Lakewood Memorial
Book one of a zombie trilogy
Robert R. Best
A “Library of the Living Dead” Book
Published by arrangement with the author.
“Lakewood Memorial”
Robert R. Best
Copyright 2009 All Rights Reserved
ISBN10- 1448644194
ISBN13- 9781448644193
Smashwords Edition
Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored, or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and “Library of the Living Dead Press”, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.
This book is a work of fiction. People, places, events, and situation are the product of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living, dead or undead, or historical events, is purely coincidence.
Introduction by Laura Best
When Robbie was a kid he directed Super 8 movies, forcing his family and friends to be his actors. They finally revolted and refused to work for him any more.
When Robb (dropped the 'ie' just to be different) was a teenager, he kept sending tapes of himself singing to famous artists, until his mom told him he couldn't sing, so knock it off.
When I first met Robb (don't call me Bob that's my dad's name), he had resigned himself that his comedy troupe wasn't really going anywhere. He couldn't get more than small parts in the plays he tried out for. He was thinking of turning his energy to writing instead.
During our dating and engagement years, he wrote two really bad novels, both comedies. I told him to get a job.
Five years in to our marriage, Robb (my wife won't let me drop the 2 B's now) graduated from a university writing program. A professor had told him, you're a good writer, but your stuff is a little fantastic for my taste. He wrote a story about a man who tried to sell his soul in exchange for a few good weekends with his estranged teenage son. It was beautiful and dark, and I felt bad for not believing in him up to then. I've never made that mistake again.
About 7 years ago, I said, Write me a zombie novel, baby! He hemmed and hawed and I waited. Then, I had a string of family members hospitalized. Sitting with me late nights in patient rooms and hospital waiting rooms, even sleeping in chairs, Robb started asking weird questions. Things like, if you were trapped in a hospital with zombies, what would you use for weapons? Suddenly, every hospital we went to was a conversation about air ducts and sprinkler systems and how easy would it be to take the furniture apart with your bare hands? He questioned my mom constantly about being a nurse's aide and how emergency rooms worked and which doors lock in a hospital anyway?
He found the Library of the Living Dead podcast, and started warming up to the idea even more. We talked about single moms we knew, spunky young girls who raised their kids with all their hearts because that was all they had.
We talked about asshole rednecks we knew, men with good hearts that were broken and bitter, looking for a chance to redeem themselves, or go to hell, one.
Then, this March, at the end of a long, cold winter, Robert finally gave me the manuscript. It's violent and vulgar, dark and depressing. It's cliché and innocent, and renewed my love of classic zombie stories. Sometimes, I stopped reading so I could tell him what a sick bastard he was. And sometimes it even made me tear up.
And while Robert is excitedly telling his friends and family about his book deal with Dr. Pus, I know he wrote it all for me. I hope you all love it as much as I do. But if you don't, screw you. It's my damned zombie novel. I've waited seven years for it.
And, Robbie, you may now tell the rest of us to suck it. You were right, and you made it work. I love you babe!
Now, back to work on those sequels! Exciting stuff coming, from what we've been talking about lately...
Laura Best
2 AM
April 10, 2009
Zero
For the small town of Lakewood, it began at Ed's Diner. A few customers were there, eating and talking. Ed was behind the counter, wiping at a stain that had been there longer than the waitresses. In roughly ten minutes, Ed would die screaming.
Ed idly wondered where Old Timmins, his fishing buddy, had gotten off to. Probably on one of his week-long drunks, Ed figured. Those were common enough.
The door slammed open.
Jimmy Dotson, a teenage punk Ed had little use for, stumbled in. A big rip ran through his shirt and blood coated his arm. He looked around the diner, confused and afraid.
Trouble. Ed thought about the rifle stashed under the counter, rarely used but loaded just the same.
“Shit,” said Jimmy, looking at Ed. “You gotta lock the door.”
“Something wrong, Jimmy?” said Ed, trying to get a read on the situation. “You hurt?”
