DEAD FACTIONS - the Zombie War Narratives - a Novella

by Michael Carr

  Carr

  DEAD FACTIONS

  The Zombie War Narratives

  MICHAEL R. CARR

  CZKWorld Studios

  COREY

  the zombie killer

  Czkworld studios production 2012

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or replaced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, recording or otherwise, without the prior written permission of Michael R. Carr to whom all copy-right inquires should be addressed.

  For more information

  email: thezombieguys@gmail.com

  This is a work of fiction.

  Names, characters and incidents are used fictitiously and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, places or events are entirely coincidental.

  Copyright © 2012 MICHAEL R. CARR

  All Illustration Copyright © MICHAEL R. CARR

  Cover art by Jim Frankenstin

  Interior Art and back cover layout by Michael R. Carr

  Edited by djc

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  First Edition

  Carr, Michael R

  DEAD FACTIONS/ MICHAEL R. CARR

  ISBN:# 13:978-1478304852

  1. type of work-Literary Fiction 1.Dead Factions

  copyright #1-801516911

  PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA

  Dedicated to Dr. Jeanne Carr

  Thank you for being a positive role model and acting as both parents. I am grateful for your showing me that going above-and-beyond will pay off. In the toughest of times, your wisdom has helped me. When faced with opposition or a tough decision, I have found comfort in being able to ask what you would do. Not everyone is so lucky.

  In Memory of

  “Grump” and “Dick Carr”

  We feel your absence daily.

  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  CHAPTER ONE ………… Amity Eroded

  CHAPTER TWO ………… Rise

  CHAPTER THREE ………. Grenades, Flames,

  and Zlys, Oh My

  CHAPTER FOUR ………... Enter Lu-Ci-4

  CHAPTER FIVE ………… Chaos Erupts

  CHAPTER SIX ………….. The Arachnian Conflict

  CHAPTER SEVEN ……… Despondent World

  Forward

  “You are what you eat.” “You reap what you sow.” Have you thought about who you truly are? Decisions, even at a young age will decide who you will become. One particular flaw of which we are all guilty is deceit; it comes so easily. We sell ourselves as someone we are not to get what we want. It happens every day, from marrying someone with wealth to a falsifier campaigning for public office. The fact of the matter is we are greedy by nature and, depending on what the prize is we will stop at nothing to get it.

  Someone told me when I began writing this story to keep in mind what I am saying about humanity. I think that was the whole idea, humanity is just a word. It is a candy-coated noun sometimes used to parade a sense that we are civilized, remarkable, and compassionate. Although, as a race we have grown through many areas of study, i.e., technological, medical and industrial, we often fail to consider our faults and bad decisions.

  We are the pollution to the environment. We are what bring a species to near extinction. For what? The answer is simple…for more. What happens when there is nothing more to want or there is nothing left to absorb? That is where you find yourself in the beginning pages of Dead Factions. The survivors are surrounded by the constant and diseased result of “humanity’s” ultimate sin…the need to control everything.

  Michael R. Carr

  Chapter One

  Amity Eroded

  In today's world, everything still seems related. The overcast skies acoustically amplify the crackling sounds in the distance. A noise is heard throughout the barren, epic and frantic land that the survivors call home, for now. This tonality is nothing but a 4/4 rhythm made of guns firing, ambers flying from desolate buildings still engulfed in flames and quitters jumping to their demise.

  The odor is the same as before but its origin is not from bus fumes or abandoned trash waiting for pickup. It is from the scattered infected beings roaming the streets. Their existence has withered to simply loot the living of their flesh and organs.

  The dead are considered a disease...they are in fact a walking plague of sorts. Like with any sickness you take precautions...but precautions are simply a novelty act. Like the common cold, the infected simply will not go away.

  Today no one cares what you do for work or how much is in your checking account. They only care if your weapon works. In this world, you do not have to dodge bills or screen your phone calls from telemarketers. You just need to be able to run like hell, since there are few options when it comes to finding a place to hide.

  Humanity has gravitated to makeshift cities surrounded by the mishmash of large buses and electrical fences to offer refuge and protection. However, like any city...issues arise. Greed, hunger, and struggle for political control are among some of the city's current events. Even though it is not perfect, it is a place to stop...and breathe.

  Inside the provisional city are the remnants of a downtown located in the southwestern U.S. Days are dark, the same as every day. It is unknown if the darkness results from the burning corporate structures or from the earth's acceptance of the melancholy-like existence that has made its home on her. Some think it is from a collapse of foreign nations, but no one knows for certain. Since the outbreak and war, communications are ‘on again, off again’. In fact, this questions if there is any government at all.

  The skyline view of downtown is somber, now partially built by destruction. Status symbols once showing corporate growth and prosperity are nothing more than a zombie playground now. If only white collar America had diversified... “Guess them’s the breaks”.

