When the Dead Rise (Book 1): The Beginning (3 page)

"Go away Cliff," Helena cried from inside the house. He tried to warn her, to tell her to flee, but once again, the only sound that came out was the eerie moan.

Cliff shuffled to the man pounding on the door and tried to push him away, distract him from Helena. It was Cliff's fault that she was now on her own, pregnant and scared. Moans rose in chorus behind Cliff and he turned, horrified to realize that the moans from him and the new zombie attracted more of the dead to his wife's position.

The whirr of the garage door opener sounded, drawing both Cliff's and the man's attention back to the driveway. The man shuffled quickly to the rising door and raised his arms, clawing at the barrier between him and living flesh. Cliff understood the need and felt it himself but he wouldn't - no - couldn't hurt his beautiful Helena.

Before the door was fully raised, Helena's burgundy SUV shot out of the garage, cracking the bottom of the door and ploughing into the man who'd been her companion through this nightmare only a short time ago. There was a sickening crunch as the SUV's back tire bounced over the man's skull, effectively ending his suffering. Helena swung the vehicle onto the street, fish-tailing for a moment before speeding away from the house they'd shared together. He'd never see his wife again, Cliff knew. He could only pray that she'd find safety.

Last Meal...

Cliff's consciousness once again returned to his body, just as the sun was beginning to rise over cookie cutter homes. He found himself in a group of zombies, making their way down an abandoned street Cliff didn't recognize. Several zombies on the outskirts of the group wandered in front of the houses lining the streets, pausing momentarily to sense for any movement within. As the horde made their way down the street, Cliff grew more concerned about the lapses in time and wondered what would happen to him once his consciousness was completely suppressed by the instincts growing stronger within him.

He studied the others around him, wondering if they too were trapped within their dead bodies as he was, but all he saw were pale, empty eyes. Cliff grunted in an effort to get a response from one of his horde, but knew after studying those around him that he was alone. He didn't understand what set him apart from the others - perhaps it was because he'd been patient zero. He pondered this for a time and decided he was correct in his assumption; the zombies around him had all been bitten and turned after succumbing to the wounds - he'd suffered through two weeks while the virus ravaged his body, turning him slowly. Being trapped in his rotting body was his punishment for creating such an aberration that would turn humanity into mindless, ravenous monsters. He couldn't blame whatever higher power cursed him to this fate.

A vibration hummed through the horde when they came to a T-intersection, startling Cliff from his musings. To Cliff, it seemed as if they were communicating with each other, determining which way they'd go. The vibration stopped and the group split down the center; the left side moving down the street to the left and the right going in the opposite direction. They'd split up to better search for living flesh, Cliff realized and wondered at the hive mentality of the horde he travelled with.

After several minutes, the lead zombie in Cliff's group let out a low moan, which rippled through the horde alerting all in the area of living flesh close by. The throng around Cliff became frenzied, pushing forward, not caring that some of their group fell and were trampled beneath dead feet. A scream tore through the air and panicked cries echoed throughout the neighbourhood. Cliff struggled through the drove, pushing his way out to the fringes, searching for a glimpse of their prey. He saw a group of the living, shouting as they scrambled for cars and SUV's while others stood on top of the vehicles shooting into the horde.

Cliff watched as one of his fellow zombies took a bullet in the chest, stagger one step back from the force of the gunshot, before regaining his balance and pressing forward once again. A second shot rang out and the zombie who'd taken the chest shot crumpled to the ground. Cliff couldn't help but stare at the gaping hole where his eye should have been. He shuddered. Would his life end in a similar fashion? He prayed that if it did, he wouldn't see the bullet coming.

By the time Cliff reached the small grouping of vehicles, those who'd lived only minutes before had already joined the undead. Hunger gnawed in his gut and the craving for the warmth of living flesh overwhelmed Cliff as he stumbled forward. He thought back to the man in the lab - the first person he'd killed. He remembered the numbness he'd felt when first waking, the feeling of the flesh as he chewed it between his teeth, and the satisfying warmth as it filled his belly.

A small whisper of sound reached Cliff's ears and he spun, trying to find the source of it. The horde continued to move forward, bumping and jostling Cliff as he searched, unwilling to alert the others of the living flesh nearby. He caught sight of movement between the homes, the milkyness of his vision blotting out all color. Excitement filled him and he couldn't control his shuffling feet as he moved silently between the buildings.

Cliff stood scanning the yards, patiently waiting for whatever he'd seen to move again but saw nothing. He was about to return to the zombie parade when the shifting of gravel caught his attention. The building beside him had a large wooden structure protruding from its rear - Cliff couldn't remember what he would have called it when he'd still been alive; he thought hard for a moment but the word escaped him. The noise came again; just a small shift in the stones from beneath the wooden thing. Cliff made his way around, clumsily avoiding the corner, until he spotted a portion of the crisscrossing cover moved aside.

