Since The Sirens Box Set | Books 1-7

by Isherwood, E. E.

  On reflection, it seems almost sacrilegious to put the idea of my sweet grandma into what is essentially a piece of horror fiction, but I would find it hard to write her into any other genre. If she had her druthers, she'd probably say I shouldn't use her as the basis for anything at all, and instead write about someone more interesting. Others in our family might suggest a grandmotherly character should only exist in a friendly story akin to Ray Bradbury's Dandelion Wine, in which the grandparents are presented in a much more mundane setting. But that wouldn't be me. I think people become extraordinary when faced with great challenges. Perhaps it means I just don't have a developed sense of drama, as it appears I need the entire world to collapse and zombies to pour forth before I can take a snapshot of a person and characterize them inside that world. I'm okay with that. I think she would be as well.

  Most of my research for this book consisted of me walking around St. Louis city and county, where I live. I spent some of my youth pounding pavement through the red brick flats of South City. I've spent countless hours on the highways of this metropolis. I've visited the Gateway Arch numerous times, though I've never been invited to walk the steps to the top. However, if you take the trams up and down the Arch there are windows inside those cars so you can see the metal staircase from time-to-time. Other locations throughout my books are places I've been, though some of the details were edited to keep the story moving along. The area underneath the Arch is surprisingly complex in real life, so I had to simplify. There are air vents for the underground museum up on the surface, though I admit I have no idea if any go into the railroad tunnels. I'd like to think they do. You never know when one might come in handy.

  General Patton is one of my personal heroes. You may see his influence in several of my novels. In this book Liam loosely quotes him. “A good plan, violently executed now, is better than a perfect plan next week.” This is very apropos for writing a novel. I started writing this story in the summer of 2014. The first draft was done in December 2014. And the edits...oh my. To let my beta readers off the hook, any errors remaining in the manuscript are completely and utterly my own.

  Finally, I want to thank my family for believing in this project. It took just over a year to turn this glimmer of an idea into a nice-sized novel, and it wouldn't have been possible without a supportive family.

  E.E. Isherwood

  E.E. Isherwood’s other books

  Minus America – After an event sweeps from coast to coast, nearly everyone in mainland USA disappears. Only piles of clothes remain. Can the last Americans survive long enough to learn how it happened? Five books.

  Impact (co-written with Mike Kraus) – A post-apocalyptic thriller about an asteroid slamming across the heartland of America. Six books.

  End Days (co-written with Craig Martelle) – A post-apocalyptic adventure about a father and son on opposite ends of a continent ravaged by a failed science experiment. Four books.

  Sirens of the Zombie Apocalypse – A teen boy must keep his great-grandma alive to find the cure to the zombie plague, but what if the only people immune are those over 100? Seven books.

  Amazon – amazon.com/author/eeisherwood

  Facebook – www.facebook.com/sincethesirens

  My web page – www.eeisherwood.com

  That’s all the time I have. The next book calls to me!

  SINCE THE SIRENS BOOK 2

  Siren Songs

  Since the Sirens

  Book 2

  E.E. Isherwood

  © 2016 E.E. Isherwood. All rights reserved.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales, is entirely coincidental.

  This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the author except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  In a multiverse of infinite possibilities,

  divine intervention is indistinguishable from dumb luck.

  What if that's intentional?

  Prologue: Parents

  Three days since the sirens.

  Jerry huffed with fatigue as the green street sign caught a glint of light from the explosive nighttime sky up ahead. Another fuel tank. Another gas station. Another block. The whole city was on fire. Just like his lungs.

  “I'm going to throw up if we don't get there in the next few minutes.”

  Lana, his wife, responded in the ear bud. “You're the runner, dear husband, so quit yer' whining."

  They walked a few seconds more before she could read the sign. "It's your lucky day, this is her street." She tacked on a relieved laugh.

  He was tempted to thank God for getting them there, but this trip had taken what little faith he had and buried it under a pile of bodies. At that moment it was just him and Lana, and a whole lot of luck. Knock on wood, his son Liam would be where he was told to stay earlier in the summer. Otherwise, the past twenty-four hours of nightmare would have been for nothing.

  Grandma Marty would NEVER let him go out. And she wouldn't go out, either.

  The thought comforted him.

  Without planning it, they'd stopped near the street sign. A last pause before the push to the summit. The climb had been long and depressing. They'd left home with rifles, plenty of ammo, and all the skills and knowledge of years of surfing internet websites devoted to precisely the situation in which they were now mired. It was grid down. It was societal collapse. It was the end of everything. They'd run with crowds of refugees. They'd fought alongside groups of survivors when the undead massed in opposing little armies. Inevitably those battles ended with death, or lots more running.

  Dirty warehouses. Nasty sewers. Dark alleys.

  The clawing up the mountain of the apocalypse was live or die every step of the way.

  “You think he's there?” He knew it was impossible to answer. But the question had to be asked.

  “Of course he's there,” and though she didn't say it, her tone suggested she wanted to add, “and don't dare tell me otherwise.”

