The Undead Chronicles_Book 1_Home and Back Again

by Patrick J. O'Brian

  The Undead Chronicles Volume 1

  Home and Back Again

  Patrick J. O’Brian

  Ebook edition published by Fideli Publishing, Inc.

  Copyright 2017, Patrick J. O’Brian

  No part of this eBook may be reproduced or shared by any electronic or mechanical means, including but not limited to printing, file sharing, and email, without prior written permission from Fideli Publishing.

  Edition, License Notes

  This eBook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This eBook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then you

  Special thanks to Brad Wiemer, Korby Sommers, Jason Chafin, Christie Sommers,

  Andy McKnight, Jobina Wiemer, Mike Mueller, Matthew Grindstaff, Tom Green,

  Kevin Sommers, Jeff Groves, Dave Blackford, Kendrick Shadoan, and Pride Inman.

  This one is for all members of the Armed Forces out there, both active and retired.

  Thank you for your service, and as this world grows crazier by the day, may you all remain safe while allowing the rest of us to rest easier.

  One

  The end of the world arrived so covertly, subtly, and quickly, that people literally awoke to find their everyday lives gone forever.

  Wherever he went, Dan Metzger smelled death in the form of rotting corpses, only the corpses weren’t decaying inside buildings, or lying in roadside ditches. Instead, they pursued people like Metzger who remained among the living, fighting to stay that way. Death took on an entirely new meaning when corpses reanimated to seek sustenance from the living.

  During those initial days when the dead returned to life, the media referred to movies and television shows for terms. They called the attackers zombies, the undead, walkers, and a plethora of other names that stuck with those who survived long enough to speak them. Like everything else in the world, live news broadcasts soon succumbed to the plague and the effects left in its wake.

  Now in late September, nearly a month after the world went batshit crazy, he finally neared his hometown of Tonawanda, New York. A sizeable suburb of Buffalo, the large town held two of the few things left in the world that still mattered to him.

  His parents.

  Reaching the outskirts of the city on a Harley-Davidson Softail that moved through gridlocked vehicles rather easily, but attracted the undead, Metzger spied a gas station convenience store that looked like an ideal stopping point. Many stores and shops were already looted, indicating the one percent of the human population that survived the contamination and its lasting results were resourceful.

  For the most part, he stayed to himself during his travels because he needed definitive answers before forming a long-term survival plan. Besides, he couldn’t trust the living, especially when they traveled in numbers, because many of them viewed other people as prey with something to offer. On six different occasions Metzger had witnessed the demise of other people who were swarmed and attacked by the undead, or murdered in cold blood by the living. Whenever he encountered other survivors he tended to keep his distance, warily monitoring their activities until they were out of sight. If he was on foot, he often saw other human beings first and sought a hiding place until they passed.

  While not every other person might prove to be an enemy, he dared not take a chance. Besides, meeting people provided him with other options, and he didn’t want anything, or anyone, sidetracking him until he made it home.

  He parked the motorcycle along the building’s side, noticing the main front window was already smashed. Glass shards clung to their frames like icicles, ready to fall at any moment. A thin dusty coating peppered the remaining glass of the store, indicating the complete neglect that befell the world when the contamination wiped out much of the human race.

  Stopping to look in the last remaining glass shard of any significance, hanging down from the top of the large window, he saw his reflection that included dark brown hair and a full beard. His brown eyes almost matched the dust obscuring a clear view of his face, and at thirty-three years of age, he never expected to look so haggard.

  In his previous life Metzger taught grade school near Cincinnati after moving there for a relationship that eventually fell apart. Using what basic survival skills he possessed, he quickly honed his abilities and learned as he went. Unlike horror movies where everyone dressed skimpily, he often wore layers of thick clothes, even during warm daylight hours, to prevent any bites from penetrating his skin. He chose to grow a beard as fall arrived and razors seldom topped his survival scavenging list.

  Riding a motorcycle along city streets provided a completely different experience than before. He casually rode an old Yamaha on weekends before the world changed, but now riding skillfully ensured his survival. The Harley once belonged to someone else, as did practically all of Metzger’s belongings. Former owners weren’t going to lodge any complaints, because most of them were among the dead, and no one remained to enforce the law.

  Standing beside his motorcycle momentarily, Metzger waited to make certain no surprises awaited him. None of the undead exactly sprinted, although a few reached powerwalking speeds if their bodies weren’t deteriorated too badly. Most tended to stumble and crawl when mobile, so they weren’t incredibly dangerous except in herds. Patting the .357 Magnum at his side, already certain it was loaded with six rounds, he looked to make certain his survival knife was sheathed along his belt. Quiet kills, if one could call finishing off a dead person a kill, proved best for not getting mobbed by nearby undead denizens. Any object that reached the brain, whether bullet or blade, put them down for good. Unfortunately, guns drew the attention of both undead and survivors alike, and Metzger knew stealth was the best defense in the new world.

