The Undead Chronicles_Book 1_Home and Back Again

by Patrick J. O'Brian

  He gripped the seat as they drew closer to the ground, seeing the pumpkins come into view, left to eventually decay in the field like the undead who stumbled past them. Double-checking his seatbelt quickly, Metzger found it secured before looking up to see the field coming at him like a 3-D movie.

  “Brace yourselves!” Vazquez warned as the plane neared the ground at a greatly reduced speed, but still greater than the sluggish pace one desired when running over uneven ground, vines, and hard orange vegetables that might as well have been small boulders.

  Looking intently for the smoothest part of the field possible, Vazquez attempted to touch down once, but the Cessna bounced like a ridable hopping ball that toddlers might use. Everyone was thrown about harshly in their seats, but Vazquez kept his hands on the controls, waiting only a few seconds for another smooth patch before setting the plane down again.

  Unfortunately this section of the field had a bit of a slope that the pilot didn’t notice until the wheels touched down. The front landing gear took the brunt of the damage as it struck the awkward landscape and a few pumpkins, finally snapping, which sent the Cessna nose-first into the ground. While the plane had slowed somewhat during the second landing attempt, the abrupt stop sent everyone lurching forward, providing them with minor cuts and bruises from the seatbelts and any debris hurled in their direction.

  Metzger felt certain the seatbelt was going to cut him in half, but after being thrown forward he immediately felt his head and back slammed into the seat when the Cessna finally reached a state of inertia. Hearing moans and groans behind him, he turned to see everyone testing their limbs for injuries and trying to free themselves from their seatbelts. Seeing Vazquez slumped over without moving for a few seconds, Metzger placed his left hand on the pilot’s shoulder, stirring the man slightly.

  “Everyone okay?” he asked while trying to stir Vazquez, pondering their next move since they were in the middle of a pumpkin patch with no civilization nearby based on his last aerial view.

  Vazquez finally sat back, a gash visible along the right side of his forehead where he struck the control wheel. Shaking his head, he tried to comprehend his surroundings as Metzger reached over to undo his seatbelt.

  “We need to move,” Metzger said. “I’m sure hundreds of undead saw and heard us flying overhead, and worse, the living might know we’re here.”

  Like bears waking from hibernation, everyone tried their best to stand and gather their belongings, but their movements proved rather lethargic. Metzger grabbed a few of the guns and his swords, held together by the pack that he threw over his shoulder with a strap. Deciding he might not have time to return to the plane once he stepped outside, Metzger also grabbed the family photo and stuffed it into his belt along his back. The door required only a little bit of finagling before it swung down, granting Metzger access to the outside world where he was promptly greeted by half a dozen undead.

  Staggering toward him from varying distances, they made for somewhat easy targets if time wasn’t an issue and he could circle around them. He wanted to take them out silently with the short sword, but knew such a move was risky without backup. Drawing the .357, he fired the first two shots into the zombies closest to him, knowing the move only served to draw more danger his way. He quickly drew the sword from his pack with the remaining four attackers a safe distance away. One wore a dress as though she left church in her Sunday best and didn’t make it far, and the one behind her wore greasy coveralls. His right eyeball hung halfway down his cheek, barely attached by the optic nerve, and his jaw remained covered by a five o’clock shadow that might have stayed the same length for eternity had Metzger not sliced his skull in half.

  Sensing the others finally emerging from the plane, he charged the last two zombies, one of which tripped over a pumpkin vine in its hurry to eat his flesh. Slicing the sword horizontally through the air, he beheaded the first of the two, stabbing the second one through the skull as it tried to lift itself from the ground.

  Quickly checking his surroundings and seeing no danger, Metzger turned to assist everyone out of the plane, including Luke, who supported a severely ailing Albert. It felt almost ironic to Metzger that a man who aided thousands of people during his years of nursing now required assistance to walk at the end of his life. He appeared agonized, as though every step sent excruciating pain through every nerve ending in his body. Luke barely made it five steps away from the Cessna before gently laying Albert on the ground because the man couldn’t continue walking.

