Zombies Ate My Neighbors, Family & Friends (Book 2)

by J. D. Chambliss

  “Woah, woah,” Frank shouted.

  “Holy shit on a muffin!” Carl screamed, diving to the asphalt.

  “Hi!” Kelly said, waving to the man.

  “Are ya'll human?” The man asked in thick southern accent. He clearly wasn't from around here, or if he was, he'd come from somewhere else. Carl knew from firsthand experience that the military could send you to some strange places.

  “Yeah, we're human,” Frank said cautiously. “You?”

  “Yeah, of course, I'm human!” The soldier replied.

  “I just finished my AIT training and was up here to see my family when shit hit the fan!”

  “Are you...supposed to be walking around in your digi's?” Carl asked, pointing at the soldier's uniform.

  “Man, who gives a shit about that now? You're the first humans I've SEEN since all holy hell and shit invaded!”

  “Do you know how this happened?” Amber asked, indicating the freeway, though meaning something much more significant.

  The soldier's eyes lit up.

  “Turns out I was watching TV before the signal went dead, and they told us the whole THING! Okay, so get this, over in Georgia they dug up this thing, it was like a huge container. It was really old,” The soldier waved his hands around, emoting his story heavily. “really, really frickin' OLD man. Okay, so like when they opened it --”

  The man was suddenly and rudely interrupted by a zombie that had managed to saunter up behind him. It sunk its teeth into his neck, and tore a single chunk, exposing the man's esophagus, and causing his front to soak with blood almost instantaneously. He didn't scream, much to his credit, but he did fall to his knees as the Hosiers watched in horror. The next, most horrifying part, however, took place when the solider rose to his feet once again, his eyes blackened, and the blood pumping through his neck turning silver. All at once, the soldier rushed toward them, emitting a screaming growl unlike anything they'd ever heard.

  Amber, not wanting to take any risks, raised her shotgun, took aim, but was suddenly pulled to the ground.

  “What the?” she screamed. “No!”

  A zombie had snuck up behind her as well, but just as it prepared to sink its teeth into her, Carl took aim and shot it between the eyes. Frank helped Amber to her feet, and they once again stood formation around Kelly.

  “It's um...we have a problem,” Carl said, indicating the entire surrounding area.

  It seemed utterly impossible, but they had missed several zombies simply laying on the road. They had more than likely mistaken them for dead bodies, which was far from being a stretch.

  “We should have checked all the bodies,” Frank muttered.

  “We didn't have bullets for all of them,” Carl pointed out.

  “Do we have bullets for them now?” Amber asked, looking from left to right, her eyes widening at the nature of the situation.

  “Uh....no.” Carl replied.

  “We need to get to higher ground, right now,” Frank said, looking around the freeway.

  “What do you want to do?” Carl said, now in full sarcasm mode. “You want to sit on top of the noise barrier?”

  “I think that might hurt my ass,” Amber said, not even trying to be funny.

  “Mack truck, over there!” Frank pointed.

  He was correct. About one hundred yards ahead of them there stood a beautiful red and white Mack truck. On most days, on this particular freeway, it would be a mere annoyance. Frank and Carl had spent their fair share of days trapped behind one on the road, craning their necks, looking for the next exit. Today, however, the Mack truck with its dented trailer, seeming to take up the entirety of the road by sitting horizontal, was an oasis of survival – the light at the end of the tunnel which, in fact, turned out to be a Mack truck. Irony at it's best. Without a word, they began to usher Kelly toward the truck, heading to the cab with the hopes of climbing onto the hood. The trip to the massive cab however would be a challenge in and of itself.

  The first shot came from Frank. It was only a hunting rifle, but the concrete and steel of the open freeway offered absolutely no insulation for the awful sound that made even Carl wince. Frank had downed a zombie near the front of the group, and at the same time he barked an order to move forward. Amber placed her hand on Kelly's back and pushed her through the automobile graveyard, past cars of every make and model, and even an ominous looking truck, equipped with tires too large for the frame, and tinted windows that could be harboring any sort of evil within the extended cab.

