Horror Within : 8 Book Boxed Set

by Mark Tufo

  Those bastards had left his Ethel where she fell, just a few metres from where he had woken up. It took more resolve than he thought he possessed to drag his dying body over to his wife. Dennis had no other option. Those bastards weren’t going to win; he intended to die for nobody.

  With the last of his strength, Dennis pushed his forefinger into the side of his wife’s eye socket, watching her eyeball pop out and roll down her cheek. He ripped the dried orb from the cord and squeezed it in his hand before rubbing the stinking mess into the stab wound.

  He knew that his mission to stay moving was far from over. The stench of burning gasoline had reached his nostrils, and the sound of boot steps increased with every moment. It wouldn’t be long before the soldiers and their flamethrowers reached this street. Dennis had managed to crawl, then fall into this storm drain with only seconds to spare. Some of that inflammable material had found its way down the drain but he was too far gone to feel the stuff burning into his flesh.

  The morning sun had already started to banish the night’s shadows. The smell of burning flesh still lingered, but he detected no human voices close by. Dennis knew that there were a few soldiers not too far from his location though; he could feel their thoughts. One of them was getting ready to sleep; he believed that the danger was over. The soldier started to close his eyes, confident that their weapons had put down the last threat.

  “Oh, this new ability will be most useful,” Dennis muttered. Now he knew why the dead feared the competitors. They really were the pinnacle hunters. He flexed his hands. Already the strength had flowed back into them. Dennis pressed his thumb hard against one of the bricks. His digit felt no resistance as he pushed it in all the way up to the knuckle. It felt like chalk to him.

  If this was some indication as to what the rest of his body would be like once the repairs were complete, then he’d be invincible. Those soldiers would be in for a bit of a shock very soon.

  Those dumb bastards had no idea that some of the dead things had already gotten past their stupid quarantine, stumbling into the residential areas past Breakspear. In fact, the outbreak had already begun to infect those living beyond the estate. He grinned to himself and closed his eyes, settling back to allow his new body to mend, knowing that when he did get out of here, Dennis would be emerging into a whole new world of delight.

  The End?

  You can find Ian at:

  www.ianwoodhead.com

  and

  http://www.amazon.com/Ian-Woodhead/e/B004G7514S/ref=ntt_athr_dp_pel_1

  Dead Hunger

  The Flex Sheridan Chronicle

  By Eric A. Shelman

  Dead Hunger is a work of fiction By

  Eric A. Shelman

  All characters contained herein are fictional, and all similarities to persons living or dead are purely coincidental.

  This text cannot be copied or duplicated without author or publisher written permission.

  ©2011 Dolphin Moon Publishing

  Cover Art By Gary McCluskey

  Prologue

  Jamie Leighton. Redhead, 5’8” tall. Fair skin, slight build. Pretty green eyes and long fingers.

  Anything – no, everything – but ordinary. But to the casual observer, there was nothing extraordinary about her. Most of the time she was Baby to her husband Jack, Mom to her two girls, Jesse, 8, and Trina, 6, and she was just beautiful to me. I miss her.

  When she first turned, the aftermath was terrifying. I swore I’d help her if it was the last thing I ever did. Turns out it wasn’t the last thing or the first thing or any goddamned thing, because there was and is a shitload of stuff to do and it never seems to get to be a smaller shitload.

  I’m Flex Sheridan. Jamie used to share my last name with me. My baby sister.

  I’ll tell you how this started. It’ll introduce you to me and my friends, but your guess will be as good as mine as to what comes next for us in this bizarre new world. Any other time I’d sound crazy as shit, but if you’re reading this, then you know I’m not.

  The dead have risen. Either that or they never quite made it into the ground, but either way I’ll tell you this: They’re out there and they are hungry. And getting hungrier every day. They are persistent. And they have more ingenuity and instinct than I’d have ever given them credit for in the beginning.

  And they have some abilities that concern us greatly.

