Afterbirth: A Strandville Zombie Novel #2

by Frisch, Belinda

  “We have to close up,” she said.

  Beth howled, pleading for them to leave the door open.

  “I’m sorry, hon. Penny’s right.” Donald shut the door and Beth screamed louder.

  Penny shushed her mother. “You have to keep it down.” Something crashed against the side of the trailer and startled her.

  “It’s just the wind,” Donald said. “Probably blew over some junk in the yard.”

  A gust caught the front door and the vacuum of changing winds sucked it open, slamming it against the side of the trailer. Penny reached for the knob and a slick, bony hand caught her arm. She screamed and recoiled from the infected man, immediately recognizing him from the crescent-shaped scar on his right cheek as their neighbor, Bill Holston. A rounded ridge of bone protruded from the bite mark near his eye and stuck out against the darkness.

  Penny pulled the door, hard, but Bill persisted even after she slammed his arm in it. Behind him, the shuffling footsteps of people she could not see rustled the crisp, fallen leaves.

  “Move outta’ the way!” Donald brushed Penny aside and aimed his shotgun directly at Bill’s face. He pulled the trigger and scattered bits of the man’s head. Maura, Bill’s oldest daughter, clamored at the threshold and Donald stepped back to re-load.

  Penny kicked the girl and tried to pull the door closed, but it ricocheted off the jamb. “Something’s caught.” A piece of Bill’s shattered skull wedged at the hinge and Penny pried at it, desperate to get it free without the sharp edge cutting her.

  Donald held the door as close to shut as it would go, but it only made her task that much harder.

  “Dad, you have to let go.”

  When he did, Jennifer, Bill’s wife, dragged him into the blackness.

  “Dad!” Penny reached for her father’s hand too late.

  Jennifer sunk her teeth into his wrinkled neck and his body went limp as he passed out almost immediately from the heavy, arterial blood spray.

  Penny cried, praying as she worked at freeing the door. “Please, God. Please.”

  Two white beams fractured the darkness, illuminating the infected children shambling across their front lawn. Penny squinted into the light, the glow reflected off of the lenses of a pair of dark-framed glasses.

  “Brian!”

  Brian Foster raised his ax and cut the head off of Imogene, Bill’s youngest daughter, who was wandering as if she was lost. Blood soaked her princess pajamas and her headless body took a last crooked step before falling.

  Penny continued to work at the door, but the more anxious she became, the harder her hands shook and the more impossible it seemed to displace the lodged fragment.

  “Close the door,” Foster shouted.

  “I can’t.”

  Thomas, the Holston’s seven-year-old son, was the last of Bill’s family to fall. Foster took a rounded swing, like he had at Imogene, but there was more heft to Thomas than to his three-year-old sister and the first blow wasn’t enough. Thomas staggered sideways and went back at Foster.

  “Brian, watch out!”

  Foster lifted the ax over his shoulder and brought it down with an audible whistle that split the young boy’s head in two. Thomas toppled and his body landed next to his sister’s.

  Penny surveyed the dead bodies littering her patchy lawn and tried not to look at her father’s as she zigzagged across the lawn and collapsed into Brian’s wiry arms. “What are you doing here?” She buried her face against his narrow chest.

  “Keeping you safe,” he said and stroked her hair. “Are you okay?”

  She met his hardened gaze, recognizing immediately that he wasn’t the same man who had brought her home seven months ago. He had done and seen things that had changed him.

  A curdling scream came from inside the trailer and Penny pulled away from him. “Mom!”

  Foster choked up on the ax and ran ahead of Penny. The headlights glinted off the bloody blade as he made his way through the slain.

  “Help me!” Beth shouted.

  Penny followed Foster into the trailer and covered her mouth with both hands. Her mother’s nightgown was lifted over her face and her father chewed through her fatty belly, snarling and growling from the infection.

  “Oh, please, no.” Penny cried.

  “Go, get out of here,” Foster insisted. “Get in the Jeep.”

  The sight held her frozen.

  “Go, now. I don’t want you to see this.”

