Dead World (Book 1): Dead Come Home

by Nathan Brown

  This boy must be loony with shock.

  “Look, kid. You’ve gotta listen to me. You’re hurt real bad, and I may have just made it a lot worse. You’ve got a hand off, and I think I just broke your other arm. Coming at me like this is not gonna make things any better, so just sit the fuck down and let me take care of you before you bleed out. You’re going into shock, and I know you must be scared, but attacking me is not helping.”

  Just then, Mike heard the voice of his good friend Hansel Hanse ring out in his head.

  I’m telling ya, Mikey. Somethin’ out there is turning people wacky. I’m not sayin’ it’s zombies. What I am sayin’ is that the shit is feelin’ really fuckin’ familiar.

  The boy would not be dissuaded, and he lunged at Mike again. This time he gave his attacker a knife-hand strike straight to the throat. It didn’t even faze him.

  What the hell? I’ve seen guys who were drunk as piss drop to the floor from that! Okay …. Time for the last resort.

  The “last resort” Mike spoke of was a kick in the nuts … toe first. He buried the steel toe of his hiking boot square into the kid’s crotch. The boy didn’t even seem to notice. Instead, he took the opportunity to grab onto Mike’s leg. He dropped to his knees and opened his mouth as though about to bite down. Mike grabbed a fistful of the young man’s hair with his right hand and snatched his head back. He placed his left palm tight against the bottom of the chin, forcing the boy’s mouth shut as he dragged him up. The boy let go of the leg.

  That’s when he saw the young man’s eyes.

  They were milky … bloodshot … unevenly dilated. Mike had seen those eyes before, on more occasions than he ever cared to remember. He’d seen those eyes on corpses … on the dead. He held the head secure and the boy began to flail his arms, still trying to get hold of Mike.

  Only one thing left to do. Forgive me, God. I said never again … but you leave me no choice.

  “Sorry kid,” Mike said with a very sincere tone of apology. “Time to send you home.”

  Mike pulled down hard on the fistful of hair he had in his right hand and shoved his left palm skyward. The muscles in the boy’s neck resisted the extreme pressure for only a moment before the vertebrae finally gave way with a crunch-and-snap. The young man’s entire frame went limp. Mike released the now awkwardly turned head and the body hit the ground … lifeless.

  “Fuck … FUCK!” Mike yelled out, tears welling up in his eyes as he kicked the lifeless corpse and turned his eyes to the heavens. “You sonuvabitch! I said never again! NEVER! And now look what you’ve done! When will it be enough?! Now?! Is it enough now?”

  Mike sat down hard, slumping over as his tears fell to the ground.

  “You fucking sonuvabitch! I said I didn’t want to do this anymore! I was supposed to find peace! HOW CAN I FIND PEACE NOW?!”

  Mike wiped the tears from his eyes, got to his feet, and went back to the vehicle. He looked over at the bag in the passenger seat, hesitating briefly before pulling the zipper open. Inside he found a .44 Magnum Desert Eagle with 3 full clips, two emergency traffic flares, a road atlas, Maglight, and cell phone. He flipped the phone open and the screen came to light, saying that there was one unanswered text message. He pushed view and the message came up.

  Now you got a cell phone. Just don’t forget to fucking use it. See you at my place soon enough. –HH.

  “All this shit,” Mike chuckled, sniffling, as he hit the reply button. “And he’s still a fuckin’ smartass.” He typed in his reply message.

  Thanks for the wheels, smartass. Ma and I will see you soon. Try not to get dead. Also … DB at UMAS … mea culpa … send fixer if able.

  Hanse knew enough of Mike’s personal code language to understand the last bit—“Also … Dead Body at Unmanned Airstrip ... and I killed him … so send someone to deal with the body if you can.”

  * * *

  Decatur was all flashing lights. Joseph stopped on the shoulder of 380 about a quarter a mile before the exit for Highway 287. He opened the door and stood up to get a little better view. Highway patrol and fire department vehicles and ambulances had blocked off all four lanes of traffic just south of the on ramp from 380. Nothing was going to get past the six-car pile-up they were working on anytime soon.

  From the looks of things, a tractor-trailer tried to stop when somebody cut it off. The truck jack-knifed and a car or three slammed into the broad side of the trailer. Somehow or another one of the cars crossed the median into southbound traffic. A car and a small Nisan pickup plowed into the black car, reducing it to a cracker sized hunk of mangled metal.

  Paramedics worked desperately to save the people in the recognizable cars in the southbound lanes. Highway Patrol officers draped sheets over the occupants of the two cars in the North bound and the cube that was once a car. The truck driver was sitting up on a gurney waiting to go to the hospital for a routine check.

  Joseph got back into his car and strapped himself in. Most of the officers weren’t looking in Joseph’s direction. The accident was actually about 20 yards south of where 380 joined up with 287. Joseph dropped the car into gear. He eased up the sharp triple-curved exit from 380, pointed his car north, and gunned it.

  The officers looked up but had no interest in attempting to chase Joseph. Joseph watched them go back to working the accident in his rearview mirror. There was nothing but a straight shot between him and Wichita Falls, where he would have to come up with a new plan. He didn’t really have enough money for a hotel and he didn’t know anyone in Wichita Falls, but it would give him half a chance to assess the situation.

