Books of the Dead (Book 2): Lord of the Dead

by R. J. Spears

  The zombies were locked in and maintained a steady, yet shambling, pace towards the SUV. Once again, they cut the distance down to around thirty yards, but this time, the tailgate window popped open, and several shots were fired from inside at the oncoming group. Three zombies fell and didn’t get back up while their undead brethren trampled their bodies to mush.

  Once the zombies got close, the driver punched the gas on the SUV, and he drove another 100 yards down the road. A lone zombie came from of one of the front yards off to the right of the SUV, and someone inside the SUV took it out with a single shot.

  These were cool customers, Russell could tell. They were practiced and poised. There was no panicking. They knew what they were doing. If they could draw them down this street, then they could cut off to a side street and double back on the zombies and head out of town.

  Not being smart in any way, the zombies fell for the plan: hook, line, and sinker. The majority of their mass now filled the road behind the SUV, leaving the main street out of town with only a few stragglers.

  The driver of the SUV let the zombies get close enough to nearly touch the back bumper of the vehicle before he gassed it and shot up the street, pulling the zombies along. The incessant moan from the undead carried up the hill to Russell, making him think of the low murmur of a baseball crowd between innings.

  The driver let the zombies close the gap to around fifteen feet, and again he hit the gas, and took a hard left at the next street, leaving the zombies stumbling along feebly in pursuit. The SUV sped up the hill for a block and took another left, heading down a narrow side street.

  This was the biggest gamble for them. They had to trust that they had done a good enough job of pulling the zombies on to the wider street they had just left. If the narrow street had any appreciable numbers of zombies it they’d be boxed in because sooner or later, the zombies from behind would fill in the street.

  Russell felt his stomach start to churn as he watched the SUV accelerate down the street. This street was so narrow that if two cars met on it, the driver of one car would have to pull over to allow the other to pass. Plus a number of cars were parked on the street, making the escape route even tighter. The SUV passed in and out of view, being blocked by the two-story houses on the street.

  Russell looked down the street through his binoculars, seeing a block ahead of the SUV and spotting a single large zombie plodding up the center of street to the SUV. He walked towards the SUV while a few more zombies were in the yards of the houses along the street. A collision was in the making. The driver could either risk the head on collision with the zombies heading on a direct path their way, or they could stop and shoot the zombies and then speed out of there.

  While the SUV would be the clear winner, there was always a chance that the collision would damage the radiator or break something else. It was a slim chance but still a risk.

  Russell looked back to SUV and quickly guessed that the driver had selected the direct approach and was going to ram the zombie because the SUV showed no signs of slowing.

  Was it time to get involved? He heard Cody’s voice echo in his head, telling him to stay out of it. But he had watched that family die, and while he probably couldn’t have changed the outcome, he still did nothing. Could he afford one more death on his conscience?

  The other and more pressing issue was that he was down to three bullets for the rifle. He had found the old Remington in a house he had holed up in. It was a solid rifle, but the previous owner hadn’t kept much of an ammo supply, and while Russell had been very judicious in its use, he burned through the scarce supply in no time.

  He set the binoculars down and pulled his rifle to his side, pushed the window open, and brought the rifle up. His right arm was still weak, but he had worked with the left one so much now that he was almost as adept with it as he had been with his right. It took him only a couple of seconds to capture the big zombie in his rifle’s scope. He looked back to the left and saw the SUV picking up speed and then looked back down the scope. He lined the zombie up, targeting its large misshapen head. Something had torn its left ear off, and had made deep gouges down the side of its face. Its shirt was torn and stained with the blood of some of its victims. It eyes were flat and void of any emotion, but its mouth opened and closed in anticipation.

  The SUV closed the gap quickly. Cody’s voice shouted soundlessly at him in one ear while his conscience worked on his other ear. The battle of the wills lasted only nano-seconds but seemed forever as Russell kept his finger poised on the trigger.

  It was only one shot. Certainly the zombies wouldn’t be able to pinpoint the origin of it. What if one were close by but out of his eye line? What if it were drawn to investigate the sound?

  But what if the SUV were damaged and the zombies overtook it? The SUV people had weapons, but would they be able to fight their way free? And if they did, then what? They’d be on the run just like him.

  Russell’s damaged shoulder ached, sending pain across his back and up his neck. A line of sweat dotted his forehead.

  He couldn’t stay on the sidelines for the rest of his life. He sensed the SUV coming before he saw it. He pulled the trigger, and his aim was true. The bullet exploded into the side of the zombie’s head less than a second later, blasting brain, blood, and gore out the other side and sending the zombie toppling in the street. Two seconds later, the SUV rolled over its body, smashing it flat.

  “Did one of you shoot that zombie?” Greg asked.

  “The shot came from outside,” Chuck said, “I think from up on the hill.”

  All of us except Greg turned to scan the hill for any sign of a person but came up empty. Several houses were among the gray sea of leafless trees, but there was no overt movement to give away the sniper.