  Her father stood, wobbling and weakened, and lumbered toward them. Foster buried the blade of the ax deep into his forehead. His thinning hair did nothing to mask the extent of the injury, and when Foster twisted the blade, the gap widened. Her father twitched and fell dead at her feet.

  Penny’s stare remained fixed and she was unable to walk away. Her whole body shook as she wept.

  “For God’s sake, close your eyes,” Foster said.

  “Please, don’t.” Her voice was barely a squeak and her eyelids fought closing. Her mother was as good as dead, she knew that, but she asked for her life to be spared anyway.

  “I’m sorry.” Foster’s eyes glossed over with tears. “I have to.” He lifted the ax and beheaded her mother with a single, humane chop.

  CHAPTER 3

  Michael closed the bathroom door, terrified of the effect the grisly scene would have on Adam if he saw what had become of his mother. He pressed his palm to the dried imprint left by Ashley’s hand and swallowed his grief.

  Earl and Randy searched outside, giving him precious little time to coax Adam out of hiding. He walked to the guest bedroom and covered the dispatched corpses with blankets.

  “Adam, buddy, come on out. Everything’s okay.” Michael tried to sound reassuring. “You don’t have to be scared.” The scratching noise returned. “Adam, is that you, pal?” He opened the closet door. “Adam?” The bright blue monster truck shirt gave away the trembling ball in the corner. “Son, thank God.” Michael reached for Adam’s hand and he retreated, holding his forearm. “Adam, it’s daddy.” Sweat glistened on Adam’s forehead and his face was red with fever. Michael checked to make sure Earl and Randy weren’t around before scooping him up.

  Adam started to cry.

  “Shhhh. It’s okay.” Michael pulled the blue monster truck shirt off over Adam’s head and lifted the sleeve of the shirt underneath it. “Oh, God.” He inspected the bite mark deep into the muscle of his forearm. “Come on, buddy. Hang in there.” He rushed Adam to the master bathroom sink and washed the wound, but his eyes had already begun to cloud. Michael watched, helplessly, as they rolled back into his head. “No, no. Stay with me.” He tapped Adam’s cheek, desperate for him to regain awareness. “Adam, come on.” He laid the boy on the bathroom floor. Adam’s body shook and his muscles twitched and tightened as a bit of vomit spilled from the corner of his mouth. “Adam, can you hear me?” Michael broke down as his son withered in his arms.

  “Any luck?” Randy called up from downstairs.

  Michael sniffled and took a deep breath to steady his voice. “No, nothing. I’ll be right down.” The last thing he wanted was for them to find him like this. He looked around the bedroom and his eyes settled on the footlocker he’d traveled with since Boot Camp. “I’m so sorry,” he whispered and locked Adam’s lifeless body inside. He pushed the trunk into the closet, tucked Adam’s monster truck shirt under his own, and hurried to where Earl and Randy waited downstairs.

  “No sign of him out back,” Randy said.

  Earl moved the curtain covering the front door sidelight. “He could’ve made it to the truck, I suppose.”

  Michael nodded. “It’s a long shot, but if he saw what was coming…” He yanked the fire poker from the mouth of the obese female corpse spread across the hallway floor. “We shouldn’t go out there unarmed. There’s an ax out back on the stump.” He handed Earl one of three flashlights from the table by the door. “You take the poker. I’ll grab the ax and meet you out front.” He handed an aluminum bat to Randy. “Adam’s
out there, he has to be. I can’t lose him, too.” He headed out the back sliding glass door and prayed he’d convinced them that his boy really was missing.

  A quarter-acre of thick woods surrounded his house on three sides. He did a cursory sweep for straggling infected and headed into the forest of leaf-bare trees. He tore his son’s monster truck shirt and planted it on a low branch where it was sure to be seen in the morning.

  “Adam!” He called for his son as he rounded the corner of his house.

  Earl pulled open the Yukon’s passenger’s side door. “Adam. Son, you in here?”

  Randy opened the rear doors and shined the flashlight under the seat. “He’s not here.”