  Christ, I hope I didn’t panic over nothing. Fuck, I killed Ryan.

  * * *

  An ache of concern swelled in Mike’s chest with increasing intensity. With every passing moment, the minor worry for Ma’s safety with which he’d left DFW Airport had now grown into a blinding panic to get to her. The red tinge of blood on Mike’s olive green T-shirt constantly reminded him of those dead eyes, those gnashing teeth, and that bloody stump of an arm.

  My god, I can’t believe I didn’t see it at first! His hand was torn completely off … and it wasn’t even spurting blood!

  This had led him to consider his earlier conversation with Hanse.

  … we got drunk on cheap beer and about a gallon of Cuervo and watched all those zombie movies. They were made by some guy that G-Love just couldn’t shut the fuck up about … do you remember?

  Yeah … George Romero.

  This brought to mind something that Ma had said to him.

  … these two odd fellows showed up out back a couple of hours ago. I’ve been wonderin’ if they’re from the hospital because the two of ‘ems just been standin’ out there like a couple half-wits for quite a while now.

  “Ma … please be all right,” Mike whispered to the steering wheel.

  Traffic had not been light, and Mike was certain he’d managed to violate just about every traffic law in existence by now. He ran several stop signs in Bowie, had failed to yield, passed a number of cars on the right, accidentally dinged the rear of a VW Bug, left the scene of that accident, and had driven about 90 to 100 miles an hour the entire time. He honestly wondered if there wasn’t a warrant out for his arrest by now.

  Wouldn’t surprise me. But I’m not stopping for anything or anyone until I know Ma is safe. That includes cops.

  The cell phone wailed and vibrated, shaking around in its place in the cup holder like a giant, electronic Mexican jumping bean. Mike reached for it and flipped the thing open.

  “Hello?”

  “So I hear you didn’t listen to me … again,” a familiar voice said.

  “Bennett?”

  “You better fuckin’ believe it. Hanse sent me the number. Said he had to give you a cell phone because you showed up at DFW without one, you thick-headed moron!”

  “Yeah …”

  “You okay?”

  “Not sure,” Mike said, forcing a chuckle. “Some guy tried to dance wit
h me at the strip. I had to make him stop.”

  “Did you bring the music?”

  “No … it was a live band.”

  Both men knew better than to speak literally of certain things over an unsecured cell phone connection. Mike was now communicating in Bennett’s personal code language. The “music” Bennett spoke of meant “weapon,” and the “live band” Mike mentioned told Bennett that he had not used one.

  “Were there any spectators?”

  “Just the crickets,” Mike said, swerving haphazardly around a slower moving car.

  “Well, I’ll just let Hanse know that you need a choreographer.”

  “Already done.”

  “Good man … how’s your Ma?”

  “Not sure … I’m a few minutes away.”

  “So … are you planning on watching the live band at Ma’s, or do you have some music?”

  “Hanse left me a CD.” By which he meant a handgun.

  “How ‘bout an LP?” Rifle.

  “Got a few at Ma’s. Nothing too high tempo, but those old tunes can still get people moving.”

  “Good,” Bennett let out a sigh. Mike knew what that sigh meant … Bennett was about to give him some bad news.

  “What is it?”

  “It’s Fish-man.”

  “Did he not make the drop Hanse set up?”

  “No … he made it. But the chopper went down just outside of Reno.”

  “What? How?”

  “That’s the weird part,” Bennett said with a tone of disbelief. “I interviewed one of the air traffic guys who received the chopper’s mayday. He said it sounded like the pilot was being attacked.”

  “Attacked by who?”

  “Well, Fish was the only passenger.”

  “Why would Fish attack the pilot who just pulled him out of a shit-storm?”

  “That’s what I’ve been trying to figure out. But I should tell you that I got an all-points-intel bulletin that said to avoid contact with anyone who looks like they may have teeth marks or bites.”

  “What was the source?”

  “CDC. Looks like a protocol to stop an infection from spreading.”

  “Any specifics?”

  “None,” Bennett sighed again. “But what if this infection is what’s making people crazy?”

  “The guy who danced with me at the airstrip didn’t have his right hand. I thought it might have been an accident. But now that you mention it, the thing could have been gnawed off by something.”

  “Okay, tough guy,” Bennett suddenly grunted, as though he were in pain. “I don’t have much time so listen up.”

  “Shoot.”

  “These things won’t go down without a head or spinal shot.”

  “How do you know?”

  “For fuck’s sake!! Would you, for once in your goddamn life, just shut the fuck up and do what I fuckin’ tell you?” Bennett yelled. “I just know. Get to your Ma and … ah, fuck … get your ass headed west. All the places east of you are gonna be death traps.”

  “Got it … west. Hanse is out that way, anyhow.”

  “Okay, good, uuurrrr.”

  “Bennett? What the fuck’s wrong with you?”

  “One got a chuck of me when I was out in Reno,” Bennett said. “Tried to head back to Langley, but I heard they’ve started shooting anyone who approaches on sight a few hours ago.”

