This is a work of fiction. Other than Brian Confer and Rick Schmitt at Stormcloud brewing, all persons, living, dead, and undead, and all incidents portrayed in this book, are products of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, including exhibitionists and medical marijuana providers living on the Elberta Bluffs, is entirely coincidental.
It was necessary to take minor liberties with the terrain surrounding Frankfort, especially Elberta, to further the story.
Lines quoted on page 61: W.D. Snodgrass, “Mementos, 1” from Selected Poems, 1957-1987 (New York: Soho Press, 1987). Copyright © 1987 by W.D. Snodgrass.
Despite every effort, no zombies were harmed in the making of this book.
This work, including the cover design, graphics, and poetry,
Copyright © 2016 James K. Evans
All rights reserved.
ISBN: 151976166X
ISBN-13: 978-1519761668
For Gretchen:
May your lips ever hunger for mine.
But not in a zombie kind of way.
Thanks to my editors for their tireless work and brilliant suggestions: Michael Coleman, Vicki Connell, Stacie Court, Paul and Diane Kolak, and Penny Overcash.
Thanks to nurse Gretchen for her medical input.
Thanks to John Washington for his scientific advice and input.
I am grateful to Brian Confer and Rick Schmitt for allowing me to use their names and the name of the fabulous Stormcloud brewery in Frankfort, Michigan.
Thanks to the Sure Happy It’s Thursday gang for their constant friendship, encouragement, and support.
Thanks to Gabriel for making me a proud father. Go big or go home.
CHAPTER ONE
Near the small town of Brohman, Michigan, Kevin Williams rounded a curve and nearly ran into a roadblock. Wrecked cars and barbed-wire fencing completely barricaded the road. He saw skid marks on the road and slight movement as a head ducked behind the rusting body of the center car. His friend Doc had warned him about mercenaries, and without hesitation—barely even slowing down—Kevin turned the wheel of the Jeep sharply and spun out, surprising himself by doing a complete one-eighty almost as neatly as they used to do in the movies, except he ran off the shoulder and part way into the drainage ditch. Kevin floored it and raced away just in time. In his rear view mirror he saw a few flashes of light and heard the sound of guns. A bullet smashed a not-so-neat hole in the back window. He flew down the highway, sure he was being chased, and nearly lost control of the Jeep when he had to swerve around a zombie ambling senselessly down the road. After a very quick two miles he turned sharply onto a small dirt road. It had rained a few days ago so the ground was hard but wasn’t dusty; hopefully he wouldn’t leave an easy trail.
Kevin had never done any four-wheel off-road driving. Doc bragged that the Jeep could handle some pretty rough terrain and Kevin prayed he was right. Once he whipped around a curve he was out of sight of passing vehicles. Very quickly the road deteriorated to nothing but a two-track. At first he was glad, but the farther he went, the more he questioned his decision to continue. The sandy soil was looser and large rocks began to interrupt the trail. He was jostled about as he raced over them and grimaced when he heard rocks scrape the undercarriage. Momentarily he was worried about the rocks causing damage, but remembered Doc saying he’d installed skid plates to prevent damage to the underside when contact is made with the ground.
The terrain continued to get rougher; boulders on the side of the road, downed trees, and a quick rise so steep Kevin could barely get any traction. Feeling stupid, he finally remembered to engage the four-wheel drive and climbed the hill. All he could see through the windshield was the canopy of trees before he abruptly angled down into a small gulley. He pressed on, his heart pounding and the engine roaring.
