Year Of The Dead: A Zombie Novel Read online

  Thursday, June 25th

  Dear Diary,

  They’ve given me my own room. My own cell, more like it. There’s no handle on the door, no way for me to open it. Since they put me in here, I haven’t been allowed to leave. Although, I have to admit that, for a cell, it’s quite comfortable. There’s a big TV on the wall with a remote and a bunch of movies to watch. There’s also a bed, a toilet, a sink, and a shower. I’ve been nervous about using the toilet and the shower. I have this feeling I’m being watched, like, all the time. Not that I’ve seen any cameras anywhere. But I’m pretty sure they can put tiny cameras in just about anything these days.

  The room has a single window, a small one set into the door. Through it I can see the hallway outside, and another door with its own little window across the hall. Once, I saw the face of a woman looking back at me from that other window. I’m pretty sure it was Mrs. Lewis from the neighborhood. She was in the truck with us during the long drive to this place—wherever this place is. I remember how she kept going on and on about her dog, Lucius (what kind of name for a dog is Lucius?). “They wouldn’t let me bring Lucius!” and “Who’s going to feed Lucius when I’m gone?” Stuff like that. We stared at each other through those small, square windows for a few minutes. Then she wandered back into her room. I haven’t seen her since.

  About an hour ago, a guy in a baggy yellow suit with a clear plastic rectangle over his face brought me the duffel bag I was allowed to pack—“Hurry up!”—the night they came for us. It had some clothes in it. Jewelry. Makeup. (What made me think I’d need jewelry and makeup?) And, thankfully, you were in there too, Diary.

  I haven’t seen Mom and Dad in two days. Not since they put me in my own room. My own cell. The last time I saw them, they were getting sick like a lot of the others, like they were coming down with the flu. Dad kept saying it had something to do with the chunk of the asteroid that landed in front of the house. And maybe he’s right. The thing sure did smell funny. And why else would we have been forced to leave our house like that? I don’t know why I haven’t gotten sick, though. Maybe the people who brought us here have some idea. Those “government spooks,” as Dad referred to them. I have to admit, they have acted pretty spooky.

  I just want to see my parents again, make sure they’re all right. Because I have a really bad feeling about all of this. No one will answer any of my questions or tell me what’s going on. No one hardly even talks to me at all. I’m just glad they gave you back to me, Diary. It helps, a little, being able to write all this down. It’s almost as good as having somebody to talk to. Almost.

  All I can do is wait and pray, and hope for the best.

  I’ll let you know how that works out.

  Friday, June 26th

  Casey felt like shit.

  He should have stayed home but, hey, it was Friday night, and he’d had a long week of classes. There was also the fact that he’d turned twenty-one less than three weeks ago. He could now walk into whatever bar or club he wanted to and order himself a drink. So there was no way he was going to spend the night at home, no matter how poorly he might be feeling.

  Nothing a few of the right beverages can’t fix.

  Casey and two of his friends, Jim and Brent, made their way down 7th Avenue, the heart of the Ybor City party district. Not yet ten o’clock and a few of the nightclubs already had a line waiting to get inside. This included Club Prana, a three story building catering to the hip hop and techno crowds. As they walked by the open doorway where the bouncers and the guy checking ID’s stood out front, Brent said he wanted to go in, that the place was sure to have its share of “hotties” milling about.

  “Let’s do it,” said Casey.

  He hoped he could find somewhere inside to sit down, try to relax, have a couple of rum and Cokes, mix in a beer or two. Brent and Jim could hit the dance floor if they wanted to. Until the alcohol worked its magic, Casey planned to take things slow and steady. Or… he could partake of the white powder he knew Jim carried in a plastic baggie in his pocket. A bump or two of that stuff just might do the trick.