  I’d started using the term abnormals to describe them because Jamie’s one of them. As much as I knew they were similar to – fuck that, they were zombies and there’s no way to get around it – I couldn’t bear calling them that name. It seemed to be disrespectful to my sister. Hemp and Gem humored me in that respect initially, but we all eventually gave up the ruse. Zombies they were, and zombies they would ever be until intense brain trauma.

  But even in the beginning, in the heat of a good fight, we all slipped the Z word occasionally. I sure as hell didn’t treat any of these zombies with any semblance of the kindness that I gave my sister. Not even close. And my sister was so not my sister anymore.

  I’ve been reluctant to use the word zombie, because I don’t want to give this recount of our experiences anything like a comic feel. There’s nothing funny about it, and again – if you’re alive to read this, then you know that already. There is not much laughing going on these days.

  Nowadays the only person who can make me laugh is Gem. Gemina Cardoza is her full name, but she hates it. Says her name sounds like a syrup spokesperson. So she goes by Gem, which is fine by me, because she is my precious gem, that’s for sure.

  She’s out rounding up supplies with Charlie right now. You might wonder, in a world where zombie-like creatures are wandering the earth, why I’d let her go with someone else besides me. That’s because you don’t know Gem, and you don’t know Charlie. If you did, you wouldn’t wonder. I’m wearing the other half of our two-ways, and if they get in any trouble, I’ll get a double-tap on the talk button. That means they’ve run into some of them. If I get a triple tap next, that means they’ve dispatched them by bullet or arrow, and we’re back to cool.

  But if I get a single tap first, or after the double tap, that means COME NOW WE ARE FUCKED and that means no time for punctuation or mixed case letters.

  We carry automatic weapons and other fun toys, and we’ve got pretty good experience using them. Heck, we’re even teaching the six-year-old how to handle a gun, and surprisingly, she’s coming along pretty well. Nonetheless, none of us have gotten killed or wounded yet, and we’re skilled enough that we don’t waste a lot of ammo.

  Fuck if I didn’t knock on some wood after I wrote that just now.

  If I hear a single tap on that walkie, or even think I heard one, then as many of us as are left at the base head out fast. We have an itinerary. I know where they’re going. We have flare guns, too. I know where to look and when I see the flare, I head for it. Our vehicles are fortified and fast, and we make good time. We’re always heavily armed when we’re out in the wild world.

  We got each other’s backs. In this world, you need a partner or you’re dead. Gem is mine. And I’m hers.

  And now we have little Trina and of course Bunsen and her brood. But that’ll come later. That part should be told a little at a time.

  Hemphill Chatsworth is one of us, part of our posse, if you will. He goes by Hemp and he’s British. That doesn’t mean anything to you or me, but I’m telling you to explain his name. He’s definitely not southern born.

  Hemp’s 32 years old and he’s a scientist. He’s got two degrees that have come in very handy since the plague, or whatever you want to call it, came along. He’s got a Biology degree with a major in Epidemiology. He couldn’t have gotten that shit more perfect except that he also got his Engineering degree. Mechanical engineering. So not only did the son-of-a-bitch want to know how the human body worked, he wanted to know how machines worked and how to design them. His mind works in images. We talk about something we need – in particular, something to wipe
out large numbers of zombies at once, and he visualizes it; creates it in his mind. We’ve yet to build any of them, but Gem, our resident artist, has laid out some sketches of his equipment, and I know they’ll be effective. These raw blueprints are structured in his mind’s eye, and Gem’s hands help make them a buildable reality.

  With Hemp’s two degrees, clearly his parents had too much money, but now he’s ours; mine and Gem’s, and nobody better ever try to take him away from us.

  And it’s only recently that we met. But if he tries to leave, we’ll either follow him or kill him. Okay, I’m kidding there. Killing him would do no good, but that’s how strongly we feel about Hemp. We’ve got a good partnership, though, and if he needs something, Gem and I are going to do our damndest to get it for him. Either way, he’s not going anywhere without us. The guy is a genius, and we can use a good genius for like – forever.

