THE CREEPING DEAD
Book Two
Edward P. Cardillo
This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, events, places, and dialogues either are the products of the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real, or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 2017 by Edward P. Cardillo
All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission of the author, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.
Acknowledgements
I would like to thank my wife, Sandra, who has been my editor, coach, and agent. I would also like to thank Alan Basso and Charlene Nunez for their extra sets of eyes, braaaains, feedback, and support. Thank you to Trevor Smith for his knowledge of military procedure and equipment. Thank you to my son, Alexander, who helped me compose some key scenes. Thanks again to Gary Lucas at Severed Press.
Thank you to my readers, who made the first book a success.
This novel is dedicated to my readers, who made The Creeping Dead a success and have been patiently asking for a sequel for two years. I hope you enjoy it.
Act 1
Resilience
Chapter 1
Clinging to the carousel horses for dear life, the remaining survivors in the Blackbeard’s Pier Arcade were weary from sleep deprivation, a diet of candy and soda, and exposure to the elements.
What had made matters worse was that the pounding of the zombies outside never ceased. At times, it had slowed, but it always returned full blast. In the daylight, they could now see the searching fingers reaching under the hem of the bent security gates. Nancy wouldn’t allow the children to look at it.
Vinnie, Mike, and Holbrook dismounted their horses and went to the edge of the arcade. The water had receded, and the beach below was littered with debris.
And zombies.
They were everywhere. They reached upward for the humans hiding within the arcade.
“Son-of-a-bitch,” said Vinnie. “I swear, there’s got to be more of them.”
There was the scraping of metal, and Alessandra screamed. All three men turned around to find the security gate being shoved off its track. Zombies wriggled in the gap, eyes wild, desperate to reach their prey.
Nancy and Dharma grabbed the children and pulled them off the carousel.
“We’re trapped!” said Vinnie.
“There’s a ladder to the roof!” said Nancy, pointing to the right of the shooting gallery.
The gang didn’t need to be told twice. They sent Dharma up first to open the hatch up top. Both children followed closely behind.
“Hurry!” shouted Vinnie. “They’re coming in!”
Mike and Nancy insisted that Vinnie go up next.
Dharma pulled the children up onto the flat roof. It was sagging and dilapidated from storm damage and having a third of it torn away.
“Go ahead,” said Holbrook, gesturing to Nancy.
“You first,” she said.
“There’s no time to argue,” said Holbrook. “Ladies first. I insist.”
Nancy grabbed the rungs and began her ascent. She’d done this a few times before to shovel the snow off. It had to be done with a flat roof, or it would cave in from the weight.
“Come on, Mike. You next.”
A few of the zombies had made it under the gate and were inside the arcade. Mike shook his head. “You’re a family man, Chief. You first.”
The zombies who made it in were getting to their feet, while the next wave squirmed under the gate. Mike looked around at all of the ruin. Everything that made him happy, his whole purpose in life, was destroyed.
Holbrook recognized the look in Mike’s eyes. He knew a suicidal person when he saw one. “I have to insist. Hurry up, or we’ll both die.”
Nancy stuck her head through the hatch. “Jesus Christ, Michael! Stop lollygagging and get your handsome ass up here!”
That remark hit Mike like a hard slap to the face. He snapped out of his funk and grabbed a rung of the ladder. “You’ll be right behind me?” he said to Holbrook, more than asked.
“Not unless you move your ass,” said Holbrook.
Mike climbed the ladder, and as promised, Holbrook was right behind him. Holbrook climbed just high enough as a zombie swiped at his foot, missing it by mere inches.
“Let’s hope they don’t know how to climb ladders,” quipped Mike as he reached the hatch.
When Holbrook pulled himself onto the roof, aided by Vinnie and Dharma, he stood and got a good view of Smuggler’s Bay.
Or what was left of it.
Parts of the boardwalk were missing. Ripped-up boards littered the remaining parts and the beach. Sand was everywhere, even on the streets beyond the boardwalk. Storefronts were ruined, gates bent inward with debris hanging out.
He looked to the left and saw that half of Blackbeard’s Pier was indeed missing. The top of the iconic Albatross roller coaster poked out of the ocean, the rest of it submerged like a metallic iceberg.
The group was stunned into silence. They were all taking in the destruction of their home, their livelihood.
Nancy held the children close.
Dharma hugged Vinnie, sobbing.
Holbrook looked down the ladder. None of the dead appeared to know how to climb. However, they were surrounded on all sides on top of a damaged structure that was on the verge of collapse.
They were screwed.
Holbrook took his cell phone out of his pocket. It was on its last bar. He wanted to call Lena and Robbie to tell them that he loved them very much. He wanted to say goodbye.
Suddenly, the air echoed with the popping of gunfire. Holbrook’s cell phone rang, and he answered. “Chief Holbrook…yes, we’re on the roof of the Blackbeard’s Pier Arcade…we lost a man…I don’t know how much longer this building is going to hold up…Okay.” He hung up.