  “I can’t go on,” Albert said as everyone gathered around him. “My body feels like it’s freezing and being prodded with a thousand hot pokers at the same time.”

  “We can’t stay here,” Metzger said as sympathetically as possible. “There are too many undead around here.”

  “You can leave me,” Albert said, directing most of his focus on Luke.

  “No,” Luke said emphatically. He looked to Metzger. “We can’t leave him out here.”

  Metzger paused only a few seconds, weighing his options.

  “We’re not leaving him.”

  “We weren’t far from the road,” Vazquez suggested. “It’s in the open and we can defend ourselves until we find a vehicle.”

  “He can’t travel,” Luke said emphatically, nodding toward his lover.

  “Then all of you stay put and I’ll look for a vehicle. If things get hairy, just get in the plane and shut the door until I get back.”

  No one put an argument, and everyone in the group trusted Metzger implicitly.

  “It’s that way,” Vazquez said, pointing behind Metzger. “I don’t think it was far.”

  “Then I’ll be right back.”

  Quickly finding out that the pilot was accurate in his assessment, Metzger located the road and a few vehicles parked off to one side. A newer car that resembled a station wagon was completely out of gas, much to his dismay, and a medium pickup truck held a zombie inside, which clawed at the window upon spying his approach.

  Figuring the person died inside his own vehicle, Metzger assumed the truck was good to go. Seeing no other vehicles or buildings down either side of the road, he decided to report his findings to the group. Albert’s injury hampered the group because none of them wanted to leave him behind, despite what he requested, and he cried out in pain whenever his body was touched or moved. Metzger hated the idea of waiting for the man to die, but didn’t see any other options. Luke needed closure, and not to be wondering if the man he loved was roaming the earth in an undead state forever.

  Personally owing Albert his life for saving him from the middle of an intersection, Metzger wasn’t going to treat the man badly in life or death. He trudged back to the plane, listening and watching for any signs of undead, keeping the AK-47 in a ready position after loading a fresh magazine from his pack into the weapon. He threw his legs over the top of a wooden fence as he kept the Cessna in his view, seeing hundreds of pumpkins lining the slightly inclined field. He took a few steps forward before he realized no one appeared to be standing outside of the plane, still some distance away from him.

  Not until he carefully rounded one side of the plane was he able to see everyone was huddled inside and two strangers were approaching the downed aircraft from the uphill portion of the field. Feeling his heart begin to race, Metzger ran directly toward the plane, prepared to deal with anyone who threatened his group in the most forceful of ways.

  Sixteen

  Guessing that his traveling companions had ducked into the plane for safety, Metzger approached the duo walking toward the Cessna, slowing from a sprint to a walk almost immediately. He noticed they held weapons of their own, and saw what he believed to be a dog of some sort walking close behind. Unable to move stealthily or take cover behind a crop that didn’t even reach his kneecaps, Metzger simply moved straight toward the plane where they couldn’t spot him until he moved to one side.

  Drawing closer, he saw everyone huddled inside the Cessna, staring out the side w
indows facing the strangers. When he finally stepped around the left side of the plane, Metzger aimed the AK-47 at the duo, making enough noise that they had to notice him, yet a step away from cover if they opened fire.

  Both the woman and the man took notice of him as the dog perked to attention, acting as though it might charge Metzger.

  “Buster! No!” the husky man to Metzger’s right said, ordering the dog to stay put.

  Just under six feet tall and rather brawny, the man wore a camouflage jacket and tan tech pants with half a dozen pockets. Somewhere in his mid-forties, his black hair appeared to be thinning, and a thick goatee and mustache combination encircled his lips. He held an AR-15, which he refused to aim at Metzger as he ordered Buster to sit.

