Elements of the Undead - Omnibus Edition (Books One - Three)

by William Esmont

  He drained his own glass and let out a growling belch.

  “Excuse me,” he said, embarrassed.

  Becka giggled.

  Jack touched the still-cool glass to his cheek. “I should have brought the pitcher out. I’m still thirsty. “

  Becka sipped again and waved at the house with her free hand. Jack took off.

  ***

  Becka put her empty glass on a level spot and climbed back into the pit. They had to go down at least one more foot before declaring victory. It would be easy if it weren’t for the damned roots, some the size of her forearm, several even larger. She still couldn’t believe they came from the old cottonwood stump. Jack had laughed off her concerns at first, easily slicing through a bundle with the point of his shovel. But they kept appearing, as if the ground was determined to see them fail.

  After three miserable hours and six inches of progress, she had asked “Do you want to try digging somewhere else?”

  Jack was adamant. “No. This is the best spot in the yard. Plus, we’re outside the main fence—which is what we wanted.”

  As they dug deeper, the roots multiplied. Becka estimated they had spent at least half of their time so far cutting the damned things. A testament to their efforts, a giant pile of shredded bark and root bits teetered beside the hole. They were committed.

  She checked her watch. Four thirty. The twins were due to return at six. She shook her head in dismay. This won’t be done in an hour. Maybe not in ten...

  She considered calling Jack’s mom and asking if she could keep the kids for a couple more hours, but decided it wasn’t worth the hassle. It almost never was with her mother-in-law.

  Becka resumed digging. She wedged her shovel under a particularly stubborn rootball, and leaned on the handle. Throwing her entire body into the effort, she hopped up and down, grunting like a wounded animal. The root popped out, but the shovel kept going, plunging deep before stopping abruptly with a leg-numbing clang.

  “What the…?” She knelt and began sifting through the crumbly soil with her gloved hands, sweeping the dirt into a pile behind her.

  “What’s that?”

  She nearly jumped out of her skin. “Jack! You surprised me!” She pointed at the thing she had uncovered. “I found something!”

  “No shit?” Placing the pitcher on the ground, he climbed in beside her and started to help. Jack scratched his head and stood. Listening intently, he stomped hard on the flat metal surface. “Sounds hollow,” he said, perplexed. “I bet we’ve got an old oil tank here.”

  Becka didn’t have words to express her frustration. She glared at the new obstacle, fuming inside. This was supposed to be easy.

  Four

  Megan scrunched her eyes shut, willing herself to sleep. It didn’t work. She was too damned hot. With a frustrated groan, she kicked out from under the sheet and padded across the trailer to the ancient air conditioner. She jabbed the power button, and the machine rattled to life.

  On the way back to bed, she snatched the television remote from the coffee table. Her roommate Heather had gone out of town, which meant Megan had the entire trailer to herself. Usually this would be cause for celebration, but for some reason this morning, Megan craved company, wanted to talk to someone real.

  The next five days were wide open, her first vacation in over six months, and she planned to use the time to her full advantage. She had a ticket in her purse to Tucson, where her sister lived. All that stood between her and her much-deserved break was the hour-long drive into Vegas. Her thoughts drifted to Chloe. Married with three children and a house in the suburbs, Chloe’s lifestyle was the polar opposite of Megan’s. Despite their differences, the sisters remained close. Megan played the role of favorite aunt to her nieces and nephew, showering them with gifts and treating them like the children she hoped to have some day.

  She turned her attention to the television. Infomercial. Flipping through the channels, she settled on a documentary about supervolcanoes in Wyoming. That kind of thing fascinated her. She crawled back on the bed and cranked up the volume. Sleep should be close—she hoped. The Xanax she had popped half an hour ago was already nibbling at the fringe of her consciousness, sanding the rough edges off the night and turning the world into a soft and fuzzy place.

  Another difference from Chloe. Or maybe not. Kids seemed the perfect justification for a discreet Xanax habit. She chuckled to herself, amused at their unlikely similarities. She didn’t enjoy using the little blue pills, quite the contrary. But they sure took the edge off after a long night on her back. Anyone who said you could fuck for a living without some sort of self-medication was full of shit in Megan’s book.

