Resurrection: A Zombie Novel

by Michael J. Totten

  He huffed, lay on his back, willed himself to get tired, and failed. He could not switch his brain off. As usual when he could not switch his brain off, he thought about Holly.

  He’d been married once. Met his future wife at a trendy café named Spinoza’s in Seattle’s Ballard neighborhood. It was the kind of place Parker always hated, not only because he didn’t fit in there but because it attracted the kinds of people he wished never colonized his neighborhood to begin with—the young, the hip, the beautiful, and the moneyed. Ballard used to be an honest and slightly gritty place for men who worked the docks, the ship locks, and who made things with their hands. It was never intended for soft people who lived in undeserved luxury and made boatloads of cash clicking away on their laptops.

  The only reason he went into Spinoza’s that day at all was because he needed the bathroom. But when he saw a young woman sitting there by herself with her newspaper and a latte, he couldn’t help himself. He decided to order one too and see if he could gin up the nerve to take the empty table next to her.

  There was something about her, though he couldn’t quite figure out what it was. Not even after they married could he figure out what it was. She was attractive, sure, but not the most attractive he’d ever seen. She seemed friendly and approachable enough, though he had no idea why he would think that since she was just sitting there reading the paper. There was just something … gravitational about her, like she’d been engineered just for him.

  He ordered awkwardly at the counter. He’d never had a latte, a cappuccino, or an Americano. He didn’t even know what they were. But he couldn’t just say “I’ll have a coffee.” They didn’t have regular coffee in those kinds of places.

  The pretty woman with the newspaper sat far enough from the counter that she couldn’t hear him fumble his order, and thank heaven for that or he wouldn’t have sat next to her. She looked so peaceful and content, so at ease in the world as she flipped strands of her brown hair over her ear.

  He didn’t intend to hit on her or ask her out for a date. He just wanted to enjoy the pleasure of her attention even if it only lasted a couple of seconds.

  She sat by herself at a table for two. He sat next to her at another table for two and placed his drink in front of him. It looked like a dessert. He expected it to taste like one too, like a coffee meringue pie or something. Normally he drank plain old coffee, black, but the creamy and bitter whipped goodness in his mug, despite being foofy and gay, was outstanding. Wow, he thought. This exists?

  “This coffee is extraordinary,” he said.

  “Isn’t it?” the woman next to him said. The corners of her eyes crinkled up when she smiled over her mug.

  God, Parker thought. I love this woman. He didn’t know why. He just did.

  Her name was Holly and she was a regular at Spinoza’s. She had gone to school with the café owners. He told her he was new to fancy coffee and she seemed delighted to explain all the options.

  They were so very different, but they were married in less than a year.

  He built cabinets for a living. She worked in an office downtown as a paralegal. His friends were working class. Hers were professional. He loved the outdoors. She enjoyed fancy meals out. He drank beer. She liked red wine. Once in a while he embarrassed her when they went out with her friends, and he knew he seemed a little rough around the edges in mixed company, but she loved him and he couldn’t imagine living without her. She had a soft and gentle soul and seemed to appreciate his brusque masculine qualities—she was genetically hard-wired to do so, after all—until one day he hit her.

  He didn’t mean to. Really, he didn’t. It just happened. They were arguing about money, which was a stupid because they both made plenty. He wanted a motorcycle and could afford it. She wanted to spend the money on granite kitchen counters instead.

  She might have talked him into it, too, but instead she said she was tired of being a slave to his lower-class lifestyle.

  He’d never hit anybody before. He looked like the type of guy who had been in a couple of fights, but he hadn’t.

  He didn’t hit her too hard. It was really more like a slap. He didn’t strike her with a closed fist, didn’t break any bones, didn’t make her bleed, didn’t even leave a mark that lasted more than five minutes. But he did strike her cheek, and he’d never forget the sound or the look on her face when he did it.

  Her entire life shattered in one instant.

  She’d never forgive him, not in her heart, and he knew it.

  He could not have been sorrier. That slap hurt him more than it hurt her. It sounded ludicrous when he said so, and she screamed that it was the most outrageous thing she ever heard, but it was true. It changed him as a person. It sentenced him to be a different kind of man for the rest of his life, the kind of man who hit women. A domestic abuser. A wife-beater. He never did it again, nor would he ever—no, really, he wouldn’t—but he would spend the rest of his days as a man who had once smacked a woman.

  Eventually she could look at him again, and a little while later she could talk to him again, and eventually she even had sex with him one last time, but it ended in tears, and at that moment he knew it was over. She never slept with him again. Never even hugged him again. She left a few months later and said she was sorry but she wouldn’t be back. She cried when she left and she even said that she’d miss him, but she was true to her word. She never came back.

  That was two years ago. Parker thought about her every day since. After the plague swept the world, he worried about her so hard he vomited.

  What happened to her? Was she alive? Did she get bitten? Was a distorted version of her out there somewhere, diseased and warped beyond recognition? What would he do if she came at him on the street baring her teeth? Would he shoot her? Would he smash in her skull with a crowbar?

  Would he smash in her face if he had to?