  Greg didn’t take any chances and floored the SUV. We hit the main road a couple seconds later and finally slowed down from warp speed.

  “We’ve got an angel or something,” Brandon said.

  “An angel with a helluva good shot,” I said.

  “Should we stop to see who it was?” Chuck asked.

  “No,” Greg said, “but if he wanted to be seen, then he’d do better than one shot. Besides, we still have enough trouble ahead of us.”

  While the large mass of zombies was behind us, plenty of them still wandered along the road. Greg slowed even more to take evasive measures around the few he could. With the ones he couldn’t, either Chuck or Brandon was more than happy to hang out the window to shoot them. By the time we hit the first big curve on Route 23, we were home free.

  On the way, we reminisced about what we missed the most from the old world. It wasn’t a serious discussion about what we really missed, only the surface level stuff. What we really missed, deep down was too painful to discuss.

  “I miss the Hamburger Inn,” Brandon said.

  “That burger joint on Gallia?” Chuck asked.

  “Yeah.”

  “But I thought it closed before the Outbreak?” Chuck asked.

  Brandon said, “It did, but I still miss it.” He paused, a wistful look in his eyes and then asked. “What about you, Greg?”

  Greg considered the question for a few second then said, “Baseball. Sitting at a game, eating a hot dog, having a cold one, and listening to the crowd. My team didn’t even have to be winning. It was just the experience.”

  “That sums up baseball,” Brandon said, “basebore if you ask me.”

  Kara chimed in, “Since we’re talking about food, I miss donuts. Mountain Tops and the plain glazed ones if they’re really, really fresh.”

  “Melt in your mouth fresh?” Chuck asked.

  “Yeah,” she said, practically salivating.

  That hit every one of us where it hurt. I could feel my mouth watering.

  “I know this will sound weird,” I said, “but I miss microwave mashed potatoes. The cheaper the meal, the better.”

  “That does sound weird,” Kara said, “worse than weird. Really, it’s
sort of gross.”

  Greg gasped and tugged the wheel to the left. A zombie appeared from between two abandoned cars just off the right front of the car. Greg couldn’t completely avoid it and clipped it on the shoulder and the knee with the right front fender. It spun around in the road, its leg breaking completely in two, and its arm nearly breaking off at the shoulder. Greg didn’t even slow the truck down. I looked back over my shoulder and saw the zombie rolling down the road and then stopping in a heap. Just as I was about to turn back around, the zombie pushed itself up on its arms and started crawling after us, its broken leg trailing behind it like sack of marbles.

  We were silent the rest of the way home.

  Chapter 16

  Recruits

  Anthony watched as the small group of scroungers moved furtively among the houses along Maybert Road. The houses hadn’t been in good shape in years. The neglect of the impoverished residents had worn them down, and the zombie apocalypse had accelerated the process of decay. Windows were broken, and weeds climbed up the outside walls, trying to make their way inside. Bloody handprints decorated some of them, a reminder of the worst days after the Outbreak

  This group of nomads, desperate for food, went from house to house in search of anything that might sustain them. They didn’t know that these houses had been picked clean months before. They’d be lucky to find a breadcrumb in any of them. Except for one.

  Their clothes were tattered and nearly black with dirt and grime. Anthony counted five in all. Four men and a woman. Their clothes hung off them, and their faces looked gaunt from malnutrition. He watched as one of the men practically had to carry the woman. Skin and bones were all she was. That’s what his mother would have said. The woman didn’t looked injured, just exhausted. Between them, they had a rifle and one, maybe two handguns. All of them had some sort of bludgeoning weapon: three baseball bats, a lead pipe, and an axe.

  They were cautious, though, and deliberate. Two men would enter a home and scour it for anything they could find, while the other three took up guard at different corners of the house.

  Anthony would have to be careful even if they did look like a hard wind could blow them over. But he was always careful. Always patient. Plus he had a plan.

  He had set the trap carefully in the basement of a large two-story home. It was a small treasure trove of food items, but for them, it would be salvation. In a box in the corner of a back room, they’d find some canned tuna, two jars of peanut butter, and several more cans of fruit, along with a canned ham. It would be like Christmas Day.

  In their desperation, they’d never consider how these items shouldn’t be left behind while all the other houses had been picked clean. That was the beauty of his trap; it played on their need.

  The two original searchers disappeared into the house while the others took their stations outside. After about five minutes, one of the men inside shouted something to the others. One of the guards left his post and disappeared into the house. A minute later, the woman left her post and went inside. The final guard lasted another two minutes before he decided he had to make sure he didn’t get left out of any of the prize that was inside.

  Anthony watched and waited a full five minutes, making sure the nomads were fully engaged with his trap. Just to be completely sure, he waited another five before he started his troops in motion. Although he would never admit it, he was a little nervous. These soldiers were outfitted with the newest control systems, smaller than the collars he had used earlier and used less power, only requiring two AA batteries. They were elegant and simple in design, and he couldn’t help but admire his handiwork. He ignored the mess of wires and duct tape and the ugly holes drilled in the sides of each of the soldier’s heads. The genius of his design far outweighed the details of its execution.