  Someone knocked on the door. “Yeah? Come in!”

  The door swung open and Samantha Cantor, her boss, slipped inside. She nudged the door closed with her heel. Megan sat up. “Sam! Hey! What are you doing here?”

  “Have you seen the news yet, Megan?” Sam asked.

  Megan cringed. “No. Why? Is something going on?” The last time someone had asked her that was the day the International Space Station had been destroyed by an errant satellite, killing everyone on board.

  Sam walked over and made a spot for herself on the edge of the bed. She took the remote and flipped to CNN. Red banners and scrolling text screaming “Breaking News” blanketed the screen. A live shot from a helicopter hovered in the center. The camera jiggled and zoomed several times before finally stabilizing on a crowded street corner.

  Megan stared in disbelief as people dashed in and out of the camera’s view, colliding with each other as they raced in every direction. In some cases, they appeared to be wrestling, locked in a gruesome struggle for an unseen prize. The aerial camera focused on a young mother and her infant as a man tackled them from behind, pushing them into the street. As Megan and Sam watched, a speeding police cruiser, lights flashing, drove over all three, swerved out of control, and crashed into the rear of a UPS truck. The camera zoomed back out.

  “Oh, my God!” Sam exclaimed.

  Megan was confused. The coverage had the vibe of a street shot from some third-world hellhole. Desperate to find the ubiquitous robed men with chicken-scratched signs, she scanned the crowd, but only saw people that looked like herself—like her neighbors back home.

  The scene shifted and the profile of the Transamerica Pyramid filled the background. A pall of thick, oily smoke clung to the horizon, blanketing the city with a viscous fog. “That’s San Francisco.” She gulped.

  The video feed shrank to a small box in the lower left of the screen and was replaced by a shot of a man with a close-trimmed beard.

  “This is Richard Mosby reporting from Washington. The president has declared a national state of emergency given the current events in San Francisco, Washington, and Miami. A press conference is scheduled for the top of the hour. CNN will have live coverage. Please stay tuned for the latest updates.”

  Megan nudged the volume down. “What’s he talking about? I don’t understand.”

  Sam coughed. “No one knows. It came out of nowhere…the first symptoms start like the flu. Within a couple of hours, people begin to change; they become violent, attacking everyone around them…”

  Megan flipped to another news channel. Same thing, different reporters. She grabbed her mobile phone, punched in Chloe’s number, then put the phone to her ear.. She frowned and checked the screen. “It’s not working. I don’t have a signal.”

  Sam gave her a sad nod. “They’ve been down for hours. Vegas, too.”

  A chill ran through her body, making her shiver. She stared at the screen, willing the signal bars to appear, but they didn’t.

  Megan took her laptop from the nightstand and opened her Instant Messenger program. Her sister wasn’t online. Switching to email, she banged out a quick message, asking her to call.

  She looked at Sam. “What do we do?”

  “Vegas seemed fine, at least a few hours ago.” Sam had been in Vegas the night before negotiating
with a strip club owner about a promotional tie-in with the brothel. Sam shrugged and sniffled. “Anyway, I wanted to make sure you knew what was going on. I know you have plans to fly out of Vegas this afternoon... You may want to reconsider.”

  Megan got up and went to the window. She peered out, squinting into the sun. Everything appeared normal. Red dirt and rocks stretched as far as she could see. Scrub grass and tumbleweed cooked in the harsh sunlight.

  Sam cleared her throat. “I’m heading back into Vegas to get some supplies. Do you want to come along?”

  Megan turned around. “I don’t think that’s such a good idea, Sam. What if it’s reached Vegas?”

  Sam leaned away and coughed into her hand, a wet, raspy sound like an old, dry chainsaw. “I know. I thought of that, but our regular delivery arrives tomorrow and we’re low on everything. If they don’t show...”