  He knew that cities provided the best chance of finding supplies, but they offered the gravest danger as well. Zombies served as unwitting guards to the remaining canned goods, water, and ammunition survivors craved. Traveling alone within city limits certainly wasn’t wise, but Metzger knew his hometown well enough to avoid certain areas with denser populations.

  While he didn’t consider himself armed to the teeth by any means, Metzger possessed a shotgun and two swords that he briefly considered leaving with the Harley. The two swords came from a higher end pawn shop during his travels, and with a little sharpening, made for very useful weapons. One was full length, and excellent for attacks that required a little distance, but he liked the short sword for taking off heads from behind, and during the few occasions he found himself backed into a corner.

  Knowing the store wouldn’t be entirely easy to navigate with shelves knocked over and goods spread across the floor, he opted to take the short sword with him. Already dressed for combat with the undead, Metzger wore steel-toed biker boots and leather chaps that protected his calf muscles from ground-level bites. Sweat formed along his face and neck, trickling cool droplets down his shirt beneath the nylon jacket he wore while riding. Despite the late September date, the weather on this day felt more like summer, so he chanced wearing some lighter gear to remain comfortable. Passing out from dehydration would certainly leave him in a vulnerable state regardless of what clothing he donned.

  Hearing a throaty growl as he neared the shattered window, Metzger stepped carefully around a toppled Hostess display as he pulled a folded black trash bag from a pocket. Holding the trash bag in one hand and the short sword in the other, he stepped inside after a quick inspection reveale
d only one obvious threat.

  When the end of the world first came about and he understood the danger around him, Metzger studied the undead and finished off every single one he could to make the world a less dangerous place for fellow survivors. He soon realized what an exhausting goal he set for himself, and the attitude of most of the living left him less concerned about their welfare over time. The zombie a few steps away from him wore distressed blue jeans and a ripped New York Yankees jersey that contained streaks of dirt and dried blood. Part of the zombie’s upper lip was missing, giving it a permanent sneer of sorts to accompany its lifeless eyes.

  He certainly didn’t expect to find the undead wearing suits in this part of town, nor did he plan on spotting a luxury car. With winter on the way he certainly wanted to move on from the Harley, however, and into something that could get around and make it through the winter months. A hybrid car sounded perfect for the short term, but he was going to wait until he completed his personal quest before switching vehicles.

  After the apocalypse occurred, every attack from even a single zombie left Metzger fearful for his life. Adrenaline kept him moving, and he remembered being incredibly nervous and tense whenever an upright dead person drew near. What felt like life or death, sometimes pure murder in the beginning, became as casual an event as removing the top from a mayonnaise jar.

  Being prudent, he stabbed the nearby zombie through the skull as silently as possible, watching it drop to the ground in a heap as he flipped the garbage bag wide open. The noise of rustling plastic failed to attract more danger, so he cautiously walked through the store, picking up canned goods and wrapped perishables. He also snagged a bottle of motor oil for the Harley and a few items to keep it running smoothly. Knowing the day would come when soft drinks would expire and taste flat, he grabbed a few bottles of Coke from the cooler since it was still running.

  Some communities still had electricity and utilities, but those few places were falling into darkness as resources dried up and no one replenished them.

  Even as he gathered the last of the useful items, Metzger wondered if he really wanted to make the last leg of his journey. In his heart he already knew what he was going to find at the home his parents purchased when they chose to downsize. In the month it took him to recover from the shock of the world’s drastic change, and navigate impassible roads while avoiding anything upright, he imagined hundreds of scenarios awaiting him when he walked through that front door.

  For weeks he tried calling his parents on both their landline and their cell phones, reaching voicemail every time. He thought about skipping the perilous trek to his native state altogether, but there wasn’t anywhere else to go, and he received a phone call that provided him with hope about a week after the world fell apart.

  Taking a look around, he saw a few old factories in the distance, knowing Lake Erie was once a major port for businesses. Those days passed even before the end of the normal world, but strangely only a few undead stragglers stumbled down the road in his direction. He knew better than to assume the road ahead was equally uninhabited. His journey home required careful navigation because carelessness meant potentially being downed and devoured like a gazelle in the African safari. Any trip required numerous stops, and sometimes hiding for hours on end, to avoid herds of undead walkers, or their living, marauding counterparts.

  He missed simple pleasures like hot showers and carefree rides on his old motorcycle, and if not for his pressing need to reach a familiar house before dark he might have risked cleaning up at the convenience store.

  Answers about the disaster that claimed billions of lives certainly weren’t forthcoming. The undead were just that, because shooting them anywhere except the head didn’t faze them one bit. They didn’t even flinch from conventional gunshots. Blood barely emerged from wounds after people died and came back, and it always appeared somewhat coagulated.

  Metzger wondered if any scientists remained who might be able to identify the problem, but if they were dead any possible cure died with them. The news was little help before radio and television stations signed off for good. Most of the breaking news after the onset showed gruesome and confusing images of staggering walkers attacking people. Later they reported where survivors might find shelter and food because the military was setting up secure camps in metropolitan areas. Eventually every television station went dead, mirroring the human population.