  “Where are you now?”

  “Headin’ for a fixer I got out in Tahoe. Used to be a plastic surgeon. Now he just does patch jobs for bad men and guys like us.”

  “So just bad men, then, is what you’re telling me?” Mike joked. Bennett laughed hard, which turned to a choked and hacking cough.

  “Looks like you’re on your own this time, kimosabe.”

  “You’re gonna be fine,” Mike said, as much for his benefit as for Bennett’s.

  “Fuckin’ liar,” Bennett grunted.

  “If that fixer doesn’t work out … or once you get patched up … just head for Hanse’s and we’ll get you sorted out.”

  “FUCK! Did you listen to a thing I just told you? I’m bit, you dense prick. You stay the hell away from me and anyone else that’s been bitten. If you can’t get clear, use whatever you got and bash their heads in … even if it’s me.”

  “But what if there’s a cu …”

  Click …

  Bennett was gone. Mike tried redial only to find his number was now blocked. Two minutes later, his phone announced that he had a text message. It was Bennett.

  Last thing kimosabe … if ur Ma bit … don’t waste hope. just do right thing. U saw what happens to 1’s who R bit. Happy trails ya crazy fuckin cowboy.

  That was it. Though Mike didn’t want to acknowledge it, this would be the last thing his old friend would ever say to him.

  Goddamnit, Bennett you fuckin’ bayou-backwoods bastard. You didn’t even give me a chance to say goodbye.

  Mike made a sharp right turn off of Highway 79 just in time to see a car from one of the side roads pass in front of him and T-bone an SUV that was speeding at him from the other direction. Mike braked, yanked the steering wheel and fishtailed into a right turn. He nailed the gas and burned rubber down Donna Road until he came to the left turn onto Victoria Street at the end. He slowed down, not wanting to worry Ma. For all he knew, she was fine, and he didn’t want to alarm her any more than necessary. He kept it at 30 mph down Victoria and coasted into the gravel drive before coming to a stop under the aluminum carport.

  Dead Come Home

  Chapter 4

  The Lead Singer of REM Was Right

  Lily rolled her emerald green eyes, annoyed at the noise that invaded her apartment … again. She wasn’t sure if the sound coming from the other side of the wall was a crap-tacular “shoot-’em-up” movie or if that was just what passed for rap music these days. Whatever it was, it was destroying her concentration. The muffled sound of rumbling bass assaulted her ears, even through the ear buds of her iPod. She rolled her eyes yet again and let out a sigh.

  Oh, well. Lily had been looking for an excuse to leave the apartment all day, anyway. She collected her stack of marbled composition notebooks and left. The sun was actually out for once … for a while, at least. In the Pacific Northwest, Lily had quickly learned, the sun never stuck around for long.

  Maybe I’ll try that new coffee place a few blocks down.

  Lily stepped into the coffee shop and immediately knew it wasn’t going to be a good place for her to try to write. This afternoon, they appeared to be hosting some kind of open mic event. She entered just in time to witness a crowd of “arty-fartsy” types clapping dutifully for a young man as he finished playing some mediocre guitar piece. To avoid seeming overly rude by stepping in and leaving before the door had a chance to swing closed, she stopped at the coffee bar and ordered an overpriced Cappuccino … to go.

  Hot cup in hand, Lily stormed back to her small Nissan truck. She opened the door and slung her notebooks through. She was going to need quiet and isolation if she was going to give birth to the brainchild that had been gestating in her imagination for weeks, and was finally ready to hit paper. So far, everywhere she went felt as though they were only slightly quieter than Las Vegas before 3 a.m.

  The only other place she could think to go was out of the way, off the beaten trail, and lacked most of the amenities of home … like food and a toilet. There was an old logging mill about 30 minutes out of town. The view may have been lacking in aesthetic value, but at least it was quiet. In fact, even the wildlife in the surrounding woods remained relatively silent around the old mill.

  On her way out of town, Lily stopped by her apartment and grabbed some extra clothes and a sleeping bag, along with some simple foodstuffs such as granola bars and fruit in zip-seal bags. She made one more stop at a gas station on her way out of town, where she picked up a six-pack of water bottles and an eight pack of D-cell batteries for her fading flashlight.

  Lily looked at the clock on her cell phone — 3:43 p.m. Good
… she still had about three hours of daylight left. The lack of daylight wouldn’t be a problem. After all, she still had her flashlight.

  She turned on the car radio out of habit, creating a blanket background to fill the road silence and help keep her mental gears turning. She was so absorbed keeping lyrics and music in her head flowing smoothly until she could get to the mill and write it all down that she failed to notice the radio hadn’t been playing music for nearly ten minutes.

  The FAA and Department of Homeland Security have grounded all flight traffic in U.S. Airspace. All inbound flights are being diverted away. Immediately after this announcement, the Joint Chiefs of Staff, under a presidential decree, ordered the military to shoot down all violating aircraft that are not already in an airport holding pattern. This news comes after a number of commercial flights began to report that individuals onboard were attacking passengers and crew after suffering what appear to have been psychotic episodes …