Officer Down

by E. E. Isherwood

  Looking at her hands, she saw she'd scraped them good and hard in the last few minutes though she hadn’t felt anything. She was really out of it. Teetering between sitting and standing, she remembered something through the dizzying haze. Angie had often complained about her front door sticking when she tried to push it open. Several handymen had been through over the years trying to fix it, but none of them seemed willing to replace the whole doorframe. They were confident each time they had loosened it for good. Later, it would stick again. Sometimes you had to push really hard on the door and depress the latch at the same time to get it to dislodge. It was no problem for the relatively young Angie, but for her... If Angie's door was unlocked, she would still have to find strength to get in.

  She looked to her right—no sound was coming from the corridor. Was that good or bad? She tried the latch, giving it a half-spirited second attempt and a little shove. It would not budge. The stars were swimming dreamily in her eyes. She took a moment to lean her head directly against the wooden door and rest.

  She came into focus just in time to see Angie standing at the corner of the house; the rope looped around her neck, the other end hidden somewhere around the bend. The swing chair could not have fit through the gate; Angie was free of it. The sick nurse reoriented on her quarry and began closing in.

  She had no time for a prayer. Pure instinct and perseverance drove her at that moment. She knew in her heart that door was unlocked—Angie was a trusting soul, unafraid of the outside world, going in and out with great frequency to do her chores. She grasped the latch with both her tiny, wrinkled hands while pushing with everything she had against the door. It would only work if the door was really unlocked. If if if …

  She spilled through the entryway as the sound of rage from Angie grew louder, even eclipsing the incessant scream of the sirens. Only by the grace of God did she manage to hang on to the handle, so the heavy door didn't throw her to the wood floor as it opened. Now all she had to do was close it again, but this time, physics was on her side. The door was heavy enough that as she pushed it, it also forced back the blood-stained hands that had arrived a second too late to affect its trajectory. Angie was unable to make the sharp right turn at the door jam to put her hand into the diminishing gap. The door slammed, and she quickly double-locked it.

  She didn't remember the stumbling walk from the front of her house to the rear. Couldn't remember if Angie stayed in the front or moved to the back, observing her through the side windows. She had no recollection of closing the back door and pulling the curtains shut on the kitchen window. She didn't know how she reached her bed and fell in fully clothed, shoes and all. Rosary in hand, she would barely recall the little prayer she said before finally losing consciousness.

  Dear Lord. Please help Liam find his way home safely.

  She fell asleep to the sound of trumpets.

  Chapter 2: The Library

  “Where's Liam? Where's Liam?”

  That was the sound of his worst nightmare the past few months. Mom and Dad and their incessant, demanding, infuriating repetition of that question. It was almost like they were afraid to let him out of their sight. As if he were still a five-year-old. In a mad stroke of irony, it was the one thing that made staying at his great-grandma Marty's house bearable. She didn't ask stupid questions.

  He’d run out of her house this morning as soon as possible, just as he'd done most of the previous three weeks, to find refuge among his kind online and do important things, like slaying the undead and e-chatting with his friends back in civilization. His home away from home away from home was the public library.

  “I'm going to the lye-bury, Grandma. See ya tonight!” He reveled in mispronouncing the word library, though not to antagonize his sweet old great-grandmother. He butchered it on purpose because his dad said his mispronunciation was a special broken word that was “more obnoxious than bloody fingernails on a chalkboard.”

  Shouldn't tell me your weakness, Dad!

  He knew his father's second most-hated word was nu-cue-lar power—but it was harder to fit into everyday conversation. So, as a sarcastic homage to his father, he continued the tradition. Today, Grandma only answered him with an affirmative nod as he walked out the door to relative freedom.

  ~End of Sample~

  Thank you for reading this first chapter in my 18-chapter adventure. I included enough of Liam's introduction so you could meet the two main characters. Will this "typical teen" be able to survive the onset of the Zombie Apocalypse so he can get home to take care of Marty? Is she still alive after her ordeal with Angie? Is the whole rest of the series just a dream within a dream of a dying woman? Would any author go that route? Well, why am I asking you? Have I been watching too much Mel Brooks? Stay tuned!

