Event Horizon: Z Is For Zombie Book 2

by catt dahman

  “We’re going to have to take out the ones coming when they are in range, but I hope we can do it before the big group gets here,” Len told them as he loped back downstairs. “I don’t think we have time, but we can try.”

  “We have a lady injured here.” Kim introduced the women to Len after they headed upstairs, following Len’s lead; there they found a group that waited in a huddle.

  Len nodded at the woman, noting the bandage and catching Johnny’s eye.

  “They have a shotgun and are out of ammo, but don’t know really how to shoot it anyway,” Len explained.

  “Well, we can handle that part,” Kim said. He saw two very small children and three that might be pre-teens. The other ten looked at them hopefully, amid their empty sacks and empty cans of food and water. The group members were without weapons or hope, and were hungry now; they would have been forced out to fight the zeds with no place to go and no plans. It wasn’t a good situation, but without help, it would have been far worse.

  “We’ll rig a sling and lower everyone down when our friends get back with the trucks. You can jump into those, and our friends can drive away fast,” Len explained. “It isn’t that far down and should be easy if we get trapped; otherwise, we can waltz right outside the doors and load up. We can do this.”

  “It’ll be good to be with other survivors and have more food and a doctor,” the man said. He was Henry. “I used to manage a fast food place, never thought I would ever be craving burgers and fries again.”

  “Fries,” Johnny sighed, “ketchup and salt, maybe chili cheese fries.”

  “It sounds good to me, too,” Len said. “We do have a problem though.” He looked at Mia.

  “Did I do something wrong?”

  “No, but your wound or bite will spread the infection.”

  “I wasn’t bitten; it scratched me with its teeth. I am fine.” She looked scared again, holding her arm close to her body.“I mean it’s infected, but I wasn’t bitten, really.”

  “And she can be careful not to let the infection come in contact with you,” Rose added.

  “Johnny?”

  “She’s infected with Red,” Johnny told Len. “I wish she weren’t, but there’s no doubt.”

  “The wound is infected; the human mouth is filthy,” Rose complained.

  “That infection has a particular scent, and it’s way too bad to be a scrape from a few hours ago,” Johnny shrugged. “This isn’t the first time we’ve seen what the bites do; the infection spreads fast and well…”

  Henry frowned, “What are you saying?”

  “I’m saying I am really, really sorry, but Mia is infected, and she will…umm…turn.” Len stared at the floor a while, hating to have to tell them this but having no choice.

  “No, I won’t,” she cried, “I need some antibiotics.”

  “No antibiotics will stop it; this is the plague.”

  “We want to help all of you, but we can’t turn our backs on someone who is infected and could change at any time.”

  “You wanna shoot her?” someone yelled.

  Len felt defeated. This wasn’t the first time he had faced this situation, but it was no easier now than it had been before.

  The first time had been a young mother; a kindly man and a friend of George’s had made her a deadly cocktail: gin and tonic with a side of painkillers. With the infection raging through her veins, she had gratefully fallen to sleep, and George had sent her on her way.

  Some had been infected, bitten, and even partially devoured as they fought with the zeds; the infected had been put down mercifully as fear and horrific pain made them scream.

  There had been a sweet couple, injured, who had gone together, praying with turned backs until the bullets had ended their misery. Every incident was crystal clear in his mind, and although he knew it was a kind action to help them along and end their terrible agony, it was sad; no one wanted to die, but there was no hope for a cure.

  “I don’t want to shoot her. No one wants to shoot anyone, but if…no, when she turns, she won’t be the Mia you know anymore; the Mia you care about will be gone then, and only her body, controlled by a cruel puppeteer, will be left. And then, yes, I will do what I have to do to protect my people, myself, and the rest of you.”

  “Amen,” Johnny said softly.

  “Maybe it’s something else, or maybe Mia is one of the few who have immunity. You can’t be a hundred percent positive,” Rose argued.