He dropped to his knees, trying to see into the darkness with little luck. He slithered into the dark space knowing he'd eventually find what he was seeking. Then he heard it, the muffled panting of one of the living. He struggled over the hard little things beneath him, no longer concerned with the loss of the word he'd understood moments before - he wanted flesh, he needed flesh; warm flesh that would give him life.

He scrabbled forward, searching for his prey in the darkness until his hand closed around a foot and the person shrieked, kicking him squarely in his face. He heard a crunch of ... but he couldn't remember what the solid structure beneath the skin on his face was called - he didn't care because he finally had his hand around the warmth he'd become desperate for. The foot he held tried to shake free, but he wasn't going to let go so easily. This is what he'd been searching for; this is what he'd needed. There was a crack of the barrier behind the living, followed by a flood of light and the living scrambled out of the new hole, dragging him behind, still attached to the thing that kicked him.

This was his! Excitement grew into frenzy as he clawed at the living, pulling it closer.

It almost shook him free as it struggled to stand upright, but he wasn't going to let it go so quickly. He grabbed the other thing as it tried to kick out, once again towards his head - where he lived. It stumbled and fell. Already, that feeling of being alive began to fill him as he dragged the squirming thing towards him. He bit into the warm flesh just above where he gripped it. A leg maybe? But he no longer cared what the name for the flesh was - it was warm and that's what mattered. There was a howl of pain; a concept he no longer cared about -something which had been from another life he no longer remembered. He bit in again savouring the snap as the flesh was consumed.

He continued to eat, filling himself with warmth, savouring every bite. The last remnants of the man who'd once had a wife, a home, a job, a life; slipped away leaving only the primal behind. When the zombie rose from his meal his only thoughts were on where he'd find the next living flesh and the hunger which would never be satisfied.

Volume 2: And it All Began with a Bite

A day like any other...

Maggie, her arms full of groceries, tossed the keys on the small table in the entryway and kicked the door closed behind her. She hurried into the kitchen to put the perishables into the fridge and begin preparation of dinner for herself and her boyfriend Tyrone.

Maggie was a nurse at the Methodist Children's Hospital in San Antonio, Texas while Tyrone, also trained as a nurse, worked for Synergy Pharmaceuticals. It irritated her to no end that he wasn't allowed to discuss the details of his position with her, but his weekly paycheck more than made up for the lack of communication in that area. In addition, he never brought home baggage from work, unlike herself. Maggie worked in the terminal care wing of the hospital and what she witnessed on a daily basis left her emotionally drained by the end of her shifts. Today had been an especially hard day for Maggie; she'd lost a seven-year-old boy to leukemia and was looking forward to spending a mind numbing night in front of the television.

As she began to prepare a simple dinner of steamed vegetables and barbecued chicken, Maggie turned on the radio to keep her mind distracted from wandering to thoughts of the boy. Just as she brought the chicken into the house, she heard Tyrone's car pull into the driveway.

After washing off her hands, she stuck her head out the side window and called to Tyrone. "Make sure to leave me enough room to leave in the morning - I need to be in for six-thirty." Without waiting for a reply, Maggie pulled her head back inside and closed the window before returning to dinner preparations. When the front door slammed, she turned to greet Tyrone with a smile, but it quickly faded when she took in his paler than usual complexion and the gauze bandage wrapped around his forearm. "What happened?" She hurried over to him as he sunk into the nearest chair.

"It's nothing," Tyrone growled in a tone that warned Maggie not to push him too far.

Her immediate instinct was to check his temperature; his skin was burning beneath her touch. When she reached down to check the wound's wrapping, he pulled it from her reach.

"Don't touch it Maggie," he growled again.

With such a high fever, she wasn’t going to put up with his attitude for a minute longer. Putting her hands on her hips, Maggie glared down at the big man. "Tyrone Martell Evans," she smirked when he flinched at her use of his full name, "you will allow me to look at that wound and you will not argue with me about it. I've had a hard enough day without you fighting me over simple first-aid."

Tyrone looked up at Maggie with his large brown, blood-shot eyes. "Peter?" Maggie nodded, struggling to hold back the tears that suddenly sprung up. "I'm sorry darling," he said gently, as he squeezed her hand in a sympathetic gesture and nodded towards the sink. "Do what you need to do."