Jimmy kept looking out the large window, between the big painted letters that said Ed's in reverse. “You gotta lock the doors. Where are the keys?”
Shit, thought Ed. He's on something again. Hopefully he hasn't hurt anybody. And won't hurt anybody here.
Ed cleared his throat. “Jimmy, don't you think you should have someone look at your arm?”
Jimmy let out a pained whine and pulled a pistol from his back pocket. He pointed it at Ed.
The diner fell quiet. A waitress behind Ed gasped and dropped a dish.
Jimmy shook as he spoke. “Please. Lock the fucking door right fucking now or I will shoot you and get the fucking keys my fucking self.”
Ed stared at Jimmy. At the gun. His hand inched toward the rifle.
The gun rattled in Jimmy's shaking hand. “Please,” he said, almost whispering.
At the edge of his vision, Ed saw movement outside. A bent form was shuffling toward the diner. Ed recognized the dirty jacket and battered cap. Old Timmins, no doubt coming for some post-drunk coffee. Timmins was a drunk, but he was a good man all around. And the customers were all good people too. And this drugged-up little shit was going to burst in and start waving a gun? Anger grew in Ed.
Jimmy looked over at the figure outside. He cried out. Ed seized the chance and snatched up the gun. He brought it out over the counter and fired.
The shot hit Jimmy in the shoulder. Blood spattered backward and Jimmy fell over. Ed's ears rang and the diner was silent.
Ed breathed out, his heart pounding. “Call an ambulance,” he said to the waitress behind him.
The door jangled as Old Timmins pushed his way in.
“Picked a hell of a time to come up for air,” said Ed, replacing the rifle under the counter. He reached for a clean coffee cup.
Timmins shuffled toward the counter. His head was down and he said nothing.
Ed placed the mug down as Timmins grew near. He reached for the coffee pot. Then it struck him as odd that Timmins hadn't reacted to the gunshot or the wounded punk on the floor.
Then Ed was screaming as Old Timmins sank half-rotten teeth into his arm.
One
Angela Land strode down a hallway in Lakewood Memorial Hospital. She moved with purpose through the florescent light and disinfectant smell. The small rural hospital had a few doctors, a few nurses and several nurse's aides. Angie was third on that list.
Her cell phone rang. She didn't stop or even slow down, sliding the phone from her smock and flipping her hair to one side.
She pressed the phone to her ear. “Hello?”
“Mom?”
Angie sighed. “What is it, Maylee? I'm at work.”
“Brooke is being a bitch.”
“She's the babysitter. Just
do what she says.”
Angie arrived at a large, dimly-lit laundry room. Several dryers were rumbling like hungry monsters. Her friend Freeda - also an aide - was folding sheets. Angie nodded and Freeda handed her one, grinning. Angie smiled and turned to leave. “And don't say bitch.”
“Brooke said bitch,” said Maylee.
Angie exhaled and walked back down the hall, holding the sheet. “Brooke's sixteen.” The same age Angie had been when Maylee was born.
“I'm fourteen.”
“Well, in two years you can start saying bitch. We'll have a party.”
“Seriously?”
“No.”
Maylee let out an exasperated groan. When Angie was in an honest mood, she knew those groans sounded just like her. “Don't you think fourteen is a little old for a babysitter?”
Angie counted the room numbers as they went by. 409, 410, 411 ... “Your brother's only twelve.”
“Twelve's a little old, too.”
“Look, Maylee, I just feel better if someone's there.”
“I'm here, Mom. Don't you think I can handle it?”
“No one can handle everything.”
“But you can?”
“I have to, Maylee, whether I want to or not. Now I have to go. Goodbye.”
“Mom...” Maylee started, but Angie was already snapping the phone shut. She dropped it back into her pocket and reached room 425. Mr. Paulson.
“I'm back,” she announced as she strode into the room and pushed the door shut with her foot. Old Mr. Paulson sat up in bed, a sheet crumpled around his ankles. The sheet was spattered with the remnants of his dinner.
