Resurrection X
Dane Hatchell
Copyright 2015 by Dane hatchel
www.severedpress.com
First published by Post Mortem Press
Resurrection X is my first novel and is dedicated to Robert Crais, 2006 recipient of the Ross Macdonald Literary Award, who is known for his great detective fiction. I met bob some 40 years ago in our home town, and his success inspired me over the years to never give up my dream to write.
A special mention is given to Frank Herbert for creating the wonderful universe of Dune. A special homage is given to Mr. Herbert in the epilogue. Imitation is the sincerest form of flattery.
A big thank you goes out to Gary Lucas at Severed Press and the fantastic opportunities he brings to writers and readers who delight in the things of darkness.
Prologue
The Dark Times: The year 2020
Platoon Forward Observer Steve Rogan scanned the streets below from atop the roof of the Broadmoor First Baptist church. Once-dead bodies reanimated to life filled his Omega Class range finder in every direction. He knew things weren’t going well for the good guys but had never seen it this bad.
He let the range finder drop to his chest, dangling by the strap, and wiped a crusty accumulation of dirt and tobacco spit from the corner of his mouth. The noonday sun baked the back of his gritty neck, and a fly had nothing better to do than make high speed passes by his left ear. The military had been so close early in the war to put an end to the alien menace. Now, Vegas odds were against a victory for the Living. All because of some stupid twist of fate.
His mind drifted to the early reports in the news nearly two years before. A group of relatively small asteroids had entered the solar system, and the projected path put them directly in Earth’s orbit. Fortunately, their arrival proceeded the Earth by a few weeks. What had been ignored was the massive trail of dust following the pack of rocky missiles. The Earth hit that dead center. The debris was dismissed as harmless space dust, destined to cloud the skies for a few days until it settled. The yellowish rains that fell afterward did cause some alarm, but scientists agreed the alien microbes in the dust were benign. The microbes resembled Earth viruses and were not considered a true life form, as they did not self-replicate.
Being alien with incompatible DNA, the virus was unable to infect any living creature on the Earth, much to everyone’s relief. However, no one suspected the microbes would work their way into the ecosystem and mutate. No one suspected the alien virus would rekindle the fires of life in the dead, or any of the other horrible effects it would have on mankind.
Rogan returned the range finder to his eyes.
“What’re you looking for? The cavalry? They ain’t coming,” Andy Wells said as he sat cross-legged on the flat, concrete roof near Rogan. His tattered boots stained with human gore didn’t have much rubber left on the tread. One of the two MREs warming on galvanized flashing disappeared into his hand, and he tore open a corner with his teeth. A portion of noodles and red sauce crowned through the hole before he squeezed some into his mouth.
Rogan continued his watch, ignoring his platoon mate much like the annoying insect dive-bombing his ear. “We almost had these damn things beat. The virus spreads so rapidly now their numbers have been growing exponentially.”
“Ex-poh-nen-shell-lee.” Wells had lengthened the syllables into a near sentence. “That’s a mighty high-dollar word for a high school grad-u-ate. You sure you ain’t had no college?” Wells’ tongue chased a dangling noodle from the food pouch.
“Andy, is your main goal in life to—hey, what’s that?” A group of the walking dead Rogan had been following jacked up the pace of their lumbering gait. He panned the range finder and discovered why.
“Oh my God,” Rogan said in a whisper.
“What?” Wells tore the pouch and lapped the sweet sauce clinging inside.
A group of five—a family more than likely—consisting of a man, a woman, three children, and a dog, ran in desperation up the street a couple of blocks away from the church. The filthy clothes on the family resembled the rags worn by the undead in pursuit. The man clutched a toddler tightly to his chest with one arm and pushed his wife to run faster with the other. He kept turning and barking something to the two other children, a boy and a girl—both who couldn’t be over ten years in age. Rogan watched the fright in the father’s face and realized how he’d become numb to this repeating scene.
