Apoc Series (Vol. 1): Whispers of the Apoc [Tales From The Zombie Apocalypse]

by Wilsey, Martin (Editor)

  In the months that passed, Mara became adept at capturing and harvesting zombies, just as Indian snake charmers know how to handle cobras safely.

  ***

  “Mommy, will you keep me safe?”

  Dark circles hung like nesting bats beneath Skylar’s eyes. Her six-year-old daughter sat on their couch with her knees beneath her chin, hands clasped protectively across her shins.

  “Of course I will, honey.” Mara took inventory of their jugs of filtered water and cans of food. She thought they had enough vegetables, but the shortage of fruit concerned her. If they had to stay locked down for longer than two or three weeks...

  “What about Daddy?”

  “What, honey?” She had heard her daughter’s question but automatically stalled.

  “Where is Daddy? Did something bad happen to him?”

  As it turned out, Keith had been one of the first people to encounter, in person, the city’s earliest zombies. After ensuring that she and Skylar were safe in the house, he’d driven to the television station. He and his assigned reporter had driven to the shipyards in a station van. They’d gotten a better camera shot than their competitors but had paid for it with their lives.

  “Yes, but it’s going to be okay because he’s with Jesus now.”

  “In Heaven?” Skylar picked at a hangnail. Mara looked closer and realized her daughter had bitten all her nails to the quick.

  “That’s right.”

  “Why can’t Jesus come down here and help us? Everything will be all right in Heaven while he’s gone.”

  “He’ll be around when you need him most,” Mara lied. “As long as you believe.”

  ***

  The man standing just inside her door acted skittish and overcompensated by running his mouth.

  “Have you ever tried your own stuff? You must have. It’s the best—better than anything.”

  Mara didn’t reply. Instead she gave her customer what she hoped passed for a warm smile. They had completed their transaction: a Rolex for her and something that resembled a dead night crawler cut into pieces and stored in a plastic sandwich bag for him. Now she wanted him gone. He stank of flop sweat and unwashed feet.

  The man dragged one hand through his greasy hair and giggled, chirpy and porpoise-like. Mara wondered how much longer before he cracked. Suicides now outnumbered confirmed zombie kills, according to the crackly AM radio broadcasts she picked up during her all-too-frequent sleepless nights.

  “I tried a lot of stuff in the old days.” The man giggled again. It was a sound tinged with madness and sorrow. “I made a lot of money in the stock market and really took advantage, y’know? Coke, mushrooms, heroin, even mescaline; but this stuff beats it all. It’s mind-blowing, like having an orgy up in Heaven with a bunch of hot angels.”

  Mara mumbled her vague assent. She had never tried her wares, but had heard similar colorful analogies. One professorial man had explained, “It is like introducing absinthe directly into the bloodstream, yet there is no hangover whatsoever, only a feeling of disappointment when the euphoria fades.” A barefoot, dreadlocked woman had confided, “It’s pure bliss. After I eat one of your ’shrooms, I feel like my brain is drizzled with THC gravy.” Mara mentally filed these descriptions, and even used them on occasion with prospective customers. She had to admit “like an orgy with angels” had a certain allure to it.

  “It’s an escape from the hell this world has become,” the former stockbroker said. He raked his fingers through his hair again. Mara wondered how soon he would start balding if the gesture became a habit. Not that it mattered; she didn’t think he’d tough it out much longer. Most of her customers seemed to be that way. Turning to drugs to escape the horrors of the real world was only a temporary coping method. She guessed most of them either ran afoul of zombies, or took their own lives, swallowed up in tar pits of hopelessness and despair.

  “What is it exactly?” The man’s eyes glittered. “Shrooms, right? But laced with something.”

  Mara did not intend to give her secret away. “You deserve a break. You need this,” she urged. “You have a chance to soar up above this rotten world for a while.”

  The man gave her a look of surprise. “Yes… yes, I do.” He turned toward the door. Now that he’d been reminded of the gift in his hands, he seemed anxious to be gone, and for that Mara felt thankful. What would she have said if he had pressed her? She knew someday she would have to defend her secret. She kept a loaded handgun among other precautions against this eventuality.