  “I’m a hundred percent sure. I wish I weren’t, but I am.”

  “I need medicine; don’t let me be one of those things. Please don’t leave me,” Mia pleaded.

  Kim patted her shoulder, “We would do anything if it would work, really; we have seen this before, and, at least, no one is lying to you.”

  Mia cried into her hands.

  “I’ll watch her and if anything happens, I’ll let you know. All of you get out of here, and Mia and I will stay a while,” Rose told them as the two women moved over to sit alone in a far corner so the rest could watch them for signs of change.

  “If you stay,” Earl said, frowning, “you’ll…yanno.”

  Rose smiled sadly, “I know.”

  Len told them, “Look alive; we have a battle.”

  2

  California

  I want to share my story.

  At first, I thought it was a joke, like that fake radio broadcast about aliens long ago that scared so many people. Orson Sterling…Rob Sterling…some weird name like that. Then, I thought it was riots, which we are no stranger to seeing in California, but it was all over China, and then the Middle East, England, Australia, Brazil, and Cuba. We had always thought the government hid things from us and was less than forthcoming, but the US Government gave us all the information it had as the information was received; it wasn’t as if this could be hidden.

  Could anyone really hide people dying on the street, just bleeding and falling over dead into a gutter and all?

  We were told that a pandemic was sweeping Europe and Africa, then every other continent, a virus that was airborne and deadly. Staying inside, staying up-to-date with information, and expecting no help was the news. We were told there was no help coming and that we had to ride it out, well, not in so many words.

  At first, hospitals and rescue stations took the ill; then, they quickly began turning everyone away at gunpoint, and we were told that too many people were infected to be treated at medical facilities.

  It was a gory virus, causing hemorrhagic symptoms: bleeding from every orifice, diarrhea, vomiting, fever, and then a coma; it was a terrible infection as fully a quarter of the population caught it.

  The next stage was hard for any of us to believe:people awoke from the comas, biting and full of rage, as they spread the virus by saliva, to those who had immunity. The US Internet users enjoyed days of speculation and catchy comments before seeing the first cases and calling them the infected zombies or zeds. Those who had the first stage were called Red Zeds, and the virus was called Red for the blood loss. Variations of the name were used everywhere.

  Even I laughed at the sick person in tennis shoes on the Internet that someone labeled as a ‘Keds Zed.’

  See, it was just too insane and terrible to believe.

  The situation wasn’t so funny when we were infected and everything in the US ground to a halt, such as industries or services, and everything we took for granted was suddenly halted. There was no one to work, no one to make the lights go on, deliver food, to protect, or carry the mail. We stopped functioning. They always said we were a few days from anarchy and collapse. When I say the word they, I mean the government.

  We saw what began overseas and felt the clutch of horror around our hearts as we realized it was only days from it being us. Us, the United States, the big dog. We fell just as hard as the other nations.

  The infected bit, chewed, and killed their own relatives and friends; they ate flesh of the victims and served to keep the virus reproducing or taking ov
er. People hid from their own family, were chased by them, their neighbors, and friends, like hunted animals on the streets.

  Some tried to fight back.

  In a week, the Zeds and terrified survivors were the only ones left, and we, the healthy, were not winning.

  Some country bombed some of the US cities; I don’t know which it was or why. I think it was to try to eliminate the massive amounts of the rage-filled infected. The joke was on us. They didn’t slow down a bit. Now, we just have radiation and destruction added to the catastrophe.

  I guess we were fortunate to survive the virus, then the bombs, and next subsequent fires that burned so many homes. In our big house, the help knew their families were gone and worked hard to store everything they could, while I watched Mother. You know her, my mother; she’s been nominated for a dozen Oscars and has won half of those.

  She stood on the staircase in gold lame’ and high stiletto shoes, her hair glossy and loose on her shoulders, face made-up perfectly as she repeatedly said her lines about the end of the world, and how we would survive and never be hungry again. I guess she thought it was a re-make of Gone with the Wind.

