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

by Wimer, Kevin

  “I had to kill them. They left me no choice. They were going to kill me,” answering the voice inside his head as if it was a person sitting in the passenger seat next to him.

  Chris angerly gripped the mike of the radio as he started to speak into it. He started to say something back to Deacon when a group of walkers stepped out and into the road and into the path of the Jeep. Chris dropped the mike and jerked the steering wheel with both hands. He jerked it to the left and then to the right while trying not to hit them. He heard the loud thud of bodies hitting the right side of the Jeep. It was a loud crunching thud of a sound. He had just clipped at least five of the walkers. The front left wheel ran off the shoulder of the road and onto the berm. The sound of gravels hitting the underbelly of the Jeep echoed beneath him. Chris tried to right things but in doing so he overcorrected and caused the Jeep to flip onto its side as it began rolling down the highway. He could see the bright blue sky above him and then the ground and then the sky once again. The Jeep flipped end over end at least six times before coming to a halt. It had stopped rolling as suddenly as it had started. The sound of twisted metal and shattering glass still echoed in his head. The Jeep came to a rest in the grassy median about ten or so feet from the road that Chris had been traveling on.

  Chris sat there as the world around him began to slowly fade in and out. It was like the tide rolling in and then back out to sea. It was damn near soothing. The soothing feeling was interrupted by the sound of Deacon’s voice echoing through what was left of the Jeep’s interior. He could faintly hear the man laughing about what the Butcher was going to do to him once they brought him back to camp. He blinked his eyes as blood trickled into them and down the side of his face from a gash over his right eye. The throbbing sensation that had consumed his ankle now consumed his head and his body. It was a throbbing pain that caused him to feel sick to his stomach. The urge to throw up was overwhelming. He could feel the goose egg that had formed over his eye from where he had banged his head against the steering wheel. His body was going limp as he began to slide down and into the driver’s seat—sinking deeper with each second that passed. The welcoming darkness of unconsciousness began to creep in. It slowly wrapped its arms around him until it fully engulfed him. His body had had enough and his will to fight it was no more. The world around him faded within a blink of an eye as he slipped into the nothingness that awaited him.

  CHAPTER 6

  Chris’s eyes fluttered open as the moans of the dead began to fill his mind and the world around him. He blinked his eyes and then reluctantly closed them again. The urge to allow the darkness to take him back into its loving arms was overwhelming. He couldn’t pin point one spot on his body that didn’t hurt. He took a breath and painfully let it out. It was then that he felt something—a hand. Chris’s eyes popped open as he quickly turned his head and came face to face with a walker. The walker hissed and angry growl of a moan as it franticly reached through the driver’s side window for him. Its milky white eyes rapidly moved around in their sockets. The bastard wanted to rip him apart and feast on him. Chris’s mind was still a foggy mess and his body wasn’t moving at the speed in which it would have if he hadn’t been in a car accident. The walker hissed—spraying a red frothy foam from its mouth that now angerly gnashed together. It started to lean its body through the window and into the Jeep when Chris’s hands finally reacted to the signal that his brain had been sending to them. He fumbled for the handgun on his hip. It was as if everything was moving in slow motion. The pain of his body sored through him—causing him to fumble even more.

  Chris felt the gun releasing from its holster as he quickly brought the barrel up and pulled the trigger. The walker’s head jerked backwards as the bullet tore through it. The hungry bastards stumbled back a step or two before falling to the ground dead. Chris barely had enough time to take a breath when another walker replaced the one that he had just killed. He looked at the passenger side of the Jeep and could see that the glass had shattered and broken into a million pieces. He looked into the milky white eyes of the walkers that lined the passenger side of the Jeep. The bastards were franticly reaching in while trying to grab him. Chris’s heart was beating like a drum as he looked around the cabin of the Jeep. The windshield was the only glass that somewhat remained intact. It was a spiderweb barrier that blocked the walkers from getting in and allowed him little room to see anything in front of him. His mind was trying to form a plan, but the thought of dying wouldn’t allow him. He had no time to think he had only time to react. Chris started to fire at the walkers on the passenger side when another one shambled up to the driver’s side and reached in. He pulled the trigger and repeated his actions four more times. It felt like an endless wave that was crashing to the shore—an endless wave of undead. Chris fired his weapon until it went dry. He quickly dropped the empty magazine and replaced it as he began firing again. He had to conserve ammo. He couldn’t hold them off forever.

