DEAD_Snapshot_Book 5_Estacada, Oregon

by TW Brown

  “As you will notice,” Ken threw an arm wide in a gesture toward the zombie, “that thing has no idea it has been stabbed…twice.”

  “And you want to brutalize it in front of our people why exactly?” the mayor pressed, obviously not seeing the big picture that Ken was trying to paint.

  “Look, some people are going to see these things as human. They will say that they are only sick.”

  “And what’s to say that isn’t the case?” The mayor was not backing down.

  Ken recalled back to the first zombie he’d encountered in the warehouse office. There had been parts of his insides actually dangling from a rip in his gut. While a person might be able to take a few steps before they collapsed and died, this thing had not shown any sign that it was even remotely aware. Then he’d struck it in the head. The first time had been hard enough to leave an actual dent in the skull, and still it came at him. The truth was that these things were the dead come back. They were animated corpses, or, if you wanted to go with what had been circulating on the internet…zombies.

  While he hadn’t been into that sort of thing, he knew it was some sort of monster like maybe Frankenstein or Dracula or the Wolfman. The problem was that they looked like people…mostly. He’d seen the Miller girl and her mother. They resembled what the two had looked like in life, but there was enough difference in his eyes that he hadn’t had a problem ending them. Still, he knew it would likely be different the closer he had been in life to whomever came along next.

  “A human being couldn’t take what I’ve seen and still function.” Ken went on to describe in explicit detail what he’d seen in the warehouse office. “These weren’t bites on the face or arms that could be explained away somehow as causing a delirium or whatever. That man’s insides were on the damn outside.”

  Once he’d finished, he looked around at the people gathered that were all listening with rapt attention. Even Colton had kept his mouth shut during his narrative.

  “Maybe…” the mayor started and then stopped. His mouth continued to move, but it was clear that, despite not wanting to believe what he’d just heard, everybody knew that Ken Johnson was more prone to under-exaggerate than over.

  “If you have another way to get our point across, I’m all ears,” Ken said softly.

  He didn’t like the idea of mutilating a dead body any more than the mayor. Despite that thing being one of the undead, the reality was that it had been a person once.

  “No.” That single word was all the mayor uttered. The look on his face reflected how Ken felt deep down. The only problem at the moment was that he had to keep his walls in place and stay strong.

  “Hey!” the man suddenly piped up. “I think I may have an idea.”

  “Okay?” Ken said with a roll of his hands to indicate that the mayor should simply spit it out.

  “There is a guy a couple houses down from me. Believe it or not…he writes this sort of stuff. I bet he has a few ideas.”

  Ken shrugged. At this point, he didn’t see how there could be any bad ideas. If this guy actually wrote this kind of thing, then he might’ve spent time thinking how to deal with just this kind of situation.

  “Everybody else head to the brewery. We will be back shortly,” Ken ordered, then turned to Colton. “Find a trailer or something and get that thing into it.” He hiked his thumb in the direction of the zombie still jutting from the side of the car.

  “How do I do that?” the young man gasped.

  “Figure it out.”

  With that, Ken headed for his truck. He heard the footsteps of Mayor Drinkwine behind him. Together, the two men buckled in and headed up the steep hill that led to the man’s house. Like anyplace else in Estacada, it wasn’t a very long drive and they arrived in no time.

  Ken stopped his truck in front of Mayor Drinkwine’s home and shut it off. He turned to the man with an eyebrow raised in question.

  “He’s just two houses down.”

  They both jumped out and started up the narrow dead-end street. The first thing he noticed were the three tall palm trees in the tiny front yard of the house he assumed to be the one where this writer lived.

  Who had palm trees in Oregon? he mused inwardly.

  They drew near, and Ken stopped in his tracks. Standing there, staring out of the small kitchen window was a man. It was clear that they wouldn’t be getting any answers here.

  “Son of a bitch,” Mayor Drinkwine muttered.

  The man was not looking out the window. Instead, he was sort of looking up at nothing in particular. The gaping wound where his throat had once been was dark and probably a few hours old at least. He couldn’t actually see the man’s eyes clearly in the gloom of the interior of the house, but he didn’t need to.

  “You see what I mean?” Ken asked Mayor Drinkwine. “There is no way anything human is left in that thing. His throat is gone and look at all the blood down his front.”

  The mayor didn’t say anything as he walked past and closer to the front of the house. Ken followed and found the writer’s wife. She was staring out the front window. Her face was a mask of dried blood. It was quickly apparent how the writer had died. Obviously his wife had turned into one of those things. He more than likely hadn’t been able to kill her. It was a fate he understood.

  “So much for that idea,” Mayor Drinkwine sighed.

  Ken watched the man’s shoulders slump. He wondered if maybe it was more than just this latest discovery. Or, to be more precise, perhaps it was the truth visible in the writer’s wounds.

  Ken started to chuckle. He couldn’t help it. Maybe it was the stress of the past several hours, but this situation was suddenly very humorous to him. He stood there staring into the house at the zombie version of the man at the kitchen window and the wife beside the front door.

  “What’s so funny?” Mayor Drinkwine asked as he stepped up beside him.