  Earl checked the back cargo area. “Not here, either.”

  “Adam, come out, buddy. Where are you? God, why is this happening to me?” Michael collapsed on the front porch steps and buried his face in his hands. The ax blade rested between his feet.

  Randy set his hand on Michael’s shoulder. “We’ll find him. You know how good kids are at hiding. He’ll get hungry and come out when you least expect it.”

  Michael sniffled and nodded.

  That’s what he was afraid of.

  CHAPTER 4

  Max Reid stepped out of a cold shower and wrapped a towel around his waist. He flexed his chest and arm muscles and rotated his aching shoulder. The scar where Scott Penton had shot him had finally started to fade, but the puckered, white star in his skin served as a constant reminder of his failure. He hadn’t delivered Miranda and made a fast enemy of Nixon who he knew was responsible for the men hunting him now.

  He smoothed his hands over his light brown hair, turning to see the pistol tattoo that barely showed through the new growth, and covered his head with a cap of white shaving cream. He’d considered leaving the center more than once, venturing out to find a nice-looking woman to keep company with, but it was too easy to stay. The place was well-stocked with everything from personal care items to medical supplies, and the few who dared enter, hadn’t made it out. He wet a disposable razor and made the first pass over his head. The freshly exposed skin made a white line where it met the last of the summer’s tan. He tried not to think too hard about winter as he made the next few passes and dressed in a clean Nixon Center uniform shirt. He left the navy blue button-down open, pinched the diminishing pouch of fat covering his muscular abs, and injected the antiviral solution meant for “just in case."

  Living with the infected, risk was inherent. The same could be said about crossing Nixon. Reid hoped that using the antiviral as a vaccine would buy him time if he were ever bit. He deposited the empty syringe in a near-full sharps container bolted to the wall and opened the blinds. The shot was his last and he was going to have to go to places he’d been avoiding to replenish his stash.

  The same few cars, which had belonged to patients, visitors, and work crews, rusted in the center parking lot. The canopy of the vast acres of trees had thinned out to the point that he could see the minor in-roads he hadn’t been able to keep watch over until now. He squinted and pressed his face to the cool glass, struggling to make out something in the distance. An unfamiliar, blue pick-up truck sat parked in the employee lot. He looked around for signs of its owner, and finding none, grabbed his pistol.

  “Nice try, Nixon.”

  He wondered how many men he had sent this time and prepared to do whatever was necessary to stay alive.

  Abandoned construction materials cluttered the fifth floor hallway. Buckets of taping compound propped up stacks of unused drywall. Plastic sheeting hung from the ceiling and there were several tool boxes from which to choose a weapon from.

  Reid picked up a crow bar and went quietly into the stairwell. His eyes darted left then right as he searched for intruders. He crept down to the fire-ravaged lobby which had been burned-out the night of the evacuation. The fire smoldered for almost two days and consumed several dozen bodies which were now piled in the remains of Ambulatory Surgery. He didn’t even notice the smell anymore.

  The elevator car, which was still the only way to the basement, had gotten stuck somewhere on one of the upper floors. Reid pried the doors open and used an extension ladder to get down to the dark, windowless space where many of the supplies were stockpiled.

  He hated it down there, but it was the only place he knew of that would have more shots.

  His heavy footfall echoed against the aluminum and made it hard to hear much else. He turned on an LED flashlight and descended with the crowbar tucked under his arm in case.

  Body parts had spoiled with the lack of refrigeration and the decomposition produced a gas that irritated his eyes and made a smell far worse than that of the charred first floor. He pulled his shirt up to cover the lower half of his face and moved the flashlight back and forth in search of others.

  He walked toward the grim kitchenette where he’d once prepared meals for the infected and doubled over as the thick stench reached down his throat. He barely moved his shirt in time before vomiting and spat, several times, to break the thick string of saliva. The cotton was little help as a filter so he breathed through his mouth, which now tasted sour and bitter. A green-yellow liquid pooled at his feet and coated the bottom of his boots.