  Chris could feel his body slowly starting to fade as the effects of the adrenaline that had pumped through him began to wear off. He was crashing. His mind was screaming for him to keep fighting but his body was telling him no. His body told him that it was time to give up and to allow whatever happened next to happen. He had been tossed around inside the Jeep like a ragdoll—beaten and battered by an unseen force as he violently rolled end over end. Images of the wreck filled his mind. The sound of crumpling metal and broken glass still hauntingly echoed. He knew things were beyond bad and that he needed to act quickly if he wanted to stay alive. His mind wanted to live but his body was caught somewhere between living and already dead. It was a hell of a place to be and he knew to do nothing meant that he would die at the hands of the creatures that lusted after his blood and brains. The sounds of their bodies hitting against the crumpled metal filled the cabin of the Jeep. He could feel the vehicle violently rocking back and forth with each body that hit it. He franticly looked around the interior of the car and then at the walkers that were trying to get in. He knew it was only a matter of time before they were able to get inside and eat him. He had to do something, and he had to do it soon.

  The fog that had filled Chris’s mind had faded. It had been replaced with a painful throb over his right eye. He could feel the beating of his heart with each painful throb. He forced himself to think through the pain—to process the situation that he now found himself in. The thought of letting the dead eat him began to creep into his mind. It couldn’t be anymore painful than the pain I am feeling now. Chris narrowed his eyes and pushed those thoughts from his mind. He wasn’t ready to give up—at least not just yet. His mind began to form a plan as he looked around the interior of the Jeep’s cabin. He needed to find his backpack and somehow get the hell out of this tin can of a wreckage that he was now trapped in. The rear passenger window area of the Jeep was full of angry outstretch hands that were reaching in to get him. It was then he noticed that his backpack was sitting on the backseat. It looked as if someone had picked it up and perfectly placed it where it now rested. Chris’s eyes wondered away from his backpack and to the passenger side of the Jeep. He then looked at the driver’s side. It was than that his mind began to click on all cylinders and a plan began to take shape.

  Chris gritted his teeth as he painfully reached into the backseat and quickly pulled his backpack into his lap. He wasn’t sure how it had gotten there, and it was odd that during the rollover it would have ended up on the backseat and not somewhere outside of the Jeep—most everything that had once been inside the vehicle now lay scattered across the highway. He looked at his backpack and was relieved to have it in resting in his lap. The backpack contained things inside of it that could help save his life—or at least prolong it. It held extra magazines for both his handgun and rifle—a few extra boxes of ammo and enough food and water to last three to four more days. He couldn’t leave without it. Chris felt a hand forcefully grab him by the shoulder. He turned and without thinking he fired pointblank into the head of t
he walker that had grabbed him. He watched as it fell to ground. It was then that the plan that had been forming in his foggy mind made sense. He would clear a path to allow himself enough room to jump out of the driver’s side of the Jeep and take off in a run. The walkers wouldn’t be able to keep up with him and his running—if his ankle would allow him. He knew the bastards would track him for miles. The blood that leaked from the wound above his right eye would give them a sent to follow. It was as if the walkers were part bloodhound.