  “Didn’t you say that this guy wrote about this kind of crap?”

  “Yeah. Not sure I see the humor, though.”

  “How does this guy die so quick? Shouldn’t he be ready for this kind of thing? I mean, who the hell writes about something this…out there and then ends up dead in the first few days?” Ken couldn’t hold back as he actually laughed out loud. He knew that this person’s misfortune was horrible, but it was the idea of it. He simply couldn’t get past it.

  “You are sick,” Mayor Drinkwine muttered.

  “C’mon…think about it. Of all the people living in our little town, we have a guy that writes about zombies? And of the few casualties we take early on…he’s one of them?” Ken wiped at his face with both hands.

  “While we’re here, there is a Portland policeman at the end of the road.” Mayor Drinkwine started toward the end of the dead-end street making it a point to not look into the writer’s house.

  That residence turned out to be another disappointment. They didn’t find the occupant turned. Instead, the house appeared empty. The only response they received were the loud barks of the pair of Mastiffs that the man owned.

  Ken made a note to return later that evening. If there was still no sign of the owner, he would go in and tend to the dogs. He wasn’t about to let them suffer and die. Besides, animals that size might be helpful.

  Together, the pair returned to where Ken’s truck was parked in front of the mayor’s house. The man stopped and turned to Ken, there was a look in his eyes that was almost fatigue, but there was something else behind it that Ken didn’t know the man well enough to figure out.

  “I will meet you at the town meeting at the field.” Mayor Drinkwine said.

  With that, the man turned and headed into his house. Ken had been away from Bennett long enough and was growing a tad bit anxious. He knew she was able to take care of herself, but he found his mind returning to the scene he’d witnessed in the writer’s home.

  He had no doubt how the man had met his fate. He also knew that it was very likely that he would suffer the same fate if his Bennett somehow go
t bitten by one of those things and came back a zombie.

  Shoving those thoughts away, he turned around in the mayor’s driveway and started to exit the narrow road. As he did, a thought came and he slammed on the brakes. Backing up the road, he stopped at the writer’s house.

  He reached in his glove box and pulled out a legal pad. Making a few notes, he actually got out of the truck and walked up to the front porch. Looking over his shoulder, he eyed the steep hill that acted as a natural border going uphill just across the road.

  The front yard was deceptively small. It was the back yard that had his interest. Besides being at least a half an acre, it was bordered by thick woods and blackberry bushes that were easily eight feet high on the other side of the fence that boxed in the decent-sized back yard.

  When he climbed back into his truck, he jotted one final note. “Possible fallback locations: Writer’s house.” By the end of the week, he intended to have half a dozen locations that he and Bennett could retreat to if things got out of hand.

  While he was certainly going to do his level best to secure his town, he was not so foolish as to think it was not prudent to have a few backup plans. If things went south, it was vital to have a few places he could fall back to and hold with minimal effort.

  What made this particular residence appealing was its proximity to town and other residences which he would use for supplies if the need arose. The front was easy to make secure. The short driveway would take minimal effort to block with another vehicle or two. If he chopped out the front porch, there was no access to the front of the home since the windows were at least eight feet from the ground and there was a big accessible area under the porch that was basically nothing more than a giant hole. The back only had one access point and that could be secured by cutting off the steps that led up to the back porch.

  As he climbed back into his vehicle, he almost felt bad for the writer. The man lived in a very defensible location. His inability to deal with his wife after she’d turned had been his doom.

  Driving back down into town, he made the short drive to Fearless Brewery and pulled in. He noticed a dozen or so people inside. He’d had about enough of people over the past few hours. It was time to clean the place out. Between now and the big town meeting, he needed to sit down with Bennett and draw up their own plans in case things went bad.

  He walked in and saw that, once again, the television was on and everybody was gathered around. The banner at the top of the screen read: President Dead! Daughter Still Missing!

  “…Force One’s last transmission revealed that the president turned at some point during the flight and, during their attempts to subdue him, a member of the president’s security detail fired their weapon in the aircraft. It is believed that this contributed to the resulting crash where, at this point, no survivors have been located,” the talking head droned on the Emergency Broadcasting feed.

  “Shut it off,” Ken said with a tired sigh.

  He’d heard and seen enough sadness and bad for the day. As far as the president’s daughter and whatever they were going to say about that, he simply did not care. There were lots of people losing their children…family…friends. The president was just another person in that regard as far as Ken thought. What made his situation so special?

  There were a few moans and mumbled complaints, but he didn’t care. He was suddenly very tired. He just wanted to get a few winks before the big meeting. He had a feeling that was going to be more of a large-scale argument than a discussion. He needed to have his wits about him.

  Bennett obviously read him well and began ushering everybody out with promises of opening after the big meeting for people to come in and talk things out once the gathering ended. After the crowd departed, Ken went behind the bar and poured himself a pint.

  “Colton is in the back,” Bennett said once he finished off the first pint and set his glass in the sink.

  “Why?” Ken had to work not to snap. He was tired on several levels and had no time or patience for anybody at the moment. He just wanted to sit down and close his eyes for a little while. Was that really too much to ask? He knew it would do him no good to snap at his wife; besides, she hadn’t done anything to deserve the focus of his ire.