  It was one of the few things they could agree on when it came to Liam, at least lately.

  “Let's go get him,” he whispered. Then, to echo her sentiment, he added, “dear wife.”

  She couldn't see the tight smile he wore. Yes, the plague that brought on the apocalypse was much worse than he imagined, but the one bright spot was how well they worked together at this critical time to get across the ruined city over the past two days.

  The payoff was in sight.

  He resumed his trot behind his sleeker partner, the heavy ballistic armor on his chest and back reminding him of the two times it had saved his life. He patted the one on his front, to bolster his spirits at this last moment.

  No, Liam stayed put like a good kid. No one could survive outside without gear like this.

  2

  He approached the back door of the house first. The partial moon teased his vision. The outlines of the old brick home were familiar and alien at the same time. The rear screen door had been ripped off its hinges and tossed to the ground. The wooden door it was supposed to protect remained sealed.

  Lana joined him as both focused their lights on the door in front of them. “What happened?”

  “Doesn't look good. Maybe an infected tried to get in?”

  Before either could make an effort to turn the handle, a plague victim fell out of the darkness. Clad in a light-colored nightgown, she was easy to see once she was out of the deepest shadows. The sick woman launched herself on him, and together they tumbled to the deep turf with all the grace of a sacked quarterback.

  “Lana," he yelled. Loud enough for her to hear, but not loud enough to call in more sickos.

  Lana was quick. She managed to hold onto the nightgown of the woman and ensure she couldn't get a solid purchase. At the same time, he was ab
le to keep his chest armor facing the teeth of the zombie. The combined weight of both on top of him made it difficult to exhale fully. He'd never really caught his breath since that street sign.

  The plague victim might as well been a starving dog sniffing a bacon-wrapped ham hock for all the energy she expended to get to his neck. Her hair was matted and wet, but some locks flailed wildly, too. It was almost distraction enough to make him loose focus on the big picture, but when she inadvertently kicked him in the groin, he remembered there were only two ways for it to end.

  With effort, he passed on instructions. Timing was crucial. “I'm going to roll her on three. You know what to do!” It wasn't the first time on this trip they'd had this exercise. A fact for which he was supremely grateful since he couldn't do much more than point after he'd said that little bit.

  “One...” he was going to count in an even cadence, but he had no voice left. “Two-three!” he wheezed.

  “Now,” Lana shouted.

  He used all his strength to push the thrashing woman over to his side and rolled himself the other way. Lana raised her rifle, intending to skewer the zombie as they planned—but she hesitated as he came up in a crouch, sucking in gulps of air.

  “My god. This is Angie.” Lana's flashlight shone on the sick form on the ground, but her back was to him; he only saw her shadow. He reestablished contact with his rifle and used the tactical light to get a better look.

  The nurse was an absolute wreck of her former self. Once a well-manicured sixty-something-year-old friend and nurse for Grandma Marty inside this house, she was now covered almost head to toe in the sheen of blood. Her nightgown was filthy with blood, dirt, and god knows what else. Caught between two living people and their bright beams, Angie's head whipped back and forth as if to decide which of them was closer. Her eyes were blood-red in their sockets, and her hair was gray, brown, and red in streaks. Her skin was ashen gray, where exposed. It was amazing they could recognize her at all, even though they had known her for decades.

  The shock and surprise and resulting delay gave Angie the chance she needed to pull herself off the ground, spring to a crouching position, and make her move.

  She must have decided on Lana.

  Lana moved with a quickness he didn't know she had. In the pit of his stomach, he knew she was going to get herself killed in this disease-ridden disaster, maybe now at the hands of the ex-nurse. It was the same fear he'd felt innumerable times the past twenty-four hours. Each time Lana was forced to take a life. That's the moment fate would decide if it was going to be her or the other person in the proverbial pine box.

  I should have called Angie to me.

  While he wrestled with his guilt, and to his great relief, the bayonet sunk deep into Angie's head. Lana out-grunted any professional tennis diva. The blade sunk until the tip of the barrel was inside her skull. Both stared at the dead body in stunned silence as it settled back onto the grass.

  In a shaky voice, Lana got out “Angie. I'm so sorry.”

  Jerry said nothing. It went down so fast he could barely compute all the variables.

  Lana broke the trance, pulling her blade out with effort. “Let's get inside." The wet sucking sound turned his stomach, but she got him moving.

  He had a key. As he rifled through his many deep pockets, he happened to notice a flash of light inside the house.

  Liam, he thought.

  Hope swelled, but caution nagged him. He stood still, indicating Lana should also be quiet. Though it had been there the whole time, the noise of gunfire around the city reminded him of the worldwide pandemic beyond this yard and how nothing should be trusted. This was life or death, again.

  His heart yammered in his chest, warning that the forties were not the new twenties. Not out here.

  “What is it?” she whispered to his back side.

