Love in the Age of Zombies (Book 2): Zombies in Paradise

by James K. Evans

  Thinking back on how it felt to be the father of school-age children, his eyes misted over. How he missed those days, before the divorce and the struggle to stay involved in their lives. There was a long period of time when his kids’ problems were simple enough for him to solve. A skinned knee? Come get in my lap, let me take a look. He could take care of a booboo. Have a bad dream? It’s okay, come get in bed with us. Shh, shh, stop crying, it’s okay now. Struggling with math or English? Let’s sit down and figure it out.

  He was sorry to see those days slowly eclipse into teenage angst and hormones. Solving a child’s problems wasn’t too difficult; but how do you solve a sixteen-year-old girl’s self-image problems? He knew he wouldn’t be able to help her navigate that minefield. All he could do was love her and watch as she struggled to grow accustomed to her budding breasts and having guys stare. He felt more qualified to help his son, but his advice was obviously not welcomed. Any help he could offer his kids would not only be in vain, but would be resented. By then his marriage was falling apart and during the custody battle he’d been accused of doing and saying horrible things and of being a horrible father and person. He’d learned the hard way that in the court of public opinion, even an accusation was enough to sully a reputation, even among friends he thought would always defend him.

  He couldn’t understand why Paige felt compelled to sabotage his relationship with his own children. Why tell them lies, why tell them his worst, most shameful secrets? How did it help her to have his kids lose respect for him? It wasn’t like he’d ever abused her or cheated on her. He didn’t deserve to be betrayed so terribly. It wasn’t only his fault their love withered and died.

  Doc traveled the back roads in silence. His pace was slow, having to drive around and sometimes over fallen trees, branches, and zombies. His heart was filled with misgiving and regrets. He hadn’t been the father he wanted to be. Paige made sure of that. Like a lot of dads who fight in court for equal parenting time, he lost. He was only permitted to be a weekend dad. He knew his kids would tell him he was a great dad before the divorce; he’d made time to go to their ballgames and school productions and recitals. He’d told them bedtime stories and tucked them in. They always knew he loved them, even when he had to get tough. He did his best to give them a long enough leash to explore their surroundings while still using him as a safety net. And yet he was filled with regret at his limited role. He fell far short of his own ideal of a very good father.

  As the hours passed and the sun began to sink in the western sky, he realized he needed to snap out of it and decide where he was going to spend the night. He didn’t relish the thought of breaking into a house; he knew he was likely to find zombies or the stink of dead bodies. He may even find himself on the receiving end of a thirty-aught-six. These remote parts of Michigan were filled with men and women who chose to be self-reliant, mistrusting of strangers. Some of them were right-wing militia types, some were tree-hugging eco-terrorists, others were simply survivalists who’d seen too much civilization and had chosen to withdraw.

  Anyone who lived a mile away from their nearest neighbor did not expect or even want help. Sometimes even offering help was taken as an intrusion. These were the type of survivors he was likely to encounter if he randomly picked a house to break into. Some survivors would readily shoot first and ask questions later.

  In the end, he figured he’d spend the night in the cab of the Jeep. It might not be comfortable, but at least it would be safe.

  As the shadows on the road began to stretch longer, he started looking for a good place to pull off. Eventually he spied an overgrown two-track path that looked promising. He put the Jeep in four-wheel drive and headed down the trail, going slow to avoid bottoming out in low spots of the small hills. After driving for ten minutes, the path veered left and before him lay the small Tittabawasee River.

  He followed the track along the shore until he saw an aluminum canoe laying upside down atop two sawhorses. The canoe was covered with leaves and a broken branch leaned against it, so he knew it hadn’t been used in a long time. He parked near it and got out, stretching his stiffening muscles and hearing his back pop. He took a closer look at the canoe and saw two paddles resting inside atop the sawhorses.

