The Undead Chronicles (Vol. 2): Darker Days

by O'Brian, Patrick J.

  Jillian didn’t want to know the details, at least not yet. The image of a bed made up as well as any hotel chain left beds for guests and a body atop the sleeping surface etched its way into her mind. A massive blood stain covered the wall behind the bed, and a gun remained loosely clasped by the person’s right hand, near the head, indicating the deceased pulled the trigger to end her life.

  “I think that’s my mother,” Jillian said softly to Vazquez.

  “Let me,” he said, softly gripping her arms before stepping into the room to look for clues about the person’s identity or why she claimed her own life.

  Able to look into the room only while she focused on Vazquez’s movements, she saw him look at the body a few seconds before turning to find something on the dresser. Jillian took in a few deep breaths, trying to remain calm, even as she felt numbness and shock begin to cloud her mind.

  He scooped up a sheet of paper and brought it out with him, shutting the door behind him as Jillian moved aside. Vazquez slowly handed the paper to her, and her eyes immediately went to the bottom, causing her to see that her mother indeed took her own life. A lengthy letter likely gave an explanation, but Jillian wasn’t certain she wanted to process another death in her life quite yet.

  “Would you like me to read it?” Vazquez volunteered.

  “No, thank you,” Jillian said as she made her way to the couch, slumping heavily into it as her mind felt foggy and numb, despite her best efforts to prepare herself for the inevitable tragic scenario.

  “I’ll be outside with the others,” Vazquez said slowly, turning twice to ensure she was okay as he made his way to the front door.

  Jillian said nothing to him, and for the next few minutes she avoided looking at the letter’s contents, afraid even more bad news awaited her.

  Finally, curiosity got the best of her when she questioned where her father, a man that other men looked up to, ended up in this mostly picturesque setting. She wiped a tear away from one eye and looked down to the letter, prepared to find out.

  To My Dearest Daughters,

  I’m so sorry all of this happened to you, and I hope this letter finds you in good health. I’m afraid I have some bad news regarding this past month, but it shouldn’t end here for you as it has for us.

  We held our own for several weeks, staying close to home and getting supplies from around town. Most of our neighbors didn’t make it, so we took it upon ourselves to grant their wishes and put them down when they grew sick. It wasn’t easy for either of us, losing our friends and neighbors, worrying about you girls, so we busied ourselves around the street, and later the town. Your father went to the local store and gathered what supplies he could bring back on a daily basis, clearing any dead he encountered each morning.

  It kept us going while we prayed and waited for you girls to come home safe. The phones and radios went down so quickly, we lost touch with the outside world.

  About three weeks in, your father went into town and didn’t come back by lunch. He always returned by early afternoon, and I grew worried. Stupid me, I took one of the neighbor cars, which were readily available by this time, and drove into town. I brought a gun with me, thinking it was enough to defend myself, but I wasn’t prepared for the things your father saw. He never told me details, and it wasn’t in my nature to ask, so I was ill-prepared for what awaited me in town.

  I looked for your father, and never found him, but I did encounter some of the dead. There were several of them, and instead of running, I wanted to do right by people I knew. My aim never was very good, especially under pressure. One of them got me and bit my arm, and after watching the news at the beginning of all this, I understood what that meant. I made it home that night, but your father never did, and by the next morning I was running a fever while my body felt like it was being covered in ice and hot pokers at the same time. There was no chance I’d ever let either of you girls find me like that or put you at risk by turning into one of those things, so I took the only obvious course of action.

  Just know that I love you always, and I hope to see you again one day.

  Love,

  Mom

  “Damn it, Mom,” Jillian muttered after finishing the letter.

  She didn’t begrudge her mother for taking her own life after becoming infected, but rather for going into town needlessly. If her father could have made it home any humanly way possible, he certainly would have, so rushing into town wasn’t a reasonable move. Jillian felt robbed of finding at least one of her parents alive, even though she knew from the onset what a longshot she faced by returning home.

  Her parents attended church, fully believing in the teachings and sermons each Sunday. Jillian found herself agnostic, wanting to believe, but finding little to cling to both in life and evidence of an afterlife. She carefully placed the letter on the coffee table in the living room where she sat, thinking it was the last link to her parents, because her sister would never lay eyes on it.

  No longer did she want to stay in the house, in part because of her mother’s body, but also because reminders of her former life surrounded her like ghosts, threatening to haunt her memories forever. Her father’s work boots, her mother’s half-knitted afghan, and even the paintings on the walls served only to remind her of happier days that she’d never experience again. For a fleeting moment she considered going into the bedroom and using the same firearm her mother used to end her life for a duplicate purpose. Jillian cupped her face in her hands, knowing she didn’t want her death to burden her companions, but not knowing how to continue forward.

  “You okay?” Gracine asked, stepping through the front door, standing there momentarily as though unsure of what to say or do. “Of course you’re not.”

  Sitting beside Jillian, Gracine placed a comforting arm around her shoulder, pulling her into a side hug. Jillian wanted to cry, scream, or throw items across the room, but she felt trapped inside her own body as a spectator. Violently dismantling the home her parents created wasn’t going to bring them back, and Jillian doubted she’d feel better afterwards.