  Megan understood her concerns. She shared them. Without their weekly supplies, they wouldn’t survive for long. Life in the desert was unforgiving this time of year with temperatures soaring into the 120s and no rain to speak of. She thought of her last shift and shuddered. Twelve clients in all, breathing on her, her sweat mingling with theirs. Inside of her. Her heart beat faster; her stomach churned. Megan took a deep breath, trying to calm herself. She didn’t feel sick.

  Sam picked up on her consternation. “What’s wrong?”

  “Nothing.” Megan shook her head.

  Sam patted her on the hand and got to her feet. “I’m sure it will all be fine. These things happen…” Her first step was unsteady, as if she had forgotten how to walk. Sweat poured from her brow, falling to the floor in fat drops. Giant stains blossomed from nowhere in the pits of her arms.

  Megan straightened, putting a hand out to Sam. “Are you okay?”

  As she watched, the color drained from Sam’s cheeks, leaving her face a pasty gray with blood vessels visibly throbbing slowly beneath translucent skin.

  As if on autopilot, Sam took another step before she faltered again. She pitched face-first into the narrow gap beside the bed, swiping Megan’s alarm clock on the way down and setting it off. Megan sat in shocked silence, unable to believe what was happening in front of her. The alarm blared. Shit! She leaped across the room and attempted to pull Sam up, but she couldn’t get leverage. The older woman was wedged in, pinned tight at her shoulders.

  Megan snaked her hand to Sam’s neck and checked for a pulse. Nothing. She tried the other side, but got the same result. Oh, shit.

  Five

  Four o’clock. Come on, four o’clock.

  Alicia had only one hour left in her shift. Her buzz had worn off a while ago, leaving her tired, cranky, and craving a nap. She couldn’t keep her eyes off the cheap digital clock attached to the top of her register, checking it every time she opened the drawer, and again when she slammed it closed. “Shitty economy,” she muttered under her breath.

  “Excuse me?” her current customer, a stylish, middle-aged woman with perfect bangs and a fat glittering rock on her left hand asked.

  “I’m sorry. It’s nothing. I’m babbling. I’ve had a bad day.”

  “I understand. I was your age once.”

  Alicia smiled despite herself. This biddy has a sense of humor. She reached for the first item on the conveyer belt, a giant bottle of Vodka. Curiosity got the better of her. “Big party?”

  The woman nodded, fine strands of hair dancing on her forehead. “Yes. My son is graduating from the community college tomorrow.”

  Alicia perked up. “Which one?”

  “City.”

  “No way.” She stopped the conveyor belt. “I know some people over there.”

  “His name is Chaz. Chaz Perkins.”

  A hot flash of anger coursed through Alicia. She broke eye contact, glanced away, and tried to steady herself.

  She had met Chaz a year ago at a friend’s house. He had shown up with one of Alicia’s friends and brought along a good friend of his own—a fat sack of weed. The late-spring party had started in mid-afternoon and raged into the night, providing ample time for Alicia to get way too messed up. She outdid herself, dipping into Chaz’s stash over and over, chasing the perfect high. She had awakened the next morning in the back of his Grand Cherokee.

  Sun beamed on her face, making her sweat. The air stank, a toxic mixture of stale pot, beer, and rancid body odor. Worst of all, she was naked from the waist down, and her pants were missing. Her recollection of the previous night fuzzed out sometime around sunset. Looking at Chaz snoring contentedly beside her, she couldn’t fathom what she had been thinking. An oafish, clumsy boy, he had nothing going for him beyond a bottomless stash of weed.

  She found her shorts wadded up on the front passenger seat and slipped into them as quietly as she could. Then she crawled out of the truck and dashed down the street to her car.

  Later that day, she had gone to the drugstore and picked up two doses of the morning after pill, just in case. She was a ball of nerves as she waited in her doctor’s office a few weeks later, convinced she had caught some horrible disease from Chaz. She got lucky, though, and received a clean bill of health.

  She had never spoken to him again, had almost forgotten about the incident until this moment. She tried to smile. “I don’t know him. Sorry.”