  As she pushed through, dispatching any zombies that came between her and the Mack truck, she contemplated the way ordinary objects and locations had suddenly become deadly in the wake of recent events. Cars and trucks which were once used to transport people to work, or children to school, were now death traps, and the freeway had become a breeding ground. Unforgiving asphalt and steel surrounded them, countering any thoughts they might have lent toward escape.

  “Stop daydreaming and give me your sister!” Carl shouted. He was already atop the cab, his hands likely burning against the red metal in the mid-day sun. His hand outstretched, Frank was the one to hoist Kelly up onto the truck hood, at which point he ushered her up the windshield and onto the top of the cab. There she stood, waiting for the rest of the family to join her, and staring at the horde of approaching zombies with a horrified expression on her face. Her expression, in fact, prompted Amber to turn and look, which showed her that they were indeed surrounded by what one could consider a small army.

  The only thing slowing them down at this point, were the wrecked vehicles that had been only a minor inconvenience to the Hosier clan. For the moment, they seemed to be trapped, but Amber knew that wouldn't be the case for very long. She turned to her father, intending to tell him to hurry, but he was already motioning, and yelling for her to mount the truck tire and climb up to her Uncle Carl.

  The climb was easier said than done, as Amber found out. The tire was easy to mount, but the wheel cover was excruciatingly hot, causing her to yelp and pull backward at the first attempt. The second time, she grabbed her Uncle's waiting hand and allowed herself to be lifted onto the hood of the truck. Next was her father, who didn't seem to require any help. The moment they made it to the cab, Amber's foot was brushed by a decaying hand, causing her to scream and throw herself toward the windshield. She was vaguely aware of a gunshot and being steadied by the strong hands of her father as she scurried up the windshield.

  “Bit of a jump!” Carl shouted as he surveyed the space between the cab and the trailer. “Toss me Kelly first!”

  “No, I don't wanna!” Kelly screamed as she saw the gap. Beneath the gap was the truck hitch, and in normal times, a fall would have necessitated a call to paramedics, or at worst, a short trip to an emergency room. Today, or any day hence, it would result in death, either instant or drawn out. Amber reveled at the thought of lying in that gap, legs, or even back broken into a million pieces, waiting for the undead to finish her off, or worse, turn her into one of them. She couldn't abide that sort of fate, but at every turn it seemed to be out of her hands.

  “Hang on, sweetie!” Carl exclaimed as he picked Kelly up in his arms and cleared the gap with only inches left over. He didn't stop after his feet planted. Instead, he continued running with a screaming Kelly until he reached the center. Amber wasted no time following him, but nearly fell short, her leg scraping the edge of the trailer. It slowed her down momentarily, but she quickly regained her footing and ran to join her uncle at the center of the truck. She was followed by her father, who was amazed the entire plan had gone so smoothly.

  “What the hell do we do now?” Frank asked the rest of his group.

  His statement was not without merit. Their sojourn to the top of the trailer had helped them to escape the hordes of undead, and with their supplies intact, but a quick inspection of the other side showed them that conditions were eerily similar. There was simply nowhere to go, except...

  “Er...” Amber said, looking at
the noise barrier mounted on the side of the freeway. The trailer was pushed against it, causing Amber to doubt its structural integrity, but that was no reason not to try, was it? The other side of the barrier was supported by beams, and from where she was standing, it looked like they should be fairly easy to climb. As she contemplated this, she was reminded of a particularly gruesome scene in which a child was electrocuted by a high voltage fence while attempting the same stunt.

  Fortunately, freeway sound barriers were not generally electrified, meaning the majority of the party should be fine. Apparently, she wasn't the only one making this consideration. Frank and Carl were already walking toward the edge, followed closely by Kelly who Amber was sure to keep an eye on. She would never forgive herself if her little sister were to tumble from the top of the truck and into the arms of the waiting zombies.

