Year Of The Dead: A Zombie Novel Read online

  They cut to more interviews, images of people lying on cots in the hospital lobby. Then they showed footage of a speech given by the mayor in which he implored everyone to remain calm. He made assurances that everything possible was being done to ensure the safety of the citizens of Hillsborough County.

  “That being said, people should try to remain indoors as much as possible. Wash your hands regularly, and avoid areas where large groups of people gather. Schools will be closed through the end of the week, purely as a precautionary measure. Again, there is no need for anyone to panic. Experts from both the local and federal government are on this...”

  Amanda pressed the mute button on the remote, silencing the endless stream of voices coming from the TV. She heard Mitchell making vrooming sounds back in his bedroom, playing with the race car he’d been pushing around the floor the last time she checked on him. So far, neither she nor Mitchell had experienced any of the flu-like symptoms. They’d been lucky, she figured. But how much longer would their luck hold out?

  We should leave Florida, she told herself. Get in the car and drive away.

  But where, exactly, would they go? And when they got there would it be any safer than where they were right now? The fridge and kitchen cabinets contained enough food to last them several more days.

  Listen to the mayor. Stay put and wait this thing out.

  Of course, she could always go and stay with her parents. They owned a spacious house that sat on a nice sized piece of property.

  It’s more isolated. Safer.

  She went over to the kitchen counter and grabbed her cell phone.

  I should give them a call, at least check in on them.

  After three rings, her mother answered. “Amanda. Honey.” Her voice sounded thick and hoarse. It was the voice of a sick person.

  And that’s when the low level fear she’d been feeling turned to dread.

  Wednesday, July 1st

  Dear Diary,

  Today they did another round of tests on me. Blood. Saliva. Temperature. Checked my eyes and ears. Listened to my breathing and heartbeat. Doctor Anders did most of the testing again. This time, she didn’t wear the baggy plastic outfit I’d seen her in before. Instead, she wore long pants and a white doctor’s jacket, latex gloves, and a mask over her nose and mouth. She told me the tests were for my own good and, hopefully, for the good of a lot of other people, too. If they can figure out what’s kept me from getting sick then they might be able to use that information to help everyone else get better. Mom. Dad. All the rest. Doctor Anders says they’re being kept somewhere else in the building and assured me they’re getting the best possible care. I guess she was trying to make me feel better, trying to keep me from worrying so much. And it did make me feel a little better. I’m still pretty scared, though. I just don’t know what I’d do if anything happened to Mom and Dad. It’s the most awful thing imaginable.

  I asked Doctor Anders if I was ever going to leave this place. She told me that as soon as my parents got better, we’d all be allowed to leave. I want to believe her, more than anything in the world. But when she said it she wouldn’t look at me, made a point of lowering her eyes and writing something on her clipboard. Not like there’s a whole lot I can do about it if she was lying to me. They continue to keep me locked in my room. And I’m still convinced there has to be a camera around here somewhere, keeping an eye on me. Besides, it’s not like I’d get far even if I did manage to sneak out of this place. Not without my parents. Especially since I still have no idea where this place even is. So, for now, I really have no choice but to cooperate, let them run their tests on me, hope that Mom and Dad get better. And pray. I’ve been doing a lot of that since I got here. I guess a little more can’t hurt.

  Thursday, July 2nd

  Panspermia. The word had been bandied about on TV and the internet lately. After doing a little online research, Eric discovered it was a theory dealing with the spreading of life throughout the universe. An idea put forth by scientists explaining how life may have come to Earth in the first place. Bacteria, riding across the vast, cold reaches of outer space inside an asteroid or a comet, could have been pulled into the planet’s gravitational field and down through the atmosphere to the surface of the young, turbulent world. There, in the gases and warm temperatures near the surface, these tiny lifeforms could have become active, could have survived and multiplied and evolved.

  A man on one of the news channels, a biologist at some university or another, suggested that if the process happened once all those billions of years ago, a similar process could have very well happened again. Maybe the Florida asteroid had carried a certain type of microorganism with it, one that had found its way into a number of human hosts and started to spread. It would explain why people were getting sick, why people were dying. An alien bug, a xenoflu, lying dormant for millions, if not billions of years until it had a reason to reawaken.

  Definitely one way to start a plague, thought Eric. And, yes, the media were referring to it as a plague, understandably, now that the official death toll had risen into the hundreds.

  By now, everyone had heard the tales of the dead not staying dead. Supposedly, many of those who had succumbed to the disease had gotten up and started moving around again. It was said that these un-dead, as they were being referred to, did not speak. In fact, the only sounds they made consisted of low moaning and growling noises. It was also said that these walking corpses would try to attack anyone in their vicinity, viciously and brutally, like wild beasts looking to subdue and devour their prey.

  Sitting at the computer, Eric shook his head. What the hell was going on? Was the world seriously being invaded by an alien disease? Were the dead really coming back to life? And were they actually trying to eat people?