  “We need to find somewhere else to stay,” Jillian said after a few seconds.

  “Naturally,” Gracine replied sympathetically.

  “But first,” Jillian added, feeling her resolve return, “we need to pack up every canned good and weapon we can from this house.”

  “We’ve got a day or two before Colby catches up,” Gracine noted. “We have plenty of time.”

  “I know. But I don’t plan on coming back here.”

  “We can handle this,” Gracine said as Jillian stood. “Why don’t you take a few minutes to gather yourself?”

  Jillian wasn’t exactly sure what she meant by the last statement, but Jillian doubted Gracine spoke the words with any kind of ill intent. She walked out of the house, noticing how everyone watched her cross the threshold before deflecting their eyes to the ground. No one knew how to handle grieving friends and family, even in the apocalypse. Only Buster approached her, and she scratched him on the head briefly, understanding what Sutton’s pet was enduring. He wore a sad expression, and his body language indicated he didn’t like being separated from his master, but he didn’t run off blindly to find Sutton, either.

  Based on the glimpse of her mother’s corpse, and the information provided in the note, Jillian guessed her mother died the previous week. If her father survived the trip into town that fateful day and returned home, he most assuredly would have buried his wife and carried on, hoping to see his daughters again.

  He raised both of them to handle themselves, learning how to fish, shoot firearms, and throw a ball before sending them off to college. From her mother, Jillian learned how to cook, sew, and use various devices around the house. It wasn’t until she spent a few weeks at college that Jillian realized her parents lived in a rather traditional marriage considered outdated by many. By no means did her mother consid
er herself inferior, or lost in a man’s world, but she enjoyed keeping house and raising daughters.

  A feeling of unfinished business nagged at Jillian, knowing her sister and her mother couldn’t complete the task of keeping her father from wandering the paved streets of South Hill as a zombie. The group had enough to keep them busy for a while, and she didn’t want them accompanying her on this particular quest. Jillian needed to know definitively what happened, so she walked to the front door, beating everyone else inside before drawing Gracine’s attention in the living room.

  “What is it, girl?” Gracine asked, turning from the pantry where she’d started to look for any dry or canned goods.

  “Car keys,” Jillian replied, standing at the door, preventing anyone else from stepping past her.

  “Keys?” Gracine questioned. “To the van?”

  “No. The car out front. Have you seen them?”

  Both women conducted a visual search of the area until Gracine located some keys and tossed them to Jillian.

  “Thanks.”

  “Wait. Where are you going?” Gracine asked as Jillian headed for the front door.

  “I’ll be in town. There’s something I need to take care of before we find a place to stay.”

  “You need help?” Gracine inquired, though her expression indicated she already knew the answer.

  “No. Take your time, and look for the maroon car when you come back to town.”

  Gracine nodded, though her expression failed to mask her concern.

  “You be careful. Take some weapons with you.”

  “Thanks.”

  Jillian glided past everyone at the door, taking a pistol and a hammer from the van before getting into the car and backing out of the yard. Less than five minutes later she reached the town limits, traveling along the main drag while looking for any undead in front of the stores and restaurants. Her father obviously kept the population in check, because she didn’t see any action until she reached the local general store where her father indicated he was heading before he disappeared.

  Parking along the outskirts of the parking lot to leave the car visible, Jillian stepped out, immediately approached by three zombies who didn’t have her best interests at heart. Tucking the semi-automatic pistol along her back, she walked a fast pace up to the male zombie in the lead, striking him in the side of the head with the clawed portion of the hammer. He fell before she could retract the common tool, nearly taking her shoulder out of socket as she tried wrenching the hammer from its skull. A female zombie that looked almost sun bleached groped at her, but Jillian kicked her away, finally yanking the hammer free with blood and skull fragments falling away from the deadly blow.

  Swinging hard, Jillian struck the side of the zombie’s head with the blunt end of the hammer, doing enough damage to down the attacker for good. She turned her attention to the last of the trio, seeing a male zombie wearing a green T-shirt with white lettering that read ‘Dragons’ across the chest. The young man died with a proud display of their high school colors and mascot on his torso. A gaping neck wound indicated how he perished.

  Jillian hesitated, realizing she basically was this person just a few years prior, before she left for college. Thus far, she hadn’t recognized any of the undead, but having to permanently down her own townsfolk felt foreign and unreal to her. She couldn’t fathom the emotional pain her father experienced while cleansing the town of people he attended church and school functions with, like they were suddenly vermin threatening to infest his hometown.

  Cutting loose with the hammer, Jillian struck his skull with the blunt side of the tool, staggering the young man, but not finishing him. Sticking his arms forward, he went to grab at her, but Jillian sidestepped his advance, striking him in the head once more. This time he fell to the ground and ceased moving, but Jillian hammered down upon his skull once more, and again, and again, until his hair, skull, and brains became one mushy pile of rotting tissue.

