The Dead and The Living (Book1): The Dead and The Living

by Wimer, Kevin

  Chris looked over his shoulder and at the field and the fence he had just crossed. He then looked up and down the road. He could see nothing in sight—no one and nowhere else to go to get out of the elements and off his ankle. He wasn’t exactly sure where he was but thought he might be on the outskirts of a small town in Virginia called Broadway. He had been in the city of Harrisonburg Virginia when he had left the group and started out for parts unknown. He walked for hours and miles before coming to the clearing he had just crossed. Chris had had no plan and no vision of where he was going. He wanted to be as far away from Deacon and his group of killers as he could be. He had stayed far longer than he had planned on staying. He had reasoned with himself to stay one more day. He had told himself to gather some things and to form a plan and then leave. That one more day had turned into being a couple of months. It was within those couple of months that Chris had witnessed the evil that dwelled not only within the group but within Deacon himself.

  Chris turned and looked at the glass door in front of him as the voice inside his head began to whisper to him. If you stay out here, you will die. He nodded his head and took a breath. The voice was right. He couldn’t risk being out here on his own—alone and without anyone to help him should he find a group of walkers. The burning question that now filled his mind caused his heart to flutter. Is going inside worth the risk? Is finding someone else inside that is alive worth the risk? He narrowed his eyes in thought while looking at the doors. Ask yourself, Christopher, is it worth staying out here and on the road injured? The voice inside his head was now a conflicting one. One was telling him yes, it was worth going inside, while the other one was saying no, it wasn’t worth going inside. It was like having the Devil on one shoulder and an angel of God on the other. Chris knew he was damned either way. He knew to do anything else but except his fate was only prolonging what was to eventually come. Death. He bit the inside of his lip and knew that when his time came, he would go out fighting. He would go out as a dead man and not as a brain lust zombie.

  Chris felt a chill spreading across his body as he stood there staring at the glass with the bloody handprint smeared across it. It looked as if someone had started to fall and caught themselves on the door. Chris’s mouth felt bone dry as he looked at the handprint. He could feel his heart ticking as it began to pound like thunder in the center of his chest. He wanted to turn and hobble away but the voice inside his head stopped him. You won’t make it through the night if you stay out here. You need to go inside and get off that busted up ankle of yours. He knew to go inside this old building was a roll of the dice. He could roll a snake eyes and crap out, but he was hoping to roll a seven or an eleven—winner, winner, chicken dinner.

  “To hell with this,” Chris mumbled.

  CHAPTER 2

  Chris started to reach out and touch the door with his hand and open it when he abruptly stopped. He was about to break the golden rule of entering what appeared to be an empty building. He was about open the door and step inside without first knocking to see if anyone was home—alive or undead. Chris put the barrel of his rifle to the glass of the door and began tapping it. Tap—tap—tap. He wasn’t sure if the taps of his barrel against the door was loud enough, so he moved the barrel of his rifle from the glass of the doors to the metal handle and banged it a few times. Chris finished banging the barrel of his rifle on the door and took a painful step backwards as he waited to see who might come running out. He stood there for a couple of minutes with nothing happening, so he repeated the process. Once again nothing happened. It felt like it was Christmas morning and he was waiting for his parents to get up so he could open his presents. Chris hobbled back over to the set of glass doors and breathed a small sigh of relief. It was only a momentary sigh of relief. He still had to go inside, and anything could happen to him once he did. Chris placed the barrel of his rifle to the glass of the door and pushed it open. He stepped inside with his rifle in his shoulder and at the ready. The beating of his heart echoed in his ears.

  Chris moved his rifle from side to side as he scanned the interior of the building. He could see seven or eight aisles. The shelves looked to be fully stocked. He could feel himself starting to become a bit giddy with excitement. The old out of the way gas station had gone untouched. It was in that moment that the voice inside his head told him to stop acting a fool. The bloody handprint belonged to someone—someone that was either dead or alive or undead. It was hard to fathom that there were now three options in this godforsaken world. He stood there as his hands trembled and his legs felt weak. His ankle throbbed with pain. He was as of right now one of those three options. He was alive but for how long was anyone’s guess. Chris held his rifle in his shoulder as he slowly started to turn his body from one side to the other. He cautiously looked at everything. He could feel his finger taking the slack out the trigger—stopping just before pulling it all the way back and firing his weapon. He could feel his nerves starting to get the best of him. He was ready to put a whole into something that didn’t need a whole put into it.

  Chris took a step towards one of the aisles and cleared his throat. He was now just mere inches from entering one of the aisles. He stopped himself from going any further as he spoke.

  “If you are one of the living, I don’t aim to do you any harm,” Chris said as he stumbled across the floor and into the first aisle. His eyes were wide as he stared down the aisle. His heart ticked a beat faster as relief filled him that it was empty. He turned and stepped back into the main part of the building and began walking to the next aisle, “If you are injured . . . I can help.”