  The rest of this book is exclusively found in the Dark Humanity boxed set (various storefronts, including Kindle Select). Not only will you get this full-length novel, you'll get 20-something other novels and novelettes featuring great science fiction and fantasy. I truly believe you will find it an incredible value.

  GET DARK HUMANITY

  Now, please enjoy the prologue for book 2, Siren Songs. It gives nothing away from book 1, except that Liam's mom and dad are searching for him. Any parent would do the same. They discover something important, however, as to a new threat that will evolve in future books. There will be new characters, new mysteries, new locations, and new challenges. I read a lot of zombie books, so I like to keep things "new" when I write. I hope you'll agree.

  Thank you again for your interest. -- EE Isherwood

  Siren Songs Prologue

  Jerry huffed with fatigue as the green street sign caught a glint of light from the explosive nighttime sky up ahead. Another fuel tank. Another gas station. Another block. The whole city was on fire. Just like his lungs.

  “I'm going to throw up if we don't get there in the next few minutes.”

  Lana, his wife, responded in the ear bud. “You're the runner, dear husband, so quit yer' whining."

  They walked a few seconds more before she could read the sign. "It's your lucky day, this is her street." She tacked on a relieved laugh.

  He was tempted to thank God for getting them there, but this trip had taken what little faith he had and buried it under a pile of bodies. At that moment it was just him and Lana, and a whole lot of luck. Knock on wood, his son Liam would be where he was told to stay earlier in the summer. Otherwise, the past twenty-four hours of nightmare would have been for nothing.

  Grandma Marty would NEVER let him go out. And she wouldn't go out, either.

  The thought comforted him.

  Without planning it, they'd stopped near the street sign. A last pause before the push to the summit. The climb had been long and depressing. They'd left home with rifles, plenty of ammo, and all the skills and knowledge of years of surfing internet websites devoted to precisely the situation in which they were now mired. It was grid down. It was societal collapse. It was the end of everything. They'd run with crowds of refugees. They'd fought alongside groups of survivors when the undead massed in opposing little armies. Inevitably those battles ended with death, or lots more running.

  Dirty warehouses. Nasty sewers. Dark alleys.

  The clawing up the mountain of the apocalypse was live or die every step of the way.

  “You think he's there?” He knew it was impossible to answer. But the question had to be asked.

  “Of course he's there,” and though she didn't say it, her tone suggested she wanted to add, “and don't dare tell me otherwise.”

  It was one of the few things they could agree on when it came to Liam, at least lately.

  “Let's go get him,” he whispered. Then, to echo her sentiment, he added, “dear wife.”

  She couldn't see the tight smile he wore. Yes, the plague that brought on the apocalypse was much worse than he imagined, but the one bright spot was how well they worked together at this critical time to get across the ruined city over the past two days.
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  The payoff was in sight.

  He resumed his trot behind his sleeker partner, the heavy ballistic armor on his chest and back reminding him of the two times it had saved his life. He patted the one on his front, to bolster his spirits at this last moment.

  No, Liam stayed put like a good kid. No one could survive outside without gear like this.

  2

  He approached the back door of the house first. The partial moon teased his vision. The outlines of the old brick home were familiar and alien at the same time. The rear screen door had been ripped off its hinges and tossed to the ground. The wooden door it was supposed to protect remained sealed.

  Lana joined him as both focused their lights on the door in front of them. “What happened?”

  “Doesn't look good. Maybe an infected tried to get in?”

  Before either could make an effort to turn the handle, a plague victim fell out of the darkness. Clad in a light-colored nightgown, she was easy to see once she was out of the deepest shadows. The sick woman launched herself on him, and together they tumbled to the deep turf with all the grace of a sacked quarterback.

