Year of the Dead (Book 2) Page 8

  “I’ll be right back,” he told the dog before opening the sliding glass door and stepping outside

  As he moved through the grass reaching up to his knees, he thought about his wife, the conversations they used to have, all the things they had wanted to do together, the places they had wanted to go. The anger came rushing back then, rising up within him as he approached the zombie. And with a wordless cry, he raised the axe handle and swung it with every ounce of strength he could summon.

  Saturday, October 24th

  Howard felt trapped. Restless. He stood on the balcony of the hotel room, holding a can of beer—warm and mostly flat, but he was happy to have it—while staring at one of the nearby buildings, lost in thought as he so often was these days.

  Where the hell are you, Rachel?

  She had been missing for weeks now. He had awakened the morning following her disappearance to find a note—

  “Couldn’t sleep. Don’t worry, be back soon.”

  —on the coffee table. She had taken the bicycle chained to the lamppost outside and ridden off in the middle of the night. Never to return. He could only assume she was dead by now, kept telling himself it was time to move on—far past time, actually—that he needed to find other people, try to create some semblance of a life. But he just could not bring himself to do it.

  What if she comes back and I’m not here?

  A highly unlikely scenario, he knew. But that did not change the fact that he had yet to leave.

  He sighed and drank some more of the beer, hoping the amber liquid would quell the unpleasant feeling churning inside of him.

  A few more should do the trick.

  He had always been a happy drunk, the life of the party, even with the demons that had found their way inside of him back when he was a much younger man. Back during the war. Like countless other soldiers throughout the long, bloody history of humankind, Howard had seen things no one should ever have to see, that could never be unseen. Memories of that era would rise up to haunt him when he least expected it, with a vividness he would have thought impossible after so much time had passed. Somehow, he had found a way to live with them. What choice did he have in the matter? They were a part of him, these pesky little demons of his, would always be a part of him.

  He shook the can of beer. Not much left. Upending it, he drained its contents then crushed the can, tossed it off the balcony to the ground below where it lay among the others already littering the area.

  He thought about the nearby military base. Only a few miles from here. A part of him felt certain Rachel had gone there the night of her disappearance, that there was a chance she had been captured, that she was still there. Alive…

  Even if that’s true, what can I do about it?

  The very idea of approaching the base caused his pulse to quicken. Associated images, dark and grimy ones from the war, threatened to intrude upon his consciousness in all their glory.

  Dusk settled in, the shadows of the nearby buildings growing long. All too soon, Howard knew he would have to face another night alone in the hotel.

  Movement from below caught his eye. As he watched, a trio of zombies walked along the cement drive leading to the hotel. Howard grabbed another beer from the carton at his feet, cracked it open, took a sip as the undead visitors approached. One of them was completely naked—an old man, the flesh hanging from his bones. The other two, a boy and a middle-aged woman, wore filthy, tattered garments, any remaining hair in total disarray, visages devoid of emotion.

  Howard did not fear them—he had no reason to—but he did experience a touch of revulsion, a feeling that always came to him no matter how many times he encountered these hopeless, hungry things. As they drew even with the balcony where Howard stood, one of them, the female zombie, stopped and turned to stare directly at him. The other two continued on their way, leaving her behind. Howard locked eyes with the zombie for several long moments, staring into its empty, red gaze.

  How strange.

  None of them had ever taken much of an interest in him before. Had this one decided he might make a pretty good meal after all?

  No, there’s something else going on here.

  What that might be, he could not say. Just a feeling. Something to do with Rachel? Why the question crossed his mind, he was not sure. What could the undead woman have to do with his missing friend?

  The zombie raised its right arm, slowly, high into the air. Then it moved its hand back and forth, mechanically, an awkward sort of wave.

  Like a puppet, Howard told himself. Followed by: Well I’ll be damned.

  Before he even realized what he was doing and feeling a little foolish as he did so, he raised his hand—the one not holding the beer—and returned the gesture.

  Sunday, October 25th

  “Move and I’ll kill you.”

  The voice issued from the darkness next to the bed. Enough moonlight drifted into the room through the nearby window for Simon to make out the silhouette leaning over him, pressing the cold point of a knife to his throat. He had been sleeping, had risen into complete wakefulness as he always did when danger presented itself.

  Too slowly, though, he chastised himself.

  Someone had been able to get into his room, approach him with a weapon, threaten his life.

  Unacceptable.

  “I’ve got a gun, too,” continued the voice, barely more than a whisper. “And trust me, I’ll use it if I have to.”

  Simon said nothing.

  Let her talk.

  The tone of voice, the size of the figure standing next to him gave his assailant away as a woman.

  Let her think she’s in control.

  “Get up, nice and slow,” said the woman. “We’re going for a walk. Do anything stupid and I will shoot you.”

  They left the room, Simon in the lead, the woman following close enough to press the barrel of the handgun she carried into the small of his back. They went out through the rear door of the house. As they crossed the yard, he had to resist the urge to try and get a good look at his abductor.

  Don’t provoke her.