  Chris found each of the aisles to be empty. He stood in the middle of the store with his head cocked to the side—listening to the sounds of the building. He focused on what was normal and what might not be a normal sound. The beating of his heart made it harder to determine. Chris stumbled to the counter and leaned his body against it while looking down a small hallway. He could see two doors on the left side of the wall with a sign hanging over them. One was a women’s bathroom and the other was the men’s bathroom. He started to walk into the hallway when he noticed a light switch on the wall. The natural light from outside had filtered in but the building was still a bit dark. He could see just beyond the hallway a door—a wooden door with glass in the center of it. He knew that door lead into the service area of the gas station. Chris needed to clear the two bathrooms and then the service area as well. He looked over his shoulder and towards the coolers in the back of the store. He could see set of double doors leading into what he knew to be a stockroom.

  “If you can hear me,” Chris said as he flipped the switch and turned the light on overhead, “I am here to help. I just wanted to get out of the rain for a few hours and then be on my way.

  Chris looked at the floor and saw a trail of blood. His heart just about stopped. The trail of blood led into the one bathroom. He put one foot in front of the other as he walked the short distance to the bathrooms. He stopped at the women’s bathroom door and took a breath before opening it—letting out the breath he had just taken when he stepped inside and found the restroom empty. He backed out and into the hallway and now stood in front of the men’s restroom. It was where the trail of blood had led to. He looked at the trail of crimson red and swallowed what little saliva he could muster.

  “I’m going to open the door now,” Chris said as he placed a hand onto the knob of the door and began to twist it, “Don’t shoot . . . I’m not going to hurt you. I can help you.”

  Chris started to open the bathroom door when he heard a noise behind him. It was the sound of shuffling feet followed by a growling hiss of a moan. Chris turned and found himself nearly face to face with a walker. The bastard had snuck up on him. The two of them were separated by eight feet—give or take a few inches. Chris felt his heart leaping into his throat as it skipped a beat and damn near stopped. The walker growled a hiss as it began to reach for him. He had little time to think. He had only time to react. He pulle
d the trigger of his rifle and fired one shot—one shot to the head. Chris watched as the bullet entered the man’s forehead, jerking his head backwards and spraying the air with both blood and bring mater. The walker had been in mid step when the bullet entered and exited out the back of his head. Chris watched in horror as the man fell backwards and hit the floor like a sack of rotten potatoes. He couldn’t believe just how close the bastard had gotten to him without him knowing. Chris looked at the body and then back into the main part of the store. He quickly limped forward with the barrel of his rifle leading the way. Chris made it back into the main part of the store and found no other walkers waiting for him. The only thing that caught his attention was the stockroom door was still swinging back and forth.

  Chris quickly turned and pointed his rifle down the hallway behind him. He looked past the bathrooms and towards the door leading into the service area. It was the kind of door that had a knob and a lock on it. It wasn’t a swinging door like the one leading into the stockroom. Chris limped back down the hallway and to the bathroom door. He pressed his back against the wall as the fear of what had just happened gripped him. You should have checked the stockroom before moving on to the bathrooms. The voice inside his head scolded him. He held his rifle in a death grip while looking at the men’s restroom door. Get the hell out of here. The voice that had scolded him now screamed. Chris shook his head no. He couldn’t leave. He couldn’t go back out there. His ankle was throbbing, and it felt like he was walking in quicksand. The ankle was twice its normal size and he needed to get off it. Chris gritted his teeth through the pain as he brought his rifle back up and into his shoulder. He pulled the trigger and fired his weapon into the bathroom door and the walls around it. He pulled the trigger until he heard a metallic click. His rifle was empty. His ears were ringing as he dropped the empty magazines from his rifle and slammed a fresh into it. He hit the bolt release on the side of the rifle and chambered a new round. Chris took a breath and let it out as he tried to steady himself and calm his nerves. His hands trembled as he turned the knob of the bathroom door and pushed it open—holding his rifle in one hand with his finger on the trigger as he stepped inside. Chris started to pull the trigger when he caught sight of a man lying on the floor. The man was dead and had been for a while.

  “Damn you!” Chris shouted at the dead man.

  Chris leaned his back against the frame of the bathroom door as he gulped in breathes. The adrenaline pumped through his body like a runaway freight train barreling down the tracks. Chris blinked his eyes and gritted his teeth. Beads of sweat began to trickle down the side of his face. He looked at the man lying on the floor—his brains had been blown out. Chris could see a gun lying on the floor next to him. He looked at the gun and then at the man himself. He noticed an exit wound in the back of the man’s head and just a few inches above him the walls were caked in what was left of his brains. The man had placed the barrel of his gun inside his mouth and pulled the trigger. Chris wondered if the man had done that because he been bitten or because he had lost hope. His eyes wondered over the man’s lifeless form and it was than he noticed a rather large bite mark on his arm.

  “Poor bastard,” Chris said, knowing that he himself would have done the same thing if he had been bitten.