The little girl tripped in her frenzied flight, landing on her elbows and knees. Skin peeled back exposing red-wet flesh and sending the rich scent of blood into the winds.
The dog, a cocker spaniel, dashed back to her side. The poor thing, it yipped and danced around, as if beckoning her to rise.
Seeing this, the man nearly threw the toddler into the woman’s arms and rushed back to the girl’s aid.
At this time, an athletically built male zombie with a blank stare, and a huge chunk missing from its neck, reached out to grab the girl as she struggled to lift herself off the street.
Before the zombie’s gore encrusted fingers found the girl’s foot, the dog sprang into the air and chomped down onto its hand. The cocker spaniel attacked like a pint-sized wolf and viciously shook its head until the hand tore free of the wrist. The dog rolled to the ground clutching the undead prize in its jaws.
The man reached the scene and put the full force of his heel into the nose of the ravenous zombie. Its head snapped off and rolled directly in front of the murderous horde only a few yards away.
“I said, ‘what?’ ” Wells followed with a burp.
The zombies covered the man like a swarm of fire ants. He disappeared into the crowd.
The girl was next to go, caught up in the wave of zombies that headed straight for the boy, the woman, and the toddler she held.
“Nothing,” Rogan said. The walls he had built hiding his emotions over the months began to crack. No, they had cracked a long time ago, but he refused to acknowledge his weakness. He felt scared for the family now. And if he didn’t get his shit back together, soon would start feeling scared for himself.
The woman and the boy screeched to a halt as another group of walking dead appeared in front of them. Trapped, with nowhere to run, the woman dropped to her knees, and angrily shook a fist toward the sky. She bent over and covered the toddler with her body.
The zombies overwhelmed the fragile humans in a flood of gnashing teeth and flashing nails. Mercifully, the rooftop was too far away for the screams to reach.
“Come on, really, what do you see?” Wells said, pulling at the cuff of Rogan’s pants.
“I said nothing you ignorant fuck! Now fuck the fuck off!” Rogan tore the range finder from his eyes and glared at Wells. His mouth widened showing teeth. The edges of his lips quivered.
Wells looked up into the face of his friend, a brother in his platoon, and winced as if he expected to be hit. He went to speak, perhaps to ask for forgiveness, but lowered his head instead and stared at the roof.
Rogan broke his laser stare and turned his attention back toward the skirmish, raising the range finder to his eyes. Gone, all gone. As if it never happened. And that’s how he’d managed to keep it together over the months—just forget that it happened—a luxury his mind would no longer afford.
Some dark splotches stained the street, but even that could have been there before. The streets had been painted with blood and human remains for a long time. Would it ever end?
The radio microphone squawked on Wells’ collar. “Second Platoon, Wells, are you still with us?”
Wells cleared his throat. “Yeah, we’s still with ya. Not sure for how much longer though. Thems flesh eaters got us surrounded so thick the wind won’t blow between ’em.”
“Listen up, there’s a new development in the war. Bombers are in the air and heading toward your area. Their ordinance is a modified version of an aerosol bomb that will disperse Z-gas. Z-gas is a biological agent heavier than air. Each bomb released will disperse a vaccine covering an area several square miles wide. This gas is not harmful, repeat, not harmful to the Living. It only affects those dead bastards carrying the alien virus.”
Wells smiled at Rogan, giving him a thumb-up. Keying the switch on his microphone, he said, “What’s this here gas gonna do? Make their heads explode or something? That’s the only way to kill a zombie—blow its head off.”
“That’s a negative. The gas won’t kill them, but it will make them docile—they won’t attack anymore. There will be further orders once the gassing is complete. Do not engage any of the undead until told to do so. Hold your position. Expect another call in twenty-four to thirty-six hours. Clear?”
“Oh, we’s clear, with fingers and toes crossed. Wells, Second Platoon, out.” He rose to his feet and wiped his hands on his pants. “What do you make of that, amigo?”
Rogan wasn’t sure what result this new assault would bring. At least it offered a hope he didn’t have five minutes before.
