The Dark Trilogy
Authors: Patrick D'Orazio
Tags: #zombie apocalypse, #(¯`'•.¸//(*_*)\\¸.•'´¯)
THE DARK TRILOGY
and Dark stories
Patrick D’Orazio
The Dark Trilogy
By Patrick D’Orazio
Copyright Patrick D’Orazio 2010 - 2011. All Rights reserved.
Kindle edition
Edited by Michelle Linhart
Cover art by Philip R. Rogers
Interior formatting by Kody Boye
Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored, or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form, or by any means (electronically, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise) without the proper written permission of both the copyright owner and “Library of the Living Dead Press,” except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.
This book is a work of fiction. People, places, events and situation are the product of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living, dead or undead, or historical events, is purely coincidental.
Table of Contents
INTRODUCTION
What would you do if your entire world crumbled before your eyes and every one you ever loved was ripped from you?
If someone asked me to describe this book and its two sequels, I think that question would probably be as good a starting point as any. This book is a tale of normal, everyday people trying to come to grips with the horrors of a world where everything they have ever known has been wiped out.
That’s what I wanted to create when I came up with the idea for
Comes the Dark
. From its inception, it was a story about an average guy, Jeff Blaine, coming to grips with the destruction of his world. And it’s not just about survival; it’s about finding a
reason
to survive. For Jeff, it’s about getting revenge on the monsters that destroyed his wife and children. For the others he meets, it’s about hope or perhaps an attempt to retain a tenuous grasp on a life not filled with nightmares. And as these survivors journey deeper into the darkness of their new world, they start to realize they have another question to answer:
what are you willing to do to survive?
This is also a story of the undead apocalypse. Zombies play a major role in this story and they play their part well. Zombies, unlike other monster archetypes, are not the main characters in most stories they inhabit. They allow the human race to seal its own fate, whether on a grand scale or down to the individual level. Unlike vampires, werewolves, and other supernatural beings, they don’t necessarily like the spotlight, but when they are in it, they tend to share it with a cast of thousands of their own kind. Their greatest strength, in my humble opinion, is that they have a knack for providing the catalyst necessary to allow humans to be … human.
No book is written in a vacuum. As such, there are far too many people for me to thank for making this book possible. From its birth as an idea back in 2006 to the day the Library of the Living Dead released it in 2010, there have been those people who provided me with encouragement, advice, and critiques that made me keep going back to the drawing board until I got it right…or as close to right as I could get it. So I would like to try and do my best to thank the folks who loaned me their ears, provided me with insights, advice, and brutal honesty. Your efforts have not gone unnoticed. If I miss anyone, please forgive me-there are far too many people out there who made this possible and as I age, my memory continues to slip, so I will use that as my feeble excuse. So with that in mind, I would like to thank David Ravitch, Mike Olsson, Rob Cima, Steve Vonderhaar, Joe Roman, John Boehm, Amy LaRoche, Steve North, Tim Long, David Dunwoody, Ben Rogers, Kim Paffenroth, Lee Hartnup, Michelle Linhart, Philip Rogers, Dr. Pus, and the rest of the folks at the Library of the Living Dead who have offered encouragement, support, and enthusiasm for all things zombie. I also want to thank my mom and dad for giving me the desire to not only read and create, but to have a passion for learning that continues to this day. I have left the most important people for last and the most deserving of my gratitude: my wife, Sheli, and my children, Ali and Zack, who have supported me and believed in me from the instant I proclaimed that I wanted to write a novel. Heck, that isn’t even fair. I want to thank them for giving me the encouragement to do this long before I ever started writing, and believing that I always had it in me to create something. For that, they have my undying love and gratitude.
The sun’s rim dips;
the stars rush out:
At one stride comes the dark.
From “The Rime of the Ancient Mariner” by Samuel Taylor Coleridge
Chapter 1
Jeff bit his lip as he tried to maintain a grip on the aluminum baseball bat in his sweaty hands. He splashed through a slick puddle of blood as ran.
The backpack jounced up and down, and he slipped one hand around the strap to make sure it stayed in place. The tin cans and boxes of crackers thumped in time to his footsteps. Increasing his speed, he tried to suck in another lungful of air.
The cries of rage had grown distant, but slowing down wasn’t an option. Not until he was safely back inside. As he crested the hill, a smile tugged at Jeff’s lips; there were only a few more houses to pass before he was home free.
Pulling tighter on the frayed strap hanging over his shoulder, he moved onto the grass to avoid hearing his own footsteps. He glanced back and forth but spied no movement as his house came into view. It was hard to believe it had only been an hour since he had crept out to go on a hunt for food. He spotted the dark brown side door, which stood in stark contrast to the light beige siding that surrounded it.
When he skidded to a halt in front of the door, Jeff’s eyes narrowed. There was a smudge near the knob. A rusty red finger-shaped outline caused his heart to skip a beat.
Feeling a rush of white-hot terror flood his system, Jeff looked around, eyes shifting to the bushes at the back of his neighbors’ house. He could feel his pulse accelerate as he tried to keep his breathing normal. Turning quickly, he looked across the street at the other houses, scanning for movement among the shadows. He tried to blot out the moaning in the distance, tried to reassure himself no one was watching or waiting to pounce. He tried to tell himself that everything was going to be okay.
