by A. M. Geever
Mick & Joe introduced me to the zombie genre and I still enjoy long conversations after a zombie movie about what we would have done differently (and therefore survived), especially the one after watching 28 Days Later (I think, or maybe Dawn of the Dead remake?) at Justin’s house where the Allegheny River and the recently purchased canoe from the Highland Park Rummage Sale featured prominently in our Zombie Apocalypse Survival Plan.
This book would be absolutely terrible if not for the incredible women in my writing group: Byddi Lee, Catherine Thrush, Shannon Hemphill, Eva Smith Glynn, and Lucy Geever. You have improved my writing beyond measure, supplied some of ‘my’ best ideas, and introduced me to new people and worlds, not to mention incredible amounts of hilarity and friendship. Thank you, thank you, thank you.
Many thanks to Ellie McLove at My Brother’s Editor for cleaning it up; Darcy Prince for that final proofread (and for just being you, mischief pixie!); Doug Dean for the original and phenomenal cover and promotional art—I am still blown away; Molly Phipps of We Got You Covered Book Design for the incredible new covers when I rebranded the series; Kiki Chatfield and Colleen Oppenheim at The Next Step PR for saving me from doing everything wrong, as opposed to just some; Sarah Lyons Fleming for your friendship, encouragement, and being willing to read a cyber-stranger’s manuscript; Alessandra Torre for your amazing support as a person, a writer, and an educator—see you at InkersCon2020!—and every single last person on the Alessandra Torre Inkers Facebook group. I have learned more from the community of Inkers about independent publishing than pretty much anyone or anyplace else.
Humungous thanks to Christopher Chirdon, director and general improver of the Kickstarter video, which would have been really lame without your technical and creative contributions; Rachel McNorton & Bill Brandt for getting amgeever.com up and running; Sam Koda for your input on the Kickstarter script and for sharing The Lincoln Highway with me (it really is that good); Scotty Karavlan for your honest feedback, advice, and opinions, both in general and all things Zombie Apocalypse; and George at iJava Cafe in San Jose for your enthusiasm and support when I finally fessed up to why I spent so much time at iJava hunched over my laptop. Very Special Thanks to Bill Sundstrom for hiring me to work at Santa Clara University way back in 2007. This particular story would never have happened otherwise.
Thank you, Anti-Flag—Justin, Pat, Chris, and 2—for letting me use your lyrics and for the inspiration and support, not to mention the music. You boys still rawk. ;-)
Sometimes friends perform seemingly small favors that make a huge difference. Many thanks, Dos, for promoting the Kickstarter on Instagram.
A special thank you to the women and men religious of the Catholic Church who work for equity, compassion, and justice for the poor, abused, and oppressed. There are a lot of things wrong with the Catholic Church, as this semi-fallen away Catholic can attest, and there are a lot of things that it gets right. With three aunts who have devoted their lives to the service of others as Sisters of Charity of the Incarnate Word, and Sisters of Saint Francis of the Neumann Communities, I have had the privilege to witness firsthand the good they have done through their work in education, health care, building safe and affordable housing for the elderly, and providing love and safety for children in need, just to name a few of the ways that they have improved the lives of others while living their faith. You will NEVER meet anyone more badass than a nun who has spent her life in the trenches.
A very, very special thank you to my little brother Justin for his unwavering and enthusiastic support of this project. Deciding to embrace and pursue a career as an artist is both liberating and terrifying, and often it’s just a slog. On terrified slog days I remind myself of how long it took (years!) before Anti-Flag received any recognition, let alone enjoyed success, and it helps—a lot. After an early advance reader didn’t like Miranda because of her relationship with Mario, I worried that this aspect of the story would turn people off. Hell, I still do… Just tonight I’ve been envisioning an overall half-star rating because of this one thing! I talked it over with Justin and realized if that turns people off, then this isn’t the book for them. When I’m deciding what choices to make for my characters that might turn some readers off but are right in terms of who the character is and the life she or he has lived, I remind myself that Anti-Flag has always stayed true to their convictions, especially when it was not popular—nor particularly safe—to do so.