  For several days now, Eric had been living in a state of near constant worry. He’d hardly been able to sleep and when he did it was fitful at best, filled with terrible dreams, many of them involving his sister and her husband, Bill. They'd succumbed to the sickness and come back to life, had chased him slowly but determinedly, like psychos in a low budget slasher flick, always a step or two behind him no matter how far or how quickly he ran. All the while, they never said a word. But he could feel their resentment, could see the accusations in their eyes—their blood red eyes.

  Why didn’t you help me, Eric? the expression on his sister's face seemed to convey.

  What was I supposed to do? he yelled as he ran. I'm sorry! I'm so sorry...

  Obviously, the dreams were triggered by a guilty conscience. I should have returned to Florida, gotten in my truck and driven there if I had to. The police had been no help whatsoever. They’d taken his call, said they’d look into it. But he'd never heard back from them.

  A few days ago, he’d packed a suitcase, went to the front door of the house, opened it... And heard the sound of screaming from somewhere nearby, followed by gunshots. He'd slammed the door closed, locked it and dropped the suitcase at his feet. Since then, he'd remained indoors, afraid of the noises he occasionally heard from outside: sirens wailing, neighborhood dogs barking excitedly, helicopters going by overhead, random gunfire at any given time of the day or night.

  Sitting at the computer, he tried to concentrate on the article he'd been half-heartedly perusing, tried to shake the images haunting his mind, the idea that his sister had died, that he could have done something to save her.

  He recalled what he had said the night the asteroid fell to Earth, when Justine had wanted to know what was going on:

  The end of the world?

  It was beginning to seem as though he might have been right.

  Friday, July 3rd

  “Madame President.”

  She stood on the lawn behind the White House, an image flashing through her mind: Her husband, Tom, helping the children with their studies. She felt a moment’s regret over the fact that she couldn’t be there, wondered when she'd participate in such domestic activities again.

  No time
soon, I'd imagine.

  The president turned to face the man who'd spoken. He was very distinguished looking, with graying hair, a well-groomed beard, and wire rimmed spectacles. Beside him stood a woman half his age wearing a pinched expression on her face, blonde hair pulled back tight in a ponytail. The president shook hands with both of them.

  “Dr. Hamilton. CDC,” said the man. “This is Dr. Anders.”

  From behind them, three men and a woman filed out of the White House and onto the lawn. These new arrivals were well known to the president. The two younger men were cabinet members. The eldest among them—dressed in a dark blue uniform, the jacket heavily laden with medals—was the Secretary of Defense. The woman, the Speaker of the House. It usually took something fairly momentous to bring this group together. A natural disaster of some sort. A terrorist attack. The use of military power on foreign soil.

  A deadly plague from outer space.

  With three secret service agents standing nearby in their trademark suits and sunglasses, Dr. Anders handed a manila folder to the president who took it, opened it, and glanced at some of the papers contained within.

  “You’ve been over this?” the president asked the members of the cabinet.

  They each said that they had.

  “And?”

  Before either of them could respond, Dr. Anders said, “Madame President, if I may...”

  She had always disliked that term: “Madame President.” It made her sound as though she ran a whorehouse. Although, on a less serious day, she may have joked that it was exactly what she did. But not today.

  “Yes?”

  “Florida’s a mess. I’ve spent nearly a week there, and every day it’s gotten worse. This disease... This superflu....”

  “Is that what it is?” asked the president, genuinely curious. “A superflu? No one seems to know for sure.”

  The woman sighed. “You’re right. In some ways it acts like a common influenza virus. But in other ways it's completely different. It’s rate of mutation... I’ve never seen anything like it. Never heard of anything like it. Nobody has. That’s because there’s never been anything like it. The way it attacks the nervous system... Well, calling it an attack is a bit of an oversimplification. Somehow, it actually manages to take control of the nervous system, so much so that even in death—”

  “What my colleague is trying to say,” interjected Dr. Hamilton with a trace of a scowl on his face, “is that we need to do more research. So far, we've had very little success in regards to finding any form of useful treatment. As far as containing it...”

  “Not possible,” said Dr. Anders. “Too much time has passed. The genie's out of the bottle and there's no way to put it back in. Far too many vectors are at work here. I think it’s time to prepare for the worst.”

  “And that would be?” asked the president, fairly certain she already knew the answer, positive she didn’t want to hear it.

  “We don’t know for sure—“ began Dr. Hamilton.

  “Pandemic,” said Dr. Anders. “National... Global... I hate to say it, but the fear mongers in the media got it right this time.”

  “Hold on a minute,” said Dr. Hamilton. “There’s not enough data to make that sort of—”

  The President raised a hand.