  There is movement in front of the skyline. After further observation, it appears to be three survivors running for their lives. They continue at a steady pace towards the city. The three are completing their duty in what the locals call the “Zombie Marathon”, a bi-monthly event in which all citizens, young and old are required to take part at some point. It is kind of like paying taxes, a way for the citizens to give back for the privilege of staying in the protected city. This crucial event is currently the only means by which the community finds food. No matter how important the marathon is to survival, entertainment is also in short supply and wagering on the marathon outcome is inevitable. Not only is action taken on how many cans of food will be salvaged, but also on who returns first… or who will return at all.

  One of the participants, Corey, in his early twenties is tall and of a slender build. His hair is dark, long, falling a bit in his face and styled in a skater-like fashion. He is on his third run. Do not jump to conclusions or immediately feel compassion for him. Corey volunteers to go more often than most. The rules state that when you volunteer three times that on your last run you get to keep your take. In past runs, he was able to find a path to weave through that would give him distance from the running dead. With this knowledge, he has gained a huge advantage at making it back alive and with the goods. In reality, he has an agenda.

  As the runners come closer, guards to the city take their positions in numerous crows’ nests at the city’s main entrance. The guards take aim...the three running survivors appear not to be alone. They yell to the guards to begin firing at the approaching walkers behind them. Corey is in full pursuit of the city entrance that is just within sight...but suddenly realizes he is alone. He slams on the brakes and his feet stutter
to slow the momentum. He looks back to see one of the survivors, a young woman trying to encourage the third runner to hurry (who is in last place if you are penciling in the odds).

  Corey grabs her, "Focus! Aaron is done! We gotta keep moving!" He pulls her away as she continues to look back at the last human. Corey turns her head with his hand. He knows this is not going to end well. They have exhausted all their ammo, in fact Corey left his empty glock buried in a walker's forehead.

  Zombies of all shapes and sizes pile on top of the third runner. Aaron pleads for his life, but the mound seems to grow bigger as if a rugby game had broken out and he was the ball.

  Corey continues forward with the girl just behind him. As they draw closer to the gates he shouts, "How about some cover fire!?!"

  The ill-trained guards take aim and while effective, they miss as many times as they hit...nothing is perfect. Corey and the girl quickly approach the gate and scream at the top of their lungs for it to open. The front entrance is a heavy and thick metal slab connected to a city bus via a pulley system. The bus moves forward, allowing the slab to inch upward…just enough to allow the two runners space to slide underneath and, with any luck, avoid intruders.

  As Corey and the girl slide through, an arm of bluish-green reaches under the entrance, followed by a head. While making its way under the metal slab, the zombie releases a loud hiss. At that moment the bus changes gears, rolls in reverse and suddenly releases the gate which falls hard to the ground…smashing the frenzied zombie, leaving a permanent look of agony on the undead's face. It is the sound of the gate closing that marks the Marathon’s conclusion in lieu of a ribbon breaking or energy drink shower.

  Corey stands and brushes himself off as the guards continue to fire at the horde gathering in front of the city’s barrier. He looks towards the direction of the gunfire. While watching zombies fall to a permanent rest, he notices a colossal form staring at him through the electrical fence. It is this barrier that the dead have learned to avoid or approach with caution, well most of them. The lifeless seem to be anticipating or hoping to feed their endless hunger. So, they wait…

  Corey observes the large built, undead being staring at him. He thinks, “this one is different...noticeably focused and patient... whatever is on its mind, the walker displays determination.”

  Corey is not afraid. He approaches the fence where the giant stands on the other side. Attempting to intimidate the beast, a stream of spit leaves Corey’s mouth in the direction of the towering onlooker. The small amount of fluid sizzles and quickly dissolves as it broadcasts to anything nearby that the electrical fence is fully functional.

  Satisfied with his action, Corey turns and pulls his hoodie over his head. The obscure look gives him a sense of another self, a way to transform his soul in preparation for the business he is about to conduct.

  As he makes his way, the girl from the food run stops him, “Are you ok?” Corey replies staying firm and focused on other things, “I’m always ok.” He continues towards the city’s market unaware that she has decided to follow him.

  He approaches the opening to the vendor area of town. Referred to as the “Barter Zone” by the locals, it has a look and feel of an old downtown flea market. The first building he sees is actually the old power company building. The survivors found it in working order when developing the city. The good fortune of having it has been a large part of the success in sustaining life here.

  Above the market is a sky littered with colors. Streamers run from one building to the next. Every marketing scheme is used to gain the attention of the citizens and gain the tightly gripped commodities of food and other supplies that are used for money. The area is always busy as it is where one may find scarce goods or obtain services, although costly.

  Some form of business occupies every nook and cranny of this district. From a distance, one can see where the top floors once where. Now they are just stairways stopping in the sky acting as a gathering spot for large populations of birds. One can safely assume the birds are waiting for their turn to grab some scraps from the bustling market.