A hope not offered to that poor family of five.
Chapter 1
Modern times: Dallas, Texas, the year 2025
“If I had known you were going to be so annoyed at the restaurant, I would have ordered pizza to the cabin,” Bob Sanders said to his girlfriend, Lisa Goudard, as the couple sat at Cafe D’Esprit while browsing the drink menu. “This was supposed to be a special night for us, to celebrate our one year anniversary.”
“Those two over there are ruining the night,” Lisa said, nodding her head to the side. “Disgusting, if you ask me.”
Bob casually twisted his gaze toward the couple. “They aren’t bothering anyone. They’re just eating. This is a restaurant.”
“Their kind shouldn’t be allowed in here. Look at them. One of them has sauerkraut hanging off his chin.” Lisa raised her upper lip and scowled. “They’re troublemakers—nothing but equal right activists trying to stir things up. Some left wing organization put them up to this. You know most Sub Zs can’t even think for themselves.”
Two members of the Non-Dead sat in a dark corner near the kitchen door. The chairs pushed so close one side of the patrons’ arms touched. Each wore the standard City Maintenance attire of dark blue, long-sleeved jumpsuit, and Department of Sanitation cap. The shadows hid the level of decay of their leathery faces.
“I’m sure eating at a public establishment makes them feel more,” Bob paused to choose the correct word, “human. Besides, it’s the law, and the restaurant can’t afford to have the Feds bringing a discrimination suit against them.”
Lisa dropped the drink menu and put her hands on the table. “But the Non-Dead don’t even need to eat solid food like we do. The alien virus infesting their body feeds off that skin cream they grease up with.” Lisa shuddered. “I can’t imagine what it’s like to be infected.”
“No, Sub Zs don’t need to eat, but sauerkraut helps preserve internal organs. It adds months, if not years, to the amount of time they remain useful for service.”
“You liberals are insufferable with excuses.” Lisa closed her eyes and brushed off the air between them with the flick of her wrist. “They’re nothing but zombie trash.”
Bob grimaced. “Not so loud with the Z-word. The waitress will hear you.”
Lisa glanced toward clanking dishes. “You’re worried about the waitress over there? From the looks of her she’s getting close to the end of her usefulness. She’d be better off concentrating on her job and ignoring what the Living are saying about her.”
“Speaking of a waitress,” Bob poked up his head and searched around the room, “where’s ours? I need a drink.”
“She’s probably in the bathroom, putting her face on. Get it? Literally putting her face on—because it got eaten off!” Lisa giggled.
Bob took a deep breath and huffed. “Honey, you have to face the fact the Non-Dead are here to stay.”
Lisa’s lips tightened like she was about to explode.
Picking up the beverage menu, Bob said, “You’ll loosen up a bit once we have a drink or two. What’ll it be? White wine? How about some champagne? I’m pulling out all the stops tonight.”
“You don’t like my humor because you don’t understand it.”
“Please, can we just move on? I don’t think jokes like that are appropriate. Not in this day and age, and certainly not in a public place. Would you prefer a cocktail from the specialty menu? How about an Appletini or a Cosmopolitan?”
Lisa crossed her arms. “Champagne. Make it two bottles if you want me to loosen up.”
The warm hum of background conversation died as a woman at a table near them let out a shriek. She sprang from the chair and tossed her napkin to the floor. “I need to see the manager. Now!” Seething, she mumbled something through clenched teeth.
“What the hell is going on over there?” Bob said, hoping to turn the tide of tonight’s events.
“Her soup was probably cold or something. I’ve noticed she frowns at everything her date says to her. She even sent back the first bottle of wine, turning up her nose after the first sip. Some people are impossible.”
Bob raised a finger and went to speak. Then, deflated like a punctured tire. He cleared his throat. “Yes, some people are impossible.” The water glass went to his lips before he incriminated himself.
The restaurant manager briskly walked behind Lisa, approaching the upset customer.