  He wondered what kind of devious mind created something that did this to humankind. Little doubt remained that the ground zero event, or events in this case, occurred with deliberate malice. Answers never really came from the media, because everyone was busy running for their lives, and the military provided little information other than safety tips. The apocalypse wasn’t some sort of trick-or-treat night where people needed warnings to wear reflective clothing and make certain their candy was wrapped. Avoiding strangers might have proven to be a solid tip, but telling the living from the undead wasn’t much of a challenge for survivors or animals.

  In general, the disaster only affected human beings, not nature or its creatures. For their part, fall leaves continued to change colors to brilliant yellow, red, and orange variations. Plant life and what animals appeared unaffected by whatever airborne pathogen or disease wiped out most of mankind. Metzger hadn’t figured out a reason for his own survival, whether it was immunity or some action on his part that kept the contagion from infecting him.

  Either way he needed to get back on the road if he planned to make it into his old neighborhood before dusk. After dividing his newfound goods into the two saddlebags he swung one leg over the bike before hitting the ignition switch. The Harley roared to life and Metzger took a sweeping look at the disarray around him, including dead vehicles, and garbage randomly strewn across the road and vacant lots.

  A dingy look overtook the world, like a sepia lens used in apocalyptic movies. He supposed those movie directors had it right after all, though he never expected to see such an odd, dusty sight personally. He knew that dust in this case came from flakes of dead skin, and there was certainly enough of that to go around. Rural areas still appeared natural, but the city, with so many smooth surfaces, attracted dust like magnets pull in metal shavings.

  Perpetual stench lingered in the air everywhere he went, though he hoped to find rural surroundings again someday for safety and a sense of normality.

  Of course such a plan didn’t sound feasible for a loner, because supplies eventually ran out and Metzger wasn’t skilled in farming.

  Booting the kickstand upward, he started down the road toward the more populated areas of town along the highway. He thought about one particular call he’d received from his brother about a week after the plague wiped out mankind and any hope Metzger held of finding his loved ones alive. After taking steps, sometimes risky ones at that, to ensure his smart phone remained charged, Metzger received a call one afternoon from his brother who served in the United States Navy aboard the destroyer USS Ross. The Ross was on a NATO exercise with a Japanese ship near the Middle East when all hell broke loose. Initially the ship was ordered to stay at sea until the government got a handle on the plague sweeping the nation, but it didn’t take long for the destroyer to get ordered back to the States.

  Metzger learned little else from his brother except the ship’s intended destination, the place he planned to travel as soon as he discovered the fate of his parents. He promised his brother he’d check in on Donald and Connie Metzger, even though it put him behind the expected date for the Ross to reach the East Coast.

  He pondered momentarily whether to wear a helmet or not during his short trip, thinking he’d like to feel the wind in his hair, unrestricted because there were no longer helmet laws. He often wore it because riding a motorcycle meant constantly dodging stalled vehicles or undead that might lurch toward him at any given second. Putting a bike down suddenly felt a lot more possible with even more dangers than moving vehicles in the new world.

  Deciding that
acting safely had saved his life in the past, he donned the full-face helmet and fastened the strap beneath his chin. A few minutes later he weaved through stalled cars, some with undead drivers and passengers still trapped by their seatbelts. They groaned and groped as he passed, their discolored fingers refusing to curl as they reached at him hungrily.

  Metzger couldn’t help but feel some indifference towards the world around him. His emotions hit peaks and valleys the first few weeks after the world changed, and during that time he contemplated ending it all when no realistic options presented themselves. It quickly became apparent that his daily life had gone from shaping young minds to following the routine of a rat, scavenging whatever he could find to survive. Never again would he sleep a full night in comfort, never again would he walk into a restaurant and eat conventional food or worry about how large of a tip to leave, and the chances of discovering anyone he knew alive felt slim.

  He expected to find a horrifying scene at the home of his parents, but if he failed to locate his brother, Metzger wasn’t sure how much longer he could carry on.

  As he took to the side of the road to avoid a cluster of vehicles, his eyes narrowed when he spotted a thin plume of smoke rising in the distance. Immediately thinking it was a burn barrel, his mind scrambled for a plan of action to avoid any potential survivors. Most everything that caught fire after the end of the world extinguished itself within a few weeks of the disaster. Metzger quickly learned the difference between apocalypse fallout and manmade destruction, and this individual plume of smoke wasn’t the least bit hidden.

  He sensed a trap, and anyone ahead had likely already heard the sound of the Harley approaching. Turning around at this point meant wasting additional time, along with the possibility of being stuck outdoors without shelter at dusk. At a second glance the smoke appeared to be originating from a residential area, but Metzger refused to be complacent. Being cautious and pessimistic about other people had kept him alive among an ever dwindling population.