Alive Again | Book 1

by Piperbrook, T. W.

  “You haven’t?” I pull a face. “You need to fix that.” Obviously, a pleasurable ride through a flowing river is a last priority.

  The road is just leveling out when he lowers his map and points. “Wow! Look at that!”

  I turn my head, immediately blasted by color. Enormous, vibrant structures tower above an overgrown field. Getting closer, I notice a gigantic pirate ship with an eye-patched captain at the helm, a sky-scraping swing set with dangling bucket seats, and a twirly metal arm with a dozen human-sized cages. A humongous Ferris wheel presides over what could be a steel and plywood playground for children—if the kids were twenty feet tall and tripping on acid. It isn’t until I see the roaming carnies that I tense. Dozens of stricken stalk between the pink and blue concession stands, trampling the last of the decayed popcorn buckets, grinding the pulped candy wrappers to dust.

  “How long do you think this thing has been set up?” I wonder.

  Cody cranks his thumb at a billboard sign sporting the message: Kenton Carnival, June 24-26th. “Guess this was its last stop. Damn. The fried dough is probably disgusting by now.”

  I chortle.

  “I remember going to the Wheaton Carnival every summer with my friends,” I recall fondly. “One year, we found a whole ream of tickets on the ground. We went on every ride twice. I don’t think I’ve ever felt so sick.”

  Cody laughs. Staring down the midway, between candy apple stands and kiddie rides—now overrun by stricken—I wonder how long it took for this place to become a hellish hunting ground. I crane my neck until we pass the last food stand—a Clam Chowder Shack—and then we’re passing a gas station and a daycare center. Is that the convenience store I remember? An ice cream shop confirms my guess.

  “We stopped here on that canoe trip,” I remember, pointing at a row of shady benches. “We sat and ate our cones.”

  “How far away is Wheaton?”

  “A half hour drive, at most,” I say, my spirits suddenly lifting.

  Cody double checks on the map. “You’re right. Maybe your memory’s not so bad, after all.”

  “My brother was antsy to get back; he had a paper due the next morning,” I recall. “I’ll never forget him complaining when we got stuck on a drawbridge. Some boats were passing, and we had to wait.”

  “I doubt any boats are passing through today.”

  Following the road trip in my memory, we continue until two lanes become four. A neglected steakhouse sits alone in an empty parking lot, the hand-painted bull looking grim instead of noble. An outdoor patio sprawls in disarray, the umbrellas ripped and tattered, furniture flung about. Half-clothed skeletons lay over and under the scattered furniture. Obviously, another kind of meat was on the menu.

  Farther, we pass a retro video game shop, the door left hanging open, electronics spilling into the parking lot. A lone body lays on the pavement, surrounded by games he’ll never play.

  “Jared wanted to stop there,” I remember, surveying the faded signs and posters. “He was looking for John Madden’s Football.”

  “For Genesis, right?”

  “Yeah.”

  “One of my buddies was into retro games. I used to play them in his basement.”

  I maneuver around a beat-up station wagon on cinderblocks, all four wheels rolled away and repurposed, then accelerate again. More strip malls pass, lined with clothing and jewelry stores, nail salons, dollar stores. I notice a bowling alley, the sign missing so many letters that it says: “Leg lay Sig Us”. The date is even worse. I chuckle at the unintended innuendo.

  And then we’re approaching the drawbridge from my old trip. I swallow as we near the enormous overpass. Five gigantic, cement arches support the massive bridge, raising it high above the swirling water below. I see darker recesses underneath the bridge, between the enormous piers—the lanes where boats normally pass. High up on the bridge, metal light posts rise at evenly spaced intervals from the guardrails, along with several unmanned control booths. Of course, a tangle of trucks and cars blocks the four lanes like a genius-level escape puzzle, sprawled in every direction. The last time we rolled through, Dad pointed out the motorboats churning through the river. Now, there’s nothing but the rush of the current and the green foliage of the faraway bank.

  “This bridge is huge,” Cody remarks. “And so is the river.”

  I roll to a stop beneath a burned-out traffic light. “You should see it when they raise the drawbridge.” I point toward the bridge’s center. “It was cool watching the boats pass. That’s what had Jared so heated; we were stuck here for what felt like hours.”

  Cody smiles. “No waiting today.”

