet nicked its jaw but did not hit the zombie’s brain.
“You fucking piece of shit, that’s two bullets!”
She reholstered her gun and unsheathed her machete as she closed the remaining distance between herself and the zombie. Stomping on the zombie’s arm, Miranda swung the machete down like a guillotine. The crunch of bones reverberated up her arm as the head came free of the neck. The head rolled away, the zombie still hissing. When it stopped, Miranda raised her booted foot.
“Fucking.” Her foot descended, smashing into the zombie’s temple.
“Piece of.” Sticky slop splashed on her leg as she pulled her foot free.
“Shit,” she snarled, her foot pounding through the shambler’s skull.
She glared at the gummy pile of bone and brain that stained the pavement black, chest heaving from exertion.
“Unfuckingbelievable,” she muttered.
She walked back to the Rover, stopping to wipe the machete and her boot on a rag tucked into a pocket in the driver’s side door. She retrieved a pair of binoculars from the glove compartment and looked up and down the freeway again. Her mind raced as she searched the walls and fences that lined the road. How had it gotten in?