“About goddamned time,” he said. He spoke like he was spitting out something nasty. “I was freezing my nuts off.”
Mr. Paulson's daughter sat in a chair next to his bed. Angie knew her to be 45, but her eyes looked older. Her name was Kristen.
“Now, Dad,” she said, shaking her head. “It was you who dumped your food on the sheets.”
“It tasted like half-digested turds,” said Mr. Paulson. He glared at Kristen, then looked back to Angie. “How could you feed that to an old man? Especially a dying one?”
Angie smiled and pulled the dirty sheet from the bed. “Now, Mr. Paulson, I don't think you're dying.”
Mr. Paulson snorted. “Well, you don't think much, then. I might look like the picture of health to a retard like you, but I ain't.” He twisted around to slap the oxygen tank next to his bed. A tube ran from the tank to under his nose. “I've dragged one of these fuckers around for ten years.”
Kristen exhaled. “Well, if you hadn't smoked for all those years...”
“Oh, monkey-clit.” Mr. Paulson folded his arms and sat back. “Now you've got my daughter bitching at me.”
Kristen smiled and shook her head. Angie dropped the dirty sheet and took the clean one in both hands. Kristen stood and held out her arms, offering to take the sheet. Angie shook her head and started unfolding.
Kristen sat. “Well, Dad, I just want to have you around as long as possible.”
Wow, thought Angie, hell of a thing to wish on yourself. She felt a little guilty for that, and turned her attention to the equipment sitting around the bed. If anything was obviously wrong, she'd have to report it to Nurse Ruby.
Then a scream came from somewhere down the hall. It was a woman, screaming loud and long. It sent a cold spike down Angie's back. All three of them turned to look at the door.
It swung open slowly.
A large man lumbered in. It was Sam Shuab, Kristen's husband. He was carrying paper cups of coffee.
“Man, some old chick's really squalling two rooms down,” he said.
And then Angie remembered. “Oh, that's just Mrs. Reddens. She always yells when she has blood drawn.” Angie had known that. Everyone on staff knew that. So why had it scared her? Something felt wrong tonight. Like something awful was sneaking up on her. She hadn't said anything to Maylee, but that was the main reason she'd insisted on a babysitter tonight. Someone else there. To keep watch. But for what?
“Poor old Mrs. Reddens,” said Kristen.
Mr. Paulson snorted. “Poor old me, for having to listen to her. Moldy old twat's always shrieking at bingo, too. Enough goddamned noise to wake a corpse.”
“I doubt she'd wake a corpse,” said Kristen.
“Well, I'll know soon enough, first hand. Once the quacks here go cracking my chest open.” He waved his arms to indicate the whole hospital.
“It's just for a pacemaker,” said Angie. She stooped to pick up the dirty sheet. “It'll help with those chest pains.”
“I'm sorry, miss,” said Sam, handing Kristen a cup and sitting. “Are you a doctor?”
Angie's face flashed hot. “No.”
“No, you're a hospital maid is what you are.” He adjusted the glasses on his thick head. “Now go get us a damned doctor so we can talk sense to them.”
“Sam,” said Kristen sharply, looking at him.
“What?” said Sam. “He doesn't want the surgery. It's his call.”
Kristen's face went dark. Angie smirked to herself. You've done it now, asshole.
“And quit fidgeting with your glasses,” Kristen continued.
“I hate these stupid things,” said Sam, taking them off and rubbing his eyes.
Angie bunched up the dirty sheet and did her best to smile. “Well, I'll go check on the doctor.”
Sam and Mr. Paulson grunted something. Kristen smiled. Angie turned and left.
As soon as she was back in the hallway, her cell phone rang. She sighed, fished the phone out and answered.
“Mom?” came her son's voice.
“Dalton? What is it?”
“Maylee's not doing what Brooke says.”
“Dalton, I don't have time...”