Maggie hurried over to the sink, glad for a moment to collect herself, and dug out the extensive first-aid kit she kept for occasions such as these. While a bowl filled with water, she grabbed several clean dishtowels from the drawer. Placing the bowl of warm, clean water on the table, Maggie sat in a chair opposite him and began to unwrap his arm. She gasped when the wound was finally visible. "Is this a human bite mark?"

"Yeah, I was restraining a guy at work today..." Maggie looked up, shocked at Tyrone's sudden willingness to share about his day. She began to ask why he needed to restrain a man at a pharmaceutical company, but Tyrone held up a hand. "I am unable to discuss the man or why he needed to be restrained." Maggie dabbed a little harder than necessary as she cleaned the odd wound. "Ow, you did that on purpose," Tyrone grunted, but after a moment he went on with his story. "I was restraining him and he began flipping out. My arm got too close to his chompers and he decided to take his frustration over his situation out on my arm."

Maggie pressed her lips together, trying to suppress her smile. "He bit you hard enough to break skin?" Now that the wound was cleaned Maggie could see faint lines spreading out in a radial pattern from the teeth marks. "How long ago did this happen?"

"Just before shift end. I sterilized it and had Mark wrap it before leaving for the day."

"Well it doesn't need stitches but you are going to have to go on a strict anti-bacterial regiment," Maggie spoke in a mock-serious voice before sobering. Her eyes returned to the veiny lines; their appearance unsettled her. "Human mouths are filled with nasty shit and we can't take any chances you will come down with an infection." She distracted herself by liberally applying topical cream to the rough edges of the bite, before rewrapping Tyrone's arm with clean gauze. "I think you should survive big man." Maggie bent, kissed him on the forehead, and then began to pack up her kit. Scooping up the bloody towels, she threw them into the laundry room and poured the dirty water down the drain. "Ready for dinner?" she asked, as she washed out the bowl.

Tyrone stood and fetched the plates and silverware, setting the table without being prodded; Maggie's unease grew. It wasn't normal for her boyfriend to be so accommodating. As they ate, Maggie told Tyrone about Peter's final hours, the relief she felt that the boy was no longer in pain and the guilt that she felt relieved.

Finally, Tyrone pushed back from the table and stood. "I'm going to bed. I'm exhausted and not feeling well. It seems to be getting worse and I can't afford to take any sick days right now."

Maggie glanced down to his plate - he'd barely touched his food. It looked like he'd taken a few bites, but hadn't done much more than push his food around on his plate. "But you barely ate," she said, following him into the bedroom where he flopped down on the bed. "Maybe we should take you to the hospital. Get you checked out to make sure you didn't catch anything from the guy who bit you."

"No hospital Maggie," Tyrone warned in his 'I'm serious' tone.

"But Tyrone..." she whined, hating herself a little for the petulant tone, "what if it's serious?"

Tyrone's eyes snapped open and he grabbed her arm tightly. "No doctors. Promise me you won't take me to the hospital."

His fingers bit into her wrist painfully, scaring her. "I promise," she said quickly, pulling from his grasp.
There will be bruises on my wrist in the morning.
She stood and watched him a moment longer, before hurrying from the room to clean up dinner.

More than just the flu...

Nine o'clock that night, Maggie stuck her head into the bedroom to check on Tyrone. She'd made some noodle soup and poured him a glass of orange juice, just in case he was hungry when she checked in on him. She set the soup on the nightstand and turned on the bedside light. She gasped when she saw his scrubs had been soaked through with perspiration, as were the sheets beneath him.

"Tyrone?" Maggie nudged him gently. She needed him to wake up so she could check his symptoms, which were obviously getting worse. "Tyrone, I need you to wake up babe." He groaned and rolled over, turning his back to her. "If you don't let me check your vitals, I'm going to call an ambulance."

That woke him up. He rolled back to his former position, squinting up at Maggie. "No hospitals," he croaked. "Can we turn off the light?"

Maggie pulled out a thermometer from her pocket, turning it on before putting it beneath Tyrone's tongue. "Not until I check your temperature." She waited in silence while the thermometer measured his temperature. It beeped, indicating the reading was done, and the knot of unease grew when she saw the readout: 103.5 degrees Fahrenheit. She knew if his temperature rose another two and a half degrees, his brain cells would start dying. She had to get his temperature down.

"I'm going to get some ibuprofen and cold compresses." Maggie stood with a sudden urgency. If Tyrone wasn't going to allow her to call the hospital, then she'd have to get his fever down on her own.

"Can I get a blanket?" Tyrone shivered, despite the beads of sweat on his clammy skin.

Maggie draped a thin sheet over him, not wanting to increase his temperature with a heavier blanket. "I'll be right back; then we can go over your symptoms. This is serious Tyrone and proper medical attention may be necessary." She hurried out of the room, ignoring his protests.