  “Make sure you go somewhere safe.”

  “Of course. Always.” He left her apartment at a brisk walk and Mara chained and barred the door behind him. The warning had become her standard disclaimer. Mara concluded that some of her customers had died while taking the drug based on the uncomfortable fact that none of her customers returned more than twice despite their praise. She did not think it possible to overdose, but surmised the out-of-body experiences left users in such a helpless state that zombies sometimes attacked and killed them without their ever being aware of impending danger.

  ***

  Zombies craved brains. So did the living.

  After making this discovery, Mara had managed to live well—at least by modern standards. The world had changed. Though money had become obsolete, many still clung to it, stubbornly waiting for the day when things would go back to normal. Mara knew that day would never come.

  She played all sides. She found this to be the best way to survive. Mara traded for goods and services, and kept herself on friendly terms with all factions, yet insulated herself against potential attack.

  Life was good but there was so much death. Mara, always a realist, knew that death was inevitable, as was suffering, hardship, pain, and grief.

  She grieved the deaths of her husband and daughter. She still grieved the deaths of her parents, though they had passed on long before the zombie outbreaks.

  However, she did not grieve the deaths of the others. The ones she killed were necessary for her own survival. Death was a bitter pill, one she swallowed out of necessity every day.

  Only nagging memories of her daughter truly troubled her. She envisioned Skylar swinging at the park, stuffing popcorn into her mouth at the movies, drawing pictures at the dining room table.

  In every one of Mara’s memories of her daughter, Sky looked up and asked, “Why did you lie to me, Mommy? Jesus wasn’t there when I needed him, and you left me. Why did you let the zombies find me?”

  ***

  “Skylar, come here. Right now!”

  Her daughter ignored her command. “I want Daddy!”

  Zombies roamed downstairs. Mara had counted at least six of them as they burst through their home’s front door and into the living room. Mara had raced upstairs to Skylar’s room, knowing that more zombies would likely follow the first contingent. If she and Sky climbed down the vine trellis while the invaders shambled below, she thought they could lock themselves in the garden shed or the garage until the zombies grew restless and left the neighborhood.

  But Skylar wasn’t cooperating.

  “Sky, get out of the closet. They’re coming upstairs!” Mara cast a frantic glance over her shoulder. She could see the shadow of a pair of filthy bare feet through the crack between her daughter’s bedroom door and the floor. The figure began pounding on the door. Mara’s heartbeat seemed to match the pounding’s tempo and urgency.

  “We have to GO!” Mara’s voice cracked on the last word. Four years of undergraduate school followed by four years of medical school meant nothing to the zombies. Three years into her residency, all hell had broken lose. What good were her skills as a neurosurgeon when just finding food, water, and shelter had become nearly impossible tasks?

  The pounding became incessant and the door began to splinter on its hinges; other zombies had joined the barrage. Her years lost on a now-worthless degree weren’t even the worst of it. The worst, Mara realized, was that after Sky had been born, finishing medical schoo
l and starting her residency had kept her away from home. Skylar had grown up very much Daddy’s Girl. It had never bothered Mara—until now.

  “Sky, baby, you have to listen to Mommy. Daddy’s not here and we have to leave...”

  “I only want Daddy to carry me!”

  Sky’s words, though muffled by the hanging clothes, wounded Mara. She knew she couldn’t afford to wait any longer. She crawled on her hands and knees into the dark depths of the closet. Sky screamed and kicked out, mashing Mara’s nose against her face. Fireworks filled her field of vision and she withdrew. Liquefied copper seemed to be melting down the back of her throat. She gagged and spat blood.

  The door exploded inward and a trio of zombies stumbled into the room. Panicked, Mara reached far into the closet and seized her daughter’s foot. She yanked, turned, and dove for the window as desiccated hands clutched at her clothing and hair.

  Mara forgot about the trellis. In a moment of raw terror, she kicked off against the windowsill and dove onto the roof of the garden shed. Blackness enveloped her senses.