  Beside him, a black woman closer to Metzger’s age with kinky hair that barely reached her shoulders held a sidearm of some sort. She wore a rather vibrant purple sweatshirt, halfway unzipped over a blue tank top, along with black jeans. Fashion sense mattered little in the apocalypse, and Metzger paid more attention to her reactions because she seemed to be following the lead of her companion.

  “We don’t mean any harm,” the man said, still not raising his semi-automatic rifle. “We saw the plane and thought maybe you people needed help.”

  “You’ll forgive me if I don’t just take you at your word?” Metzger countered. “We’ve had some dealings with unsavory types already.”

  “Look, there’s two of us, and a whole lot of you,” the man said. “My name’s Colby Sutton, and this is Gracine.”

  Metzger wasn’t certain if Gracine’s last name wasn’t mentioned because the two were a couple, or because Sutton didn’t know it.

  “Where did you come from?” Metzger asked, wondering how they arrived so quickly at the crash site.

  “We’re taking shelter in a farmhouse just over the hill,” Gracine said somewhat nervously, as though not expecting the encounter to take such a negative turn so quickly. “We have supplies.”

  “We have wounded,” Metzger said, easing just enough to point his gun at the ground instead of at the duo.

  Sutton clasped his own gun in the center, with his finger nowhere near the trigger, slowly putting it on the ground. Metzger noticed he possessed a sidearm which he did not offer to set aside, along with a few knives.

  “We will help you if you let us,” he said. “We’ve barely made it this far ourselves.”

  Metzger watched Buster with caution, seeing the dog remained on edge for some reason. He didn’t seem fixated on ripping Metzger apart, which the former teacher appreciated, but something kept the pit bull agitated.

  “Is he a purebred pit bull?” Metzger inquired, trying to make conversation while he decided if he trusted the pair.

  “He is,” Sutton answered. “Technically, he’s a blue American Staffordshire Terrier. Pit bull is kind of a generic term they slap on any dog in Buster’s family.”

  “Why’s he on edge?”

  “He probably smells them.”

  “Smells who?” Metzger asked.

  “The undead.”

  A fully grown young adult, Buster possessed a mostly brownish coat with just a few white spots along his belly. His ears remained floppy instead of cropped and his tail wasn’t clipped, indicating he hadn’t been altered since birth, unless he was neutered.

  Deciding Buster detected something he didn’t, Metzger saw little option other than to accept help from the two strangers, hoping they weren’t lying to him.

  “We have someone who’s been bitten,” he revealed, trying to gauge their reactions to the statement.

  Neither recoiled in horror, but both provided concerned expressions.

  “We’ll help however we can,” Gracine assured him. “Can you all walk?”

  “The house is about a quarter mile from here,” Sutton added. “We came running outside the second we heard a plane.”

  “We kind of feared attracting the wrong attention once we knew we were crash landing,” Metzger admitted as he knocked on the Cessna’s door for his fellow travelers to open it.

  Jillian emerged first, holding one of the other rifles from the stack in the middle of the Cessna. Obviously the group overheard the conversation outside, not entirely sold on whether or not they could trust the two strangers. Vazquez stepped out next, holding a pistol, while Luke assisted an agonized Albert with Samantha in tow.

  “Can you walk?” Metzger asked Albert, who immediately shook his head negatively.

  “You’re going to have to leave me.”

  “I’m not leaving you,” Metzger said, receiving a nod of appreciation from Luke. “There’s a truck on the road not far from here. We can use it to take you up to the house.”

  Albert winced, though not from the pain and fever.

  “We all know I’m not going to make it,” he stated flatly. “You all need to get moving and just leave me behind.”

  “No,” Metzger said defiantly. “I’m taking Mr. Sutton with me and we’re getting that truck. None of us are in any condition to keep moving without some rest anyway.”

  He leaned in next to Jillian.

  “If I’m not back safely with this guy in five minutes, do whatever it takes to keep everyone safe.”

  Jillian nodded.

  Metzger looked to Sutton next.

  “If you’re serious about wanting to help, grab your gun. I have a feeling we’ll need it.”