“My good ma’am, I am so sorry there was a slight problem with the soup. Café D’Esprit prides itself in its five star rating. I assure you, that rating could not have been achieved without the highest level of cleanliness in our kitchen. I greatly apologize for the fly you have found in your soup. The vile creature must have flown in from outside as our distinguished diners enter and leave.”
The woman slowly shook her head.
The manager bowed, his eyebrows raised, and palms open in front of his chest. His smile pleaded for a reprieve.
She leaned forward with hands firmly on hips. “I didn’t find a fly in my soup. I found an eye in my soup!”
Two tables over a large man dressed in a tuxedo quickly brought his napkin to his mouth. He gagged and dry heaved until his face turned a deep shade of red.
A young woman with long blonde hair one table away erupted a flow of ratatouille and chardonnay over the ivory white tablecloth. Vomit shot out her mouth and nose with the force of a fire hose. Her date twisted his ankle and fell as he leaped to safety from his chair in his efforts to avoid the spewing emesis.
Lisa smirked victoriously, nodding her head.
Bob cradled his face in his hands.
Chapter 2
Two hours later, a 2025 North American Motor’s Evergreen Sedan skirted the piney woods, headed toward Dallas.
“Of course the Non-Dead don’t deserve the right to vote.” Lisa glanced at Bob momentarily, and then returned her eyes to the road. “They don’t have to pay taxes, or buy food. They live in free housing and get free health care. All their needs are provided.”
“But the Non-Dead do work, right? Their pay is only a fraction of minimum wage. If they don’t work, well, you know what happens to those who aren’t capable of working any longer. In-cin-er-ation,” Bob said, his eyes glued on the dark road ahead while he drove.
“Yes, the Non-Dead work. They have to work. Our way of life, as fucked up as it is now, would return to the 1800s if we didn’t have them. Losing half the people on the planet during The Dark Times makes every Living human a priceless commodity.
“I like electricity. I like cars, new clothes, shoes, makeup, and perfume. If the zombies, or Undead, or the Non-Dead, or whatever PC term they come up with next…wait, tell me why they picked Non-Dead again?”
“Non-Living was rejected because it contained the word
living. They were given the status of Non-Dead to indicate that they are technically dead,” Bob said.
“How do you even remember all of this crap? Anyway, if the Non-Dead are being kept alive, I mean functioning, or whatever the hell they are, by us, then, they owe their existence to us. They are nothing more than machines. You wouldn’t give a tractor the right to vote, would you?” Lisa grabbed her Louis Vuitton handbag from the floorboard and rummaged through it, coming up with a tube of lip balm.
Bob slowed the car as the road rose ahead and wound to the east. “I understand your point. Put things in perspective to be fair. You don’t have to leave your comfortable home in the city and live out in the country where the food is grown because the Non-Dead are there to work in our place. We treat them no better than beasts of burden to show our thanks.
“The Non-Dead repair the roads and pick up the trash. Most of the service industry is filled with the Non-Dead labor force. That frees up the Living from menial tasks to pursue more intellectual endeavors. You have noticed that some of the movie theaters have reopened, haven’t you?”
Lisa chuckled. “Yeah, where you can watch a rerun or a new movie made on a cellphone and home computer.”
“Hey, Hollywood is just beginning to turn out a product. The new movies focus on content and dialogue, emphasizing the story. You should appreciate that over the flash and special effects of the Hollywood of old.
“Lisa, you just have to become more progressive or you’ll be left behind as the world moves on without you.
“The Non-Dead are being granted more opportunities in the workforce in the northern states. Zombie Brew Company is one of the first to make full compliance with the EEOC’s amendment to the Americans with Disabilities Act. That was a pretty bold move by Gill Gates, the billionaire. He put his money where his mouth is. The new company follows the right to work initiative integrating the Non-Dead to share equal duties alongside the Living. He didn’t do that just to piss off the Conservatives. He wanted to avoid dealing with the blood-sucking Living Union, too. You should appreciate that.
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