  “Well, it’s going to be a big party. If you’re looking for something to do, here’s the address.” The woman tore a slip of paper from her checkbook and started scribbling.

  “Thanks,” Alicia said, biting back her disgust as she took the paper to be polite. Out of the corner of her eye, she noticed the next customer in line glaring at her. She smiled in return.

  Finally, she scanned the woman’s last item, a carton of toothbrushes, and pushed the Total button.

  “Joan,” the woman said as she handed over her American Express. She doesn’t give up.

  Alicia swiped the card. “Nice to meet you. I’m Alicia.” She studied Joan’s face while the transaction processed. Up close, she looked like she took care of herself. Early forties, maybe forty-five, about her mom’s age, Alicia guessed. And those bangs—just fabulous. She had to fight the urge to ask the name of her hairdresser.

  A commotion erupted near the return counter. A young man, the cart jockey, she thought, tore through the entrance, his feet slipping and sliding on the polished concrete floor.

  “They’re coming!” People stared at him for a moment, and then returned to their business.

  Alicia made eye contact. Big mistake. He dashed to her station, grabbed her by the shoulders, and shook her. “You have to get out of here! Now! They’re in the lot. They’ll be inside any minute!”

  Something dripped on her upper arm. He was bleeding on her. “Eww!” She shook him off and pointed at the wound. “Are you okay? Did you cut yourself?”

  “No! I’m fine. But that’s what I’m trying to tell you! They’re coming!” He turned and raced away, bumping into her next customer and spilling her cart in the process. Someone outside screamed, causing everyone to crane their heads, searching for the source.

  Now Alicia was curious. She took her register keys and went to investigate. Other people, both customers and employees, were drifting in the same direction, drawn by the unexpected drama. When she rounded the corner and was able to see outside, Alicia felt her understanding of the world rip loose and slide away, a little earthquake in her mind.

  Across the lot, less than thirty feet away, a man was on his knees, bent over another person, ripping and tearing at their throat. He was pulling enormous, bloody chunks of meat into his mouth and inhaling them like a wild animal.

  “Is that real?” Joan asked from beside her.

  Alicia had forgotten about her. She shrugged. This was Tempe after all. Anything was possible. Where’s a damn manager when you need one? She cast about, searching for one. A giant hand brushed her shoulder, and the next thing she knew, Big Don Harding, her supervisor, nudged her to the side and pushed past.

  Her stomach kno
tted up. She tasted bile, as if she was going to vomit. “You can’t go outside,” she said.

  He gave her a stern glare. “And why not?”

  “I…”

  He rolled his eyes. “Come on, Alicia. I’m sure it’s some kind of movie promotion or something. Whatever it is, they can’t do it here. Not without getting approval from Corporate.” He started for the exit.

  Alicia turned her attention back to the men in the parking lot. The first man was standing and staring at the people clustered around the door. Blood and gore dripped from his face, coating his chest in Technicolor-red. He chewed intently and swallowed the last bits of his meal.

  She glanced behind him at the body on the ground. It twitched. Alicia did a double take. She could have sworn the man on the ground had just moved. That’s impossible. As she stared in disbelief, one of his feet kicked out. Then, with a groan, he rolled over and struggled to his feet.

  Alicia swallowed hard. The man’s throat was in tatters, the fleshy parts chewed to the point where his vertebrae showed through, glistening white, slick, and greasy. His head tilted at an odd angle, the destroyed muscles of his neck barely supporting the weight of his head.

  Customers began backing from the open door, slowly at first, but then with a rising sense of urgency. Alicia sensed the fear sweeping through the crowd; it was an electric current triggering a full-blown panic in the blink of an eye.

  “I don’t like this,” she said. “I think you should close up.”

  Don was paralyzed, seemingly torn between his duty to the store and his instinct for self-preservation. The man with no throat turned his head, tracking slowly across the front of the building. He stopped and focused on Alicia, his empty gaze boring into her. He began to moan, the sound increasing in intensity until it became a full-fledged roar. He took a shaky step toward her. The other man licked his lips and followed.