  Chris looked at the man and then back into the hallway. He breathed a sigh of relief that the hallway was still empty. He couldn’t afford to let his guard down—not like he had done just moments before. Chris started to step back out in the hall when he noticed something pinned to the man’s shirt. It looked like a piece of paper folded over with the words please read me scrolled across it. He shook his head and told himself no. He told himself to leave the note. It was a trap. The man wasn’t dead. He was just playing possum. He looked at the man and then at the gun lying beside him. It was a Glock and Chris knew it was a Glock G19. He could use the extra 9mm rounds and the magazines to go along with the one he himself was carrying. It didn’t hurt to have an extra gun either. The voice inside his head cursed him as he took one small step and crept forward. He stopped just inches away from the man and kicked him. Chris hobbled backwards with his eyes wide and rifle at the ready. The man didn’t move. He’s dead dumb ass. His brains are all over the damn wall.

  Chris took a step forward and then took a knee beside the dead man. He slowly began to reach out for the letter pinned to his chest—watching the man for any sudden movements. Chris knew he wouldn’t be able to do much but shit himself should the man open his eyes and leap out and bite him. He felt the prickly feeling of his flesh as the thought of the man opening his eyes and biting him sored through his mind. Chris quickly pulled the letter off the lifeless man’s chest and leaped to his feet—ankle screaming a white-hot fiery of pain as he moved across the floor and back into the doorway of the bathroom. He stood there for a moment looking at the man and then at the empty hallway. Chris looked over his shoulder and at the door leading into the service area of the station. He had to check that area before moving to the stockroom and calling it a night. He had to clear the building and make sure that he had indeed found a good place to hold up for the night—maybe a few days until his ankle had healed enough to walk on it. Chris held the letter in his hand. He looked at it and wondered if he should wait to read it. He narrowed his eyes in thought before opening it. The crinkled paper echoed as Chris unfolded it. It sounded a million times louder than what it truly was. He took one last look into the hallway and over his shoulder at the service area before reading the letter.

  If you are reading this, it means I am dead. I am sorry Brandy. I tried my darling little girl. I tried. Chris felt a lump growing in his throat. It wasn’t what he had expected. It wasn’t a letter of confession. It was a letter to a child—a child that would be without its father. Chris had seen notes like this before. He had witnessed the aftermaths of a suicide. It was a hell of a thing for a family to have to go through—a hell of a thing for someone like Chris who had been in law enforcement to have to deal with. He had done it more times than he cared to remember. It had affected him deeply as it should anyone with a conscience. The job that Chris had done in law enforcement sometimes caused one to become harden to such tragic moments as the one before him now. Chris was one of the lucky few whose heart hadn’t hardened to these tragic events. He took a breath and let it out as he read on. I want you to know how much I love you and how much joy you brought to my world. I couldn’t imagine my life without you in it. I couldn’t imagine not coming home to you and your mother every day. I guess today is the day that I don’t come home to you. I can’t tell you how sorry I am. I can’t tell you that . . . The letter stopped and then started with a new paragraph. Chris wondered what the man was about to say and why he hadn’t said it. Now was the time to say it and not hold back.

  Chris looked up from the letter and at the man. He looked at him and wondered what he had done for a living. What had he been like before the outbreak? He wondered if the man was truly this loving in the old world or had he been an asshole who was now trying to make up for being an asshole. He couldn’t allow himself to think that way—to think that way would be judging a man he didn’t know. Chris was sure the man had a reason for being out here alone. He shifted his weight and leaned more into the door frame of the bathroom. I remember the day you were born. I remember holding you in my arms and calling you my little princess. You were so tiny and so perfect and beautiful. I couldn’t believe how lucky I was to be your dad. I am proud of the person you are. I am proud of the women you became. Chris raised a brow. The sentence he had just read had caught him off-guard. He had pictured a man writing to his little girl—telling his daughter how he felt one last time before leaving this unholy world. Brandy promise me that no matter what happens you will survive this world and help rebuild it. Promise me. The thought of you doing that brings me a warmth to me and my soul unlike anything I have ever felt before. I know if you are a part of rebuilding this new world it can only become one thing and that is something not
only amazing but beautiful and perfect just as you are. Chris noticed the words had started to smear just a little. He was sure the man had started to cry, and it was his tears that had smeared the words. I love you my little princess.

  Chris read the last of the note. He could feel his eyes starting to tear up. It was something he himself had wished he had had from his mother. Chris’s mother had been killed while Christmas shopping. She had gone missing and had been missing for four weeks until her body had been found in the woods by a hunter who had just happened to stumble onto her. It was the reason Chris had become a cop. He wanted to catch men like the one who had killed his mother. Chris started to fold the paper up when he noticed another sheet attached to it. He separated the two pieces of paper. It was another note but this time it wasn’t for Brandy. It was for him. To who it may concern. If you have found this letter, I ask of you to do one last thing for me. One thing I couldn’t do myself. I ask that you find my daughter and give her the letter. I need for her to know just how much I loved her. I need her to know that she was my world. My name is Carl Yassa. My daughter’s name is Brandy Yassa. We are a part of a group of survivors. Our last known location was an old warehouse in the town of Broadway. I have it marked on a map inside my bag. Chris looked up from the letter and at the man. He had not seen a bag when he had taken the note off the man’s chest. He could see something lying on the floor inside the bathroom stall. Chris hobbled over to the stall and pushed the door open and found the backpack the man had written about. He leaned over and lifted it off the ground by its straps.