  Everyone ignored her, but I tried without success to explain Tara was fine and Rhett was coming home soon. Insert my sigh here. I fully expected her to start ripping down curtains and sewing gowns with hoops to wear.

  She went outside, sneaking silently, right after the bombs went off, and the poor staff had to sponge radioactive dust off of her, while she spouted lines from one of her movies and screamed for her drink. She wanted cocktails. She cursed Sean Connery for messing up his lines, and we didn’t know which movie she thought she was in at that point.Had she even made a movie with him? Until you’ve had to deal with a drunk, radioactive, has-been movie star, who was eternally locked in her roles and certifiably insane in the midst of an apocalypse, you have no idea what torture really is.

  Cinder Montaine was at her worst.

  I saw firsthand what ‘Red’ could do; one of the staff had it, and I hid her downstairs away from my mother, so the baby could be nursed.

  Cinder would have thrown her out to die, as afraid of germs as she was. I watched the young maid bleed herself weak, unable to keep anything on her stomach as she vomited and soiled herself in a feverish delirium.

  The coma was almost a relief. We knew what to expect, and when she came out of her coma, covered in filth, reeking, screaming, and moaning in fury as she dripped saliva and snapped her teeth, we acted. Our gardener slammed his hoe onto her head until she was dead and oozing brains came from her poor, broken head; then, he buried her in the rose garden.

  A few creatures came around, moaning at the house, but they were dealt with; if a horde had shown up, we’d have been over run. Mother acted out the scenes from some Romero films and would only answer to the name of Barbara for several hours, pretending she was trying to escape from the walking dead. I had to draw the line when she wanted to go to the mall and shop, while killing zombies.

  Old Gladiola, one of the hired help, had long been Mother’s advisor about which roles to take and what investments would pay off; some believed she was a psychic. I thought she was just a wise old woman who put a lot of stock into dried chicken bones and leftover tea leaves. Don’t ask.

  She said we should go east, telling us this over and over. Why leave the safety of our mansion and drag poor Mother across the country through dangerous places? I didn’t like that idea until I thought more clearly about the population of California. I imagined how many Red Zeds and other zeds would be hunting survivors and how many criminals would be looting and running around lawlessly.

  Nevertheless, Gladiola wouldn’t stop. ‘We had to go and go fast,’ she claimed. Why should I argue with any more crazy people? They surrounded me.

  I was one myself. I wore sturdy boots with cargo pants and a shirt. Cinder Montaine, my insane, alcoholic mother, wore leather pants with a cashmere top and high-heeled shoes. Luckily for her, I packed better choices for her. She sat in the car, asking over and over again, “Is it safe?”

  It was easy to forgive my crazy mother when she smiled with all the innocence and sweetness of a small child. She really was, as the tabloids claimed, the most beautiful woman ever to live. Sadly, she knew she was.

  We saw burned objects that had been healthy humans, eyelids peeled off, eyes milky, skin oozing from blisters, and wide-open wounds that would never heal. The monsters were covered in blood and feces, the stench over whelming like spoilt milk, and it was impossible, except for the moaning, to know a zed from a sick person.

  Our men, trusted help, fought valiantly as we drove east, but we had to stop for bathroom breaks, for them to siphon gasoline, and for us to grab survivors we found along the way. People wanted to travel with my famous mother. At one time, we had a caravan of SUVs, vans, a school bus, and a truck, but that situation was something that wasn’t meant to last.

  Each day, we lost strong people who had succumbed to the zeds, and our group had been left a little weaker and more vulnerable. There were common accidents, which, without medical assistance, turned lethal. People needed heart pills and insulin that were hard to get without facing hungry zeds.

  One man had an abscessed tooth, and had he received the proper antibiotics and some dental care, he would have suffered nothing more than a few days of throbbing pain. He tried to remove the tooth by himself, allowing deadly infection to seep into his bloodstream, and he died with fever so high that it made him feel like a furnace.