Low hanging branches scraped the side of the Jeep. Two trees were so close together he barely avoided knocking off his side mirrors, and rock formations on either side formed a narrow bottleneck. He crested the top of another sandy rise and suddenly plummeted down a short but steep ravine with a creek traversing the bottom. He let out an involuntary shout and grasped the steering wheel with white knuckles. Despite having slammed on the brakes, He skidded down the steep bank toward the slow-moving water, unable to tell whether it was six inches deep or six feet. Still hurtling along, Kevin hit the creek; muddy water splashed thick onto the windshield and he couldn’t see where he was going. He was tempted to keep his foot on the brakes, but was afraid of stopping completely and sinking down into sandy muck. He turned on the wipers and, ignoring the voice in his head screaming to slow down, gunned the Jeep again, suddenly climbing the bank on the other side. The Jeep crested the rise, front tires momentarily gaining some air before slamming back down onto the ground. He felt his body strain against the shoulder harness and seat belts as the Jeep lurched over the rough ground. He jerked the wheel to the left, then right as he swerved to avoid running into a boulder larger than the Jeep. He was in a very narrow, very well concealed basin. He abruptly stopped, grabbed the revolver, and jumped out of the cab, his leg muscles trembling with adrenalin aftershocks.
The Jeep looked fine. In fact, the Jeep looked like the end of a commercial on TV where the manly guy pulls his muddy, dripping Jeep into the nice, neat and sterile suburban garage, a look of supreme satisfaction on his face. Kevin had no such look. As he stood panting on the dripping track, he could hear the sound of vehicles in pursuit about a quarter-mile away. He jammed the gun down his belt (making sure the safety was on), sprinted to the back of the Jeep, opened the hatch and grabbed his bike, then quickly ran the short distance back to the creek. Holding the bike over his head, he waded across. The cold water came up to his knees. He ran up the opposite bank and peered over the top before mounting the bike and racing down the trail. With the bike, he was able to move fast and quiet, and every few seconds he stopped to listen, gauging the distance and location of the men and vehicles. As they got closer, Kevin became more cautious. Within moments he could see through the trees a muddy black four-wheel pickup followed by a Jeep and a heavy-duty SUV. The truck was on his trail, picking its way over and past boulders and fallen trees just as Kevin had. He hid behind a large boulder, and as the truck slowed down to pass through the bottleneck he’d barely cleared, Kevin aimed carefully and let off a series of quick shots. He aimed first for the driver, then the radiator, then the front tires. As the driver slammed on the brakes, Kevin saw the windshield burst into myriad spider-web cracks and heard the sound of the right front tire burst as one of the bullets struck home. He must have missed with his other shots, but even so, he’d accomplished his goal—the truck was stopped between the two trees, effectively blocking the trail, and with the tire blown, Kevin hoped the truck would be immobile.
He didn’t wait to find out. He jumped on his bike and quickly rode back to the Jeep, once again lifting the bike to keep it out of the creek. He hastily tossed the bike into the cargo area, jumped into the cab and gunned the engine, spinning out in the sandy soil as he left his makeshift hideaway. The trail here was easier to traverse with fewer large boulders, but ruts and roots made it slow going. As one trail intersected another, Kevin took a series of somewhat random turns, always keeping his eye on the compass to make sure he was headed north-northwest. After an hour of zig-zagging, the trail joined a railway line, weeds growing between the ties, and he picked up speed on the relatively smooth track running alongside the rails. After another five minutes he intersected a dirt road and turned east. Kevin was nervous about this, as it felt like he was heading toward danger instead of away from it. He kn
ew interstate US-31 was somewhere in the opposite direction, but what lay between him and the highway. Bogs? Towns? Rivers? He had no idea, but he knew M-37, the state road he’d been on before the roadblock, was only a mile away, so he continued east. He was hell-bent on heading north, far away from Brohman.
He sped past a series of scenic lakes interrupted here and there by the occasional house and even more occasional zombie. The zombie population was very sparse in keeping with the population in general. Still feeling the need to flee possible pursuers, Kevin kept the Jeep running at a fast clip. Abruptly he intersected a paved road where he turned and headed north, picking up speed. He began to relax after realizing the road was M-37. He passed a few side roads and small houses just before a road sign announced BALDWIN 5 MI. Not far from the sign was a gas station, empty and apparently abandoned since long before the Collapse. Part of the roof canopy over the gas pumps had fallen in and the parking lot had weed growth that looked much older than seven months.
