Year of the Dead (Book 2)

by Ray Wallace

  Aware of the pointlessness of such musings at the moment, he forced himself to concentrate on what he had to do once he went ashore. He needed to keep his head on straight, not let himself be distracted.

  Stick to the essentials.

  Food. Water. Batteries. Medical supplies if he could find any in the event he, Amanda, or Mitchell suffered some unforeseen illness or injury. Food, as always, took precedence. He had learned over the past week that he was not the fisherman he had imagined himself to be. So far, he—with some help from Mitchell—had pulled a couple of meals worth of fish out of the ocean. Not nearly enough to sustain them over the long-term. Also, they could not subsist on fish alone. So here he was, preparing to leave the boat once again, to set off in search of the supplies they needed to survive in this harsh new world in which they found themselves.

  And I used to think going to the grocery store was a pain in the ass.

  More and more, remembering the way things used to be had taken on the quality of a dream for him, one from which he had unfortunately awakened. As far as he was concerned, the only good that had come of it was finding Amanda and Mitchell. Without them—keeping him focused, keeping him going—he wondered where he would be right now.

  Nowhere good, I’m sure.

  Seeing them in the moonlight filled him with a warmth he had come to expect but still managed, nonetheless, to surprise him with its intensity every time he felt it.

  He went to Mitchell, placed a hand on top of his head and ruffled his hair.

  “I’ll be back in a little while. Keep an eye on your mom for me in the meantime.”

  “I will,” came the solemn reply. “You can count on me.”

  “I know I can.”

  Eric went to Amanda then, took her in his arms and kissed her.

  “Remember,” he told her. “One hour. If I’m not back…”

  “We leave without you.”

  “That’s right.”

  Reluctantly, Eric let her go then made his way to the side of the boat, grabbed the plastic bag containing the flashlight and the pistol he had left lying on the bench. Then he climbed over the railing and lowered himself into the water, quietly, carefully, knowing it was shallow enough for him to stand here without fully submerging himself. And so, half-walking, half-swimming, he made his way toward dry land, trying to anticipate any challenges that might await him there, that might prevent him from returning to the only people who mattered to him anymore.

  Monday, September 28th

  Susanna stood outside the bedroom door, the very same door behind which Irene had disappeared a good twelve hours earlier. Since Susanna had arrived at the house, Irene had spent the vast majority of her time in bed, alone with her pills and her ever-deepening depression. The woman needed professional help, that much was obvious, help that—given the current state of the world—she would not be receiving anytime soon.

  Susanna knocked lightly.

  “Irene?”

  No response.

  Last night, after the youngest of the children, Lisa and Eddie, had gone to sleep in the bedroom across the hall, Susanna and Dominick had stayed up late, haunting the rooms downstairs, peeking out past the curtains and the blinds covering the various windows, watching the house’s immediate surroundings. As expected, they had seen a few zombies stumbling by. Since Susanna’s arrival at the house, none of the “moaners,” as Dominick sometimes referred to them, had shown much if any interest in the place where the five humans were hiding out.

  We’ve been lucky, Susanna knew.

  If she or the children slipped up in some way, drew attention to themselves, they could be in real trouble. The house could quickly go from safe haven to deadly trap despite the firepower Susanna had brought with her. No matter how many bullets she might have at her disposal, they were, in the end, finite in number.

  We need to move, find somewhere more defensible, somewhere with less of those monsters wandering around.

  She would have gotten them all out of there long before now if not for Irene. The woman refused to leave. Even discussing the prospect with her seemed to send her into a state of near panic.

  “I can’t go out there,” she had insisted on more than one occasion, her voice quavering. “I just… can’t.”

  Dominick had told Susanna about the incident at the convenience store, about the man he had been forced to shoot, the man he had felt certain was about to do something terrible to Irene.

  Oh, you poor kid, Susanna had thought but kept it to herself. Because Dominick was not really a kid anymore. Just like she was not the wealthy, pampered woman she had been only a few months ago.

  “Before that, she’d seemed all right,” Dominick had told her. “Then she just… I don’t know… fell apart. And it kept getting worse. I thought the pills would help…”

  Susanna knocked on the bedroom door again.

  “Irene?” she said, a little bit louder this time. As before, no answer. She tried the door handle, found it locked. “Aw, screw this,” she muttered, backing away then lunging forward, throwing her shoulder at the door. Again. Again. Finally, the door gave way. And there was Irene, lying motionless on the bed, undisturbed by all the racket. Susanna went to her, leaned down and grabbed her by the shoulder, gave her a good shake. Then she felt for a pulse. Nothing. Susanna touched Irene’s neck, noticed how cold it felt.

  On the nightstand, she found a half-empty glass of water next to a completely empty bottle of sleeping pills.

  A small noise called her attention to the ruined doorway. Dominick, Lisa, and Eddie stood there watching her. Susanna felt bad they had to see this, that here was another death they would have to deal with. And even though she had not known Irene very well, Susanna felt bad for her, too. However, there was no denying the feeling of relief mingling with her sorrow.

  We can go now, find a better place to hide. To live.