  An hour later found Casey seated on a padded leather bench along the wall near one of the bars. He had no idea where Jim and Brent had disappeared to. Probably upstairs somewhere. That was fine with him. He was working on his third drink. The cocaine he’d snorted in the bathroom twenty minutes earlier had done the trick all right, helped make it easy to forget the illness trying to get its claws into him. The girl in the tight black skirt sitting next to him chatting in his ear also helped. He had no idea as to what exactly she’d been going on about for the past several minutes. What he did know was that she had an amazing pair of legs. Beautiful lips, too, cherry red lipstick gleaming like a coat of paint on a brand new Ferrari. He wanted to kiss her, to lick those lips, tear them off with his teeth and swallow them whole. And those legs… How he would love to take a bite out of them, all that toned muscle and smooth skin, work his way right down to the bone.

  What the fuck?

  He had no idea where those thoughts had come from, chalked it up to the booze and the drugs. Maybe the sickness he was trying to fight off had something to do with it. Because he could feel it down there beneath the buzz—the itchy throat, the ache settling into his body. Probably won’t make a night of it after all. Brent and Jim, he knew, wouldn’t want to leave. He could always take a taxi if he needed to.

  At the thought of having to call it an early night, he felt a stirring of anger. He remembered the girl from work the other day, the one who’d been sniffling and wiping her nose. No doubt he’d caught whatever she had.

  If the bitch was sick, she should have stayed home.

  Without warning, the lights and the music seemed to intensify and rush into his head. He went cold all over. Getting to his feet, he stumbled and fell to the floor in front of the bench. The girl he’d been talking to stood up, her eyes wide as she stared down at him. From his new vantage point, he had such a wonderful view of her legs. They looked so...

  Delicious.

  He might feel better if only he could have a taste of them.

  Saturday, June 27th

  No answer.

  Eric was starting to worry. He’d called and left several messages with Justine’s voice mail over the course of the day, but had not heard back from her. He’d returned to his home in Wisconsin. Not like there was much to come home to, but he didn’t want to overstay his welcome at his sister’s house. Especially with the way she and Bill had been moping around sick those last couple of days. And Eric knew he should be putting some time into finding a new job, maybe advertising for a roommate in case he didn’t find steady employment anytime soon.

  He’d started to regret his decision to leave his sister, though. They’ve gotten worse. He was sure of it. If he didn’t get through to her sometime soon, he planned to call the cops, have them go by and check on her. Although, with the news coming out of the central Florida area, he had to wonder how high of a priority the authorities would place on such a request.

  An illness which had been dubbed a “superflu” by the media had spread across a large section of the Sunshine State like some sort of medieval plague. From all accounts, it was airborne and highly infectious, had local hospitals and doctor’s offices overwhelmed with a sudden influx of patients. Symptoms included fever, sore throat, headache, fatigue, and nausea. According to the latest reports, this superflu had already claimed several dozen lives. No official statement had been given as to the possible source of the illness, but that hadn’t stopped people from reaching their own conclusions. As far as Eric could tell, most everyone agreed it had something to do with the fragments of the asteroid that had fallen to Earth the previous week.

  According to several articles Eric had read online earlier in the day, a number of reputable scientists were blaming a spaceborne virus, breathed in by those who had visited impact craters like the one he and Bill had seen. If this turned out to be the case, these scientists agreed that the odds of f
inding a cure anytime soon were not good. Earth-spawned viruses that had plagued mankind since time immemorial had yet to be eradicated. It was also generally agreed that any attempts to quarantine the space flu were bound to fail given the rapidity with which it had spread. Too many people had already gotten sick. Untold numbers had undoubtedly carried the bug across the country—and beyond—by now. One particular expert on the subject went so far as to say that a global pandemic might be inevitable.

  Eric had to wonder how he’d avoided getting sick. He’d stood there watching the steam rising from the crater, had smelled the rotten egg smell himself. Bill had gotten sick, as did so many others. Maybe the reports were wrong. Maybe this superflu had another, more mundane explanation, the asteroid’s arrival mere coincidence. If so, then it might be treatable on some level.

  Eric grabbed his cell phone, tapped the screen a couple of times, and listened as it called his sister’s phone in Florida. And, of course, he got her voice mail once again:

  “Hi, it’s Justine. Leave a message and I’ll get back to you as soon as I can.”