  She awoke in the weak gray light of the pre-dawn sky lying in relative safety above the reach of any zombies. Her nose throbbed and the tissue and nerves surrounding her left shoulder howled their dismay. She assumed she had dislocated it in the fall. The pain from something else hurt worse, however. In her right hand, Mara clutched one of Skylar’s shoes.

  ***

  Mara heard the woman’s screams and crept to her door, her rifle ready. Through the peephole, she recognized her latest customer. So much for getting somewhere safe before you got your fix, she thought. She threw open her door and shot a look in both directions. Seeing no zombies, and no apparent danger, she hurried over and crouched beside the writhing woman.

  “Dear God! Kill me!” The woman shook as if suffering a seizure. Saliva dribbled from her mouth onto the filthy hallway carpet.

  “What’s wrong?” Mara looked the woman over, but refrained from touching her. “Where does it hurt?”

  “In my soul!” The woman’s eyes bulged from their sockets. Her hands shook. “So much pain, so much sorrow.”

  “I don’t understand. From what?”

  “What the fuck did you give me?” her customer moaned. “Pain, isolation, regret. I ca-ah-ah-ah-ah—” Mara guessed the woman had suffered a psychotic break. Blood vessels had burst in her eyes, creating bloody red clouds that encroached on the blue skies of her irises. Her pupils had become pinpricks.

  Mara stood, realizing her assumptions had been wrong. She thought zombie attacks accounted for the customers who never returned. It had never occurred to her that users suffered bad trips. Perhaps it was possible to overdose, after all. Her harvested tissue provided a temporary ascent to ecstasy—or an unbearable descent into agony. Unfortunately, she had no way of knowing which experience awaited the user.

  In a rare act of mercy, Mara aimed and pulled the trigger. Then she slung the rifle onto her back. Her ears rang from the report as she dragged the dead woman by her wrists down the hallway and out into the alley for disposal.

  ***

  “I hear you’re the woman to see about a drug that puts all others to shame.”

  Her latest customer stood nearly a foot taller than her. Mara bet he outweighed her by at least eighty pounds. He grinned as he spoke. She did not like his grin. There was no warmth in it, not even a look of desperate merriment.

  “I may have something that fits the bill.” Mara edged away from her visitor, affecting a coolness she did not feel. “What do you have to trade?”

  “Don’t you take cash?” The man cocked his head sideways as if confused.

  “Not much use for it these days. I usually trade for watches, jewelry...” Mara paused. The man had strolled between her and the handgun she had left on a shelf. Her rifle stood against the wall by the door. She cursed her carelessness. “But I immediately trade those items for food, clean water, and supplies.”

  “You’re lying.” The man pocketed her handgun and gave her a hyena-like sneer.

  “I’m not! And that’s mine. You can’t take—”

  “Hush up and listen.” The man put a finger to his lips. “I’m not here to hurt you. I want you to hear me out without getting all defensive and waving a gun in my face, okay?”

  The four chambers of her heart thundered like the hooves of a galloping horse. She prayed her voice wouldn’t crack. “Okay.”

  “Good. Now here’s what I propose. You could use a business partner, someone to watch your back. You need someone to protect you from robbery—and worse. That person is me.”

  “You’re saying you’d be my bodyguard.”

  Anger darkened the man’s features. He shook his head. “No! I would be your partner. I get fifty percent of the take and you get to keep on keepin’ on.”

  Mara considered and took a step forward. “That has potential. What’s your name, anyway?”

  “Don’t worry about it.”

  “Okay, Don’t-Worry-About-It, you’ve got a deal. I have a question though. How do you feel about sex?” She bit her bottom lip and lifted her eyes to his. “I’ve been on my own for a looong time.”

  The tall man’s eyes widened. “Get over here.” His voice sounded husky and ragged.

  Mara strolled across the workshop floor, sizing up her chances. When she reached the man, he withdrew her handgun and she recoiled, eyes wide.

  “Just relax,” the man said, “and don’t try anything stupid.”