  He had no choice but to keep going. His stomach cramped as he stepped into the defunct operating room Nixon had used for extraction and insemination. Few things bothered him the way decomposition did and he closed the door behind him to block the smell. He maneuvered past the storage containers that, for all he knew, might still have infected sperm inside, and went into the scrub suite. He searched the cabinets, the cupboards, and the dressing area but found nothing other than some sterilized scalpels next to the toppled autoclave. He pocketed several.

  “There has to be shots in here.”

  There was no way Nixon would operate without them.

  He shined the light inside the supply tray drawer and found two syringes underneath a stack of gauze.

  “Better than nothing.”

  He froze at the sound of approaching footsteps.

  “Hey, I found something.” An unfamiliar male voice came from the hall. “Looks like fresh vomit.”

  Reid set the crowbar down and opened one of the scalpels. He turned off his flashlight and pressed his back against the operating table.

  “I’ve got footsteps over here,” said another, deeper voice.

  Reid’s heart pounded as footsteps shuffled outside. The door opened and a pool of white light spread across the floor.

  The man lowered the drop-down doorstop, but as soon as he was inside, the rubber foot let go and the door slammed closed, causing him to drop his flashlight.

  “Dammit.” The man stumbled into the surgical tray and recovered.

  The flashlight rolled along the uneven floor and settled out of the man’s reach.

  Reid watched from the shadows for his chance at freedom.

  CHAPTER 5

  Miranda Penton locked the front door and waddled down the porch steps of the home where she and Scott had lived before their divorce, and where she returned to after her escape from the Nixon Healing and Research Center. Two hundred miles from Strandville, she couldn’t stop feeling like a prisoner.

  Scott lowered the passenger’s side window of a red 1970’s Ford Ranger pick-up and gestured for her to get in. Sunlight glinted off the broad, chrome grill. Rust ate the fenders and spread through the faded paint toward the doors.

  “Need a ride?”

  She scrunched up her face and coughed from the thick smell of exhaust. “Where’s the Hummer?”

  Scott scratched his head, roughing his scruffy, dark hair, and shrugged. “It’s bad on gas.” His smile implied sarcasm.

  Miranda walked down the slight hill. The basketball in the center of her small frame made it hard to find or keep her balance. “And this is better?”

  “It’s four-wheel drive.”

  He could say what he wanted, but she knew the change was because of her. He worried
that someone from the Nixon Center was coming for her and rightfully so. She hadn’t had a decent night’s sleep in almost seven months, since the first break-in. Scott had been quick to dismiss the intrusion as looters, but nothing important was missing.

  “You sure you want to come?” Scott’s gentle, hazel eyes held concern. “Maybe you should stay here, keep your feet up. I’ll be home before dark.”

  “And miss a chance at shopping? No way.” She pulled open the heavy truck door and climbed into the cab. The outings, though fewer and farther between than they had been even two months ago, provided respite from the reminders of Rosalie, their stillborn daughter. They rarely talked about her, or the Nixon Center, or the divorce, and if Scott had noticed her gradually redecorating the nursery, he didn’t say. Despite what had happened at the center, she still believed in fresh starts.

  Scott lowered his visor and a pair of mirrored aviator sunglasses fell onto the seat. He put them on and looked in the rearview.

  “What do you think? Are they me?”

  Miranda smiled. The arm was bent and the glasses sat crooked on his angular face, occupying most of the space not covered by his patchy beard and mustache.

  She leaned up and examined her weary reflection in them, shocked by how gaunt and sick she looked in the sunlight. The countless nights of illness and nightmares had taken their toll. “Not so much,” she said and tried to get comfortable in the springy seat. She put her feet up on the dusty dash and hoped to ease the swelling in her ankles.

  Scott rubbed her stomach, and then stepped on the gas. “Hang on.” The junky truck lurched forward and belched out a dark cloud of smoke behind them.

  Miranda leaned her head back and watched out the window as the deserted streets passed by. The houses had fallen into disrepair. The overgrown lawns and shrubbery reclaimed the plots of land a few feet at a time. There was little humanity left in the world and if she was being honest, it was no place to raise a child.