  * * *

  Kyle was stuck. He didn’t regret anything, didn’t feel like he’d done anything wrong, but at the same time Parker did have a point. Kyle had to admit it. If he’d taken out Roland when he had the chance, they would not be locked up. There was no way Lane could subdue everyone if both his cohorts were dead and Kyle had Bobby’s gun.

  Some of those things would likely have heard the gunshot. Kyle and his crew might have to barricade themselves in the store or flee in the truck. But at least they’d be free of Lane.

  But then Parker or Hughes or Annie—Annie!—would blame him for bringing those things down on their heads when he knew perfectly well that there were more in the area now due to the explosion down the street. Sure, they could flee in the truck, but they couldn’t take the truck all the way to Olympia. The roads were all snarled. So where would they go? Just drive a few miles, get out and walk, and hope for the best?

  So yeah, Parker was right in a way, but at the same time, he wasn’t. Kyle didn’t actually know what he should have done or what he should do next.

  He wasn’t one for confrontation and never had been, not even when he was picked on in school. It’s not like he ever had to fight back. Only two other kids ever bothered him much. Kyle wasn’t an outcast, but almost everybody got picked on by somebody in school.

  A kid named Tim was the first. Tim wasn’t a bully. He wasn’t even all that big or intimidating. Kyle never did figure out why, but Tim just wanted to fight somebody, and he apparently picked Kyle because Kyle didn’t look threatening. Kyle had no fight in him at all and that came across.

  So Tim just walked up to him one day between classes out in the hall and punched him in the shoulder. Not hard enough to get himself suspended for assault or for fighting, but hard enough to piss off Kyle and get his attention.

  “Meet me behind the gym,” Tim said and narrowed his eyes, “after school’s out today.”

  Kyle rubbed his shoulder. It didn’t hurt all that bad. The rubbing was an instinctive response. Kyle realized it made him look weak, so he stopped.

  “What for?” Kyle said.

>   “So I can kick your ass.”

  Tim was serious. Kyle could tell. Kyle was baffled. And of course he didn’t show behind the gym.

  The next day Tim approached Kyle again in the hallway between classes, but this time he didn’t start swinging. “So, you’re afraid to fight me, eh?”

  Kyle sized Tim up. He wasn’t afraid. He just didn’t see the point in fighting for no reason.

  “I’m not afraid.” He sounded anything but convincing to even himself, but the truth was that he really wasn’t afraid. “It’s just stupid.”

  “You’re afraid,” Tim said in a mock little-kid voice. “Kyle’s afwaid.” Tim laughed and sauntered off, no doubt feeling terrific about himself. And he never bothered Kyle again.

  That, Kyle decided, was how you handled a bully. Don’t let him rile you up. Don’t fight if it’s not strictly necessary. The thirteen-year-old version of Parker, Kyle was certain, would have fought Tim. Both would have been hurt and suspended. What, exactly, would have been accomplished?

  Kyle wondered what had happened to Tim. Did he grow up to become a well-adjusted adult? Or did he beat his wife and kids? What if he went to jail? What if Tim was in jail right now, protected from those things by steel bars but starving to death because he couldn’t escape to find food?

  Two years later another kid picked a fight with Kyle for no reason, only this time the result was quite different.

  It was Kyle’s sophomore year in high school. The kid’s name was Brady. He wasn’t anything special, not at all the kind of kid you’d think was a bully if you only got a quick look at him. But for whatever reason, he wanted to get scrappy with Kyle.

  It all came to a head when the two boys found themselves in shop class together. Brady made one taunt too many, and though Kyle could no longer remember what Brady said, he wouldn’t forget what happened next. Brady was hectoring Kyle from the next work table, and Kyle stood up from his bench with a wrench in his hand and took two steps forward.

  Brady looked terrified, as if Kyle were gearing up to break open his skull.

  The shop teacher, Mr. Horton, heard the commotion and saw what was happening. “Break it up right now or you’re both suspended!”

  The only reason Kyle stood up with a wrench in his hand is because the wrench was already in his hand when he stood up. He wasn’t going to do anything with it.

  Brady never bothered Kyle again. The following year, junior year in high school for both of them, the two even became sort of friends. Brady had mellowed, and they found themselves in the hallway talking about computer stuff once in a while. Brady, Kyle figured, might have turned out okay, at least until the world ended.

  So maybe, Kyle thought, if he stood up for himself a little, he and Lane could become friends after Kyle whisked him safely away.

  * * *

  Lane sat on the floor and leaned against the boarded-up door while Roland slept at his feet. He held his pistol in his right hand and a flashlight in the other. Anyone who approached in the dark would be shot.

  Things were no good now that Bobby was gone. No, they were not good at all. Something different had to happen and fast. He’d have a man-to-man talk with Hughes. He’d offer Hughes a job as one of his wingmen, possibly even outranking Roland.

  And he’d need to get rid of Parker. Tomorrow.

  He heard two sounds. Roland’s deep breathing. And Annie as she thrashed about in her sleep.

  * * *

  Annie dreamed that she had been bitten. She dreamed that she went into some kind of coma. And she dreamed that she came out of that coma in some kind of rage.

  She chased people and screamed her throat out while chasing them. She chased them out of a camp and into a forest.

