by Brown, TW
The biggest criticism has been/is the format the story is presented in: three rotating chapter storylines. You’ll notice that hasn’t changed, nor is it likely to do so. Believe it or not…it all fits into my overall scheme. I do believe I’ve learned a lot between books one and two. One of the biggest lessons was how to end my chapters or vignette segments better.
As you settle in to DEAD: Revelations, I hope you will find plenty to feel. That, my friends, is my greatest wish in this series. I grew weary of two-dimensional characters and the same predictable stories. What I truly hope is that the people you meet in these pages “come alive.” If the writer can’t create a bond between character and reader, then he isn’t really doing his (or her) job. If the reader goes into each scene “knowing” that certain people are safe…it takes away from some of the tension. In “my” world…there is no such thing as safe. (As many of you learned in Zomblog.)
I hope you will enjoy DEAD: Revelations. I think I’ve given you a few people to cheer for: Steve, Thalia, and Juan. Along with ones to hate: Garrett…Travis. The good news is that you won’t have to wait a year between installments. DEAD: Fortunes and Failures, the third installment, will be out in December 2011.
I want to thank everybody. If you are holding this book in your hand (or have me on whatever e-reader you own)…then you get my first thank you. If you’re reading this, you probably liked DEAD: The Ugly Beginning enough to want to find out what happens next. So with all sincerity…thank you. I hope this lives up to your expectations. You are the reason I write. While you may not like every single thing I write—and that’s okay—I do hope I can entertain you for a while. To everyone else, and you know who you are…I couldn’t do this without you.
Fun, Fun, Fun in the Sun, Sun, Sun.
TW Brown
April 2011
DEAD: Revelations
Chapter 1 – Vignettes VII
Chapter 2 – A Geek with a Plan
Chapter 3 – Francis?
Chapter 4 – Vignettes VIII
Chapter 5 – Geeks, Logic, and Lunch
Chapter 6 – New Attitudes
Chapter 7 – Vignettes IX
Chapter 8 – A Geek’s Bad Luck
Chapter 9 – “I love you…”
Chapter 10 – Vignettes X
Chapter 11 – Geek Goes Boom
Chapter 12 – Digging In
Chapter 13 – Vignettes XI
Chapter 14 – One Geek, One Girl
Chapter 15 – Revelation
Chapter 16 – Vignettes XII
Chapter 17 – Geek Girl
Chapter 18 – Breaking Point
1
Vignettes VII
The Old Man sat on a large, flat rock. He could hear the soft murmur of water to his left. It would be such a simple task to walk to that source and drink deeply. But really, there was no point.
His visions had changed several days ago. He’d stopped seeing the sun, the moon, or the Earth. Now, he only saw faces. The faces meant nothing that The Old Man could put into words. There were many faces of all races and nationalities. There were children—though not many—and elderly people and everything in between. Men. Women.
Sometimes one of those faces would appear and then, moments or even days later, it would reappear only to shatter and disappear. Then, once again, the stream of faces would resume.
Early this morning, the faces had stopped. Now, The Old Man saw a lone figure out in the wilderness. He looked down on this lone figure like a bird circling overhead. That also allowed him to see them. A swarm thicker than locusts at least a mile wide and hundreds of yards deep was following the lone figure.
The Old Man sniffed the air. They were close. He would be able to hear them in less than the time it would take for the sun to set. By the time the sun’s warmth would caress his skin again…he would be one of them.
He could stand and walk, but that was only delaying what would be. No, The Old Man thought as he stretched out on the flat rock, he would cherish this day. He would enjoy the sun's warmth one last time. He’d lived a long and pleasant life. The Old Man was at peace.
***
Peter King crept alongside the tall chain link fence. The waist-high grass was a mixed blessing. It allowed him to drop out of sight any time he spied one of those horrid creatures. By the same circumstance, it allowed any of them that might not be able to remain upright to lie in wait.
The low rumble sounded in the distance. Another end-of-summer storm was rolling his direction. Well, if things went well, he’d at least be out of the weather. Almost on cue, his stomach snarled like a delayed echo of the thunder, reminding him that shelter was only part of his needs.
He thought back to his last meal and was rewarded with a rush of saliva. He’d been fortunate enough to coax a particularly plump tabby cat into his lap. It had cost him his last morsel of river trout. (Peter wasn’t exactly sure what sort of fish he’d caught that day, but decided it looked sorta like the fish he’d caught when he was a boy and his dad had taken him fishing.) Still, that cat had come up to him, a low purr sounding as it sniffed the proffered piece of fish flesh.
He’d stopped trying to figure out why those walking dead abominations didn’t show any interest in cows, horses—or any other livestock for that matter—but would eat dogs and cats. Fortunately, most of the time there weren’t enough remains to come back, but he’d seen a particularly frightening Newfoundland dragging itself down a residential street once. And he’d seen a cat being torn into by a pair of those things, but they’d thoroughly ripped it apart and left nothing but a tail. He imagined small dogs suffered similar fates.