  He disconnected without leaving a message. Then he called the Brandon, Florida police department.

  Sunday, June 28th

  Pastor Nathaniel Lewis stood behind the pulpit, gazing out over the congregation this bright and sunny Sunday morning. The pews were filled to overflowing, forcing people to stand in the aisles in order to hear what he had to say. As he watched, a few late arrivals entered through the double doors at the back of the room and settled in among their fellow worshippers. The pastor was happy to see so many people gathering to hear the word of God. He’d be happier, though, if they felt the need to worship every Sunday and not only when times were tough. Or, as Pastor Lewis assumed was the case on this particular morning, when fear drove them from their homes and into the comforting arms of the Lord.

  Either way, though, I shall do what I can to put their minds at ease.

  Yes, a frightening illness had made its presence known, a potentially deadly disease according to the news reports that had been circulating for several days now. And, of course, there were the rumors of those who had fallen prey to the illness only to rise once again, changed from the people they had been before, behaving in ways one might attribute to those victimized by demonic possession.

  As of yet, no official statement from the government, local or otherwise, had yet to address these particular rumors. Not all that surprising, figured Pastor Lewis. The idea was just too awful, too preposterous. For the mayor or possibly even the president to take to the airwaves and confirm that these resurrections—for lack of a better term—were actually occurring would only result in widespread panic once the initial incredulity had passed. Still, the people had a right to know. If the sorts of events spoken of in the Bible, most notably The Book of Revelation, had started to occur, if signs of the End Times had been witnessed, those who had wandered from the righteous path needed to find their way back. And there was only one way to do that:

  They needed to get right with the Lord.

  The faces he gazed upon this morning belonged to people who, for the most part, were already right with the Lord—or were doing their best to get there. He could see the questions in their eyes, the uncertainty, and yes, the fear in many of them. These people did not need a fire and brimstone speech, one meant to coerce them back to the righteous path. They needed hope and reassurance. For even though the Lord could be a vengeful God, one to be feared by those who chose not to worship Him, He was also a loving God, ready to offer comfort to those who lived by His rules and had taken Him into their hearts.

  Today, Pastor Lewis felt a need to put these trying times in perspective.

  “Please open your Bibles to the Book of Job,” he said after clearing his throat.

  A rustle of turning pages.

  Over the next half an hour, he spoke of the trials and tribulations endured by Job, of his refusal to curse God throughout all the days of his suffering, to accept his fate as one of the Lord’s followers and a true believer.

  A little perspective, yes, that’s what these people needed. He’d save the fire and brimstone talk, the depictions of Armageddon, for the afternoon radio show, for all of those who hadn’t found the time or the need to be here. And he hoped to see even more people packing themselves into the church this time next week.

  Monday, June 29th

  Rachel felt the early symptoms of what she hoped was only a cold as the cab took her to Tampa International Airport. With the way the media had been covering this whole “superflu” scare, she didn’t like the idea of getting on an airplane in her current condition. It would be a miracle if everyone on board didn’t end up catching whatever bug she was carrying. But the boss man had said it was urgent for her to get back to “home base,” as he liked to call it.

  Rachel had been working for the boss man, aka Fred Wilson, for the past six years now. Fred owned a computer component manufacturing company in the heart of Silicon Valley. Rachel had started out as Fred’s secretary, had shown an aptitude for handling some of the company’s more disgruntled clients—there were always disgruntled clients, Fred had told her once upon a time, no matter how well you took care of them—and so she had been given the opportunity to handle some of the smaller accounts, to see if she could use her attitude, charm, and know-how to actually generate sales.

  She could, as it turned out.