  Corey walks with purpose as if he has a clear destination in mind. His follower watches closely but keeps her distance...the man has boundaries.

  He approaches a street vendor sitting humped over wearing tattered overalls and a greasy ball cap. The vendor looks up, “Corey my man! Hope you got something good for me.”

  Corey rummages through his bag and assures the seller, “Can goods like we discussed before I left.”

  “Well, show me what you got…boy”, the vendor states as if to belittle and frustrate him. Nevertheless, Corey is too busy displaying what he has found to be bothered. He proudly dumps his stash on the vendor’s table. The vendor quickly looks over the small mound prepared to make an offer.

  “You still got the drill?” Corey asks with some concern. Corey’s uneasiness is justified as the vendor makes his assessment.

  "Yeah, but it looks like you’re three cans short”. Corey’s temperament is short. If the vendor sticks to his guns, Corey knows it will mean at least three more food runs; he leans over the table and grabs the vendor by his shirt clearly indicating dissatisfaction.

  “Listen asshole! As I recall I’ve saved YOUR can more than three times!!”

  The vendor is stunned…he knows this is serious. He is also aware that most citizens of the city are on edge since the outbreak. The drill is something Corey wants badly and for a reason. He has purposely risked his life multiple times on food runs to gain enough can goods to get his special request filled.

  The vendor realizes this is an argument from which he might leave with a limp, so he caves. “Uhhh... Look man…it is not that serious. Here! Take the drill for what you have.” Hoping that the situation has been resolved…the vendor reaches for the drill. Corey, still chafed, questions the vendor's moves.

  “Don’t do anything stupid!”

  The vendor reassures Corey, “I'm just reaching for your drill. See! It is just like you asked…with all the modifications.” Corey rapidly grabs the drill from the man's hand as if it was only available for a second. He places the drill into his very large and now empty bag...never taking an eye off the vendor. He is careful not to give the salesman a chance to get the drill back. Corey's eyes stay on the vendor as he turns away, not noticing the girl standing close behind him. He finishes his turn and runs right into her, knocking her to the ground. With a shocked expression on her face, she looks up to a frustrated Corey. “Look, I told you I would help you gather food and I did. That was it! Nothing more!”

  The girl gathers herself and responds looking for some sense of sympathy, “I remember what you said...but we made it back…together! You gotta understand. I don’t know anyone else.”

  Corey's mind has been made up for a long time. He relays to her what could be the thousandth time he has thought it. “I can only worry about me right now. It ends here.” Corey walks away leaving her where he leaves everyone that tries to get close...behind him.

  As he steps forward, he cannot help himself from thinking, “Bitches...” He has little patience for others and their needs. He has no regrets...well none to which he admits. At this point, the only feeling Corey has is an urge…the urge to get away from the city that he considers a liability.

  He continues on his way and finds an abandoned car...a rusted-out ‘95 Honda Prelude parked close to the city's eastside fence. A side of the town that is less populated...almost forgotten. He opens the car door and drops into the driver’s seat unaware that all four tires are flat. After some adjustment, Corey sits back and stares ahead, beginning to run a plan through his mind. The look on his face reads like a how-to-manual on preoccupation.

  He begins to focus on some clutter that covers a portion of the fence. As he looks at it, he begins to justify why he is such an introvert and his need to be away from everyone. He blames part of the reason on the city, the city he knows to be a big attraction to the infected. More humans mean more walk
ers. Although he wants separation from the dead’s obnoxious panhandling for food, he wants to be free of the bureaucracy found in the confines of the fence.

  Corey stops thinking for a minute and turns to his large bag that is now hanging off him and into the passenger seat. He squints as he focuses on finding the drill now lost in somewhere-ville of the deep bag. “Finally!”...he thinks as he finds it. Now able to hold it up for closer inspection without fear of it being taken, he reviews the carefully implemented modifications and quickly learns the nuances of his new weapon. He found it to be small and very versatile, just like he requested.

  Even with all of its functions, its biggest flaw is the use of power. Luckily, Corey was able to lift more batteries for the drill during the confrontation with the street vendor. However, that still gives him a limited supply of power…a week, maybe? Corey will have to use it sparingly until he finds a charging station. The stations are like pawnshops, usually carrying a little bit of everything. He only knows of one, the rest might very well be urban legend.

  Corey knows his choice is clear. For more battery options and answers to the repetitive questions in his mind, he must change his location. In preparation for this day, Corey hid a rare flaw to the city's defenses, an opening...a hole in a small section of the fence that was oddly devoid of electrical charge. It appears the undead have still not located it. Corey disguised it sometime ago with clutter and nonsense, protected until it was time to change his course…one that could lead him to as many trials as to the answers he sought.