I would be remiss if I didn’t thank both Justin and the AMAZING Lauren Millar for reading the book and insisting that the Father Walter chapter not be cut when I narrowed the book down to three points of view ‘cause yinz guys was right n’at.
Last but not least by any measure, the hugest thank you in the Universe to my husband, Drew. You have been a true partner in the creation of this book from the moment I said, “Too bad it can’t have zombies,” to your unqualified belief that I had stories worth telling and the talent to tell them well. I could never have done this without you.
— June 12, 2019
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Very special thanks to everyone who supported the Kickstarter, including Jon Schmid, Lucy Geever and Laurence Goodby, Eva Smith Glynn, Steven Urquhart, Bob Chamberlain, Melina Lenser, Rebecca Sepich, Ariel Paradis, Christie Strub Biber, Lisa Conroy, Bill Brandt, Julie Wong, Susan Thompson, Kenny Koda, Sam and Trissa Koda, Tom and Catherine Thrush, Jimmy Curran, Terry G.H., Katie Bullers, Mr. and Mrs. Owl, Sundar Vaidyanathan, Ryan Crivella, Kuppusamy Ravindran, Andrew Bernard, Betty & Larry Fabbroni, Bill Trumpbour, Bobbi Stack, Chris Barker, Pat Roncevich, Char Guarnaccia, Shannon Hemphill, Nina Eilers, Anna Housková, Lita Kurth, Bob Maloney, PJ Halverson, Lauren Millar and Justin Geever, Mass and Leah Giorgini, Lisa, Kalliope and Joe Geever, Ladan and Wallace Smith, Sophia, Vicky Cable, Scott and Amy Karavlan, Laura Hughes, Ben Ostrowsky, Kayla O’Hare, J.S., Michael DeSantis, Joe DeSantis and Teri Geever, Marie and Patrick Geever, Jesse Jones, David Weiland, Jacqueline Loaiza, Diane Belknap, Carolin Hoffman, Michelle Raaf, Maike Jochum, Ilaria Maffezzoni, Janja Fučko, Kendra Calvert, Mary Hall (Brooks Avenue represent!), Hannah Mex, Lori Spears, Philip Gray, Jack Johnson, Byddi Lee, Sandy Steudel, Sara Portoulas, Dave, Lynne B., Gail Peters, Michelle, Paul & Kathryn Gaertner, Loretta Hurley, Chris Marshall, and those of you who supported as Kickstarter Guests.
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All errors, flaws, omissions, and liberties taken with science (science and facts are important in real life!) are mine alone.
Damage in an Undead Age, Chapter One
“I’m living proof you can die of seasickness.”
Miranda rested her sweaty forehead on the icy metal of the yacht railing. The raw wind lashed from the north, needles of cold sinking deeper into her chilled bones. She clenched her teeth to stop them chattering, wiped her mouth with red knuckles, then spat into the choppy waters of Puget Sound. The bitter taste of bile still filled her mouth. Three weeks of feeding the fish. One more and she would be dead for sure.
“Miranda, come see.”
Mario’s voice sounded a thousand miles away. She did not want to come see anything. She wanted to be left alone to die in peace.
Doug’s voice this time. “Miri, you’re going to want to see this.”
She straightened up. Another wave of nausea hit her, but what she saw through the morning fog caused a dizzy head rush of relief. The white spire of Seattle’s Space Needle raced up from the earth to pierce the sky, its flying saucer observation deck hovering just below the iron-gray clouds. In the fog, the Needle’s graceful tripod legs seemed to melt in and out of focus, but the dark band of the observation deck’s windows hovered in place.
The Space Needle.
If she had not been so exhausted, Miranda would have whooped for joy. Instead, she leaned against the rail and gave Mario a wan smile. They were almost to their destination. They could start looking for a marina and meet up with the Jesuits at Seattle University. They might even get word of what was happening at home. A shiver of apprehension raced up M
iranda’s spine. They did not know what had happened in San Jose after they had tried to smuggle out the zombie vaccine serum. Doug’s contacts in Santa Cruz had not heard from anyone at Santa Clara University. She wanted to know if Father Walter was all right, hear his lilting Irish brogue. That something might have happened to him sent a shot of fear through her, so deep she almost could not breathe.