  Chris moved around inside the Jeep while trying to stay clear of the dead that were reaching in. The hissing moans of the undead grew louder each time he moved while trying to get his backpack on. Chris got his arms through the straps of his backpack and quickly hooked the front strap across his chest. It wasn’t coming off him without it being ripped from his body. He knew it was a dangerous thing to do. He knew it only took one walker to drag him to the ground. It would be that one walker that would allow all of them to feast on him. It was a risk he had to take. He couldn’t leave his backpack behind—no matter the cost. The contents inside the backpack were essential items. He had nothing that was of sentimental value. No keep sakes of the world he had once lived in. It held items that would keep him alive and that was all he needed. Chris pulled on the straps and made sure everything was ready to go. He reached out and grabbed his rifle and took a quick breath before looking at all four sides of the Jeep’s interior. He looked at the windshield and knew it was the best place to get out. He would have to kick it out and unlike the movies it wasn’t an easy task to do. The movies made everything look so simple and effortless to do—in the real-world safety glass was much tougher. Chris was far to battered and weak to try and kick out the windshield from its frame. He needed what little strength he had left for the run ahead of him. It was latterly a run for his life.

  It’s now or never. Chris thought as he turned to the driver’s side window and fired. The walkers head explode leaving in its wake a pink mist that hung in the air. Chris reached for the door handle when another walker started to take its place. He knew he couldn’t allow them to come any closer. He had to give himself some distance in order to get out. He pointed the barrel of his handgun out the window and pulled the trigger—hitting the walker in the jaw. The blood thirsty creature stumbled a backwards a few steps before being able to right itself. It hissed a loud angry moan as it began heading right towards him. Chris squeezed the trigger and this time his aim was true. The bullet ripped through the walker’s forehead and exited out the back of its skull—dropping it to the ground dead. It was the lucky break that he needed. He swung the door open just as another walker began to step up to the door. He hit the bastard and knocked it backwards. The walker stumbled over the body that was lying on the ground as Chris leaped from the driver’s seat and into the grassy clearing between the four lanes of highway. Run asshole, run! The voice inside his head screamed as he dashed across open ground.

  The world around him was filled with the growling moans of the dead. The bastards were more than just angry they were hungry, and their food supply was running away from them. The angry sounds of their moans were slowly being replaced by the sound of Chris’s heart. It was beating louder than the sound of thunder rolling through the valleys of the Shenandoah. It was as if someone had balled their fist up and was now pounding on his chest—one blow after another. It felt like at any moment now his heart would fly out of his chest and litter the ground before him. Chris gripped his rifle in one hand and his handgun in the other as he ran across open ground. He was focused on the road in front of him as he put one foot in front of the other. He was running like a bat out of Hell and hoping he wouldn’t fall—to fall now would be the end of him. He would die a painful death as the pack of walkers gnawed on him from head to toe. It was those thoughts that pushed him to keep running and to keep putting distance between him and the growing pack of undead behind him behind him. Chris could almost feel them nipping at his heals. He knew it was only a matter of time before they caught him. The feeling of hopelessness began to edge its way into his mind. The blood that leaked from the wound over his right eye began to fill vision. He quickly wiped it away and knew there was no time to patch himself up.

  Chris fought the urge to look over his shoulder and see how many of them were following him. He knew to do so would only cause him to panic a bit more than what he already was. Chris continued to put one foot in front of the other. He had no idea where he was running to—he was just running to get away from the undead that wanted to feast on him. The sound of his feet hitting the pavement echoed—mixing with the angry moans of the undead. He ran from one lane of the four-lane highway to the other—zig zagging as if someone was shooting at him. It was like playing a demented game of leap frog—leaping to avoid the clutches of the walkers. The road had been flat for most of his run. It was now starting to change. Chris gasped for air as he began running up a small incline that would soon be more than he could handle. He quickly turned and ran across the highway and into a field. The incline grew until it was a steep hill. He hoped with each foot that he put in front of him that at end of this climb he would find a house—somewhere that he could take shelter while trying to figure out his next move.