  After this meeting had been scheduled, she'd studied the files on each of these doctors, had spoken to some of their colleagues. Dr. Hamilton had been with the CDC for more than two decades. In recent years, he'd spent most of his time at the head offices in Atlanta, doing more paper pushing than actual science. Dr. Anders, on the other hand, spent the majority of her time in the field. “Smart and ambitious” seemed to be the general consensus. The word “brilliant” was used on more than one occasion. “Within ten years she'll be running the place...”

  “Tell me, Dr. Anders,” said the president. “What do you suggest we do?”

  With a nod of acceptance, the young doctor told the leader of the most powerful nation on Earth exactly what she should do.

  Saturday, July 4th

  Amanda took the stairs down to the ground floor of the apartment building where she lived. She’d left Mitchell with Mrs. Lansing across the hall, an elderly widow who was only too happy to watch “the young lad,” as she referred to him. With all that was going on, Amanda hated leaving her son in anyone else’s care. She needed to make a supply run, though. No way she was taking Mitchell with her. Judging from the news reports, it seemed pretty obvious things were about to get a whole lot worse before they got any better.

  An hour earlier, she saw a story detailing the growing military presence in and around the Tampa Bay area, deployed to impose some control over what was being described as “a rapidly deteriorating situation.” Amanda figured that certain goods might become very scarce in the near future if they hadn’t already, so she'd better get them while she still could.

  Fortunately, there was a grocery store not two blocks down the road from where she lived. Close enough to walk—or run, if she had to.

  Filled with a nervous tension, she followed the sidewalk over to the intersection where the store awaited. A few cars went by, but overall traffic seemed rather light. She kept her head down, refusing to make eye contact with the few people she encountered along the way. Finally, as she went through the automatic doors at the front of the supermarket, she breathed a sigh of relief.

  It was the Fourth of July, just past nine o'clock in the morning. In years past, people would have been crowding the place, stocking up for the day's festivities. On this particular holiday, however, the place was nearly deserted. Was it fear keeping people away? Or had they done a better job at crisis preparation than she had? As she passed one of the checkout lanes, she saw the cashier sniffling and wiping at her nose with a tissue.

  Maybe everyone stayed home sick.

  Twenty minutes later, she left the store carrying half a dozen plastic bags—three in each hand—filled with her purchases.

  As she made the journey home, she noticed movement off to her right, watched as a young man wearing nothing but a single black sock and a pair of boxer shorts emerged from the porch of the house there. The odd sight caused Amanda to stop in her tracks. It wasn't long before she noticed there was something wrong with his eyes. They were too dark, seemed to have no whites at all. He moved in a strange, disjointed sort of way as though his limbs were not fully under his command. As he got closer, she could hear him moaning. It was the type of sound made by someone in great discomfort.

  You need to move, right now, as fast as you can.

  Without warning, a man carrying a handgun appeared from behind her, walking toward the house. When he was ten feet or so from the guy in the boxer shorts, he raised the gun, took aim, and pulled the trigger.

  Amanda somehow managed to keep from dropping the bags she carried as the shots rang out, as the nearly naked man’s head snapped back and he dropped to the ground where he lay unmoving.

  “You can thank me later,” said the guy with the gun, offering Amanda a quick smile before casually walking away.

  “Oh my God… Oh my God…”

  The words escaped her lips seemingly of their own volition as she hurried the rest of the way home.

  Sunday, July 5th

  “Sorry, there's nothing we can do...”

  With that, they'd sent her husband home to die.

  Regina sat on the chair next to the bed, clutching the largest kitchen knife she could find, awaiting the end. Judging by her husband's empty gaze, the ragged sound of his breathing, she figured it wouldn’t be long now. But she’d been telling herself the exact same thing for several hours at this point. And there he lay, staring up at the ceiling, pulling in one long, labored breath after the next, refusing to die.

  Regina took in the sight of the ropes leading from his wrists to the bedposts, saw the way they bit into his flesh, fought off an impulse to loosen them. It had been Joseph’s idea for her to restrain him. When he first mentioned it, she had protested, to
ld him there was no way she could do something like that to him. He'd managed a tiny smile and said in a rough voice, “Of course, you can.”

  And he'd been right.

  She'd cried the entire time as she made the knots tighter at Joseph's insistence.

  “It’s all right. Don't worry about hurting me.”

  But it wasn’t all right, not even close. She knew he was doing what he could to make things as easy as possible on her. That was Joseph, always putting her needs before his own. No matter the circumstances. It was just one of the myriad reasons she'd loved him for so many years—more than thirty of them, all told. She'd done her best to keep it together, to make whatever time they had left with one another as pleasant as possible. Once she'd tied the ropes and gone to get the knife, however, the true horror of the situation had begun to settle in.

  With her free hand, she pressed a damp cloth to Joseph's forehead, wiping at the beads of sweat collecting there. It had been a while since he’d said anything, since he’d done anything but lie there, seemingly oblivious to his surroundings, his lungs rattling with each breath. And still he lived, long past the point she thought such a thing was possible. Long past the point where she'd started to pray for his sake—for both of their sakes—that it would all just finally be over.