  Besides, he already had a pretty good idea as to the woman’s identity.

  Jocelyn, the girl from across the hallway.

  Simon had been wondering about her for a while now. She struck him as being a little… off. The way she looked at people, like she was studying them, secretly questioning them. The way she looked at him.

  I should have taken her into the woods with the others.

  Instead, here he was being marched barefoot through the night at the end of a gun.

  For her sake, she’d better use it when we get where we’re going. Because if she doesn’t…

  They cut across several backyards. Most of the houses they passed were dark, their inhabitants sound asleep at this hour. As to exactly what the hour might be, Simon was not sure. Judging by the moon’s position in the night sky, he figured it to be somewhere around two o’clock in the morning.

  “Turn left,” said the voice from behind him.

  Left, he thought, doing as he was told. Into the woods.

  Exactly where he would have taken her had the proverbial shoe been on the other foot.

  Does she know what I’ve been up to?

  As they approached the front line of trees, Simon thought about making a move to disarm the woman, decided against it.

  Too risky.

  Also, a feeling had taken hold of him, something instinctual. He had long since learned to trust his instincts as they had rarely led him astray.

  After traipsing through the woods for a couple of minutes, twigs snapping on occasion beneath their footfalls, Simon and his abductor came to a stop in the clearing where he had done some of his killing of late.

  She definitely knows.

  “Turn around.”

  He did as commanded.

  The young woman, Jocelyn, stood less than ten feet away, knife in one hand—its blade reflecting moonlight—pistol in the other, pointed at his
midsection.

  “I’ve seen what you do out here,” she told him.

  Simon said nothing, returned her gaze. She was tall for a woman, nearly matching his six feet in height. Good looking, too, despite the fact that her nose was a little too big for her face.

  Not as good looking as Amanda.

  On several occasions, Simon and Jocelyn had spoken in passing. Greetings. Small talk. In general, he had given her little thought, now realized that had been a mistake.

  “I’ve been following you when you go out. I know where you stash the bodies. One word from me and this whole town will come down on you.”

  Simon ended his silence:

  “Why haven’t you told anyone?”

  She gave a small laugh. “This town… New Hope… It doesn’t stand a chance. When the monsters show up—and they’ll show up, sooner or later—they’re going to devour every last person in this place.”

  “Yeah, sooner or later,” Simon agreed.

  The woman, Jocelyn, stared at him, studying him. “What you are…” A slight shake of the head. “You’re a different kind of monster. Still a monster, though. And in this world, the way it is now, that means you might just stand a chance.”

  “It’s worked out pretty well for me so far.”

  “I bet it has.” She lowered the gun, took a step toward him. “When the zombies arrive and the killing starts, I want you to take me with you.”

  “Why would I do that?”

  “Because the two of us, we’re more alike than you realize.” Another step. “And you might not think so now, but at some point, you’re going to need me.”

  Monday, October 26th

  Pastor Lewis sat on the side of the bed, staring at the window and the watery light making its way into the room, a blanket draped over his shoulders. Thankfully, the cough, the sore throat, and the ache permeating his body had begun to subside. The bout of pneumonia, as his caretaker had dubbed the illness that had settled into him out there in the wet and the rain beyond the convent walls, had slowly but surely loosened its grip on him in recent days. Now he need only wait for his strength to return so he could take on the role of protector he felt certain he had been sent here to fulfill.

  The services he had performed for so many others over the years would not be needed within the walls of the structure in which he currently found himself. The women living there already had God in their lives, undoubtedly knew as much as he did regarding the Good Book, certainly a great deal more than most. And he assumed they had led lives a good deal more pious than his, especially as of late. He thought of the women he had bedded, not so long ago, in his role as leader and prophet. The memories caused a stirring of shame within him, made him wonder—not for the first time—if his bad behavior had somehow led to the Tampa disaster, if it had caused the Lord to turn away from him in what was to be his moment of glory. He sighed, by now almost used to the guilt such musings inevitably conjured.

  What’s done is done.

  He could only beg forgiveness so many times. There was no point in looking back. He had to move forward, do what the Lord required of him with a clear head and a pure heart. And maybe this time around he could avoid catastrophe.

  A gentle rapping at the door pulled his attention from the window, had him climbing a bit gingerly from the bed.

  “Come in,” he said, voice weak from his recent ordeal.

  The rattling of keys, the click of a lock, and the door swung inward.

  The nun who had given him food while he was outside, who had later brought him into the convent, entered the room, pushing a cart with what Pastor Lewis would soon discover carried a bowl of soup, a thick slice of homemade bread, and a glass of water.

  “Please, sit down,” said the sister, maneuvering the cart toward him. “Eat.”

  He did as he was told, using the spoon lying next to the bowl to sample its contents, nodding his head in appreciation as the gently seasoned broth found its way onto his tongue.

  Sister Clara—she had formally introduced herself the day she had opened the gate for him—stoically watched him satisfy his hunger.

  “Again, I’m sorry about all of this,” she said, indicating the room with a gesture, giving the ring of keys in her hand a jingle. “Sister Margaret is still not sure you are to be trusted.”