She returned several minutes later with a glass of water, two ibuprofen, and five makeshift compresses. She only had two icepacks in the freezer and had to put ice cubes in zip lock baggies for the other three. Tyrone complained about the cold as she placed the ice beneath his knees, in his armpits and beneath his neck. She lifted his head, allowing him to drink and swallow the pills easier before gently placing his head back on the soaked pillow.

"Now, tell me where it hurts," she said in her professional nurse's tone.

"Everywhere," Tyrone groaned.

"I need you to be more specific than that," Maggie chided.

"My neck is sore and stiff; my whole body aches; I'm cold then hot and where my clothes stick to my skin it hurts." He struggled to speak as Maggie's dread grew. She wasn't prepared to care for Tyrone at home, not with his symptoms. She also knew that he'd do more harm to himself if she tried to force him to go to the hospital.

"If you get worse or your fever doesn't come down, I'll have to take you to the hospital Tyrone." Maggie hoped, no prayed, he'd see reason and allow her to get proper care for him.

His eyes shot open, startling Maggie with the intense anger burning in his bloodshot eyes. "I told you no hospital."

"You might die if I can't get the fever down Tyrone... please!" Maggie pleaded, but could see she wasn't going to get the answer she wanted. He was being a stubborn man.

"Promise me Maggie," Tyrone's anger faded and she could now see what it had been hiding - his fear. "You can't take me to the hospital. They'll run tests and see that what I have isn't normal. They'll start asking questions that I can't answer - my contract clearly states I cannot discuss my work with outsiders. Especially this." He weakly squeezed Maggie's hand. "My system will fight it off babe; it'll just take some time." Resigned, Maggie promised not to call an ambulance - for now...

A long night followed by a long day...

Maggie stayed up through the night to keep watch over her boyfriend. At midnight, things took a turn for the worse. While Tyrone's fever maintained at 103.5 degrees, his other symptoms progressed. When he started violently coughing and vomited what little dinner he'd eaten earlier, she was sure he'd contracted some viral form of meningitis. He began to have difficulty breathing just after midnight, and once again, Maggie tried to convince him to let her take him to the hospital. Again, he refused; what if he was contagious? That thought scared Maggie. She didn't want to catch whatever was inflicting Tyrone. At the same time, she also knew that they couldn't risk spreading whatever he had through a hospital, should it be communicable.

Around two in the morning, she removed the bandage on his arm to clean the wound again. The fetid odour that emanated from the bite marks made her stomach revolt. After spending a few minutes in the bathroom disgorging her own dinner, Maggie hurried back to Tyrone's side, determined to clean the obviously infected area. The radial lines she'd noticed earlier were now dark brown, extending further up his arm than she remembered. Another bad sign was the pus building just beneath the wounds scab. She feared it was already septic and causing septicemia, which would spread, requiring immediate medical attention in the near future. Immediately she set about cleansing the wound with warm salt water and gently pressed on top of the pus-filled area to squeeze out the accumulated fluid. She followed up with a liberal dose of antiseptic cream and a loose wrapping to keep any further pathogens from getting into the infected area. Once she'd ensured Tyrone drank what she deemed to be an acceptable amount of fluids, and she was sure he'd fallen back into a fitful sleep, Maggie finally allowed herself to break down and cry.

For the remainder of the night, Maggie sat in a chair dozing beside Tyrone. Every time he coughed, she woke and held out the pail for him in case he needed to throw up again. She checked his temperature, which never fell below 103.5 degrees, every half hour, and woke him to coax more fluid into him. Keeping him hydrated and his temperature from spiking further was all she could do; he was either going to take a turn for the better or she'd have to take him to the hospital in the morning - regardless of his protests.

When Maggie's alarm went off at five, she went to the kitchen and called into work, apologizing for not being able to make it in for her shift. When she explained that her boyfriend came down with something nasty, and that she didn't want to pass it to the children, they were happy she'd chosen to stay home. The last thing you wanted was to bring a bug into the ward while working with children with less than stellar immune systems. If she went in for her shift, she'd be putting all the children at risk.

Maggie made a similar call to Tyrone's immediate superior at Synergy, but changed the symptoms and downplayed the severity. If this was something he'd caught at work, the last thing he needed was to be put in quarantine by his employer. She recalled a phone conversation she'd overheard. One where Tyrone told his co-worker that he would rather die than go through Synergy's quarantine protocol. She shuddered at the thought of someone barging into her house in white biohazard suits and taking them to some secret facility for study.

"Maggie?" Tyrone's raspy voice had her running back to the bedroom. Did he sound stronger than he had last night? Maggie wasn't sure until she stepped into the bedroom and saw his wide fevered eyes.