Mike, Nancy, Dharma, Vinnie, and the children looked at him expectantly.
“The National Guard is coming to get us.”
“We’re saved!” yelled Nancy. “It’s about damned time!”
Within minutes, they saw the National Guard advance up the boardwalk, taking out zombies with well-placed headshots. When they reached the arcade, a man who identified himself as Sergeant Miller called out to them on a bullhorn, telling them to stay put. As if they had a choice.
They surrounded the arcade and fired into it, dispatching the hoard of zombies within. When the arcade no longer moved with the dead, they entered and helped everyone down from the roof.
On the ground, Sergeant Miller immediately approached Holbrook and introduced himself. They discussed the state of the Bay, the CDC, and how the infection appeared to be contained on the barrier island, with only a few isolated incidents in neighboring towns.
The Bay, however, was trashed. The flooding had not only destroyed the boardwalk and many of its businesses. There were houses that were shifted off their foundations, inundated with water and sand. Boats were deposited randomly in the middle of roads and between houses.
The federal, state, and local authorities closed Smuggler’s Bay for the next six months. They cut the power to the barrier island. The military swept the town, dispatching the last of the dead wandering around. The CDC tagged and bagged the dispatch dead, sending them to laboratories for analysis of tissue and bodily fluids.
After the island was secured, engineers and inspectors were sent in to assess the damage and any safety concerns regarding building structure, gas line
s, and the power infrastructure. Sewage and waste concerns were also investigated and addressed.
To the government, the wait was necessary, as a matter of caution. The event was unprecedented, and they needed time to assess and develop a plan to secure and reopen the island.
To the residents and business owners of Smuggler’s Bay, the wait seemed like an eternity. The government closing the island meant that reconstruction would be delayed. To add insult to injury, FEMA and insurance companies were dragging their feet in paying out claims.
With the next summer approaching, Smuggler’s Bay would be in shambles. Although the dead had been wiped out, their effect on Smuggler’s Bay lingered, leaving the community weakened and its economy sick. To make matters worse, the town would now have to grapple with the stigma attached to it. Once a family resort, it was now ground zero for the world’s first zombie outbreak.
Motels changed ownership with the changes in the tide, and to stay open, many were now converting some of their rooms into low-income apartments. Social workers stocked the rooms with ex-cons and recovering drug addicts, further hurting the town’s reputation as a family resort.
Damaged by the dead and the politics of the living, Smuggler’s Bay had become a town of second chances for many. Only time would tell if the community would be able to rebuild. Only time would tell if Smuggler’s Bay would survive, and in what version of itself.
Only time would tell if the dead stayed buried.
* * *
Two Years Later
Mike Brunello opened his eyes as his metal trash can toppled over outside. He sat in his recliner in front of CNN, half in, half out of sleep as he found it more and more difficult to sleep in his own bed. There was something stirring between his bungalow and the next.
He sat up, his back creaking, and rubbed his eyes, his vision clearing as his body began to pump adrenaline. Fight or flight. Two years ago, it would’ve been flight. However, after narrowly escaping being eaten alive by zombies, he decided that it would henceforth be fight.
He turned, reached behind his recliner, and produced a shotgun he kept for such occasions. It wasn’t just for his protection. It was also to protect those he loved, just as he did two years ago when a horde of land sharks invaded Smuggler’s Bay.
The trash can rolled around outside as his motion detector light went on, casting a moving shadow across the curtains of his living room. Mike pushed himself to his feet, careful not to bang his shins on his glass coffee table, and raised his shotgun.
He trained the barrel on the shadow moving across the curtains as he crept towards the window. Horrifying images flashed through his mind of the cloudy-eyed, screeching dead, snapping their jaws like some novelty windup teeth that Nancy had in her prize counter at the arcade.
Mike leaned forward, brushing aside the beige curtain with his left hand while holding the shotgun with his right. He peered out the window, his finger itchy on the trigger.
He relaxed his shoulders when he saw yet another feral cat stalking around his side yard. Not realizing he had been holding his breath, Mike let it out in a long, weary sigh.
“Mike, what are you doing?”
Startled, he wheeled around, nearly pulling the trigger. His heart was in his throat. “Damn it, Nancy! I almost blew your head off!”
Nancy put her hands on her hips and bared her teeth. “You better stop pointing that gun at me, Michael, or I’m going to shove it where the sun don’t shine.”
Mike quickly lowered the shotgun. “I thought I saw one of them outside.”
“Jesus, Mike, there hasn’t been one seen in Smuggler’s Bay for two years. The damned storm washed ‘em all out to sea.”
Mike walked back to his recliner and placed the shotgun back behind it. “Yeah, well, the military didn’t get them all. It’s not inconceivable for any of them to return.”
Nancy shook a rebuking finger at him. “This is why I told you that you need to sleep at my place in Lakeview.”
Mike planted himself back down in his recliner, waving a dismissive hand. “Now, Nancy, I already told you that I’m not ready for that yet.”
“For crying out loud, your wife is long gone. You have a right to move on. To be happy.”