  As they surveyed the ground below, they could see that it ended at the edge of a thick forest, and with any luck, there wouldn't be people or undead roaming the area. Then again, these freeway noise barriers were almost always situated near residential communities, even if said communities were several miles from the freeway. She vaguely remembered a news report where investigators exposed the uselessness of noise barriers, each section of which cost in excess of one million dollars. Not that money mattered at this point. As she was contemplating this useless bit of information, she was nearly lurched off of her feet by a sudden movement. It was the truck trailer, and it was moving.

  “What the hell?” Amber asked anyone in general.

  “It's moving!” Kelly sobbed. “The truck is moving!”

  Below, the zombie horde had discovered their own strength in numbers and were attempting to topple the trailer. The cab would anchor them for the moment, but the strength they were exerting certainly didn't lie.

  “We have to go!” Carl exclaimed. “Come on, Kelly!”

  ***

  “I am a man of simple tastes,” Major Dunfield said to the bound prisoner, a man who at this point was deprived of his fingernails, and at least four of his toes. “What I want is this soldier, name, Jack Frost. Our records show that you lived in the same area, maybe even worked with his father. Now listen, and listen very closely. I don't want to hurt you. I didn't want for any of this to happen. If you talk, just give me a little bit of information, maybe a location, I'll let you out of here. Your wounds will be cared after; you'll be given a hot shower, and a warm meal, a place to sleep. All you need to do is talk. That's all, I just want to talk.”

  Major Dunfield's words seemed to be genuine, and the prisoner believed it. He had, in fact, been near Jack Frost's father at some point in the last few weeks, but where Jack or his sister would be at this point was a matter of speculation. Then again, a warm meal and a bed sounded like a plot device of children's fables at this point. How long had he been in this room? The prison searched his mind and growling belly, but he couldn't find a frame of reference.

  Three weeks ago, he'd been a car salesman. He'd watched his daughter sail through what was to be her final year of high school, and his wife had announced what was to be their next child, conceived just days ago. All of that was gone now. His wife killed by those...creatures, and his daughter unaccounted for. He was here, locked in this room. A prisoner of war perhaps? The room was in darkness most of the time, with only a slow drip of water to keep him company both day and night.

  Then there were the times that...they came. They claimed they were soldiers, but would soldiers do such a thing? Would soldiers have torn the nails from his fingers with pliers and severed his toes with garden shears? He thought back to the searing pain and the violent screams as rusted metal met bone and crushed rather than cut. It had taken only seconds for the severing to occur, but to him, it felt as an eternity. It was the single worst moment of his existence, but then it was matched by the severing of a second toe the moment he was unable to provide the information they wanted.

  “I'm truly sorry you had to be put through this,” Major Dunfield said, pulling up a chair, turning it backward and straddling it. “I'm not a violent man myself, I had a few daughters before this whole thing started.”

  The prisoner, bound to a steel chair, the chains digging into his arms, infection setting in. He didn't realize it, but the bindings in combination with the lack of medication would ensure his arms would never be of use again. Still, like most people, he clung to hope, even if there was none to be found within the clutches of Major Dunfield.

  “I...” the prisoner said, his throat parched. He hadn't been granted water for days, and little did he know, his time was nearly up. “I don't know....know....know....”

  “But, if you're not willing to cooperate,” Dunfield said, dismounting the chair and pushing it aside, “we'll make other arrangements. We'll start by getting you some water.”

  He said this as he exited the room and signaled to a soldier in the hall to begin wheeling in a galvanized tub of water. As he passed this, he came to a metal door, which he simply opened, and stepped through, sunlight flooding his eyes and bathing his body. It was amazing, of course, how a mere door and hallway separated the prisoner from freedom. Forced perception was everything; for all the man knew, he was being held in an underground bunker.