  “She’s dead,” Susanna told the children. “Come in and say your goodbyes if you want to. When you’re done, go to your rooms and pack your things. After sunset, we’re leaving and we’re not coming back.”

  Tuesday, September 29th

  The road cut a path through the woods, rows of trees standing to either side of it, branches intertwining overhead to form a tunnel, albeit a rather porous one. A lone man followed the road, grateful in some distracted way for the shelter, however minimal, the trees provided from the rain. The storm had done its work on and off throughout the day, had set in with a more determined effort once darkness had fallen. As the man trudged onward, rain pattering against the yellow plastic of the hooded raincoat he wore, lightning split the night sky and thunder roared.

  Most anyone encountering the man along this lonely stretch of road would have given him a wide berth. Due to his large size, the man cut a rather imposing figure. If that wasn’t enough to give one pause, the sword clutched in his hand almost certainly would have done the trick. The weapon’s wide guard gave it the appearance of a cross. A holy sword, one might think upon seeing it, the kind used by a medieval paladin, perhaps, or one of King Arthur’s sainted knights. The type of weapon wielded by a man on some sacred mission.

  Pastor Lewis was on a quest of sorts: to rid the world of the demonic scourge infesting it. Single-handedly if he had to. As sacred missions went, it was admittedly a bit ill-defined. And nigh impossible, he knew. The Lord had yet to offer a more specific plan, however, in the aftermath of the disaster at Tampa where his dreams had crumbled much like the buildings had done. Awaiting more specific instructions or, failing that, an inarguable sign, he had wandered. And during those wanderings, he had struck down as many of the red-eyed demons as he could, long since losing count of his many kills. The sword had proved a durable weapon. But after so much use, its blade had become chipped and pitted, its days of demon slaying numbered.

  The pastor did his best to ignore the soreness of his legs and back, the hunger and the damp that plagued him, kept his head lowered and his eyes upon the ground in front of him a
s he walked onward.

  I need food… shelter…

  He had been walking around in a daze for some time now, years it seemed. Unbidden, a memory came to him: the moment on the beach when he had fallen to his knees, ready to give up, the sword embedded in the sand. He had felt certain that God had sent the zombies he had slain there as a sign, a reminder of his duties. But in the days that followed, there had been no dreams, no instructions of any kind. He began to wonder if the zombies had actually been any sort of a sign. Or had it all been nothing more than wishful thinking?

  Slowly, inevitably, despair had threatened to claim him once again.

  “Dear Lord, show me the way…”

  Wandering, he had laid many demons low. Eventually, he had ended up…

  Here.

  Wherever “here” was, exactly.

  Somewhere in southern Georgia, he assumed. Beyond that, he could not say.

  Lightning split the sky once again. In the flash of illumination, movement caught his eye. A trio of silhouettes in the darkness before him. Limping. Shambling. Growling and groaning, barely audible over the storm. With a sigh, Pastor Lewis lifted the sword. He could see the creatures well enough to fight them. And much like all the times before, he dispatched them with a ruthless efficiency. One of the creatures did manage to get close enough to lay a hand on his chest, forcing him to utilize a stabbing motion, driving the tip of the sword up through the undead thing’s jaw and into its brain. When the zombie fell, the blade snapped leaving the pastor with half a sword. Regretfully, he tossed what remained of the weapon into the trees before continuing on his way.

  Some minutes later, the woods began to thin as the road emerged into open territory. Directly ahead, a large structure loomed at the center of a wide clearing. A tall fence with a locked iron gate prevented Pastor Lewis from reaching the building. Next to the gate, a plaque had been attached to the fence with the words “Our Lady of Perpetual Salvation” embossed upon it—silver letters on a black background.

  A convent, thought Pastor Lewis in disbelief. He grunted a laugh. Had the Lord ever shown him a clearer sign than this?

  Wednesday, September 30th

  Amanda could not decide what to do. It had been three days since Eric had gone ashore. Three days since he had told her he would return within the hour. That if he failed to do so, she needed to leave without him.

  But she had stayed.

  The boat sat offshore, bobbing up and down with the rolling of the waves. Mitchell had gone below deck to take a nap. Amanda was continually impressed by how well he had adapted to life on the open water, never complaining of even a moment’s seasickness. If anything, the gentle seesawing of the boat only helped lull him to sleep.

  “He’s a natural sailor,” Eric had said after undertaking this little maritime adventure of theirs.

  “Like you would know,” Amanda had teased.

  “What? A few days piloting a stolen boat doesn’t make me an authority on the subject?”

  She had shaken her head. “I think it takes at least a week.”

  As it turned out, however, Eric had been right. More importantly, his idea of taking to the ocean had paid off. While on the water, they had remained free of danger. And for that, Amanda was grateful, more than she could have said. The very fact that Eric had found a way to keep Mitchell safe from the horrors that had found their way into the world was an act of kindness she knew she could never repay. Although, she would have liked to have tried—somehow, some way. But with Eric gone these last three days, she had to wonder if she would ever get the opportunity.