“Oh, is that what this is?” quipped Mike.
“I don’t believe in half measures,” she insisted. “At some point, you’re either all in, or I’m all out.”
“I don’t know what more you want from me. I’m with you, aren’t I?”
Nancy threw her hands up in defeat and shuffled back into Mike’s unoccupied bedroom to salvage the night’s sleep. “You’d better get some sleep, or you’ll be useless at the arcade tomorrow.”
To sleep meant to dream of cannibalistic monsters, so Mike remained in his living room, his skin still tingling from his fright with the feral cat.
Tara told him that he should see a shrink. When she saw that he wasn’t responding to her suggestion, she turned to Nancy. Once Nancy got on his case about it, Mike found one that took Medicare just to get Nancy off his back.
Acute Stress Syndrome, the head shrink called it. After a bunch of months, the shrink started calling it Post Traumatic Stress Disorder. But, Mike wasn’t the only one in Smuggler’s Bay suffering with it. Half the Bay had it after the dead had attacked their little town.
His therapist, Dr. Mondavi, wanted him to ‘take ownership’ over his fear by facing it head on, empowering himself. He interpreted that as buying a gun and learning to shoot at the range in Stonewall.
A gun-owner herself, even before the zombie attack, Nancy supported him fully, going with him to the range and taking every opportunity to show him up. She was a regular Annie Oakley, while Mike was more of a Mr. Magoo, but he was improving.
Wired, Mike sat there in his recliner, half paying attention to Anderson Cooper prattling on about something in the Middle East as he waited for the sun to peek over the horizon and sneak between his curtains.
* * *
Sunrise was Morty Sandberg’s favorite time of day in the Bay. The ocean sparkled like liquid diamonds, and the beach and boardwalk were completely empty.
With his granddaughter, April, by his side, he enjoyed the cool breeze as he swept his metal detector over the sand. Close by, his fishing rod stood, planted in a PVC tube that he had driven into the sand. They had already salvaged seventy-three cents in change and a gaudy pinky ring, so he was off to a good start.
Satisfied with his morning’s findings, he placed the metal detector in the sand. “Grandma wants us to find shells for the house.”
April smiled at this, as she was getting bored of sifting through sand for change. He took her small hand in his, and they shuffled to the water’s edge. The beach sloped downward towards the water, and the sand became wet and packed solid beneath their feet.
April looked down and smiled at little holes produced by air bubbles. Grandpa had explained they were baby clams lurking beneath, momentarily safe from the hovering seagulls.
She looked up at him, squinting her eyes against the sun. “Grandpa, why does Mommy think you should move?”
Morty frowned at this. Obviously, his daughter had been discussing his predicament in front of the little one, something he estimated to be poor judgement. “Well, it’s not so simple, honey.”
“Why?”
“Because I am waiting for the insurance company to issue me my check so I can continue to fix my house.”
“Grandpa, is it true that monsters wrecked your house?”
Normally, Morty would have no compunction about assuring April, or any child, that there were no such things as monsters. However, after the dead invaded Smuggler’s Bay two summers ago, he could no longer convince himself that was true.
“The superstorm damaged my house. But, I was lucky. Others had their houses destroyed.”
April recalled houses shifted completely off their foundations, some sitting right in the middle of the road. “Kinda like the Wizard of Oz?”
Morty chor
tled. “Kind of, except it wasn’t a tornado, and there was no Wicked Witch or flying monkeys.”
“Grandpa, are the monsters all gone?”
“I think so. We haven’t seen any since the attack two years ago. Chief Holbrook seems to think we’re okay, but he and the police are on the lookout, just in case.”
As if on cue, a helicopter fluttered overhead, scanning the water. Morty remembered when they used to look for sharks.
“Besides, Smuggler’s Bay is my home. I love the town and everybody in it. Well, almost everybody.”
“I wouldn’t want to move from my home,” said April in commiseration.
As cold June water washed over their toes, Morty, grateful for the opportunity to change the subject, pointed out intact shells, and April collected them. They picked out one or two large clam shells and a couple of tiny fan shells. He threw away a few that were chipped or broken, and April tossed a hollowed crab shell into the surf.
Morty shoved the shells into the large left cargo pocket on his shorts. As they walked further into the icy water, picking up more shells, the growing collection clinked in his pocket. April found a couple of shards of sea glass, the edges worn smooth by surf and sand particles.
“Grandpa, keep these for me.” Sea glass was her absolute favorite. She had her own collection back at the house.
She handed Morty the shards, and he accommodated her, placing them in his right cargo pocket, so as not to mix them with the shells.
Looking over his shoulder to check that his metal detector hadn’t grown legs and walked off, he decided to wade into the surf up to April’s knees. As he held her hand firmly in his so she wouldn’t be pulled by any undertow, April squealed with delight as the cold water splashed up, wetting the bottom of her shorts.
However, her squeal turned into a cry of pain as she picked her foot up, recoiling from the sand underneath the waves.
The Creeping Dead: Book 2 Page 1