  “Lana," he yelled. Loud enough for her to hear, but not loud enough to call in more sickos.

  Lana was quick. She managed to hold onto the nightgown of the woman and ensure she couldn't get a solid purchase. At the same time, he was able to keep his chest armor facing the teeth of the zombie. The combined weight of both on top of him made it difficult to exhale fully. He'd never really caught his breath since that street sign.

  The plague victim might as well been a starving dog sniffing a bacon-wrapped ham hock for all the energy she expended to get to his neck. Her hair was matted and wet, but some locks flailed wildly, too. It was almost distraction enough to make him loose focus on the big picture, but when she inadvertently kicked him in the groin, he remembered there were only two ways for it to end.

  With effort, he passed on instructions. Timing was crucial. “I'm going to roll her on three. You know what to do!” It wasn't the first time on this trip they'd had this exercise. A fact for which he was supremely grateful since he couldn't do much more than point after he'd said that little bit.

  “One...” he was going to count in an even cadence, but he had no voice left. “Two-three!” he wheezed.

  “Now,” Lana shouted.

  He used all his strength to push the thrashing woman over to his side and rolled himself the other way. Lana raised her rifle, intending to skewer the zombie as they planned—but she hesitated as he came up in a crouch, sucking in gulps of air.

  “My god. This is Angie.” Lana's flashlight shone on the sick form on the ground, but her back was to him; he only saw her shadow. He reestablished contact with his rifle and used the tactical light to get a better look.

  The nurse was an absolute wreck of her former self. Once a well-manicured sixty-something-year-old friend and nurse for Grandma Marty inside this house, she was now covered almost head to toe in the sheen of blood. Her nightgown was filthy with blood, dirt, and god knows what else. Caught between two living people and their bright beams, Angie's head whipped back and forth as if to decide which of them was closer. Her eyes were blood-red in their sockets, and her hair was gray, brown, and red in streaks. Her skin was ashen gray, where exposed. It was amazing they could recognize her at all, even though they had known her for decades.

  The shock and surprise and resulting delay gave Angie the chance she needed to pull herself off the ground, spring to a crouching position, and make her move.

  She must have decided on Lana.

  Lana moved with a quickness he didn't know she had. In the pit of his stomach, he knew she was going to get herself killed in this disease-ridden disaster, maybe now at the hands of the ex-nurse. It was the same fear he'd felt innumerable times the past twenty-four hours. Each time Lana was forced to take a life. That's the moment fate would decide if it was going to be her or the other person in the proverbial pine box.

  I should have called Angie to me.

  While he wrestled with his guilt, and to his great relief, the bayonet sunk deep into Angie's head. Lana out-grunted any professional tennis diva. The blade sunk until the tip of the barrel was inside her skull. Both stared at the dead body in stunned silence as it settled back onto the grass.

  In a shaky voice, Lana got out “Angie. I'm so sorry.”

  Jerry said nothing. It went down so fast he could barely compute all the variables.

  Lana broke the trance, pulling her blade out with effort. “Let's get inside." The wet sucking sound turned his stomach, but she got him moving.

  He had a key. As he rifled through his many deep pockets, he happened to notice a flash of light inside the house.

  Liam, he thought.

  Hope swelled, but caution nagged him. He stood still, indicating Lana should also be quiet. Though it had been there the whole time, the noise of gunfire around the city reminded him of the worldwide pandemic beyond this yard and how nothing should be trusted. This was life or death, again.

  His heart yammered in his chest, warning that the forties were not the new twenties. Not out here.

  “What is it?” she whispered to his back side.

  He turned off his light, and she followed suit. Instead of pushing the door open, he backed away, drawing her with him. They rejoined in the narrow walkway between the two red brick structures. At the first window, he paused and peeked into the glass frame. A light bobbed up and down inside. It had a dreamy quality. Not too fast, not too slow. Just a drift here and there.

  “I'm not sure. Someone might be drunk in there.”