  “Now you’re talking,” Sutton said, scooping the AR-15 from the ground before following Metzger toward the road. He looked back at the pit bull, which looked eager to follow, despite his owner pointing at him. “Stay, Buster.”

  Giving the slightest of whimpers, the dog obeyed, simply heeling beside Gracine.

  Once Metzger and Sutton were near the edge of the field, and closer to the road, Metzger finally spoke again.

  “Why?”

  “Why what?”

  “Why would you want to help us? We don’t have extra supplies, or food, and our group is injured as fuck.”

  Sutton simply looked at him with furrowed eyebrows, as though the question struck him as preposterous.

  “Because it’s the decent thing to do. What on earth have you seen that’s got you this paranoid?”

  “That’s a longer story than we have time for.”

  Metzger put a hand on the fence, clearing it like a gymnast when he swung both legs over, while Sutton gingerly threw one leg over and planted it before virtually dragging his other leg across the top of the wooden fence.

  “Are you and Gracine a thing?” Metzger inquired as they neared the two abandoned vehicles he’d already seen once.

  “No,” Sutton scoffed. “She seems nice, but we literally just met a few days ago in the last town.”

  “Where exactly is here anyway?” Metzger asked as he went straight for the truck, drawing interest from the zombie inside once again.

  Sutton popped open the door of the truck, pulling a knife from a sheath along his waist. Still confined by a seatbelt, the zombie couldn’t mount much of an attack as Sutton clutched it by the hair before swiftly stabbing it in the head.

  “You’re in the middle of nowhere, so to speak. This is Culpeper County, Virginia, and the closest settlement is an unincorporated town called Richardsville. Mostly family houses, some farms and such. The undead population is pretty low by default, so it seemed like a good place for me to hang out and loot for a while.”

  After Sutton undid the seatbelt, he yanked the zombie from inside the truck, throwing it unceremoniously on the ground. He assumed the driver’s seat as Metzger went around and hopped into the passenger’s side.

  “No family?” he inquired of Sutton.

  “None at the moment,” the man answered in such an ambiguous, neutral tone that Metzger couldn’t rule him out as a serial killer.

  He seriously doubted Sutton was unlike most survivors who lost their families to a terrible plague and its even deadlier aftermath, but he wanted to know more about the man before trusting him.
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br />   Pushing the family issue didn’t seem like a good topic of conversation at the moment, however.

  “Where the hell were you guys trying to fly to anyway?” Sutton asked as he plowed through the nearby wooden fence, heading for the Cessna. “And why did you crash?”

  “I’m not sure I can answer the second question, except to say an engine blew. As for the first, we’re trying to reach the Navy base in Norfolk.”

  Sutton shot another questioning stare.

  “That’s about the last place I’d go.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “Sure there’s strength in numbers, but that place is going to run out of supplies, and it’s only a matter of time before soldiers ditch orders and logic to protect their families. And I’m not so sure they won’t shoot strangers on sight, maybe thinking they’re the dead heads.”

  “Yeah, well I have my reasons,” Metzger said with more resolve than he suddenly felt.

  His brother was simply a spoke in a much larger wheel known as the United States Navy. He couldn’t control everything, and knowing Bryce, he would follow chain of command until the very end. For the first time since the day everything fell apart, Metzger questioned his blind ambition when it came to finding his family. He could very well walk up to the fence surrounding the military installation and get shot by someone believing he was a looter or an undead walker. Considering he hadn’t heard from Bryce in well over a week, he contemplated his brother’s health, or whether the Ross even made it to the East Coast.

  When Sutton pulled beside the downed plane, Metzger climbed out to assist Albert into the truck bed. Everyone else, including Buster, jumped into the back, carrying minimal gear with them from the plane. Metzger decided to ride up front with Sutton to the farmhouse due to the crowded truck bed. Definitely one of the bumpiest rides taken during his life, Metzger felt sorrier for Albert who probably felt like a towel inside a commercial dryer.