  Within two years she’d become the company’s top salesperson. And so she was put in charge of handling a number of their biggest clients, had the responsibility of making sure they stayed their biggest clients. Last year, she encountered her only major stumbling block along the way, losing a major buyer to a rival firm who’d drastically underbid the one she worked for. It wasn’t long before the buyer came back to the fold, however. The old saying about “getting what you paid for” had proven all too true. When said client’s computer systems started generating unprecedented return and repair numbers, they saw the error of their ways and got Rachel on the phone, asking if they could do business once again under the same deal they’d had before. Rachel had agreed, insisting they sign a lengthy contract with her company. The client had been only too happy to comply. Around that same time, she secured two other contracts for the boss man and his little computer component empire, resulting in a bump in her salary and some rather sizable bonuses. So, yeah, things were good, and only seemed to be looking better.

  She’d gone to Florida to meet with one of her clients, something she liked to do every couple of months. In the age of online meetings, there were times when talking to someone face to face was necessary. The personal touch went a long way, she’d discovered in the few short years he’d been on the job. And Fred had no problem flying his “star pupil” wherever she wanted to go.

  “Whatever you need, Rache. And make sure you put that expense account to good use.”

  She always did.

  At thirty-two years of age, everything seemed to be going well in Rachel’s world for the most part. No, she hadn’t found Mr. Right yet, hadn’t settled down and started a family. And she was well aware of the fact that she wasn't getting any younger. But she was far from old. She liked to tell herself she had plenty of time for marriage and children down the road. At this point in her life, she felt that a husband and kids would only get in the way.

  Coming down with a nasty cold would also get in the way, she knew. At least in the short term. Fred had a new client he wanted her to meet with. “Could be our biggest account yet.” Thus, the insistence she head back to California right away. And now, here she was, feeling worse by the hour while flying from one end of the country to the other, hoping she hadn’t caught something that would sink its claws into her too deeply.

  During a two hour layover in Dallas, she had something to eat at one of the airport restaurants before killing some time in a couple of gift shops. Then she found herself aboard another 737. First class again. Nothing but the best for Fred Wilson’s star pupil.r />
  Finally, she arrived in California, took a cab back to her apartment which was located about ten minutes from “home base”—the Silicon Valley office. The sun had just started to dip below the horizon when she got home. By then she’d developed a persistent cough and her eyes were watering. She took a long, hot shower then watched TV for a little while. Around ten-thirty, she took some cold medicine and climbed into bed.

  Don’t let this be the superflu, she thought as the medication worked its magic, as a dark tide of sleep washed over her and pulled her down.

  Tuesday, June 30th

  Amanda couldn’t believe what she was seeing. It was the lead story on every news program: the supeflu wreaking havoc across central Florida. By now, the disease had sprung up elsewhere too: California, Texas, Pennsylvania, New York. Hospitals were overflowing with new admissions. Some reports had the death toll in the hundreds. A task force from Washington along with members of the CDC had arrived in Tampa late last night, were making the rounds at local hospitals, collecting what data they could in an attempt to control the outbreak. An ever-increasing number of reports—as of yet still unconfirmed—had been circulating that some of those killed by the flu turned out to be not so dead after all.

  A woman identified as a nurse at Tampa General Hospital, when interviewed, had this to say:

  “I was there when the woman flat-lined. The doctors tried to revive her. There was nothing they could do, though. I marked the time of death on her chart, ready to move on to the next patient. That’s when the woman… the one who had died… opened her eyes. The whites had turned red. Bright red. She started to make this moaning sound. It was awful. When she sat up, I nearly ran out of the room. But I didn’t. I called for one of the doctors. He came back in, walked over to the woman. ‘My God,’ I heard him say. He reached out and placed a hand on her shoulder. She stared at him, doing that moaning thing the whole time. And then she lunged at him, bit into his hand. He yelled and tried to back away, but the woman wouldn’t let go. She started shaking her head back and forth, growling like some sort of animal, didn’t stop until she tore off a piece of his hand. Then she looked at me. Blood on her mouth. Chewing… Swallowing… She swung her legs over the side of the bed and I knew… I just knew she was going to come after me next. That’s when I ran. I’m not afraid to admit it. I ran out of there just as fast as I could...”