Among the Dead Book 2 (Among the Living)

by Long, Timothy W.

  “Lazarus Black. They’re cleaning the city out. Just a guess, but I don’t think that bomb was supposed to go off near us.”

  “Bomb?” someone gasped.

  “Gas and air. Big explosion supposed to clear the deaders.”

  “Jesus,” someone muttered, and to punctuate that, the sky lit up a few miles from us. I looked that way and watched as Seattle was set ablaze.

  It was all I could take, so I gave in and let darkness carry me away.

  Epilogue

  Dreams of fury and death wracked her sleep.

  She lay in a pool of blood that might have been her own. Something splashed next to her, but she tried to ignore it. Hands flailed by her side. Claws of the dead reached for her, and when she did glance their way, she saw that they all wore the face of her father. He mouthed words, but she couldn’t understand them.

  Then the figures coalesced into one, and she heard his voice howl her name. She fought beneath him, trying to get free, trying to claw his eyes. A stinging blow sent her head to the side. A voice shouted next to her ear. It was his ... No, it was someone else. A new figure that thought she needed looking after.

  She didn’t.

  Not from either of them.

  Never one for a just a pat on the head or a heartfelt hug, no, her father went for the throat or the place between her legs. Manipulator, rapist, thief of her youth. He once held her down, hand over her throat while she flailed beneath him. The reek of whiskey should have been there, but she couldn’t smell anything because she couldn’t breathe. She struck him, but it only made him mad. He shouted at her, but she couldn’t hear him anymore, because she was dying.

  Stars filled her vision, and her hands went limp.

  She had grown up in the shadow of his drunken rages, a shivering child with dirty knees and torn clothing. She started the sixth grade in the same jeans and sweaters she had worn three years ago. The other kids teased her, but she didn’t flee their bullying; she ignored it. She ignored a lot of things, but when enough was enough, she snapped.

  That day had almost been her last. He released her and slapped her back to life with hands that would never touch her again.

  He said he was sorry, said it over and over, said he would never hurt her. He was going to take care of her.

  Then it was the Other who looked after her, and that malevolent creature did not approve of Daddy, so he had to go.

  Now a new figure had taken to pawing at her while she slept. It was a deader; she was sure of that. The reek of blood and bile filled her with rage. She lunged out of sleep and kicked out, a stunning blow that snapped against her assailant.

  She was on her feet in a split second, eyes wide as they pinpointed targets in the room. Deaders, at least three or four. One rolled on the floor in pain, clutching at a knee. Another stood staring at her like it possessed some sort of intelligence.

  The room was a mess, a pile of cans in one corner, discarded packages in another. It was dark, only a sliver of brightness coming in from the small window. Diffused and dirty light filtered in from an unknown source. Was it a light at the football stadium? Was she in the building with the National Guardsmen?

  A flash of a tall sandy-haired man with kind eyes who pulled her to her feet. Then another as his body fell, blood spurting from a hole in his chest.

  She backed away from a hand and stepped on a mattress. She kept her balance, barely, dipping low to maintain her stance. Arms up, weary, waiting for attack. She gauged the distance to another figure and rolled to the left. Came up on the balls of her feet and used the momentum to launch herself into the air. Her foot lashed out and struck home, driving the man’s chin up and back as he fell against a wall. A great gasp of pain as he rebounded. Then more shouts as voices called out to the one she protected.

  “Kate, stop it! Please, Kate!”

  Someone backed away, a woman with fear etched on her features.

  She took in the dirty hair, the dirty face and the tired eyes, felt a moment of pity and went easy on her, punching her under the solar plexus with a short, sharp fist. The girl gasped and fell away.

  Only a few remained.

  She backed toward a corner of the room so none of them would encircle her. She stumbled over a pack, and recognition dawned. She dropped into a crouched position and slid the precious scabbard out. It caught on a strap, so she yanked the blade free.

  There was a moment where she was sure it wouldn’t come loose. It stuck, and when the blade came into sight, she realized that it was covered in dried blood. She scowled in disbelief at the condition she had allowed her precious sword to reach.

  No time now. Bloodied sword or not, she had to rely on her skill and the razor-sharp edge of the blade.

  Folded steel flashed as someone backed away. The figure had a hand out and was begging, but she didn’t hear. What trick was this, anyway? Deaders didn’t act like people; they couldn’t. They were monsters, and they needed to be put down.

  Just like her father.

  The figure before her fell to the left, screaming as his hand hit the floor. She didn’t give him a chance, her body following him as he fell, arm extended, sword straight as an arrow as it sought his throat. He tried to crawl away, but she followed. She stalked him across the tiny space, and when he hit a wall, she drove the blade into his throat.

  Turning, she yanked it to the side, and his neck parted, followed by a river of blood. The smell of shit filled the room as he voided his bowels, whether from fear or shock, or perhaps just the act of dying, she didn’t know and didn’t care.

  There was a door near her. All she had to do was reach for the knob and flee, but someone remained.

  This one was familiar, somehow. She knew him, or thought she did. He had his arms up, hands in the air like he was giving up.

  She reached for the door, and as it opened, so did his mouth.

  “Kate, don’t!” he said in a near whisper, voice cracked with fear.

  She lashed out with the blade. He was already moving, but not fast enough. She struck home, and he crumpled around her sword.

  She left the room in a shambles, stopping only to contemplate the woman who lay on her side. Kate moved to finish her off as well, but decided to let this last deader feed on the remains in the room. What was one more in the wake of the flood that was coming?

  Survival, that was all she had to worry about now. She took the stairs two at a time, seemingly guided by a memory of her present location. When she found the front door, she left it open and just ran.

  She glanced back at the house, toward the figures she had left in her wake. She knew she should feel something, some hint of humanity, but she did not. All she held inside was an all-encompassing nothingness.

  The series will conclude with AMONG THE ASHES,

  coming soon from Permuted Press.

  Acknowledgments

  A lot of people have come to my aid in the course of writing, and I want to thank a few. First and foremost is my brother from another mother, Jonathan Moon. If there is one friend in the world who keeps me sane and listens to my insane ramblings, it’s this guy.

  Thanks to the many amazing writers and artists I have met over the past few years.

  Jonathan Maberry, S.G. Browne, Eric S. Brown, Rhiannon Frater, Lee “Goatboy” Hartnup, Charles “Chuck” Messinger, Robert Elrod, Nick the Hat, the awesome group known as the Survivors, Wayne Simmons, and the entire Permuted Press gang—especially the Crypticon and zomBcon alumni.