  She caught someone who looked like a teenager and sank her teeth into his back. Her prey screamed, but it was too late for her prey. She’d gotten it and now it was hers. She straddled it and placed her hands on its shoulders and shoved its head into the ground and onto some rocks. The pathetic thing whimpered. Then she leaned forward and bit into its neck while it writhed and wriggled and screamed.

  Others joined in. Predators like her. Hungry hungry predators. Predators who hated the weak who were responsible for their hunger. Predators that ripped the flesh from the prey she’d caught with their teeth.

  She woke screaming.

  * * *

  Lane leaned forward when he heard Annie screaming and placed his finger inside the trigger guard.

  * * *

  Kyle snapped out of his half-asleep state when he heard somebody screaming. It sounded like Annie.

  * * *

  Hughes twitched awake and jumped to his feet when he heard a girl screaming. Were they under attack? Shit, where was his shotgun?

  * * *

  Parker woke to the sound of somebody screaming. The hell’s going on now?

  He couldn’t see anything. That bastard Lane had locked him up in the cooler.

  Parker heard scrambling next to him. Kyle shouted and banged on the metal door with the flat of his hand. “Annie!”

  Annie seemed like a sweet kid, but good grief. What a head case. And Kyle was falling for her like the putz he was. Why couldn’t he see that she was trouble?

  Annie stopped screaming as abruptly as she had started. Parker heard Carol’s faint voice from the other side of the door, though he couldn’t quite make out what she said.

  “Girl just had a bad dream,” Hughes said. “Shit. And I was deep asleep too. Won’t be again for at least another hour after all that.”

  “Annie, are you okay?” Kyle said through the door.

  “I’m fine,” she said. “I just had a—really bad dream. Sorry everybody.”

  Parker tried to get back to sleep, but instead he thought about jabbing his thumbs in Lane’s eye sockets.

  * * *

  Annie had the dream again, only this time she was in a city. A hungry hungry predator in a city. A city empty of food. Empty of prey. Her prey that was her food. Her cattle run wild.

  She found a house. Sound inside. Light inside. Sound and light meant prey and food and more food. One of her prey opened the door. Her prey stepped outside. Her food stepped outside. She screamed, alerting the others, and ran and pounced and bit it and chewed.

  Warm blood in her mouth, on her chin, on her chest.

  Yelling inside the house. Those things, her food, were yelling at her from inside the house. She looked up, snarled, and saw the face of one of those things.

  She knew that face.

  Lane.

  This time when Annie woke she could not be consoled.

  * * *

  Roland stood watch at the gate, but Lane still couldn’t sleep when it was his turn. Not after that girl woke up screaming again. The other woman, Carol, eventually calmed her down, but Annie’s screams must have been heard from ten blocks away in every direction.

  The boarded-up door wasn’t really a gate, but Lane thought of it as one anyway. It functioned as a gate—a gate to his castle and everyone else’s prison.

  A breach from either direction would mean death and destruction.

  When he saw the faint light of dawn breaking, when just the tiniest hint of blue washed over the store and onto the beverage rack in the back, he knew he was in trouble. He could not be effective without any sleep. One more night like this and he would be finished. He needed Bobby, but Bobby was gone.

  Something different needed to happen, and it needed to happen today. He had to flip Hughes and kill Parker. And if that didn’t work, he would have to kill everybody but Roland and Kyle.

  Roland was loyal. Kyle knew how to sail. And Kyle will do what he’s told.

  * * *

  Nobody said a word about Annie’s nightmares in the morning. Thank goodness for small mercies, she thought, because she did not want to talk about it, not even with Kyle.

  She was eating a breakfast of blueberry granola bars and Rice Krispies sans milk when she saw Lane stride over to the walk-in cooler where he had locked
up the men. He pounded on the door and then opened it.

  Parker was the first to emerge. “Everybody sleep all right?” he said sarcastically when he came out.

  Nobody replied.

  She cleaned up her breakfast area and slipped past the men and into the women’s room. A shower would be nice. She’d crawl over a pile of corpses for fresh clothes from a warm dryer, but a cold scrub-down in front of the sink would have to do.

  She opened the tap. Hardly any water came out. The system had finally broken.

  Everything was broken. Apparently including her mind.

  Her hands shook as she looked around for something to stop up the sink with, but there was nothing. Only a thin trickle of water came out of the faucet.

  She took off her shirt and rubbed meager amounts of cold water under her arms. This was it, she thought. The last time she’d get to bathe with water out of a pipe. Bottled water had to be conserved for drinking. At least there were plenty of deodorant sticks in the hygiene aisle.

  More cold water went onto her stomach, her breasts, her forearms, her neck, and her shoulders. With her fingertips she felt that scab again on her back. She’d noticed it yesterday but hadn’t paid it much mind. She’d been far more interested in scrubbing the blood and gore out of her hair. But now that she was more or less clean and intact, the scab was more noticeable. And more irritating.

  She turned halfway around and craned her neck as far as it would go so she could see her back in the mirror.

  She screamed in shock and alarm when she saw that the wound was a perfectly shaped human-sized bite mark.

  Those dreams she had weren’t nightmares.