DISEASE: A Zombie Novel (2 page)

As the wind ebbs and flows, so too does the whine of the noisemaker Opie plunged into the dirt. That damned device. The man who created it may as well be the inventor of the nuclear bomb. It’s an instrument of destruction, its sole purpose to attract the ghouls who roam this forest. It allows cowards to lie within the safe embrace of the hotel walls, unwilling to witness the consequences of their actions.

Aaron’s wrists and ankles ache. Blood oozes from beneath the tight, rusty shackles, where his skin has rubbed clean off. He leans into them again, groaning with the effort to get free. Although he should be reminded of long ago history lessons about witches burning at the stake, his mind keeps turning to a different abomination.

When he was a boy Aaron read a book about Native Americans. Of course, everyone called them Indians back then, and he still thinks of them as Indians even now. He can’t remember what tribe the book was about, or if it was truly a book and not a movie, or TV show of some sort, but what stuck with him through the years was the sinister torture the Indians doled out.

They’d use leather strips that had been soaked in water to tie an enemy warrior to a stand made of branches, then leave him baking in the sun. The sun would shine and the leather would shrink, slowly cutting through the warrior’s skin and muscles, causing unthinkable agony. Eventually, and never too soon, it killed him.

Aaron always imagined some poor wretch, wearing a headband with a single feather poking up from it, left to die high atop a mountain. Every time Aaron thinks of that stereotypical brave, he imagines giant crows swooping in to tear the flesh from his still living body. They would cackle and caw as the man beneath their talons screamed helplessly and the largest of the sleek black birds would pluck an eye from its socket. The crow would tug on the tasty morsel until it finally snapped away, and then swallow it in one gulp. This is the image Aaron can’t shake as a lumbering, coverall-wearing hulk breaks into the clearing.

The creature’s eyes bulge. Its lips are drawn back, exposing chunks of flesh stuck between its teeth. Black gunk leaks from its eyes, down its cheeks, and its coveralls support a huge distended belly. It will eat until it bursts, they all do.

Aaron tries not to move, not to breathe, not to exist. A smaller, rotten creature with half a face suddenly appears from the side. It wears nothing but a pair of saggy, stained tighty-whiteys. Another appears, this one with no clothes and missing an arm. Then a child, who could pass for living if it weren’t for the gnashing teeth and ripped corneas.

Aaron presses himself against the tree. Each shallow breath he takes booms like a jet engine in his ears. If he so much as blinks he’s sure they’ll hear it.

More decaying figures stagger from the forest, some stop to stare at the noisemaker. Coveralls cranes its head around the clearing, searching. Aaron stops breathing and tries not to sweat.

The monster eyes him, steps a little closer.

Aaron’s heartbeat is the only thing he cannot quiet. He silently prays.

Coveralls lunges.

Aaron springs out of the way, straining against his bonds. These frickin’ chains! He kicks the brute, but it has no effect. Coveralls sinks its teeth into Aaron’s leg. Aaron thrashes and is somehow able to shake the ghoul off, but it’s useless. The creatures descend like a pack of wolves, biting, growling, and clawing at his flesh. The mob wrenches him from his feet, struggling against the chains to drag its meal off into the bushes.

Aaron screams. His shoulders pop and snap. Muscle and bone rip at the joint like a chicken wing and his arms fall limply to the ground, raising a plume of dust as they separate from his body. His bloodcurdling shrieks are lifted away by the very wind his death rode in on.

***

The sheets are smooth against Casey’s face and the mild heat of morning sun pushes in through curtains, warming the room. The smell of fresh coffee and breakfast fills the air. It’s disorientating for a moment, something feels off as she steps from the bed. She looks down at her bare feet, the nails are perfectly pedicured, painted a raunchy red. They are sexy toes. No blisters, no callouses, and no dirt. She wiggles them; they are hers.

This isn’t a room she recognizes, but that doesn’t matter; it’s also hers, she can feel it. She’s safe and she smiles. Casey doesn’t know why but she missed this place; has longed for it for centuries, eon upon eon, and now she’s finally here. Or has she always been here?

