He stopped beside it and stared down at the soft, muddy earth. It was no more than four feet deep, and probably just as long. A tight fit for an average-size woman. He hated the thought of putting her in there, of seeing how scrunched up she’d be, but Brady had always been a logical person, and logic told him that Kristine wouldn’t notice. She wasn’t there anymore. She was just a shell.
It made him feel only a tiny bit better.
He knelt in front of his wife’s body and took a deep breath, resting his hand on her head. “I’m sorry I couldn’t do better for you, my love. You know as well as I do that my aspirations are always so much bigger than I am. I set out to dig you this marvelous grave, but all I ended up giving you was an insignificant hole.” Brady’s mouth twitched and a miniscule smile appeared on his lips. “You would laugh at that, I’m sure. I’ve always appreciated how forgiving you were of my shortcomings. How you could look at me and see a much bigger person. Because of it, you have made my life worth living.”
Brady leaned down and pressed his lips against his wife’s forehead, kissing her through the white shroud. Tears once again filled his eyes, and when he sat back his hands were shaking. Pushing her into the hole would be the hardest part. So final.
He took a deep breath and rolled her body toward the hole. She tumbled down, landing with a thud at the bottom, and the sound was like a bullet slicing through Brady’s heart. He dragged himself to his feet without hesitation, wanting to get the whole thing over with. His arms and legs were weak and shaky when he picked the shovel up, but he knew filling the hole would be much easier and faster than digging it had been.
The first few shovelfuls of dirt fell onto his wife’s body with a thud, but it only made Brady move faster. One by one he dropped mounds of dirt on her body, each one covering her a little more. Soon only a little bit of white was still showing, and then it was gone completely. Once it had disappeared, Brady found the job of filling the hole much easier, and before long his job was finished.
He stumbled inside, barely pausing to kick off his shoes. He was drenched in sweat and covered in dirt and wanted a shower, but before he could even think about that he needed a drink. Every breath he took felt like it was trying to rip its way out of his dry throat, and he was beginning to think the achiness in his joints had more to do with dehydration than physical exertion or exhaustion.
In the kitchen, Brady grabbed a glass, and out of habit he put it under the water dispenser built into the refrigerator door. It didn’t work, of course. The power had been out for almost an entire day.
The water was still running—for now, at least—so he filled his glass at the sink.
The first drink was like walking into an air-conditioned room after being out in the scorching sun all day. He took another gulp and the water slid down his dry throat, into his empty stomach where it sloshed around uncomfortably. Brady knew he needed food, too, but at the moment all his body could really focus on was getting more water. He refilled the glass twice; emptying both so fast his stomach ached in protest. Too desperate to soothe his scratchy throat, Brady didn’t listen to it.
When he’d emptied it yet again, he filled it once more before sinking to the tile floor. There he sat, sipping his water as he studied the kitchen and thought about the life he’d carved out for himself, and how it had all come crashing down around him.
Brady had spent most of his childhood bouncing around between foster homes. His mother had only been sixteen when he was born, and for the first few years of his life, his grandmother had raised him. But she’d died when he was four, and his young mother wasn’t used to being a single parent. Brady wasn’t really sure if she’d even tried to make it work, but he did know that less than two years after his grandmother’s death, the state had taken custody of him. His mother never tried to get him back.
Despite all the disadvantages he’d faced, Brady had been determined to make something of his life. He’d always been an avid reader, using books as a way to escape his horrible circumstances at times, so it had only been natural for him to pursue literature as a career. He’d gone to college on scholarships, worked hard, graduated with honors, and headed to graduate school. That was where he’d met Kristine.
Although forming friendships had gotten easier for him as an adult, he’d never dared to hope a woman like her would be able to look past his flaws and actually love him. No one else in his life had been able t—with the exception probably of his grandmother, a woman he barely remembered. Despite his many insecurities, however, Kristine had not only found him attractive, but she pursued him. Something he still wasn’t able to wrap his brain around.
They’d dated for four years before Brady proposed. The day he popped the question was probably the most terrifying one of his life, but also one of the happiest. After that, they’d planned a wedding—her parents had adored him as well—gotten jobs, and bought a house. They’d lived a life Brady had thought only really happened in fairy tales. He’d started working at the college as a professor of British literature while Kristine taught French. Their home had been custom built, situated in a gated community, and everything they owned was top-of-the line, from the granite counter tops to the pool in the backyard, to the Mercedes he’d driven to work. Then Kristine had found out she was pregnant, and Brady knew his life was complete. Knew it was okay to let all the hopes he’d always kept deep inside out, because they would come true. Everything was working out for him.
Then everything had come full circle. He’d gone from having it all to having nothing in less than two days, and as Brady sat on the floor of his kitchen, he found himself wondering if he even wanted to keep going. Just thinking about returning to the way things had been when he was younger—scared and alone—made him feel like he was trapped in a box.