  “Bastard,” she said under her breath, though her issues didn’t stem from her fellow South Hill resident.

  Looking to the store, Jillian walked toward the front entrance, seeing several of the undead pawing at the glass, wanting their freedom and a chance to gnaw on her flesh. She wondered if her father joined their masses, somehow getting tripped up or overconfident during his cleansing efforts. Someone locked the undead behind the thick doors, without harming them, and Jillian decided she needed to know for certain what happened to her town, her father, and the undead mysteriously locked away.

  She pulled the gun from behind her, knowing it served as a last resort if she ran into trouble. Taking a deep breath, Jillian aimed it at the front door, thinking she had enough ammunition to deal with at least a dozen of them after she freed them from their confines. She was about to squeeze the trigger when a footstep sounded behind her.

  “Punkin?” a voice asked, calling her by her childhood nickname.

  She whirled, instinctively lowering the gun as she heard a familiar voice, finding her last remaining relative standing before her, against all odds.

  “Daddy?”

  Eight

  Metzger circled the lengthy box truck, or what remained of it, along with the military men, finding virtually the entire cargo hold split open with metal curled and clinging to the remains of the frame. He only knew the truck’s original length because of the thick undercarriage that remained mostly intact. Behind it, any paint along the walls was replaced with black char, and several bodies that were incinerated beyond the point of reanimating lay still on the ground or slumped against pillars and walls.

  The lucky ones, Metzger figured, because they didn’t suffer or feel a thing.

  Now near the loading dock, the group discovered more undead in the area, and a glimpse to the left revealed several of them knelt down, feasting on a fresh kill. Metzger started forward, feeling incensed toward the mindless creatures, but a hand clasped his arm.

  “We got this,” Nestler said as he and the remaining Marines trudged down the hall, angrily making short work of every zombie that crossed paths with them.

  Using knifes, the Marines didn’t draw attention to their actions, swiftly dispatching the undead before the small group knelt beside their fallen comrade, snatching his dog tags before gently inserting a blade into his brain from the side.

  Metzger stood beside his brother, surveying the area for danger, surprised the original blast hadn’t crumbled walls or brought down the roof. He questioned what horrific odors awaited him if he were daring enough to remove the gas mask. A great deal of heat initially struck the workers and facility that fateful day, but no significant gouges or damage showed in the walls. It confirmed his theory that the explosion was designed to dispense a chemical agent rather than simply murder a few hundred people in its proximity. It continued to spread, possibly in unanticipated ways, reaching most of the population within the first few days of the event.

  Taking a look in the truck’s cab, Metzger found several sheets of paperwork inside a thin, cardboard folder. With the blast aimed out the rear, much of the cab remained intact, and the papers appeared legible. When Nestler returned, Metzger handed them to the second-lieutenant, who peered inside the cab for his own peace of mind.

  “Thanks,” Nestler said. “It’s time we gather our shit and blow this popsicle stand.”

  “It’s going to be safer out the side or the loading dock,” Metzger noted.

  “We’re in for a fight either way,” Nestler replied, not disagreeing with the assessment. “We start with two shooters while everyone else carries the intel, and if things get hairy, we drop the computers and we all open fire.”

  Metzger didn’t want to drop anything if possible. He’d risked life and limb to return to Buffalo, and he certainly didn’t want the guilty party escaping justice because they left evidence behind. Following the group, he assisted with picking up the binder
s while two of the Marines grabbed the computers. Everyone followed Nestler to the front where the second-lieutenant used his flashlight to survey the area, dealing with a few lingering undead before gathering the dog tags from his other fallen colleague. He slid a blade into the base of the dead man’s skull to avoid going through the hard bone above, unaware that Metzger had already pierced the brain.

  Darting up a nearby landing, Metzger was able to look through an opening where a window once resided. It appeared the zombies that followed the group to the factory drew more undead their way, because a sea of undead surrounded the two Humvees. He hung his head momentarily, trying to deduce a way out of the factory that didn’t end with them being downed like gazelles and eaten alive.

  “How bad?” Nestler inquired.

  “Bad,” Metzger replied from above, slowly making his way down the stairs. “They’re surrounding our rides.”

  “We’ve cleared out the interior, right?” Bryce asked the others. “If the back is halfway clear, I might have an idea.”

  “And what’s that?” Nestler asked, sounding drained almost to the point of defeat.

  “We lead them in here.”

  Everyone’s eyes widened, including Metzger’s, but he quickly realized what his brother implied with the statement.

  “They travel in herds,” Metzger said, quickly defending his brother. “We could make noise, leading them in here single file, and slip out the back once we have this place filled to capacity.”

  “That’s assuming the back is safe,” Nestler noted.

  “If we can’t get out the back, we’re fucked anyway,” Bryce said. “Unless your boys do another sweep with the fireworks, we’re on our own.”

  Metzger knew the undead outside weren’t going to move along unless something attracted them. They tended to linger in one spot or move in a pack once something drew their attention. Leading them inside the factory wouldn’t be a quick solution, but his instincts told him it was the safe play.