Peter shivered. He’d gone from the comparatively pleasant memory of a meal consisting of roasted meat to horrible recollections in no time at all. In fact, come to think of it, he couldn’t recall a single pleasant day since all this had begun just as summer was getting started. He’d been two days into his post-grad internship at Cleveland Memorial. He’d forgone a vacation to secure the opportunity to intern under Dr. Theresa Mullen. She was one of the most respected brain specialists in the world. She was known by interns as the “Tumor Terminator” having practically perfected the removal of brain tumors while the patient was conscious.
Peter sighed. The last time he had seen Dr. Mullen, she had been pawing at the glass of the driver’s side window of her white Lexus…the blood still moist around the jagged rip in the flesh of her right shoulder. That had been in the chaotic hell of the Cleveland Memorial Hospital’s parking lot. That had been weeks ago. He really had no idea what day, week, or month it was according to a calendar.
Glancing around, he took off the long Army surplus field jacket and gave the fence a close inspection. It took a couple of tries, but eventually he managed to toss the coat up and over the three rows of razor wire that angled out over his head from the top of the Cyclone fence. The next obstacle was to make it past the overlapping, finer cut fencing that was obviously in place to dissuade anyone from climbing. The mesh was much too small for his fingers to fit in and find purchase. Still, provided nothing came stumbling along, he could overcome this obstacle.
Slowly and deliberately, using the metal support post for stability, Peter eventually reached the top. With some careful tugging, he managed to free his coat and was inside the National Guard armory. An array of drab-green vehicles were in neat and orderly rows.
He remained very cautious since he had no idea how many of those things might be wandering around inside the fence. A row of buildings were about a football field of wide open ground away. In the opposite direction from the buildings he spied a traditional gatehouse security checkpoint. The large gate was still secured.
Can I really be this lucky? Peter thought. He crept towards a large white sign with brown lettering. Staying close to the armored half-track that would provide him cover while allowing him to read the sign, he peeked around the back: Columbus National Guard Armory.
There was a bunch of official warning stuf
f, but Peter didn’t care. For the first time in a long time, he finally knew where he was. He was a bit impressed with himself for having traveled so far—mostly on foot—across the state of Ohio.
He wanted to check out those buildings for the possibility of food, but first…he was suddenly aware of how exhausted he was. There were no signs of anything moving around inside the fence. Although he saw plenty of those things milling about along the access road that bordered the front of this facility. None of them were pressed up against the fence which would lead to a fairly safe assumption that there were no living beings here.
He knew from experience that once those things were drawn to a living, breathing person, they would cluster. At least until something drew their interest in another direction.
As quietly as possible, Peter climbed into the open rear bay of a half-track a couple of rows in and out of sight. A tarp covered the forward three-quarters of the space. After unfastening a couple of hooks, he managed to bring down a flap that would cover the “entrance” of his newly acquired sleeping quarters. Snuggling deep into his long field coat, Peter felt days of stress, anxiety, and fear ooze from his muscles. Within moments, his breathing became the slow, steady rhythm of someone fast asleep.
The steady pattering of large raindrops droned, occasionally interrupted by the low rumble of thunder. For the first time since the nightmare had begun, Peter King slept. Dreamless.
***
Garrett yawned, stood, and stretched. He glanced at the figure curled up in a tight ball on the floor in the corner. His glance turned into a stare. There it was! The slight rise and fall that indicated breathing.
He wouldn’t have been surprised if that had ended up not being the case. The last few days had been the most excitement he’d encountered in quite some time. That something so small could fight so viciously had been a surprise.
Yes, this one was a real fighter.
Just remembering the most recent activities of last night had something stirring in the pit of his stomach. He absentmindedly stuffed one hand down his pants, withdrew it, and breathed in that smell. Her smell.
Something as close to sadness as he was capable of feeling swept in suddenly. When he broke this one’s spirit…he would be…what?
Sad?
Angry?
Bored.
Garrett dug through the dwindling food supply. He would need more. Soon. Water was a different story. There was an abundance. During his second day in his new home, he had made his new Toy walk him around the huge grounds. It was during this outing that he noticed a large truck up on the curb of one of the bordering streets. The logo on its side read “Glacier”. There were dozens—if not over a hundred—giant, five-gallon plastic jugs of water.
There were very few zombies nearby, so he’d quickly secured the shivering creature to a tree and retrieved three of the heavy containers before finally attracting enough attention to have to call it quits. Then, he’d taken pleasure in making his Toy carry them back to the house.
That had been quite an event. It had refused, so he dealt a series of backhands that drew blood. The sight of blood streaming bright red from both nostrils had sparked a flare of excitement. He’d simply shoved his pants down to his knees and satisfied his desire.
Garrett crossed the room, thoughts of eating gone. He grabbed a handful of hair and yanked the curled up body from where it lay.
***
Kirsten still felt a burning on one cheek where the carpet had worn it raw. She could still hear his heavy breathing. The attack had ended a few minutes ago and he was still panting like a dog.
The piece of clothesline that bound her wrists had cut into the flesh a little during this most recent attack. It was starting to sting. Then there was the pain down there. He seemed not to care which place he shoved himself in, and both were raw and excruciatingly sore. Tears filled her eyes at the realization that she had to pee. It would feel like fire, and Kirsten could try her best not to, but she would probably cry.