  It occurred to him that the safest place to spend the night was not in a strange house or cabin and not in the cab of his truck. The safest place would be on the river. Squatting next to the sawhorses he checked the inside of the canoe. A rope dangled down from the last crossbar, and giving the rope a quick tug Doc confirmed there was an anchor hidden under the accumulated leaves. He checked the interior carefully, looking for any light coming through the bottom or sides of the canoe. If it leaked light it’d leak water. After brushing off an old dead wasp nest he decided the craft looked watertight. He went back to his truck and rustled around until he found his sleeping bag and a couple of blankets, then grabbed them and headed back to the canoe. Midway there he stopped and returned to the Jeep to retrieve a few beers he’d stashed, picking them up by the plastic rings where other cans used to be. The beer was only slightly cool, but beggars can’t be choosers. He also grabbed a spoon and a can of baked beans with a pull-top, then put everything in the bone dry floor of the canoe. He took off his shoes and socks, rolled up his pant legs, and waded into the water while pushing the aluminum canoe ahead of him. The water was very cold, and if he capsized he’d be fighting hypothermia within just a couple of minutes.

  When the water was calf high, he gingerly stepped into the canoe and used the paddles to shove off into deeper water. He paddled upstream for a few minutes to ensure the location was safe, and scrutinizing the banks did not see any sign of people or zombies. He floated with the current partway back, then dropped the anchor into the water. He estimated the water to be about twenty feet deep, more than enough to keep him safe from zombies. As he floated in the slowly moving river not far offshore, a flash of inspiration struck him; he reeled in the anchor and paddled back upstream again, then as he floated back to his point of origin he tied the beer to the anchor and lowered it into the water. He felt the anchor touch bottom and secured the rope.

  He assembled his makeshift bed on the floor of the canoe and took a look around. On the far side of the river, barely visible among the trees, was a small hunting cabin, weathered and deteriorating. He saw no movement and concluded it was likely abandoned. A slight mist was rising from the water, moving slowly across the dark surface. He watched a few bats dart about and wished he’d brought his fly rod, especially when he saw a few trout rising to feed. But at this point, he didn’t feel like going to the trouble of paddling back to shore, finding his rod and flies, and paddling back out. He was tired; it’d been a long day, the most active day he’d had in months. He was also somewhat emotionally worn down by his ill-timed reverie while traveling.

  After twenty minutes or so, he reeled in the anchor and pulled loose a beer. It was cold enough to enjoy, and after lowering the anchor back into the water, he popped the tab. The snick! echoed off the banks. He took a long swallow, the bite of cool carbonation sliding down his throat. As he usually did with his first drink of beer, he sang God bless Charlie Mopps, the man who invented beer, beer, beer, tiddley beer, beer, beer.

  Floating safely on the river, drinking a cold beer while feeling the anchored canoe move slightly with the current, he was content. He propped the pillow against the bench and lay his head down. Bit by bit the stars began to appear. He hadn’t seen much of the stars for a while; the pines around his cabin obstructed most of his view. He finished his beer and fished out another, resting it on his chest as he gazed at the stars. He did his best to name the constellations as well as a few stars and even Venus. He saw a couple of shooting stars over the course of an hour and was surprisingly thrilled when a satellite slowly arced across the dome of the sky. He wondered how long the satellite would stay in orbit.

  Several hours later—he didn’t know exactly what time—he awoke to the sound of some creature c
rashing through the underbrush downstream. Of course he couldn’t see what it was, but a few moments later he heard the rasping sound he’d become familiar with and knew it was a zombie. He heard it stumble into the water and then slowly head back ashore where it crunched into the underbrush. After a few minutes the sound stopped. It didn’t die away; it just stopped. He hoped the zombie would stay in one spot until daylight.

  He was suddenly very cold and went to the trouble of pulling another blanket underneath him. It had been a long time since he’d slept in an aluminum canoe, and he’d forgotten how easily the metal conducted the cold of the water. The extra blanket helped, but even so he knew it would be a long, chilly night.

  The morning broke very slowly. Opening his eyes, he saw nothing but gray. A fog bank had rolled in and he was cold, damp, and stiff. He couldn’t see the shore; he could barely see more than ten feet. He got the impression that even with the anchor he’d drifted in the night. He wasn’t sure how far, so he folded up his blankets, placed them on the bench he’d been leaning against, then sat down atop them and waited for the fog to lift. He looked at his watch. It was six-thirty, just before sunrise.