Once he felt like his body was rehydrated, Brady got to his feet. He pulled out the custom stepstool he’d had made for the kitchen and climbed up, retrieving a bottle of Woodford from the liquor cabinet above the refrigerator. Bottle in hand, he went back out side and plopped down beside his wife’s gave, not even bothering with a glass. There he sat and drank and stared at the exclusive community he’d called home for the past four years. It felt like a cemetery now, and the world was so silent that Brady had to work to convince himself he wasn’t the only person left alive. It wasn’t easy.
There he stayed, all day and night, getting up only to use the toilet or get more to drink, alternating between alcohol and water. He didn’t eat, didn’t shower, and didn’t talk. He had a million things floating through his head that he wanted to say to his dead wife, but he kept it all inside, trying to figure out how he was going to approach the rest of his pathetically sad life.
In the morning, he woke to the sound of singing birds. The sun was just coming up, and like the day before it was breathtaking, and something about it gave Brady hope. The human race had most definitely taken a hit, but they weren’t wiped out. Not yet. He’d survived the virus, so it was entirely possible that others had as well. All he had to do was hold on for a little while. The world would rebuild. They would repopulate and start over. He’d seen miracles happened in his own life, so why couldn’t one happen again?
With a renewed sense of purpose, Brady got to his feet and went into the house. He got another glass of water and showered, then dressed for the day in sensible clothes that would be easy to work in. Then he got in his car and drove into town.
By the time Brady returned home that night the sun was low in the sky and his car was overflowing with supplies. Nonperishable food and bottles of water, seeds to plant more food, personal hygiene items, and gallons of gas that he had managed to syphon from other cars. Batteries and flashlights and candles. Even a small generator so he would have a little bit of electricity. And as an afterthought, he’d even grabbed a few guns and some ammo. Just in case. Basically, he had taken anything he could find that he thought might be useful.
As he unloaded the car, he thought about the devastation he had witn
essed. He’d seen no living people, but had occasionally come across a body or two. Stores had been broken into, giving him hope that he wasn’t alone, but the shelves were not yet empty. He knew he’d need to make another trip if he wanted to make it through winter, and he even planned to hit up a few nearby farms. Chickens would be useful for the eggs—if he could manage to wrangle them—and perhaps even a goat or two. Milk was a luxury now, but possible if he could figure out how to get it out of the stubborn animals.
That night, Brady sat in his living room and stared out the window with a cup of tea sitting next to him. Steam rose off it, filling the room with its herbal scent, and the familiarity of it helped him relax, and even though he ached every time he caught a glimpse of Kristine’s picture, he did his best to look on the bright side. He was alive. He had begun to take measures to ensure he would stay that way, and he had a basic plan for survival. Maybe the future was uncertain, but he was ready to tackle whatever came his way.
Chapter 2
The next morning Brady rose with the sun, feeling more optimistic than he had the day before. His heart still ached with a kind of emptiness he’d never experienced before, and he knew it would never heal completely, but it was for that exact reason that he was determined to move forward. Kristine wouldn’t want him to give up, and the best way to honor her memory was to make sure he did everything in his power to survive.
After he was dressed, Brady made a second trip to town, gathering more supplies than he had the day before. Once again the place was deserted, and the silence was overwhelming and eerie, but he couldn’t push away the unnerving feeling that he was being watched.
He was back in his little gated community by late afternoon, and immediately got to work unloading his van. He was busy piling the hoard of supplies into his garage when the sound of scuffling feet echoed across the silent neighborhood.
Brady froze in the middle of his now-stuffed garage, his heart jumping to his throat. For a second he thought he had to be imagining things, but then the sound came again and he knew beyond a shadow of a doubt it was real.
He dropped the armload of mac and cheese he’d been carrying and ran from the garage. The sun was low, momentarily blinding him. He lifted his hand, shading his eyes from the bright rays, and a figure came into view.
He recognized the man, although he didn’t know his name. The neighborhood wasn’t big, and Brady had passed him almost every day for the past few years. They’d always been cordial to one another, although not overly friendly, but Brady was so thrilled to see another survivor that the urge to throw his arms around the man was almost overwhelming.
“Hello!” Brady called, beginning to jog toward his neighbor.
The man paused, but the sun was still in Brady’s eyes, making it impossible to make out his expression. He was probably in shock from seeing another living person, and Brady couldn’t blame him. He’d almost given up hope of ever seeing anyone. The world had been that silent.
“I’m so happy to see another survivor!” Brady said, still moving forward.
The man didn’t speak, and he didn’t stop walking. Only something about his movements struck Brady as slightly off. He dragged his feet, scraping them against the pavement, and his arms were raised. The creepiness of it sent a shiver of terror shooting through Brady. Was this man sick? Hurt? In so much shock that he didn’t know what he was doing?
“Are you okay?” he called, earning him a grunt from the man.
The sound made Brady stop in his tracks, and for the first time since seeing the man walking toward him, his hope melted away and was replaced by terror. Something was wrong. He didn’t know what it was, but he did know this man wasn’t acting right. His movements were too jerky and the sound he’d made was inhuman.
Brady lifted his hand, once again shielding his eyes from the sun. The man came into focus just a little bit better and ice coated Brady’s veins. The thing in front of him wasn’t a man at all. His skin was too pale and too gray, and the way he chomped his teeth made him look like something straight out of a horror movie. Brady didn’t know what he was, but he knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that he was not human anymore.