  Lana took a turn at the window.

  “Or dead,” she muttered with a sour tone.

  “Let's get this over with,” he said while stepping gingerly toward the front.

  3

  By the time they reached the front door, they'd not learned anything beyond what they already knew. The drunk or dead person stayed in the back of the house while they scanned the front half as best they could.

  “The person has to be sick. We made all kinds of noise fighting Angie.”

  Lana nodded in silence.

  They whispered back and forth until they had the right plan.

  Before walking away from her, he reminded her of the most important point, “Don't forget to come back and watch my behind.”

  She gave him a wry smile at the innuendo, despite the seriousness of the hour. That loving smile instilled confidence as he ran in the darkness to the back door of the house. Something he admitted he needed at that moment.

  He waited until there was a series of jarring bangs in the night. That was Lana at the front door. As he'd hoped, the noise coaxed the floating light into the front of the home. Jerry snuck in and stood near the back window as soon as it was gone.

  Moments later, Lana returned and walked in the open back door. Once she had his location, she kept going forward, to the kitchen table. A noisy shoe squeal and a surprised squeak accompanied Lana's flailing arms. He flicked his light down and saw the blood. By some miracle, she slid into the table instead of under it. The look on her face conveyed a wild-eyed relief at what just happened. There may have been a hint of a smile.

  You're one lucky lady.

  “Don't I know it,” is what she'd say.

  He ensured she was stable and in possession of her wits, then sought their target. The mystery figure was somewhere inside the flat. Even their clumsy entrance didn't bring the lost soul to them.

  “I'm going to call out,” he whispered.

  His earbud answered. “I'm good.”

  He pointed the flashlight attached to his gun barrel and yelled into the darkness beyond. “This is Jerry Peters. Identify yourself!”

  There was a flash of light in the front room. A sign the trespasser was on the move.

  Liam? Grandma?

  “Stop. Identify yourself!”

  Every gun safety video he'd ever seen flashed before his eyes. Would Liam come stumblin
g out of the darkness? Was he sleepwalking? It would be a first, but if the last twenty-four hours had taught him one lousy thing it was that they were now in crazy times. The dead were walking. Neighbors were fighting neighbors. Law and order had gone out for an extended smoke break.

  This was the end of the world as we know it.

  His finger tensed on the trigger; then he forced himself to place it on the side of the housing of the AR-15. If he had to lose a second in his decision loop before he shot this target, so be it. He was going to give his only son the benefit of the doubt, no matter the cost to himself.

  The form came waddling down the hallway in a leisurely fashion. Nothing like the vicious attack dog Angie had become. The small flashlight revealed all the blood on the man's face and neck. It was an unmistakable indicator he was already a lost cause from the Ebola-like plague ravaging the city.

  Satisfied it wasn't Liam or Grandma, he put his finger back on the trigger and resisted the urge to crush it. With one gentle squeeze, he lit up the hallway for an instant. The thud a moment later indicated he'd scored a direct headshot.

  The acrid smoke dissipated as he stood in awe at what he'd just done. He'd had to put many of these strange dead people down, but doing it in Grandma Marty's kitchen made him appreciate just what the end of the world meant.

  The infected man slid a short way on the slick floor. He came to rest not far from Jerry's feet. The light revealed a wrecked skull, heavy bulletproof vest, and the same type of black tactical clothing he had on. Sort of a cross between a policeman and a soldier. The flashlight linked to the man's shoulder with a thin rope, as if he wanted to ensure he never got separated from it. He clutched his gun, and the light attached to it, a little bit tighter as if in sympathy.

  The glow reflected into a nearby bedroom. His breath caught in his chest. A leg and shoe of someone lying on the floor looked familiar. Then his heart choked and fluttered; the shoe reminded him of the style Liam wore.

  “Lana, I—” He couldn't say the words. Instead, he moved rapidly to the bedroom. “Cover the hallway, dear, while I check out this first bedroom.”