He cautiously pulled the Jeep behind the station and out of sight, then willed himself to relax and breathe deeply. He killed the engine, lowered his window and sat looking at the map. With the window down, he’d be able to hear any sound of vehicular pursuit—or approaching zombies. He found his location and traced his route north.
Baldwin was a small town; just over twelve hundred residents, but even so, twelve hundred residents could mean twelve hundred zombies. Kevin plotted a series of side roads around the town, wanting to stick as close to M-37 as possible. Another twenty miles ahead was M-55, where he decided to find a place to stop for the night. It was late afternoon; Kevin didn’t want to drive after dark, as his headlights and the sound of his Jeep were sure to attract unwanted attention.
Hearing no sign of pursuit, Kevin considered staying where he was. He was tired. He lay his head back and very nearly fell asleep. But he didn’t feel secure and wanted to put more miles between himself and whomever had chased him. Every mile he drove took him farther from Michelle and caused his heart to ache; but the farther he drove today, the sooner he’d get to Frankfort, get his business over with, and go home. As he closed the window and pulled back onto the road, he glanced in his mirror and saw three zombies shuffle out of the woods behind the gas station, mere yards from where he’d been parked. He’d never heard them. He was tired; he was slipping.
He took the side roads and was soon deep in the forest. He took another two-track, this one on much more level ground and, after winding around for a while, skirted a small lake with an island in the center. The small beach was a mixture of sand, pebbles and small rocks. At the intersection of two trails approaching the lake, Kevin parked the car under a low-hanging tree, the leaves of a branch effectively blocking his windshield. He got out and stood listening with the Jeep door open. He heard an owl a fair distance away and the sound of a small animal in the underbrush. He heard no vehicles, no voices, no ungainly crashing around of a zombie. He took off his over shirt, rolled the driver’s side window down an inch and stuck the shirt in the gap before closing the window, snagging the shirt so it hung down and blocked any light or intrusive eyes. He did the same on the other side with his jacket. He snapped several branches from nearby trees and camouflaged the Jeep as much as he could. Between the branches, leaves, and the mud from his off-roading, it would be difficult to spot the Jeep unless someone knew exactly where to look.
He retrieved the small cooler from the rear and placed it on the hood of the Jeep. Light filtered through the trees at an angle from the west as sunset slowly approached. Kevin was hungry. He opened the cooler and was surprised to find a note:
Kevin my love,
I probably won’t see you off this morning. I’m sorry, I just can’t say goodbye. But I love you and miss you already. Please be safe and be careful and come home to us. We love you and need you.
My heart forever,
Michelle.
Kevin read the note several times and paused with a small, sad smile and misty eyes, then placed the note in his pocket for safekeeping. He pulled a package of crackers and a jar of peanut butter out of the cooler. The peanut butter jar was still sealed, so Kevin was able to dip the first saltine into the virgin, unspoiled surface. It was always his favorite bite, and the freshly opened crackers were so crisp a few of them broke as Kevin excavated the peanut butter surface. Washing down the peanut butter crackers with water, his palette was content, even though his heart ached for Michelle.
After he’d eaten enough to take the edge off his hunger, Kevin walked the trail to the edge of the lake, never more than thirty feet from the Jeep. Dusk was coming on; late afternoon was becoming early evening. He stood on the gravelly beach, waves lapping his feet. The lake was still, only a few ripples forming in the slight breeze. As he looked toward the island, he heard the call of a loon. It surprised him, as loons weren’t usually found this far south. It was a lonely sound. Kevin heard the response of its mate a few seconds later and thought I’m lonely. I haven’t felt this lonely in years.