  Go ahead. Picture him. You’ll be wrong. The guy looks just like a So-Cal surfer. He’s around 5’10”, sandy blonde hair, muscular. His father was half Irish and half Indian, so he has dark skin, but his mother was a petite blonde, so he’s got that towhead thing going on. And he got his mom’s blue eyes. So far he’s borderline single, but it looks like that’s about to change. The right woman for a guy is definitely harder to come by these days, but Gem and I are thinking that’s worked itself out.

  Yep. Charlie’s a girl. I think I’d like to tell that part of the story in order, too. But suffice it to say she loves her heavy metal rock, she is proficient with a crossbow, and we’re pretty sure that Hemp digs her. And besides that, Gem and I are convinced that her apprenticeship with Hemp in the lab isn’t solely because she has a fascination with science.

  Wow. All that shit happened in less than four days. Unbelievable.

  So you’ll meet Charlie later. But with or without a woman, Hemp has his lab, and it really is his world. Like a kid at Disneyland, he has to force himself to leave it, or be dragged out.

  No radio taps from Gem or Charlie so far, and that’s good. If they double tap me, I won’t be good for shit until the triple comes. In fact, I’m already about to jump out of my skin and into my truck.

  So while Gem and Charlie are out hunting-gathering, Hemp’s in the mobile lab, and I’m working on this, you ought to get to know me. I’m writing this down, and I’m trying to include all the words exchanged between us along the way so you can see how we dealt with things. This was all new, so we had nothing at all upon which to base how we should react to anything that happened.

  Now, we’ve got lots to do, so there’s not a ton of time for me to get into the beginning of this – well, my beginning. Everyone’s is different. Equally horrible, I’m sure – I don’t have any copyright on that shit – but different.

  With a name like Flex, people remember me. But just because of the name. Physically, I’m nothing too oddball. Six feet tall, medium build. 45 years old. I got a square jaw and a goatee, green eyes. I keep my hair trimmed short because Gem or I do the cutting and it’s easier. Overall, I’m your generic caucasian male.

  Jamie was born about six years after me. She’ll be thirty-nine on her next birthday, but one way or the other, I’m pretty sure she won’t be celebrating it.

  Right now I’m in Georgia, back home. And since it’s July, it’s hot. But just over three days ago, when I first found out that Jamie needed my help, I jammed to Florida. And since I can only tell this part of the story from my perspective, then that’s what you’re gonna hear. Brace yourself.

  It’s fucked up.

  CHAPTER ONE

  Flex Sheridan’s Chronicle

  Late June, 2011

  “Hey, Flex,” her voice said, recognizing my number on her cell phone. She sounded tired.

  “Afternoon, beautiful. How are my girls? I was thinking about heading down to see you guys. It’s been six months.”

  Jamie sighed. “I’m not sure now’s a good time, Flex. Jack and the girls are fine, but I have a headache. A doozie.” She sounded more distracted than disappointed.

  “That sucks,” I said. “Migraine?”

  There was a pause on the line. “Yes and no . . . not really. Not the normal one.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Well, you know how . . . fuck! Fuck!”

  “Jamie, what’s wrong?” She never cussed, and two fucks in a row was unheard of. There was more silence.

  “Jamie?”

  “I’m here,” her voice came, weaker. “I didn’t have the prisms, you know? How I always see prisms in my peripheral vision before one of these comes on? I felt restless, not able to sleep, but having dreams while I was wide awake, like fantasies of . . . of . . . I hate to even say it, but, like cannibalism. Scared the heck out of me, Flex. I don’t . . . ” She trailed off again.

  I waited, but had to prompt her.

  “Like what? Nightmares?” I asked.

  “I don’t know. Not like normal nightmares. These were like flashes. Pictures. Images. Just brief, terrible . . . Fuck! Hold on.”

  “Jamie, are you okay? You should be in bed!”

  The line was still live, but she said nothing. I heard her breathing, raspy, short.

  “Flex?” She was back.