  Chris’s legs were starting to tire out. He could feel them becoming weaker with each new stride he took. It felt like he was running in quicksand. He could feel his body slowly starting to give up, but his mind still had fight left in it. It was a hell of a place to be. His mind screamed for him to keep digging and to keep moving forward. His body was screaming back—it was screaming for him to give up. He looked up and towards the top of the hill. He was within feet of being at the top. He was so close that he could almost taste it. He forced himself to dig deeper as he pushed himself forward. It wasn’t but a few steps until he stumbled and began to slide back down the hill. He caught himself and righted his body. His eyes grew wide at the sight behind him. The undead outnumbered him and the ammo he had on him. The fear of the undead gave him a spark of energy as he turned and began climbing back up the hill. He covered the ground he had lost within a matter of seconds. Chris was just about to crest to the top of the hill when a group of well-armed men and women took him by surprise. Their eyes briefly met. He looked at the business end of their rifles and fell to the ground just as they opened fire.

  The echoing sounds of gunfire filled the air. Chris could hear each crack of rifle fire as it mixed with one lone distinct booming sound of a shotgun. The sound of gunfire was deafening. Chris curled into a ball—fearing that he was the one that this well armed group was shooting at. He jerked his body with each new crack of rifle fire and stiffened each time the one lone shotgun belched its glorious fireball of a boom. He feared the fiery hot sensation of bullets entering his body while pellets from the shotgun shells tore chunks of meat and flesh from his battered and bruised body. It was like stepping into a warzone as hot brass casings of spent shells rained down onto him—burning his flesh. He flinched with each new shell casing that touched his exposed flesh.

  Chris was curled tightly into a ball—pressing his body into the side of the hill and wishing he could become one with the earth beneath him. He could feel the wound over his eye leaking blood. The blood soon mixed with the tears that Chris was now shedding. He wasn’t sure why he was crying. Maybe it was because he was still alive. Maybe it was because he was dead and didn’t know it yet. Whatever the reason was he was now crying like a lost child would for its mother. He hadn’t cried this hard in years. Not since the death of his mother. He clinched his eyes tightly shut as the tears escaped them—images of the day he had found out his mother was missing filled his mind. He had felt guilty for years after that day. It was his fault she had gone missing. It was his fault she had been killed. Chris’s mother had been out shopping for his Christmas present the day she had been kidnapped. It was a feeling of guilt that would never fade. He knew it wasn’t his fault but as a child he had instilled within himself that feeling of gu
ilt. It was a guilt that no child should ever have to feel.

  The sound of gunfire continued for what felt like hours but had only been ten to fifteen minutes. The crack of rifles had been reduced to sporadic fire—one or two shots here and there. The booming sound of a lone shotgun had stopped altogether. Chris could hear men and women talking. He could feel someone standing over him. He was still crying but not like he had been. Chris laid there curled in a ball—his body stiff like rigor-mortis had set in. He feared breathing. He feared to move a muscle. The presence of someone standing over him gripped him. His mind began to run wild with thought. The well-armed group were sent out to find him—they were a part of Deacon’s group of survivors. His mind began rationalizing his thoughts. If this group was a part of Deacon’s group, they would have killed him—unless Deacon meant what he had been saying just before the Jeep flipped over and began rolling down the highway. Deacon wanted him taken alive and brought back so that he and the Butcher could figure out what to do to him for his judgment.

  Chris felt a booted foot being placed onto the back of his shoulder—nudging him. He laid still and didn’t move. It wasn’t but a second until the booted foot was placed back onto his shoulder and was now pushing him onto his back. The sun overhead nearly blinded him as he looked up and into the face of a man wearing a cowboy hat. Chris noticed the man had a set of six shooters resting on his hips and an AR-15 in his hands. It was almost like looking at Clint Eastwood in the movie Outlaw Josey Wales. The man before him had that look of true grit. It was a look of having been there and done that. Chris swallowed what little saliva he could muster as the man reached into his pocket and pulled out a lollypop. He watched as the man unwrapped it and then placed it into his mouth and then turned his head and had a look at the filed below them. It was covered in bodies of the undead. Chris stole a quick look and could see the well-armed group searching the bodies of the dead and killing those that had only been wounded and were unable to walk. He watched as they unsheathed their knives and drove the blade into the skull of the walkers that were still alive. He could hear the cracking pop as the blade of their knives punctured bone and then the brain. The sound reminded Chris of someone uncorking a bottle of champagne in celebration.