“And she keeps saying bitch.”
* * *
“Bitch, bitch, bitch,” said Maylee, skipping around the living room. She liked the way her hair, dyed the most screw-you black she could find, bounced with each step. How her mom hated that hair.
“I'm serious, Maylee,” said Brooke, standing across the room with her arms folded. Brooke's hair was conservative and perfect. I'm older, her hair said. It pissed Maylee off. “Knock it off right now,” said Brooke.
Maylee stopped skipping and crossed her arms, mocking Brooke. “But I don't know any better. I'm just a little baby.”
“Well, you're certainly acting like a little baby.”
Maylee rolled her eyes. “Oh, thank you, zinger queen. Your mom teach you that one?”
Brooke groaned and ran her hands through her hair. Maylee loved seeing that perfect hair falling out of place. “Why are you doing this, Maylee? Why can't we all just hang out until your mom comes home?”
“Because I don't need a babysitter, that's why!” Maylee turned and stomped toward her bedroom. She stopped when she heard Dalton's voice:
“And she keeps saying bitch.”
She growled deep in her throat and pounded to the kitchen. She found Dalton at the table, phone to his ear.
Maylee sighed. “Are you telling on me, crotch-nostrils?”
Dalton grinned. “And now she's insulting me,” he said into the phone.
Maylee snatched the phone and put it to her ear. “Mom, please. Why can't you just trust me?”
“You're just too young to be left alone all night,” said Mom.
“But I know what I'm doing! I know better than to get knocked up like you did!”
As soon as the words left her mouth, Maylee knew she'd gone too far. She felt as though she'd hit her mom across the face. She wanted desperately to snatch the words back, but it was too late.
Mom was quiet for what seemed like minutes. Maylee finally spoke, her throat dry and cracking. “Mom...”
“Put Brooke on, please.”
Brooke was already there, taking the phone from Maylee. “Ms. Land? I'm sorry.” She nodded at whatever Mom was saying and straightened her hair. “Things really
aren't as out of control as they sound.”
Maylee bit the tip of her thumb and leaned back against the counter. Dalton stuck his tongue out at her. She kicked at him.
“Right,” said Brooke into the phone. “No problem. See you later on. Bye.”
“Wait,” said Maylee, pushing herself up and reaching for the phone. But Brooke was hanging up and Maylee was too late. Again.
“I wanted to tell her I was sorry,” said Maylee.
“Well, you'll get to talk to her later. I'll let you use my new cell phone.”
Maylee reached for the phone. "No. Let me do it."
"Dammit, Maylee," Brooke snapped. "Back off or I'll tell your mom what you've been doing with your friend Stacy!"
Maylee looked at Brooke, mouth open. Dalton looked from Brooke to Maylee, then back to Brooke. He looked very amused. After a few seconds, Maylee gave Brooke a very dark look and sat back against the counter. "I just want to tell her I'm sorry," she said, almost a whisper.
Brooke sighed and drummed her fingers on the wall. Maylee leaned back and pouted. Dalton shifted uncomfortably.
Brooke looked around at the two of them and smoothed out her hair. “Okay.” She picked up the phone. “I know I told your mom we might go out, but let's just order in. What do you two want on your pizza?”
Two
Angie walked back into the laundry room and dumped the dirty sheet into one of several large baskets. She put her hands on the base of her spine, then bent backward until a sore spot popped and felt relief. Around her, the washers rumbled and moaned.
“Troubles at home?” asked Freeda from behind the folding table. Freeda was chewing gum. She blew a little bubble and smiled.
Angie straightened and shrugged. She walked over to the table and grabbed a sheet to fold. “No new ones, if that's what you mean. Maylee just really chafes at having a babysitter.”
“Well...” Freeda started. She looked at Angie, then back down at the sheets. Angie knew the look Freeda had just given her. It was Freeda's cautious look, the look she had when she was choosing her words carefully. “She is fourteen.”
Lakewood Memorial Page 1