  “No idea.” The blunt response, coupled with Bennett turning around and walking away, let him know he probably hadn’t been successful in not sounding annoyed.

  Accepting that he wasn’t going to get any peace until he dealt with whatever Colton needed, Ken headed to the back and his office. He walked in to see the young man sitting at his desk.

  “Get your ass out of my seat,” he snarled.

  Colton bounded up and moved away with a full-body flinch like he thought Ken might hit him. He stopped on the far side of the room holding his ball cap in his hands and twisting it like it had done him wrong.

  “Ummm…hey, boss…umm,” Colton stammered, his eyes looking everywhere but at Ken.

  “Just spit it out.”

  “It’s Ned,” the frazzled young man blurted.

  As soon as Colton said the man’s name, Ken felt his blood chill and the flesh on his arms pebble with goose flesh. He braced himself for the unwelcome news, already certain he knew what the next thing coming out of Colton’s mouth would be. Obviously, Ned had gotten himself bitten at some point during all the madness of this morning. Now he was probably about to become one of those things. No doubt Colton would prefer that Ken put the man to rest.

  “He hung himself.”

  Those words seemed to fly at Ken like a missile and slam into his gut. It took him a few seconds to actually process what Colton had just said. His mind rejected it a handful of times before accepting that it could be a possibility. After all, why would Colton make up something like that?

  He finally focused his gaze on the young man. As soon as he did, he realized that there was more. Colton hadn’t told him everything. This was bad.

  “He’s hanging at the entrance to the football field.” Colton sped through those words like he just wanted them off his tongue. It was as if he believed saying them would make it all go away and clear them from his head.

  “Son of a…” The expletive faded from his lips as the gravity of it settled squarely on his shoulders. Then a thought came. “Tell me you cut him down.”

  Colton looked away, answering the question without having to say a word. Now Ken did swear. This time it was a string of profanity unlike any he’d ever uttered, and that was saying something.

  Barging out of the office, all thoughts of a nap were gone. He had to hurry to the school. He reached the door, throwing it open and arrived at his truck in two long strides. Jamming the key into the ignition, he stomped on the gas and sent the truck backwards with a screech of tires.

  Rocketing up the road, he felt his tires leave the ground as he crested the steep hill that separated downtown from the residential and school zones. He raced through the elementary zone at speeds that would have people cursing his name any other day. Shooting past the junior high school, he came to the tee-intersection. The high school was directly across from him. The football stadium was to his right just beyond the junior high.

  Ken took that corner fast enough to have his rear end fishtail a bit. He knew he was too late as soon as he took the corner. A crowd of thirty or more stood gathered at the gate. Some were crying, but most were simply staring in shocked horror.

  Coming to a stop, Ken hopped out of the truck. He was only a few steps when the smell hit him. As soon as he saw Ned, his stomach threatened to rebel.

  Ned was indeed hanging from a simple noose. However, his feet were still kicking and his eyes were open. They were filmed over and shot full of the dark tracers.

  That is impossible, Ken thought. Ned hadn’t been bitten! A cursory look at the struggling corpse confirmed that there were no signs that he’d been injured in any way. So how was he a zombie? Was this something even more than what had been released on television? Was it somehow airborne?

 
“Cut him down!” a lady cried to Ken as he waded through the crowd.

  That brought on pleas from others that begged him to end Ned’s suffering. Stopping just a few feet away, Ken stared up at a man he’d known for almost two decades.

  The thing that had once been his friend was now just a dangling slab of rotten meat. That is the mantra that started up in his head as he looked up and refused to let any of the tears that threatened to fall from his stinging eyes find any sort of purchase.

  The creature’s tongue was jutting from its mouth as if all the rotten blood in the foul corpse was trying to escape through the swollen organ. Its filmed-over eyes tracked him and a rasping managed to escape as it locked its dead gaze on Ken.

  “What the hell did you do?” Ken whispered.

  Now that he was up closer, he was even more certain the man hadn’t been bitten. If that was true, then how had he turned? It shouldn’t be possible unless this infection was airborne. But…if that was true, then why just Ned? Why not everybody? At the very least, a few more cases should be present.

  Did that mean everybody who died would become one of these things? If that was true, then what was the point of fighting this? They were all doomed. Only, Ken seemed to recall something said on one report or another that if a person passed naturally, they were not showing signs of reanimating.

  “What do we do?” a cry from one of the onlookers snapped Ken out of his thoughts.

  Looking around, he followed the rope to where Ned had tied it off. Walking over to it, Ken pulled his belt knife free and sliced through the rope. The body landed with a splat and a crack. When Ken turned, he saw that the thing’s left leg was sporting what almost looked like an extra knee join halfway down between the actual kneecap and the ankle. It was already trying to get to its feet, but as soon as weight settled on the broken leg, it buckled and fell; although, Ken noted it did not seem to be due to pain. It continued its futile efforts to stand without success.

  A few people could not stomach what they were witnessing as the sounds of gagging as well as the splatter of chunky liquid on pavement sounded. If that bothered them, they were really gonna hate what came next, Ken thought grimly.