The enticing aroma of food guides her through the house which is huge, chic, and luxurious. Her feet are soft on the warm hard wood, her fingers velvet against the vividly painted walls. She catches a glimpse of herself in the mirror and touches her smooth, straightened hair. It’s perfectly pinned back with a glamorous tortoise shell clip. A flirtatious silk kimono, baby blue
,
hugs her curves, allowing the outline of her matching underthings to peek through. Gorgeous diamond-encrusted earrings dangle from her ears.

This is my life, she thinks.

Casey steps lightly into the kitchen. “Hello?” No one answers. “Anybody home? Anton? The food smells amazing!” Casey reaches the stove, her mouth watering as she peers into a skillet. As she sees what’s cooking she crinkles her face in disgust, but her stomach grumbles.

Frying in oil, skin bubbling and crisping, is a human hand.

Casey backs away in horror as she spies Alex crouched in the corner. Like a swollen cob of corn he holds Anton’s disfigured head and sinks his teeth into a cheek, tearing off a piece of meat. He chews it slowly, eyeing her, daring her to do something.

Casey’s eyes pop open. Alex sleeps soundly with his head in her lap and she takes a moment, the image of the boy chewing on her husband’s face still fresh in her mind. With effort she forces the lingering smell of cooking flesh from her memory. Her stomach growls.

Casey rubs her ring finger where her wedding band and engagement ring once were. From time to time she still finds herself moving to adjust them but it’s been two years since she wore them. The constant reminder of everything she lost so quickly was too much to bear.

The morning light is bright, it’s late. It was stupid and dangerous to fall asleep here. They must find a safer place before nightfall, one where the front of the house isn’t nearly destroyed. Casey shakes Alex awake. It’s heartbreaking to watch him open his groggy eyes. “I’m sorry, honey, but we can’t stay here.”

Alex rises. A dirty white button up shirt hangs on his frame making him seem thinner than he is. It’s a size too large, and missing buttons. He squares his pack on his bony shoulders, ready to follow Casey’s lead. Casey’s throat catches. When she looks at him she can’t help but wonder what her own child would have looked like now.

She had been six months pregnant; the baby was Anton’s last gift to her. It had been so hard to be pregnant and on the run. Food and water were scarce, sleep even more so—not as bad as now, but bad enough, and they weren’t able to stop driving when the contractions started, it was just too dangerous and too many creatures littered the roadways. The group, spread out between several vehicles, had been twenty people strong, but not a single person could save her baby.

That was about two and half years ago, but she can still feel the clenching labor pains rip through her abdomen. She can still feel the despair as she looked down at the tiny wrinkled face in the back of that station wagon. Blood caked her thighs, her hands, pooled beneath her in a thick puddle mixed with sweat and urine.

He was so small. So pale. And he never made a sound, never cried. The baby only lived for two hours. Now she hears his ragged breathing, like a buzz-saw on her brain, in every dream she’s ever had since.

She wept over him. Cried so hard she thought all the tears in the world, in the history of worlds, must be pouring through her eyes. She’d clung to his limp little body, clasped him to her chest and unleashed everything her soul had to offer. But it didn’t matter. He was dead. Dead like Anton. Dead like this world.

Casey closes her eyes. When she opens them she ruffles Alex’s hair.

“You ready, kid?” He stares up at her blankly. “Nod, Alex. Do you remember what I told you? I need to know you understand me.” Alex continues to stare blankly back at her and Casey sighs. Sometimes it’s like talking to a brick wall.

She turns away from him and peeks through the broken window. Outside an rotting ornamental garden fence runs the length of an overgrown flowerbed. It’s kept company by a rusted swing set that stands nearby, motionless in the muggy summer air. There is no sign of life.

Casey reaches her arm out the window. Now that she has a second to think, maybe she can get the door open. She grips the knob from the outside and turns. It screeches, metal against metal, but it still won’t open. She pulls her arm back inside. They’ll have to get out of here one way or another, and it won’t be through the front. There were quite a few creatures wandering around out there earlier and she would rather avoid another confrontation.

She and dances in place for a second, revving her engine and mustering up energy from the dog chow and catnap, then kicks the door. It shakes in its frame. She kicks again. It cracks. Panting, she kicks it again. The door snaps free of its humidity-swollen frame. Finally! Casey reaches behind her and snags her bat then steps out into the summer sun with Alex trailing right behind.

A gun’s hammer clicks back, echoing in the thick morning air. Casey freezes, “If you fire that thing you’ll attract everything around here for miles.”