  Mara studied his face for several moments. Then she knelt and unbuttoned his jeans. She unzipped his fly and his erection sprang out at her like a sausage jack-in-the-box. She felt her gorge rise as a pungent odor hit her. The man apparently had not showered in weeks. She overcame the urge to gag and circled her fingers around his erection.

  Mara felt a cold circle of metal on her skin. The man had pressed the barrel of her handgun to her forehead.

  “Don’t be a tease, darlin’. You know what to do.”

  Mara gazed past the gun and looked into the man’s eyes. She opened her mouth, wide and inviting, her tongue resting within like a pink satin pillow. She lifted her left hand as if to brace her right wrist and pressed a small switch instead. A dagger blade shot out of her sleeve and severed his erection as it slid into place. The man yowled and pulled the trigger. She heard the gun dry-click against her forehead. He tried again.

  Mara tossed the deflated penis over her shoulder. Blood spurted from the raw stump in gouts. The man swung the barrel of the handgun against the side of her head and her surroundings blurred. He turned and stooped to retrieve his lost manhood. Still seeing double, Mara raised the dagger and dove forward. She slashed the blade against his Achilles tendon. The man sprawled onto the floor, bellowing obscenities. Mara leapt again but her attacker swung his elbow, caught her forearm, and knocked her away. Pain lanced through the limb, but she had endured much worse. She scrambled onto the man’s back and buried the dagger partway into his spine. Knowing she was running on waning adrenaline, she thrust the blade into his spine below the neck twice more, finally damaging his spinal cord enough to paralyze him.

  She collapsed to the floor beside her attacker and lay there panting. “Next time you steal... someone’s gun, you... ought to check... if it’s loaded or not.”

  After another minute she regained her feet, stooped, and rolled the man onto his back. He gazed past her at the cobwebbed ceiling. Mara could see shock taking hold. “Ever hear of something called a Gambler’s Draw? It was a bitch to make, and it’s dangerous to wear, but it sure saved my ass today, didn’t it?”

  “I only wanted to be your p-partner,” the man whined.

  “I’ve got a different position in mind for you, asshole,” Mara said. “Zombie bait.”

  ***

  Two weeks and three successful zombie kills later, Mara crouched in an alley behind an overflowing dumpster. She watched a band of survivors march past, patrolling the streets. They were all armed, and she knew if they encountered
any zombies, they would shoot to kill without hesitation.

  And they’ll make a mess of things while doing it, Mara thought. In most cases after these groups made kills, she couldn’t salvage anything from the cadavers. The brains had to be removed intact.

  Mara visualized her harvesting process. She used the cranial saw to remove the top half of each zombie’s skull. Then she severed the brain stem at the base of the skull. She removed the entire brain, flipped it upside down, and removed the temporal lobe. This allowed her to access the much narrower limbic lobe. This she always extracted with utmost care. In life, the limbic lobe regulated emotions. According to her customers, in death—or undeath—it contained a lifetime of happiness in concentrated form. She hung the harvested lobes on a rustic wooden clothes-drying rack until they dehydrated. There was a method to it, like drying fruit or smoking jerky.

  Much to her frustration, bullet slugs—and even the occasional crowbar or baseball bat—did too much damage to zombies’ brains. Out of necessity, she hunted alone. Mara wished these roving bands would find somewhere else to patrol. They inhibited her livelihood. She watched in silence as this latest group trailed away down the street and disappeared around a corner. Her eyes slid to the other end of the block in search of prey.

  A door opened in her subconscious and a mental image came to her with such force that she fell back on the dirty concrete, stunned. Pain lanced up from her tailbone, but she pushed the feeling away. She’d visualized a revolving door. A man and zombie chased each other in an endless circle. The man fled the zombie, yes. The man could also represent one of her customers seeking escape from real-world troubles. And what helped him escape? Zombie brains, specifically the limbic lobes.

  The zombie, in turn, chased the man. Everyone knew the undead craved brains, but no one knew why. Could it be for the same reason? Mara trembled with excitement. Did zombies instinctively try to escape their futile existence by ingesting new memories and emotions found in the brains of their victims?