  Doc was never one who had to be in constant motion. He was able, when he wanted, to slow down and just be for a while, paying attention to all of his senses. This was one of those times. He felt the softness of the blankets he was sitting on but beneath that the cold hardness of aluminum. He felt the cool damp air as it slowly moved over and past his cheeks. He heard the call of a cardinal, then soon other birds. He heard a fish splash into the water. It was the only fish he heard. The fog was even making the fish cautious.

  Until you’ve been immersed in it, you wouldn’t suspect that fog coming off a lake or river has its own peculiar smell, but it did. It was a familiar smell, but one he’d not experienced in years. He could smell a slight wet-dog odor coming off his red and black plaid wool hunting jacket. He noted the fishy smell common to freshwater this time of year as trout, crappie, bluegill and even frogs and turtles spawned.

  He may have lightly dozed. When he next looked at his watch it was nearly eight o’clock. He was glad he hadn’t started blindly paddling when he first woke up; he’d drifted thirty feet downstream.

  His neck was stiff, he was cold, he was hungry, and as much as anything he wished for a hot cup of coffee. He opened the can of baked beans he’d forgotten to eat for dinner (thankful for the pull-off top), pulled the last can of beer out of the river, and had the breakfast of champions. He ate in silence until both cans were empty, then began paddling to the riverbank.

  He pulled the canoe out of the water and placed it back on the sawhorses, putting his empty cans of beer and beans inside a small trash bag in his Jeep. He started the engine and wheeled around, then followed his own tire tracks toward the road.

  About halfway, he passed a zombie about thirty feet off the track. It stood nearly motionless as he passed, only swiveling its head. Dried blood and dark stains permeated the creature’s shirt and jeans, and one arm was at a strange angle. Broken humerus, he thought. The air was cool this early in the morning, and the zombie was moving slowly. Both lower pant legs were wet and he concluded this was the creature he’d heard in the middle of the night. He kept driving and soon pulled onto the road.

  According to the map, he still had at least three hours until he reached Ann Arbor. He hoped the day would be uneventful, but even as these thoughts passed through his mind, he suspected it was merely wishful thinking. He’d gone a dozen or so more miles on M-18 before he saw a sign indicating the intersection of I-75 ahead. Long before he approached the intersection he slowed down. Something didn’t feel right. There were a few wrecked vehicles in the road, but that wasn’t uncommon. Doc had seen many already. But instantly he was aware of wrecked cars blocking both the I-75 exit and entrance ramps, looking arranged. Just as he slammed on his brakes, several men stepped out from behind the wrecked cars, rifles in hand, and started firing. Doc saw dust spray up from the road and bits of pavement snicked against the Jeep. One shot caught his fog lamp and he heard and saw yellow plastic explode into the air. That pissed him off.

  He slammed the Jeep into reverse and floored it just as a car and a pickup raced from around the wrecked cars. He knew better than to try to outrace their vehicles going backward and looked for level enough ground to turn around. Within seconds there were sandy two-wheeler tracks adjacent to and almost adjoining the road. He cranked the wheel while continued to floor it, spraying sand high into the air as the Jeep did a quick one-eighty. Still throwing sand, Doc shifted into gear and the Jeep jumped ahead.

  Another advantage to having a very comfortable retirement plan is being able to buy the best toys. The Jeep had an eight-cylinder engine, and even weighed down as it was, it reached ninety miles an hour in just a few seconds. His mind raced even faster than the Jeep. He couldn’t see his pursuers in the mirrors; his speed was making the chassis kind of jumpy and it was difficult to see much of anything in the mirrors.

  Just ahead on the left was a tan building made of aluminum sheeting, a church he’d noticed before. A sign proclaimed it was The Church of the Living Tree. It looked like a lot of the faithful took shelter in the church, as the parking lot was filled with cars and a couple dozen zombies shuffled about. A few turned their heads to watch the Jeep race past. Doc got about a hundred feet beyond the church then slammed on the brakes and started honking his horn. He opened his window and started yelling and waving while still honking.