He recalled staring at the door after shutting it earlier and wondering if leaving, even for a little while, was such a good idea. There had been no scratches, and certainly no blood, on the door when he left. That was not something the detail-oriented man would have missed.
Jeff dug into his pocket and curled his fingers around the house key. Regardless of whoever—or whatever—had left the mark on the door, all that mattered now was getting back inside before he was discovered out here.
As the key touched the knob and the door moved slightly, Jeff’s hand began to quiver. The door was already unlocked. Worse, it wasn’t even fully shut. He began to shake his head and whisper “no” over and over. It couldn’t be. Jeff knew he had locked the door when he left. He had hugged Ellen, told Frankie and Mary to behave for Mommy, and then …
A cold, stark fear for his family’s safety overrode the slow itch of the self-preservation instinct in Jeff’s gut, and he slammed his fist into the door and burst into the garage. Staring into the darkened space, he nearly stumbled, but somehow his watery legs managed to hold him up.
Mark, his next-door neighbor, was bent over Ellen, teeth buried in her neck. A wide pool of bright red fluid gushed from where he gnawed at her torn flesh.
Jeff froze in the doorway as he desperately tried to comprehend what he was seeing. The guy with whom he had shared a few beers over discussions about politics, baseball, and the Hortons’ Rottweiler crapping in their yards was tearing into his wife’s throat. Jeff couldn’t quite see Ellen’s face, because Mark’s blood-drenched hand was clamped over her eyes and nose, but it was definitely her. There was a faint scent of jasmine in the air mixed in with the rich, coppery scent of blood. It was that perfume she always wore. The tenth anniversary diamond ring he had given her a year before sparkled in a splash of sunlight as her arm flopped to the side. Jeff’s eyes gravitated to the ring, but it was hard to catch more than a brief glimpse of it as his wife’s fingers twitched violently in response to the tearing motion of Mark’s teeth.
The door, already forgotten, banged against the wall. Jeff did not hear the sound over the pounding of his heart, but Mark did. The grayish figure lifted his head and hissed at Jeff, his teeth caked with bits of Ellen’s flesh. Ragged runners of morbid gruel bubbled from his mouth as the lunatic huddled protectively over his prize.
All Jeff could think was that this was madness. In a few seconds, Mark would wink at him and Ellen would sit up and say “Gotcha!” Then they would all laugh at how gullible Jeff had been to even believe for a second that any of this was real.
But as waves of horror washed over him, Jeff could no longer deny the reality of what he was seeing. Mark’s milky white eyes peered up at him; dark pinpricks that had been his pupils were the only color that remained. Forcing himself to look away from the crumpled form of his wife, Jeff stared at his neighbor once again. Mark’s shirt was torn open and hung slack on his oddly colored flesh. Various sores and open wounds marred his neck, arms, and chest. Greenish-black ooze stained the infected man’s clothing, and as he began to lever his body up, the stench slammed into Jeff like a sledgehammer.
Jeff wanted to run. He wanted to run screaming from this place and never look back. But as he shifted his gaze back to the only woman he had ever loved, a hundred different memories flooded into his mind, blotting out the image of the gore-stained lump of flesh that remained behind: kissing her for the first time at midnight on New Year’s Eve … burning the dinner he had cooked for her on the night he proposed … watching her and Mary powder the kitchen in flour when they tried to bake cookies together. An echoing scream rattled inside Jeff’s head, but he couldn’t get it past his lips. The woman who had inspired all those memories had been obliterated in the blink of an eye.
Jeff tried to take a step back, but discovered that his shoulder was pressed against the doorjamb, blocking his escape. His legs had moved of their own volition, dragging the stunned survivor backwards until there was nowhere left to go. As Mark finally rose and moved slowly toward him, Jeff realized he couldn’t breathe anymore.
Mark’s eyes fixed on Jeff, and he felt his legs and arms stiffen in terror. The lunatic’s pupils were almost hypnotic as they burrowed into him. There was great pain and rage in those eyes, but more than anything, there was hunger … a profound hunger that could devour the world if given the chance.
As the ghoul dragged its ruined body over Ellen’s corpse, it tripped and staggered. Jeff blinked as he watched the bogeyman right himself awkwardly. In that moment, it was as if the world suddenly snapped back into place. Mark had turned into some kind of monster to be feared, that much was true, but he was also the bastard who had murdered his wife. Watching carefully as Mark pulled his back foot over Ellen’s prone form, Jeff gripped the baseball bat tightly and assumed a wobbly batter’s stance.
The swing was not his best, but it still connected with Mark’s arm, sending him sideways. There was a muffled thump as the bat connected with the infected man’s spoiled flesh. Jeff’s eyes widened when Mark did not react to the painful blow, his milky white eyes never losing sight of their target. Adjusting, Mark got his feet back underneath him and kept coming.
The second swing was stronger, aimed at Mark’s face. It connected with the ghoul’s neck instead, and there was an audible crack as bones broke. Mark’s head wrapped around the bat as his skin stretched and tore. His knees buckled, but he did not fall over immediately. Instead, he shot out an arm in an effort to grab hold of Jeff’s shirt.