  Leaning against the railing, she gazed toward the shoreline, hoping against hope she would see a familiar figure making its way down to the water. The stretch of beach before her remained empty of human life, however, much as it had been for the past few days. The only living things she saw there were birds fighting over scraps of sustenance, and a small dog sniffing at the sand.

  She had moved the boat the morning following Eric’s departure, raised anchor and went a hundred feet or so further out, wanting to put a little more distance between Mitchell and whatever potential threats might make their way onto the beach. An unnecessary precaution, as it turned out. Only a few zombies had made an appearance in that time, giving the boat little more than a passing glance as they shuffled off to places unknown. Not a single living person had appeared, threatening or otherwise. But with Eric gone, a heightened sense of exposure and vulnerability to the manifold dangers of the world had taken up residence inside of her.

  The extent to which she had come to rely upon him in the relatively short time they had been together both surprised and frightened her. He was only one man, after all, as experienced at surviving in a world overrun by the undead as anybody else, including herself. How much could he really protect her and her son given the present circumstances? But there it was all the same: the faith she had placed in him, the belief he would keep her and Mitchell safe, that he would find a way to see them all through the nightmare that had insinuated itself into the waking world.

  “Where are you…?”

  It had rained earlier. Now, just past noon, the sun sat high in the sky, casting its baleful radiance down on the boat and the surrounding ocean. The air had settled over Amanda like a thick blanket of humidity. She looked forward to more autumn-like weather, to the cooler days ahead which she hoped to spend with Eric.

  What if he doesn’t return?

  As much as she hated the idea, she would have to make preparations for life without him.

  She was about to go check on Mitchell when a small group of figures appeared on the beach. The dog ran off and the birds took to the air as the foursome crossed the sand, made its way to where the waves lapped at the shore. The tallest of them raised its hand and waved.

  “Hello, there!” The words reached her across the water, shouted in a man’s voice. “We’re looking for someone named Amanda.”

  After a moment’s hesitation, Amanda cupped her hands around her mouth and said, “You’ve found her.”

  “Good,” came the response. “Eric can’t wait to see you.”

  Thursday, October 1st

  Dear Diary,

  Today is my birthday! And, yes, I put the exclamation point there just like I would have during birthdays past, hoping to feel some of the excitement I would normally experience on this, my “special day” as my mother had always referred to it. But the fact that my parents aren’t here to celebrate with me makes the whole occasion… bittersweet, I guess would be the word for it. Now I only have the memories of them and the places they took me in order to make my birthday as special as it could have been. I miss them so much. My friends, too, the ones who would come over to eat cake and ice cream. Especially my BFF’s. Beth. Elaine. Trina. The sleepovers we used to have, nights spent talking about boys and music and all the places we’d go once we were old enough to go there. I miss the neighborhood where I used to live. The world I used to know.

  Another reason this day used to mean so much to me was because it marked another step on the path to adulthood. Like a lot of kids, I suppose, I always found myself looking forward to growing up, reaching an age when I could go out into the world on my own, have the sorts of adventures children can only dream (or read) about. And here I am, doing exactly that, a long way from home, no parents around to tell me what to do. Of course, this isn’t the way I wanted it to happen and these aren’t exactly the sorts of adventures I had in mind.

  I guess the saying is true, huh, Diary? Be careful what you wish for.

  *

  I’m back, Diary. And, despite the memories, despite everything that’s happened, this birthday turned out to be a pretty good one after all. Thanks to Luke. He came by this afternoon once his chores were done and asked me what I wanted to do.

  “Go to Disneyland?”

  He smiled and shook his head. “Probably not a good idea. I hear it’s overrun with zombies.”

  I started crying then. I’m not su
re why. Too many thoughts swirling around in my head? Too many memories?

  “Hey…” said Luke, putting his arms around me, holding me close. “It’s all right.”

  But it wasn’t all right. Nothing has been all right for a long time.

  As it turned out, it didn’t really matter that I couldn’t think of anything to do for my “special day.” Luke had already taken care of everything. After nightfall, we went to the communal house where all the gatherings are held. When I walked in and everyone shouted “Surprise!”, the bad mood that had been chasing me around all day vanished. There was cake and Kool-Aid and a big box of candy someone had scavenged from somewhere. People gave me books and shoes and clothes and some glass figurines, one of them a unicorn, along with other odds and ends. There were so many presents Luke had to help carry them back to my room. When we were alone again, he gave me a ring, a silver band that fit just right.

  “It's a promise ring,” he told me. “Found it on a supply run last week.”

  As I sit here writing this, Diary, the ring keeps distracting me. What it means… How happy it makes me… I keep thinking about the party, too, how nice it was to forget about everything for a little while. I’m so lucky to be here with these people. Because without them, I’d be…

  No need to think about that, huh, Diary? They’re here. I’m here. And for the time being, at least, that’s what matters.

  Friday, October 2nd

  The Mustang took the exit ramp down to an intersection with a blinking yellow light. No other cars approached. A sign at the side of the road proclaimed that a rest stop waited less than a mile away.

  “They got electricity here?” asked Joey, indicating the blinking light.