  Unfortunately, despite all of his efforts, he simply wasn't getting anywhere, and Jack Frost was still on the run. It had occurred to him, momentarily, that Jack Frost was one soldier who had been under his command for a very short time, and that it shouldn't matter, but all around him he could feel the disapproving stares of his men. They knew that Jack Frost was on the run, and they knew that Major Dunfield could do little to stop him. If he couldn't control one soldier, how could he ever hope to keep his command intact? They knew he was failing, or had he perhaps failed already? It was difficult to tell.

  “Oklahoma is on the horn for you, sir,” a young soldier said, approaching him.

  Did he detect condescension in the soldier's voice? Did the soldier disapprove of Dunfield's methods? Was this where his command would completely and utterly disintegrate? He couldn't take the chance.

  “I'll take it in my office,” he replied gruffly.

  “Yes sir!”

  He walked past the eager young soldier and made his way across the compound his men had established. One thing he'd noticed about Ohio was that it was significantly darker than Oklahoma at all times. The sky was almost always overcast and gray, leaving him to wonder why people would choose to live here. He approached his 'office', which was little more than a shed, and pulled the door open. The climate change between the room and the outside world, in fact, both seemed to be unbearably hot. He wiped the sweat from his brow using his BDU sleeve, and sat behind his desk. Atop the desk was a modified radio utilizing a commandeered military network, a network that was built to ensure communication during this type of event. In peacetime, using it would constitute a felony, but in this new world, Dunfield doubted anyone could care. He even further doubted that anyone would be alive to care less.

  He picked up the oversized handset and held it to his ear, pressing the 'open' button at the same time. After a moment of silence, he answered.

  “Dunfield.”

  “Major Dunfield,” A voice crackled on the other end. “This is Captain King, I just wanted to let you know that the Oklahoma base is secure, and that we're planning to overrun at least part of Fort Sill, with your permission.”

  “Do you have a plan?” Dunfield asked. It was a stupid question, of course they had a plan if they were considering taking the action.

  “Yes, Sir, we're going to--”

  “Don't need to hear it, Captain, I trust you.”

  It was true, to an extent. He did trust Captain King. He'd gone through Army basic with the man when he wore a smaller shirt size, and had even been deployed to many of the same duty stations. They'd fought on countless battlefields together, and it was established that they would follow one another to hell and back, so long as 'hell' was a designated mission, and their pur
pose supported the good of their given institution. He knew that his side mission to capture and kill Jack Frost was pushing the envelope more than a bit, but not enough to make his second in command ask questions.

  “Roger that, next communication in three days,”

  The line went dead without confirmation from Dunfield. Standard radio protocol hadn't exactly been followed, but he didn't particularly care at this point in time. He set the radio back on the steel desk and began sorting through a stack of papers. He had considered keeping said papers in the drawers, but each time he attempted to open one, he was greeted with the sound of steel screeching against steel as the neglected drawer attempted to make an appearance.

  He'd managed to pull it open partway – once, and then he'd spent the better part of an hour trying to knee it back into its original position. Since then, the damn thing refused to budge. It bugged him, but it was a small thing. At the Oklahoma base, he had a fairly nice desk with working locks and drawers that opened properly.

  The papers presented to him on the rusting and chipped desk told of an inevitable expansion into Kentucky, possibly with the intention of seizing Fort Knox. It was a grandiose plan, and during any other time, it might have been considered foolish. Dunfield, however, was certain there would be little to no resistance, at least from the living. The undead, while a serious problem, did not stand a chance against a well-armed, well stocked platoon. He estimated that an area like Knox could be cleared in less than ten hours, or at least the parts he needed. If he was to recruit new soldiers, he would certainly need an area to train them, and there was plenty of prime real estate at the Fort.

  This apocalypse, if that was indeed a good thing to name, it, had given him a chance that few would dare to dream of: the chance to rebuild the world in his own image. Sure, there would be other surviving paramilitary groups, and they might set up their own governments, and if he could not squash them, he would be forced to coexist with them for the time being. This, however, was simply the way of the world, and he was ready to accept it. His empire was expanding, and his group of hardened soldiers was ensuring very little resistance. Soon enough, the East coast would be his to command, as well as all the remaining people within.