  All the zombies’ heads swiveled as they turned to look, and just as Doc hoped they started ambling his way, hungry for human flesh. Doc waited until they were only ten or so feet away before he once again floored the accelerator, flying ahead on the road. After another hundred feet or so, he jerked the wheel and brought the Jeep to a screeching halt sideways on the road, the passenger side facing south. He grabbed his hunting rifle and jumped out.

  Now that he wasn’t driving ninety miles an hour, Doc could clearly see the lead vehicle approach the horde stumbling down the road toward him. He lifted his rifle and took careful aim, then eased down on the trigger and fired. Almost instantaneously a spider web of cracks appeared on the driver’s side of the car and it suddenly swerved, ran off the road and into the yard of the church. It crashed into the side of the building, crumpling a large piece of aluminum sheeting and destroying part of the wall.

  Instantly more zombies swarmed out of the church where they must have been penned inside. Doc didn’t have the luxury of time to see what was happening, as he now had the second vehicle—the truck—to contend with.

  Had he looked, he would have seen a man try to jump out of the passenger side of the car. Doc would have seen the zombies fall in on him, and would have seen the man belatedly try to get back inside the car. But it was too late. The door was open and zombie hands grabbed him by the shirt and pulled him out of the car.

  Looking through the scope of his rifle, Doc was only momentarily distracted when he heard a loud scream. But his sight didn’t waver, and as the truck plowed through the zombies, causing bodies and parts to go flying, he aimed not at the driver this time but at the driver’s side tire. He pulled off two quick shots and was satisfied to see the car swerve as the tire exploded. He quickly aimed for the other tire and shot it out as well. Within a second the tires had shredded and the truck ground to a halt, the rims sparking off the pavement.

  As more zombies swarmed out of the church, the mass of them quickly approached and surrounded the truck, making a huge commotion. The zombies that were headed toward Doc turned at the sound and headed for the truck instead.

  A woman’s arm holding a rifle came snaking out of the driver’s window. Doc saw the arm jerk and a split second later heard the report, then another and another as the driver tried in vain to shoot the zombies. But there were too many of them. A man jumped out of the truck and hopped into the bed, carrying a rifle. He leaned back against the truck cab and began firing, rapidly hitting zombies in the body, s
lowing them down but not stopping them. Guess nobody told him about shooting zombies in the head, Doc mused.

  By now the woman had pulled her arm back into the truck and closed the window, and her high-pitched voice was nearly drowned out by the rasping of the zombies. Either the man couldn’t hear what she said, or she ignored it. Had he listened, he would have heard her yell Look behind you!

  Zombies were climbing over the hood of the truck and were about to crawl up the windshield. The volume of the woman’s screams increased, and suddenly her window opened. Doc could hear her shout “Chris! Behind you! There’s—”

  A mass of zombies descended on the vehicle and reached into the open window as she tried to close it. As it shattered, her shrieks echoed against the church’s aluminum siding. The zombies pulled her through the broken window, the glass slicing through her skin as the creatures ferociously tore at her flesh, blood dripping down the truck door. The caustic thought passed through Doc’s mind, For unless you eat of my flesh and drink of my blood . . .

  It was grim watching, but no more grim than when the man in the bed of the truck ran out of ammunition. Zombies reached into the bed and pulled him down, a mass of heads and mouths and teeth and faces all going for the nearest piece of flesh. Doc heard the man shouting, desperate and pleading. With a cold feeling in the pit of his stomach, Doc raised his gun, sighted the man’s head, and quickly fired a couple of shots. Zombies were splattered with the man’s flesh and blood as they continued devouring him.

  Feeling a mixture of satisfaction and revulsion, Doc got back in his Jeep and headed north, the way he’d come. He remembered telling Kevin that the first thing they should to do was kill all the humans who’d turned mercenary. Kill anyone who would murder a living human unless in self-defense. Today he’d done just that; killed mercenaries. They got what they deserved. Poor unfortunate souls.