  “Tell that to them.” I point at the traffic jam. “Do you think we can get through?”

  Cody tilts his head, taking a closer look. “I see a path we could maybe take.”

  I follow his stare to some space between the vehicles.

  “See that tractor-trailer?” He motions toward a semi, jackknifed in the center of the bridge. “It looks like it knocked some of the cars aside and cleared a path for us—like the driver knew we were coming.”

  I furrow my brow, studying the lifeless eighteen-wheeler. Clearly, it hasn’t moved in forever. Still, I keep my foot on the brake.

  “What? Do you think the bridge isn’t going to hold us?” Cody smirks, craning his neck at the imperious concrete pillars.

  “It’s not that,” I say. “I just don’t want to get trapped.”

  “If it turns out we can’t find a way through, we’ll just back up.” Cody shrugs. “It’s either that or turn around again.”

  Deciding to give it a shot, I hit the gas. The bus tires rumble over a metal strip, and then we’re on the bridge, cutting between the cars. To my surprise, the bridge is more navigable than I’d first thought. The four lanes give us plenty of room to maneuver; it’s not as if we have to worry about cutting anyone off. Meandering between the cars, I glance only briefly at the decayed remnants of the passengers and smile sadly; looks like they just died waiting for traffic to clear. Then I look into one crossways sedan and see two bloodstained suitcases, as if the occupants thought they could pack up and start over. Of course, their new lives ended here, in gridlock.

  Soon we’re approaching the monstrous semi in the middle of the bridge. I roll up slowly, taking in the details of what looks like a grisly accident. The long, white trailer sits diagonally in front of us, occupying several lanes; the cab is bent at an ugly angle, hanging over the side of the bridge. It looks like it came from the other direction, swerved, and careened into several vehicles before coming to a teetering stop overlooking the water. Fighting the urge to be sick, I turn away from a clothed, headless skeleton in one of the cars, the driver decapitated.

  “That guy did some damage,” Cody observes. “It looks like he knocked out the guardrails, too.”

  I glance at the side of the bridge, noticing a slew of missing poles. Cody’s right; a whole section is missing. The door of the truck is open; the front seat is empty. Whether the driver escaped, tumbled into the river, or was consumed is anyone’s guess. I steer around the truck, taking a wide berth from the awful collision, trying not to think too hard about the details. To my relief, I find safe passage on the other side and hit the gas. Now we’re cruising, passing only a handful of stalled-out vehicles in the lanes. I’m so wrapped up that I almost don’t see the movement.

  “Hannah, watch out!”

  A figure dashes in front of the bus, waving their arms. I reflexively swerve. The tires screech. I let my foot off the gas, trying to course correct. I kick for the brake. But my quick reaction has cost me: I’ve lost control. Barreling across the highway lanes, I realize I’m skidding directly for the side of the bridge.

  I frantically steer in the other direction, furiously pumping the brake, but the bus has a mind of its own.

  My eyes flick to the rearview. Too late, I realize the obstacle was an infected man, now snarling and chasing after us.

  My last thought
as we head toward the missing guardrail is that we’ll never survive.

  And then we’re in the air.

  LOOK OUT FOR ALIVE AGAIN BOOK 2 COMING SOON!

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  Other Things To Read

  Haven't read CONTAMINATION? It's a fast-paced, action-oriented zombie series with a twist. You can check out the complete series HERE.

  About the Author

  T.W. Piperbrook lives in Connecticut with his wife, his son, and a vicious Shih Tzu. He is the author of the CONTAMINATION, OUTAGE, and RUINS series, as well as the co-author of THE LAST SURVIVORS. In his former lives, he has worked as a claims adjuster, a touring musician, and a business systems analyst for a Fortune 500 company.

  Now he spends his days fighting zombies, battling werewolves, and roaming Ancient cities.

  Credits

  Cover Design

  Alex Saskelidis, a.k.a. 187Designz

  Editing & Proofreading

  Sheila Shedd

  Special Thanks to

  Ann Daniel for all your help!

  Text copyright © 2021 T.W. Piperbrook

  ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. This book contains material protected under International and Federal Copyright Laws and Treaties. Any unauthorized reprint or use of this material is prohibited. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system without express written permission from the author/publisher.

  This book is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to actual persons, places, or events is purely coincidental.

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