Get your shit together, Tucci.
She pushed the worry and speculation aside, shoved it down deep where it could not distract her. She would concentrate on what she could control, on what they were here to do. Since they had lost the zombie vaccine serum they had smuggled out of San Jose, Mario would need to develop another at Seattle University. The Jesuits had a lab ready to go. The madman Jeremiah, with his naturally immune blood, was imprisoned below. He would make a new vaccine possible.
She looked over to Mario and Doug, standing in the yacht’s cockpit. Father Doug Michel’s skinny six-foot-four frame stood ramrod straight, as if the wind, cold, and rain did not affect him. His blue eyes were vivid patches of color against his pale skin and the grayed-out horizon. He kept tossing his head to get his sandy-colored hair out of his eyes and looked as if his restless energy might make him burst. Miranda could tell he was excited to finally get here. Mario only reached Doug’s ear but looked shorter with his shoulders hunched against the wind. His dark, wavy hair reminded Miranda of Medusa’s writhing snakes with the wind whipping through it from every direction. He watched her expectantly, his dark eyes filled with excitement, and a very different kind of shiver flitted down Miranda’s spine.
She limped over and took Mario’s hand as she carefully stepped down into the cockpit, ignoring the lurch and swoop of her stomach. He gathered her in his arms and held her tight against him, pressing his cold cheek against her own. He was beyond stubble but not quite sporting a full-on beard. It had surprised her that it suited him. She looked over his shoulder at Doug, whose beaming smile would match the brilliance of the sun had it not been so cloudy. He reached over and rubbed her auburn peach-fuzzed head like he was shining a lucky penny.
“See, Coppertop? You did live long enough to get here,” he said, his blue eyes twinkling.
Miranda grinned at him over Mario’s shoulder. “Saying ‘I told you so’ is bad form.”
“It probably is,” Doug answered, “but so is making our boat smell like a vomitorium.”
Half an hour later in their cabin, as she watched Mario getting ready to leave, Miranda thought, I just got you back. Mario stopped zipping his jacket and looked up, his brown eyes filled with concern.
“Did I say that out loud?”
“Yeah,” he said, and smiled, just a little.
He sat next to her on the edge of their berth, his warm callused hand slipping comfortably around her cool red ones. She had grown tired of taking off her gloves every time she threw up over the rail but was paying the price. At his touch, she could feel her dread lighten by the tiniest fraction. He looked haunted for a moment, as if the years they had spent apart were waiting to pounce and snatch her away again.
“If your knee was okay, you would be going with Doug to make contact with the Jesuits, not me,” he said. “I know you would rather do anything else than be the one who waits.”
She sighed. “How’s that for karmic payback?”
In the grand scheme of things, the guy who could make a new vaccine was far more valuable than she was. Mario would never be going with Doug to find their allies if she was not still recovering from her sprained knee and hairline-fractured shin bones. She had lost fifteen pounds if an ounce since they started their voyage. Being sick all the time left her weak, which made her feel useless and helpless. To add insult to injury, she had to mind whack-job Jeremiah. Life wasn’t fair sometimes, but she already knew that.
“I promise, Miri. I’m coming back.”
Miranda gave herself a mental shake.
“Of course you will,” she said, but her forced cheerfulness sounded hollow.
She stood up as Mario shrugged into his backpack. He pulled her close, and when his lips brushed hers, the feeling that she would never see him again overwhelmed her. She wanted to hold him tight and never let go. She wanted to pull him to their bed and make love, knowing it would be the last time, so she could commit to memory every contour of his body, the firm and the soft, the rough and the smooth. She wanted to feel their bodies move together one last time, feel the gratitude that they had found one another again crackle and snap as it ricocheted between them until it could not be contained.
When the kiss ended, she took a step back and smiled at him. “You should go. Doug’s waiting. Don’t get dead.”
When she heard the moans, Miranda knew they were in trouble.
She had known for hours that the day was not going to plan but had made herself ignore it. The sun would be setting in thirty minutes and the moans were the first sign of anything since Mario and Doug left that morning. No calls on the radio. No flares. Not even a fucking smoke signal.