Kirsten hated crying. Especially since that terrible man seemed to enjoy it so much. But, she was learning. If she asked for food or water, he would hit her and then usually eat or drink right in front of her. If she kept her mouth shut, eventually he would toss something her way. As for the attacks…she had no idea.
He just came at her whenever. And the things he did—she suppressed a shiver—there was no way she would give him the satisfaction of seeing just how repulsed she was.
In the few days…had it only been a few?...it seemed like forever…the worst was what he wanted her to do with her mouth. She’d wanted to bite, but he’d held that huge knife against her throat. As it was, he’d cut her right at the end anyway. If she could be sure that she would hurt him bad enough so that he died too…
Then there was his drinking. She knew that his regular consumption of alcohol might lead him to making a mistake, like perhaps not tying her up as well some night. If she got free, she would run. It didn’t matter where to, just so long as it was away from this terrible, mean, smelly man.
She couldn’t hold it anymore. The momentary feeling of relief was quickly replaced by a terrible burning as urine rushed from her bladder and washed down her thighs. Tears filled her eyes, but Kirsten bit down on the inside of her mouth and refused to cry. Mercifully, it finally ended, leaving a steady stinging, but the worst of the burning subsided.
Her breathing slowly began to return to normal, the need to hold it in order to suppress crying lessening. Then she heard him. He was coming back. She steeled herself for whatever was coming this time. Then she felt the stream of warm fluid begin streaming across her back.
Kirsten kept her eyes closed and refused to cry.
***
Dr. Reginald Cox rubbed the sleep from his eyes. Sitting up, he glanced over at the digital wall display: four-thirteen. If only he had a window to tell him whether it was morning or afternoon. Not that it really mattered any longer. It had been weeks since this nightmare began. He’d been yanked from his house by governmental thugs and shoved into this bunker.
He’d had two co-workers, but one ate a bullet in the stainless-steel shower stall of his private quarters. His body was still there as far as Reginald knew. The other had run an unauthorized self-experiment. Oh well, at least he’d yielded some solid info.
Slipping his feet into a pair of black Docksiders, he walked over to his locker and pulled out a clean lab jacket. Only two left…he’d need to do laundry today. Maybe after lunch. A stop in his tiny bathroom to brush his teeth and urinate, and Reginald was ready to go.
He opened his door and peered out into the bright whiteness of the single corridor. There was nothing to guarantee that one of the subjects didn’t break free in the night…or whatever it was. The hallway was empty. Directly across was Dr. Fletcher’s room with a body rotting in its shower. Another closed door was to his left. Dr. Fox’s room. Empty. To the right, at the end of the hall was the door to the lab.
Of course there were the iron rungs bolted to the wall at the far end of where the hall terminated to his left. He’d climbed up once and opened the steel hatch. A small, fenced-in blacktop lot was his reward. The hatch could only be opened from inside and was apparently flush with the ground when shut. Also, it was inside a small, ten-by-ten concrete bunker. There were slits on all four sides with treated, shatterproof, two-inch glass windows. On one wall was another hatch. It was shut, and Reginald figured it was just like the one that led below.
He’d looked outside. Best guess was he was on some military base. The hundreds of walking dead pressed against the fences outside that surrounded the paved lot all wore uniforms. Unless somebody came for him, he wouldn’t be exiting that way.
Reginald patted his chest to ensure his key was hanging around his neck and pulled the door shut, wincing at the finality of the lock clicking. The hum of the fluorescents sounded so loud after the almost complete silence of his room. He opened the lab door with more than just a little trepidation.
> The stench that rolled out caused him to gag. The huge, multi-bayed room was a nightmare of sights, sounds, and of course, smells. Cages of all sizes were everywhere. A huge dry-erase board pulled his focus away from the “lab of horrors” as Dr. Fletcher had always referred to it. On it were the lists of which animals showed no signs of infection but carried the virus, those who showed no signs of carrying it at all despite all efforts to infect, and the list of those who turned out just like humans. So far, that was the shortest list. It only had one word underneath the header: Dogs.
“Good morning, Dr. Fox.” Reginald nodded to his former co-worker who stood chained to the wall at the far end of the room. The pathetic creature that had once been the too-brilliant-for-his-own-good Dr. Fox emitted a low moan. At its feet, the orange tabby sat cleaning itself.
Reginald shuddered as he drew close enough for a better look. Fox’s leg showed signs of some recent activity.
“Morris!” Reginald barked and stomped loudly with one foot while waving his hands in a shooing motion. “Get away from Dr. Fox.” The cat rose and stalked away, swishing its tail in apparent annoyance.
Opening the drawer, Reginald withdrew his journal, some clean observation pamphlets, and a case of prepped syringes. Crossing to the long, curtained wall, he took a deep breath and pulled the drawstring.
“Good morning, men,” he said into the small intercom mounted on the wall next to the long, Plexiglas window.
***
Her name had been Jenifer. That ceased to matter two weeks ago. Bitten on the leg, she’d managed to hide it from the three men who had helped her escape the ruins of Atlantis. She’d closed herself in her cabin and fallen asleep shortly after their boat had sailed out of the once beautiful harbor