  “I’m here, Jamie.”

  “I’m not right," she said, sounding distracted. "I’m so fucking hungry. I’m ravenous, Flex. Like I’m starving!”

  “And you’re dropping the F-bomb more than I’ve ever heard you. What’s that about?”

  “If you knew, Flex. If you knew how this felt! The dreams were terrible, dark visions of . . . I don’t know. Hell, maybe. Darkness. Evil. I felt it. I woke up soaked, and the covers were wrapped around me like I was spinning in my bed. Jack said he tried to wake me, but I just kept mumbling and thrashing.”

  “Jamie, I want you to get to bed. I’m coming over. Right now I’m in Atlanta, so it’ll take me about 5 hours to get to Gainesville from here.”

  “Flex, you don’t have to come. I’ll . . . I’ll . . . FUCK!”

  The phone dropped. I heard screaming. First it was the terrible sound of Jamie screaming. Next I heard what sounded like a door slamming against a wall.

  My fingers gripped the phone like a vice. Then I heard Jack’s voice in the room, calling for Jamie. I heard some bumping sounds, and then his voice, louder, into the mouthpiece.

  “Hello? Who is this?”

  “Jack! It’s me, Flex. What’s happened to Jamie? She was telling me about her headache, some dreams she had last night, and then she just screamed. Where is she?”

  Jack’s breathing was panicked. “I heard it from my desk in the bedroom, and ran in here. The phone was on the floor, and the door’s wide open. She doesn’t do that because of the swimming pool and the girls. Flex, hold on. Let me check on Jesse and Trina.”

  I held the phone for what seemed to be ten minutes, though it could not have been more than one. His voice finally came back on the line.

  “They’re fine. In their room. Flex, I have to go. I have –”

  There was a loud noise. Crashing. Crunching. A splintering of wood. My fingers – hell, my whole hand was white from the grip I had on my cell. The words I heard right before the line went dead sent an icy chill from the top of my head to the tips of my toes.

  “Jamie! No! What are you – Jamie!” It was Jack’s voice.

  Then just four words from my sister.

  “I’m so fucking hungry –” and a loud, wet sound, followed by a deafening thump as the phone apparently hit the floor.

  I held onto the phone and listened. I screamed for Jamie, pleading for someone to pick up the dropped cell, but it sounded muffled, as though something were on top of it, blocking the receiver.

  And I’m thankful. The sound I heard next was like the one just before the thump, but almost more final – a dull, wet impact. Then squishing-slurping sounds. Throaty groans, seemingly of some kind of pleasure.

  I didn’t know what it meant then. I sure do now.

  I held onto t
he phone for a good ten minutes, listening in horror before I heard a sound that rocked me nearly off my feet.

  Jesse and Trina screaming. Ear piercing shrieks. A reaction of horror, pure and unadulterated.

  I flipped the phone shut, jammed it into my pocket and bolted out of my house and into my Chevy. I fired it up and sent rocks spinning as I headed for the main road. I hit the I85 south in ten minutes and looked at my watch. It was 4:00 PM. My tears didn’t start to fall until the interstate changed to I75 and I pushed it up to 95 miles an hour.

  I did not bother to dial the house again. The minutes passed like hours.

  *****

  It wasn’t possible to keep up the speed all the way. I had to stop for gas twice. The old Suburban wasn’t built for efficiency, and fuel prices sucked ass.

  I crossed the state line around 7:30. It was still light out because of Daylight Savings Time, and probably would be until just before 9:00 at night. Good. I wanted light, and lots of it.

  Writing this, I’m really thinking back on that day – one of the blackest days of my life – and I realize that on the road to Gainesville, some shit should have caught my attention that just didn’t.

  There were fewer cars on the road, but there were more accidents than usual. Bad ones. Had it been an ordinary day there were probably six or seven times I would’ve pulled over to either help or see if everyone was okay, but that particular day I had my own problems, and I was distracted. I’m sure I missed a lot of what was happening along the way.