Glancing into the clear water, he saw a few minnows dart about. His heart leapt and, surprised, he bent over to pick up a small Petoskey stone nestled among the other stones in the shallow water. Other than the note from Michelle, finding the fossil was the highlight of his day. He dropped it in his pocket and heard it click against the stone already in his pocket, the one he always carried. As he headed to the truck to get some sleep, he noticed the moon rising through the trees. I wonder what Michelle is doing? he thought longingly. He stood, deep in thought for a few minutes, then pulled his journal from the pack and quickly wrote a poem.
LOONS
Across the lake
the nesting loons call to each other
in the late May dusk.
Small waves murmur against the rocks at my feet.
Mercury and Jupiter
Make their first shy appearance
in the western sky.
I reach into the shallows
to pick up a small Petoskey stone
barely visible in the fading light.
Everything tonight
The loons, the water, the planets, the stones
Everything reminds me of you.
I see the moon slowly rise
through the trees in the east.
If I stand very still and stare
I can watch it move.
How I would love to be holding your hand.
CHAPTER TWO
Six weeks earlier
When Kevin rushed into the basement of his Ann Arbor home, fearing an intruder, the last thing he expected to find was his only friend in the world besides Michelle. His axe held high, Kevin was ready to go to battle to protect his pregnant wife. Having seen what men were capable of, he couldn’t afford to be cautious.
“Kevin! No!” Michelle cried. The stranger approached him with an easy yet wary smile. Facing a lunatic with an axe would make any man cautious.
“Easy, Kevin, you don’t want to put an axe through the head of a friend,” the man said calmly, hands held out to his side, palms up. As he drew near, he stuck out his hand and said, “I’m Steve. Doctor Steve. Doc.”
Kevin stood there for a moment, his brain temporarily short-circuited as he tried to process the information while adrenalin still surged through his body. Doc lived across the state, in Atlanta, Michigan, a small town in the northeast. How could he be here?!
“Kevin, relax!” Michelle said, the beginning of a smile in her voice.
He lowered the axe to his side and grasped the hand offered him. “Doc? You’re Doc Steve? How . . . what . . . ” he stood there, blinking foolishly as Doc pumped his hand with a firm grip.
“I’m afraid your wife and I have been conspirators in an effort to surprise you,” Doc said, finally releasing his hand and glancing toward Michelle with a grin. “We’ve been talking about this for a few weeks, long before I left my home up north.”
“You came from your cabin in Atlanta?” Kevin asked. “How? Why? I don’
t understand.”
“Michelle my dear, your husband looks like he could use a drink. Perhaps you can get him some bourbon while I fill him in,” Doc suggested. “Then again, I wouldn’t want him to drink alone, so if you insist, I’ll have one too.”
“Oh, I insist, absolutely!” she replied with a smile. As she headed for the storeroom/nursery she said, “Geez, Doc, you’ve been here less than an hour and you’ve already opened the bar!”
“Damn straight! It’s been months since I had a taste of bourbon and my long walk has left my legs weary. I have a thirst for more than just water,” Doc replied.
“Wait—you walked here?” Kevin asked incredulously.
“We’ll get to that, just hold on,” Doc said as Michelle opened a bottle of Jefferson’s Presidential Special Reserve and poured a few ounces into two highball glasses. Kevin completely approved of serving the good stuff.
She asked Doc how he liked his bourbon. Doc said in the old days he preferred it on the rocks, but he’d be very happy with it neat. After handing the men their glasses of bourbon, Michelle went back into the storeroom for a bottle of wine.
While she was gone, Doc swirled his bourbon and inhaled deeply from the glass. “Mmmm . . . Iike inhaling the sweet, familiar perfume of a long-absent lover,” he murmured before taking a sip and letting it linger on his palate. “Wonderful! Very agreeable! You have good taste!” he said appreciatively.
“You better appreciate it, we don’t give the good stuff to just anybody who shows up at our house!” Michelle quipped as she came back into the room with an unopened bottle of 45 North 2014 Select Harvest Riesling.
Love in the Age of Zombies (Book 2): Zombies in Paradise Page 1