  They weren’t all that quiet as they lumbered along though, but the nomads were caught up in their feast, so there was little chance they’d hear the approach of his soldiers. Still, Anthony moved them along as quietly as he could.

  Once they got to the house, he slowly spread them out in an oval around the perimeter, placing the bulk of them around the back of the house. He had had worked with his soldiers after the test run on the house on the hill. He had refined the controls and honed them to as close to perfect as he could make them. He also worked for weeks on conditioning these soldiers. He provided them with just the right amount of feedback to make them obedient and to get them completely under his control.

  They stood encircling the house like silent sentinels as he waited.

  “Everyone, get up here!” a voice shouted from inside the house.

  “What is it?” another voice said.

  “We’re surrounded by zombies,” the first voice said in a nervous quaver.

  Monitoring them over microphones he had placed in the house, he could sense the panic rising in the man’s voice. He listened on his headphones as the nomads clattered about, checking the escape options and seeing none. It probably didn’t help that the houses was surrounded by a ring of silent and still zombies, waiting like statues. In fact, it probably scared the shit out of them. Good, he thought. Fear is a weapon.

  “What are we doing to do?” asked the woman as her voice rose in pitch and volume with each word.

  One of the men reigned in the group, using a calm and measured tone. This one was obviously the leader. They started to develop a plan, all the while wondering while the zombie stood quietly outside.

  Anthony could hear every word they said. He wondered if he should make his presence known but decided to let the tension build a little higher.

  The nomads debated this plan and then another, but when it came down to it, they decided to shoot their way through the zombies and make a run for it. Going out the front was best because of the concentration of zombies behind the house.

  Excellent, Anthony thought. Just as he had planned.

  He listened carefully and waited until the last second since the nomads were about to burst out the door, guns blazing. That’s when he spoke into his bullhorn.

  “You, inside the house,” he said, his voice resounding off the packed together houses. “You need to put down your weapons and come out with your hands in the air.” It was all very old TV cop show dialogue, but it tickled him to get to say it.

  A new wave of confusion went through the nomads. They fought among themselves about what to do next. Did this voice change anything? Should they surrender? And if they did, who was out there? These and other questions ran through the group.

  He got a little impatient and said, “You really have no other choice. My soldiers outnumber you 6-to-1. You won’t make it ten feet.”

  Questions came from the nomads. Soldiers? Was he talking about those zombies? How were they his soldiers?

  “You’re pissing me off,” he said, allowing his annoyance to be heard. “Come out. NOW!” His voice boomed off the houses, reverberating down the street.

  He was about to lose his patience entirely when the front door opened and the leader came out onto the small porch of the house, closing the door behind him. He was tall and still had some size despite losing lot of the weight while slowly starving. He had been elected the spokesperson for the nomads. At least, for now.

  “Who are you?” the big nomad shouted. “What do you want? Wisps of steamed breath wafted around his head like a wreath.

  Hmmmm, he thought. What did he want?

  “I want you,” Anthony said loudly and confidently.

  He could tell they didn’t know where to go with that.

  “I have an offer for you,” he said. “Join me or die.” Blunt,he knew it, but he never liked to dance around the truth.

  “Join you for what?” the big man asked.

  “To serve me and be a part of my army,” he said, “I want to own this town.”

  “We’re not big with joining others. We’re just trying to get by,” the big man said, peering into the houses, trying to locate the source of the voice.

>   “Let’s back up again. You seemed to have misunderstood my offer. Let me put it back on the table: Join me or die. It’s pretty simple, really.”

  He watched the big man’s gaze move from house-to-house, finally zeroing in on the house he was watching from. These idiots were so predictable. He placed his hands over the control pad on his chest plate and waited.

  After about ten seconds, he said, “I’m getting bored.”

  The big man brought his rifle up in a flash and fired. The bullets shattered the window in second floor room of the house where he was standing and blasted the floor length mirror he had strategically placed in front of the window, sending it toppling over while he stood safely behind the wall. The big man was a good shot; he had to give him that, but he had shot a mirror image and not a man.

  “You really shouldn’t have done that,” he said into the bullhorn and then depressed several keys on the control panel.

  Ten of the zombies standing at the front of the house went into immediate motion and started toward the big man in their shambling gait. The big man turned his aim from the house and onto the approaching zombies and started firing. He was not only a good shot, but also cool under pressure, taking each shot with exacting aim and poise. It was a pity to have to lose him, but object lessons were always valuable.

  The big man dropped the first three zombies he targeted, but he missed with his fourth shot, starting to falter under the pressure as the zombies mounted the small porch. He regained his composure somewhat and took down the next two, but the other five closed in on him too fast and from too many angles. The big man pulled down his rifle and tried to retreat towards the door.