  He turned off his light, and she followed suit. Instead of pushing the door open, he backed away, drawing her with him. They rejoined in the narrow walkway between the two red brick structures. At the first window, he paused and peeked into the glass frame. A light bobbed up and down inside. It had a dreamy quality. Not too fast, not too slow. Just a drift here and there.

  “I'm not sure. Someone might be drunk in there.”

  Lana took a turn at the window.

  “Or dead,” she muttered with a sour tone.

  “Let's get this over with,” he said while stepping gingerly toward the front.

  3

  By the time they reached the front door, they'd not learned anything beyond what they already knew. The drunk or dead person stayed in the back of the house while they scanned the front half as best they could.

  “The person has to be sick. We made all kinds of noise fighting Angie.”

  Lana nodded in silence.

  They whispered back and forth until they had the right plan.

  Before walking away from her, he reminded her of the most important point, “Don't forget to come back and watch my behind.”

  She gave him a wry smile at the innuendo, despite the seriousness of the hour. That loving smile instilled confidence as he ran in the darkness to the back door of the house. Something he admitted he needed at that moment.

  He waited until there was a series of jarring bangs in the night. That was Lana at the front door. As he'd hoped, the noise coaxed the floating light into the front of the home. Jerry snuck in and stood near the back window as soon as it was gone.

  Moments later, Lana returned and walked in the open back door. Once she had his location, she kept going forward, to the kitchen table. A noisy shoe squeal and a surprised squeak accompanied Lana's flailing arms. He flicked his light down and saw the blood. By some miracle, she slid into the table instead of under it. The look on her face conveyed a wild-eyed relief at what just happened. There may have been a hint of a smile.

  You're one lucky lady.

  “Don't I know it,” is what she'd say.

  He ensured she was stable and in possession of her wits, then sought their target. The mystery figure was somewhere inside the flat. Even their clumsy entrance didn't bring the lost soul to them.

  “I'm going to call out,” he whispered.

  His earbud answered. “I'm good.”

  He pointed the flashlight attached to his gun barrel and yelled into the darkness beyond. “This is Jerry Peters. Identify yourself!”

  There was a flash of light in the front room. A sign the trespasser was on the move.

  Liam? Grandma?

  “Stop. Identify yourself!”

  Every gun safety video he'd ever seen flashed before his eyes. Would Liam come stumbling out of the darkness? Was he sleepwalking? It would be a first, but if the last twenty-four hours had taught him one lousy thing it was that they were now in crazy times. The dead were walking. Neighbors were fighting neighbors. Law and order had gone out for an extended smoke break.

  This was the end of the world as we know it.

  His finger tensed on the trigger; then he forced himself to place it on the side of the housing of the AR-15. If he had to lose a second in his decision loop before he shot this target, so be it. He was going to give his only son the benefit of the doubt, no matter the cost to himself.

  The form came waddling down the hallway in a leisurely fashion. Nothing like the vicious attack dog Angie had become. The small flashlight revealed all the blood on the man's face and neck. It was an unmistakable indicator he was already a lost cause from the Ebola-like plague ravaging the city.

  Satisfied it wasn't Liam or Grandma, he put his finger back on the trigger and resisted the urge to crush it. With one gentle squeeze, he lit up the hallway for an instant. The thud a moment later indicated he'd scored a direct headshot.

  The acrid smoke dissipated as he stood in awe at what he'd just done. He'd had to put many of these strange dead people down, but doing it in Grandma Marty's kitchen made him appreciate just what the end of the world meant.

  The infected man slid a short way on the slick fl
oor. He came to rest not far from Jerry's feet. The light revealed a wrecked skull, heavy bulletproof vest, and the same type of black tactical clothing he had on. Sort of a cross between a policeman and a soldier. The flashlight linked to the man's shoulder with a thin rope, as if he wanted to ensure he never got separated from it. He clutched his gun, and the light attached to it, a little bit tighter as if in sympathy.

  The glow reflected into a nearby bedroom. His breath caught in his chest. A leg and shoe of someone lying on the floor looked familiar. Then his heart choked and fluttered; the shoe reminded him of the style Liam wore.

  “Lana, I—” He couldn't say the words. Instead, he moved rapidly to the bedroom. “Cover the hallway, dear, while I check out this first bedroom.”

  He entered a morgue. A dozen bodies were in a messy pile, all with bullets to the head. They'd been murdered—as healthy people—because none of them were as bloody and messed up as the infected. He scanned the bodies, but didn't see his son—that was his only focus. The person on the floor with shoes like Liam's was...someone else. Memories of his childhood clouded his vision—he denied they were tears—before he completely shut it all off. He closed the door to the bedroom and took several deep breaths.

  He'd taken a little too long. Lana was beside him.

  "Everything okay?"

  Their two flashlights reflected off the hardwood floor and the numerous picture frames on the wall. Liam's face caught his eye in one of the tendrils of light. His boy smiled at him from a fancy golden frame.

  “Lana, that room's clear. We have to keep looking for Liam.” He pointed down the hallway, intending to distract her.

  The stereotypical “phew” sound slipped out without him knowing it.