  Another situation was a broken leg, which went septic when the bone poked through the skin; the child died. There were those with burns and head injuries who died, too.

  I began to feel Gladiola had been wrong this time, and that we would never see anything past the endless desert. Sand. Cactus. Dust devils that twisted across the horizon. It went on and on.

  People went their own ways. I wondered if Mother’s delusions made them more afraid, or if they had better things to do than to travel with us.

  “Jilly, did that truck just run over that man?” Mother asked me at once.

  “Yes, I believe so.”

  “That seems awfully messy. Whoever will clean this mess?”

  “I don’t know, Mother,” I told her. She didn’t always understand that it was okay now to run over a zombie with a vehicle.

  She snuggled closer to Mike, a survivor who had joined us. He was half her age and kind of attractive, but like so many men, he had fallen in love with her image on the movie screen and was star-struck, even during the end of the world, despite her crazy behavior.

  What could I do? I wasn’t an expert on these things. I was simply Cinder Montaine’s daughter, kept cloistered from the public, hidden from paparazzi, and concealed from the infernal media. The one who cared for Mother when she was on a bender and the one who, at twenty, never had a real date in her entire life.

  Men were a mystery to me.

  I covered my ears to keep from hearing Mike and Mother in the bedroom of the shack where we had taken refuge for the night. Who was Mother that night? Mike had a new woman each night, according to which role she played. If I thought about it, I would begin screaming.

  We saw zeds, but most were gathering in more populated places that we avoided. We saw parts of the military, rag-tag, tired people who executed zeds and put the horribly burned out of their misery.

  Some of the military had cold, dull eyes that might have been the result of what they had seen and had to do, but they didn’t want to join us going east and didn’t feel the same draw that we did. I was frightened of them and relieved when they went on their way.

  We had to stop when Mother began to feel ill.

  Time passed with Gladiola too nervous to move, our being afraid of being overrun, and dirty rain splattering at the windows. For days we just waited, fear clenching our stomachs.

  Mother, claiming a migraine, had been locked up for days, refusing to allow any of us near her except for her nurse, Susie.When I was gr
owing up, a migraine was sometimes a euphemism for a drunken bender, a persistent pimple, a temper tantrum over a film, or a dozen other kinds of maladies.

  I finally demanded to be let in and found a nightmare. Cinder was a mass of blisters, her face swollen, and her skin peeling off of her body in thin sheets, hair falling out in clumps, vomiting, and sweating. My beautiful mother, the ageless sexual ideal of hundreds of posters, movies, and boy’s dreams, was horribly disfigured and dying.

  What could I do? Mother was forever: a name and face of legendary status. No one but Susie and I could see her this way and allow her legendary beauty to fail. I guarded the door. It wasn’t Red; I could swear by my word to the rest, but it was something else that I couldn’t name; we waited.

  Gladiola died, too, and then Sadie, but that was days later.

  When Mother died, the help buried her amid Mike’s wailings, but I knew it wasn’t the end. I did what had to be done. Hadn’t I always?

  I demanded we continue east, as planned, and I brushed my hair out to my shoulders so it glowed ebony, filled in make-up and found Mother’s stash of fancy dresses. Everyone said I looked like Cinder. Call me Barbara now…or Dawn…she of the dead. I would be Cinder Montaine, since she had more of a reason to live than did Jilly Montaine.

  This is my story, and what we will find in the east, I can’t even guess, but I will face it with a beautiful, timeless face, and Mother will live on, even in this wreck of a world. Mike will eventually come around and quit shuddering each time he looks at me, and we will move on, towards the east, towards whatever lies there, waiting.

  3

  Best Laid Plans

  George refused.

  Tink argued, “We have no more time, G, so I’m going.” He swung out of the SUV and followed Alex into the car lot office to grab more keys.