  Pastor Lewis shook his head and told her, as he had on previous occasions, not to worry about it.

  “I am in your debt,” he said between mouthfuls of soup. “You could have left me out there in the rain, let me go hungry. But you didn’t. And Sister Margaret has every reason to be suspicious of me. I am a stranger, after all. And these are dark times. I will do what I can to prove my worth. I will show her that I can be trusted.”

  As he drank some of the water, he eyed the open doorway behind the nun, considered how easy it would be to overpower her and leave the room. But even though he was twice her size, Sister Clara showed no sign of trepidation, seemed to take it for granted that he would cause her no harm, that he would not act upon the opportunity presented to him. She was right, of course. How she could be so certain of this, however, Pastor Lewis had no idea. Maybe she possessed a talent for judging the character of a person. Or maybe she was just foolish, dangerously so.

  Or maybe someone waits outside, weapon in hand, ready to use it should I choose to act upon such an idea.

  Whatever the reason, he had no plans to jeopardize his stay at the convent. He had been meant to find this place, was supposed to be here. This he truly believed. And he had meant what he said about being indebted to Sister Clara. A debt he intended to repay in any way that he could.

  “I’m glad you’re feeling better,” said the nun after a brief silence had passed between them. “It’s good to see your appetite returning.”

  When she moved toward the door, he implored her, “Wait,” not wanting her to leave.

  Pausing at the threshold, she urged him to finish eating.

  “Rest. Recuperate. I will return later.”

  Then she passed through the doorway, closing it behind her.

  Pastor Lewis heard the rattle of keys, the click of the lock, and the sound of the nun’s footsteps walking away.

  Tuesday, October 27th

  Barry stopped before the open doorway of the house at 1013 Alder Way.

  Stay.

  The unspoken command went out to the pair of zombies trailing him, two of the bigger, healthier specimens he had been able to find, his “royal guard” as he had come to think of them. They moved somewhat faster than the majority of their undead comrades. Even still, it was at a pace that forced him to walk half as quickly as he normally would have. Not that he needed to be anywhere in any sort of hurry. It felt good having the lumbering creatures accompany him, fed into his ever-increasing sense of self-importance.

  He entered the doorway without so much as a backward glance, confident his command had been obeyed.

  “Hello? Anybody home?” he said as he walked through the foyer before entering each room—family room, dining room, living room, kitchen—of the house’s ground floor. The kitchen smelled of spoiled food and dried dog shit, the buzzing of flies.

  “Anybody?”

  No response. Not that he really expected one. He had yet to find another living soul within the town where he had grown up. Which, for the most part, was fine with him. Few of them had ever been kind to him. He had been an outsider for as long as he could remember. Superior intelligence, an utter lack of athletic ability, and a face full of acne had made him unpopular from an early age. Luck of the draw, or so it seemed, had made him what he was today. A survivor.

  Barry made his way upstairs to where the bedrooms were located. He passed the master bedroom and the guest room. And there, at the end of the hallway…

  Allison Wheatley’s bedroom.

  His heart thudded in his chest as he entered the room, morning sunlight streaming in through the open window letting him take in the details of the place. It was just as he remembered it,
looked exactly as it had each time he had visited it, both in reality and in his imaginings. Posters—one of a unicorn, one of a “boy band,” another of a baseball player Barry knew nothing about—adorned the walls. A collection of colorful pillows littered the bed. The vanity where Allison had done her makeup, the dresser where she kept her clothes… Right where he knew they would be.

  He approached the dresser, opened the top drawer, the one containing Allison’s underwear. During a previous visit, a few weeks before the superflu hit, Allison had excused herself, left to use the bathroom. Unable to help himself, Barry had gotten up from the bed where the two of them had been sitting, studying, textbooks laid out between them. He had opened the dresser drawer with a trembling hand, found it hard to breathe for a moment as he laid eyes on the assortment of colorful garments contained within.

  Recalling the last time he had seen Allison—or what she had become—Barry pulled his hand away from the dresser. In life, she had been beautiful. Growing up next door to her, he had been more than a little bit in love with her since childhood. Of course, he had never really stood a chance with her, something Allison's parents had understood judging by the lack of concern they showed whenever she brought him to her room. Which only happened when her grades were slipping or she had a difficult test coming up, when she needed help studying.

  He went to the bed and sat down, ran his hand across the blankets, thought about what it would have been like to slide underneath them with Allison, to hold her in his arms, feel her body pressed against him. Then, inevitably, he thought about the zombie version of her which he had seen just a few weeks ago. It had been missing an arm. An eye. Most of its hair—the long, blonde hair he used to fantasize about running his fingers through—had fallen out. He had approached her, stared into her remaining, red eye, listened to the insistent moaning emanating from her throat. Then he had watched as she limped away down the street, rounded a corner and disappeared…

  What am I doing here? he wondered, his fantasies of Allison's bedroom having lost much of their hold on him. Shaking his head, he started to leave then stopped himself.