He froze in his tracks and stumbled back a few steps. “Stop,” he said, lifting his hands like he was trying to push the man away.
His former neighbor didn’t stop.
Sweat broke out on Brady’s forehead and without thinking, he turned and rushed back toward his house. The supplies he’d collected were all stacked in the garage, including the guns and ammo. Only the weapons weren’t loaded. He’d gotten them just in case, but even as he’d done it, he’d laughed at himself, certain he’d never need to use them. Now, as he ran forward, the scraping of feet following his every step had him cursing himself for not preparing. Why hadn’t he loaded the damn things?
Brady charged into his garage, running straight for the guns. His hands were shaking when he picked a box of ammo up, making it difficult to get it open. Loading the gun took longer than it should have, but he was thankful he’d at least looked the weapons over so he knew what to do.
Behind him, the thing that had once been a man moaned. Every hair on Brady’s body stood on end and he spun around just as his neighbor staggered into the garage. Brady lifted the weapon and took aim, doing his best to steady his hands, but it was an impossible task with the way his body was shaking. He let out a deep breath, hoping to calm his pounding heart, then squeezed the trigger.
A gunshot echoed through the empty garage, ringing in his ears. The bullet struck the man in the shoulder and he jerked back, but didn’t stop. Brady squeezed the trigger again, aiming for his heart, and the second bullet hit the creature in the upper chest, nowhere near the mark he’d been aiming for.
Even with a second bullet in him, the man didn’t slow. Brady cursed and took a deep breath, trying to ease the tension in his body as his neighbor growled and advanced. He was only five feet away now, so close that Brady could smell him. He stank of decay and something else so pungent it made Brady’s eyes water.
“You can do this,” he said, taking aim once again.
This time he was focused on the man’s head when he pulled the trigger, and the third bullet hit the mark, drilling right through the man’s skull. The body dropped so suddenly Brady had a hard time registering what had happened. The way the thing had been moving one second and on the ground in less than a blink of an eye didn’t make any sense. It was almost like someone had pulled a plug.
For what felt like an eternity, Brady didn’t move. His gun was still raised and his eyes were on the body, taking in every inch of the lifeless form. There was no denying the situation—no matter how hard Brady tried to. The man was dead, but somehow had been moving around. Trying to attack him. Trying to bite him.
This creature was a zombie.
The realization hit Brady harder than a freight train, and he bolted into action. He ran from the garage, heading out the door and down the street. Running toward the nearest house. His heart was hammering in his chest so hard it felt like it would bruise his ribs, and he could barely catch his breath, but he couldn’t stop. He had to know what was going on. If this had been a fluke or if there was more to it.
He slowed when he reached his neighbor’s front porch, taking a few deep breaths to steady himself. His first instinct was to try the front door, but it was locked. Then it hit him that he might not want to go inside, anyway. If the former inhabitants had also turned into zombies, he didn’t want to go in until he had a plan. Checking it out through the window was a much safer option.
He pressed his face against the huge front window, cupping his hands over his eyes to block out the glare from the setting sun. Inside, the elegant living room was dark and empty, but Brady wasn’t naïve enough to think that meant anything.
He kept his face pressed against the window while tapping his knuckles against the glass. It was louder than he’d meant it to be, and his heart started beating faster. He didn’t move, though. He had to kn
ow what was going on. Less than thirty seconds later, Judy McIntire came shambling into the room, and just like the man who’d chased Brady a few minutes early, her movements were off.
Brady stepped back.
It was enough to confirm what he’d already suspected, and right away his mind started working. If all his neighbors had died in their homes and turned into zombies, he wasn’t safe. He needed a plan. Needed to clean the neighborhood out and lock the gate so no other creatures wandered in. Had to make sure he had all the supplies he needed so he could stay where he was and not starve.
And there was no time to waste.
With his gun held in his hand, Brady took a deep breath and walked away from the window. He’d already tried the front door, so he headed for the door leading into the garage instead. It opened easily and he felt his way through the dark room, moving searching for the door that would let him into the house. His heart didn’t slow and his palms were moist, and he had to pause before he went in so he could wipe his sweaty hands on his pants.
The house was silent when he stepped inside, and dark. He paused again, holding his breath to block out the stench of rot, and allowed his eyes to adjust. Once they had he moved, heading toward the living room where he’d seen his neighbor. He found her still standing in front of the window, looking out like she was trying to find the source of the sound that had brought her stumbling into the room. Brady tiptoed up behind her, staying as silent as he could, then lifted his gun. She was a lot taller, but he was so close when he pulled the trigger that it didn’t matter.
She dropped to the floor just like the other man had, and right away a moan broke out. Brady turned and held his breath, waiting for Phil, Judy’s husband, to come. It didn’t take long. Brady had learned his lesson from the garage, and this time he waited until the thing that had once been his neighbor was less than a foot away, ensuring that his bullet hit the mark. Just like his wife, the zombie dropped to the ground.
The Oklahoma Wastelands Series Box Set | Books 1-3 Page 86