“If I fire it, you’ll be dead, and we’ll be gone before there’s a problem to worry about.”

Casey swallows hard. “Run, Alex!”

As the words escape her lips a tall blond man snags the boy with one hand and tosses him backward, into the arms of three other men, where Casey can’t see him well. She clenches her jaw and draws her weapon back for a swing.

“Drop the bat, lady.”

“We don’t have anything. No food. No water. We’ve already been robbed, just let us go.”

Casey strains her ears. Over the hum of cicadas she can hear the huffing and puffing of silent struggles behind her. She turns her head slightly, just enough to see the men that have Alex. They wear guns and machetes but worse than that, they are removing the boy’s clothes. Her stomach drops and her heart catches in her throat.

The muzzle of the blond’s gun bites the back of her head and Casey cringes. “We don’t want your stuff,” he snaps. “Now drop the bat.” His voice is quiet but hardened with a razor edge. She slowly lowers her bat to the ground, keeping Alex in the corner of her eye. Her chest quivers with her pounding heart.

Behind Casey and the blond, Alex flails like a trapped animal, landing a hard kick squarely on the chest of one of the men accosting him and sending the man stumbling back. Another slaps the boy across the face, the loud smack reverberating in Casey’s ears. She can almost feel the sting on her own cheek and it’s all she can bear.

She reclaims a hard grip on her bat; it never fully touched the ground, and turns, swinging violently at the son-of-a-bitch with the blond hair. He reacts instantly with well-fed muscles, catching the bat in mid-swing, before there’s any damaging force behind it. In one smooth move he rips the bat from Casey’s grip and slams her into the side of the house. Her face cracks a windowpane, spider webbing it.

Fear floods her mind. What do these men want? What are they doing to Alex? She can’t see him now. God, she wishes he would say something! All she can hear is breathing as he struggles against three grown men. Casey swivels her face to catch a glimpse and the blond man blocks her view. His stubbled, faintly tanned face and blue eyes scowl down at her. She wants to murder him.

“Please. Leave the boy alone,” she begs.

“Shut up.” He lifts her shirt, pulling it over her head. The tired, dirty fabric rushes by her face and she can smell her own fear-stink. The man tosses her shirt aside and Casey twists away, trying to flip around, to see Alex. Using brute force, the blond slams her back into the side of the house. “Once more and I’ll kill the kid, not you. Do you understand?”

“Yes.”

“Take everything off.”

“Let the kid go and I’ll do anything you want.”

“This isn’t a negotiation, lady.”

“Just let him—”

“Now!”

Casey fumbles as she unhooks her bra. As the worn straps slip from her shoulders and it falls to the ground, she digs her nails into her palms, fighting the urge to panic. She unbuttons her pants and pulls her shaking legs out, biting her tongue. The pain helps her focus. Her hands shake and after a brief hesitation Casey slides off her old, droopy underwear. Maybe if she cooperates they won’t kill her and Alex. She’ll do what she has to—bide her time until she can get away with the boy somehow. She just has to find an opening.
Don’t panic.

“Shoes too.”

Casey pulls her bare feet from her shoes. Only after skin touches dirt does she truly feel naked, vulnerable. The blond man roughly grabs at her, his hands crawling over her body, harsh and prodding. They make her skin want to peel away, make her want to vomit. Big fat tears well in her eyes and she bites her lip, blinking them back furiously. This man may rape her, he may even kill her, but he sure as hell isn’t going to see her cry. He leans in close, examining her as though she’s livestock being prepared for slaughter.

One of the men holding Alex calls out to his boss, “Kid’s clear.” The blond grunts a response and forcefully flips Casey around to face him. She wants to spit on him, but her mouth is dry. His is the face of a dead man. She will kill him when she has the chance.

Over his shoulder she can see Alex still struggling with the other three men. Now they are trying to get his clothes back on. It would be almost comical in another situation. Casey’s head spins. Why remove the boy’s clothes if…

“Woman’s safe.” The blond steps back and for a split second looks over his shoulder at his men. It’s all she needs. Casey drives her knee between his legs. He pitches forward and Casey darts for his handgun, tearing it from his belt. His men clamor for their weapons, surprised and clumsy. They’ve grossly underestimated her.