She climbed to the highest point of the yacht’s deck above the cockpit seats, keeping hold on the canopy rail, and raised the binoculars with her free hand. The moans were faint but growing louder. She could not tell how serious the trouble was from their slip at the end of Bell Harbor Marina’s pier. Across the roadway, cookie-cutter low-rise condos blocked her view.
“We hear Our children!”
Jeremiah’s voice, coming from the parlor below deck. He must have heard the zombies moaning.
“Your blasphemous treachery against Us will end, and God the All-Father will judge you as you deserve,” he continued. “But first We will teach you submission and obedience! Perhaps We will keep you for Ourselves if you can learn. You will be an example of Our power and truth...”
Ignore him, she said to herself as he kept ranting. The moaning might not mean anything. The zombies could be chasing a shadow for all she knew. The growing noise did not mean squat. Not yet.
Sure it doesn’t… Just keep on telling yourself that.
She strained to see beyond the condos, standing on tiptoe as if it would help her catch a glimpse of the streets between or see through the tall buildings that climbed the steep hills of Seattle. Improvised bridges—ladders, fire escapes, scraps of metal, rope, or combinations thereof—connected clusters of buildings. People had lived there at some point, but she had not seen any signs of life so far.
Farther up the hill, walls snaked out of sight. Most seemed intact, but one had a section that had collapsed a long time ago if the weeds and saplings growing among the jumble of fallen concrete blocks were any indication. Along the waterfront some buildings were intact while others, like the aquarium, had caught fire at some point. The aquarium wall facing Puget Sound had fallen in. The roof was gone. The steel beams that had supported its weight sagged despite being relieved of their burden. Seattle oozed emptiness and decay. Without people to maintain them, the artifacts of civilization that had seemed so permanent when humanity fell almost eleven years ago had begun to fall apart almost immediately. Miranda’s knee twinged as she set her foot flat again. She looked up the mast. Another fifty feet of elevation might let her see enough to make the difference between—what? She had no idea. But she knew she had to hurry or she would lose the light.
She limped to the other side of the yacht and stepped into the mast-climber harness, securing it around her hips. She shoved her feet into the foot straps, then bent her knees and straightened them.
“Son of a bitch,” she hissed, tears springing to her eyes at the sharp slice of pain that bisected her kneecap and shot down her shin. She winched her way up the static line attached to the mast, opening and closing the top line clutch, the pain worse every time she pushed against her body weight. It still beat how old-time sailors had done it: free-climbing hand over hand with their bare feet shimmying along the ropes.
Midway to the top of the mast the wind picked up, threading its way through the fibers of her clothes. She though
t she saw movement beyond the harbor-front condos. The setting sun behind her cast long orange and pink shadows between the buildings. The wind gusted, and the harness twisted right, away from the city.
She fought the swiveling harness as she cursed everything: this boat, the unknown city, staying behind to watch Jeremiah, Mario and Doug being gone so long, and the fucking zombies that had made all of this happen. Finally, two more pushes up the static line and she was sure. A dark shadow of zombies, a tidal wave of putrefaction, staggered toward Puget Sound. They weaved and reeled, stumbled and shuffled, unsteady yet determined like a group of drunk revelers intent upon reaching the dilapidated Ferris wheel at the south end of Waterfront Park.
Then Doug and Mario burst into the open from the shadows below the elevated freeway, hauling ass, the dipping sun illuminating them with a translucent pink glow. Miranda nearly choked as they slowed when they saw what lay ahead. They glanced at one another before they turned northwest on Alaskan Way, toward the marina, and picked up the pace.
They had emerged on the roadway just a few seconds ahead of the great mass of zombies descending on the Ferris wheel at Waterfront Park. Retreat to the south was cut off. On the path to the marina, from every street that tumbled down the hillsides of Seattle, zombies spilled onto the road the two men sprinted along. When they disappeared from view behind the aquarium, Miranda released the top rope clutch and worked her way back down the static line. If she cast off and got the boat moving toward them, maybe she could get close enough to make a difference, to help them make it.