Zombie High Chronicles (Book 1) (2 page)
Three months after my life got flushed down the crapper.
My name is Roan Sterling.
I am seventeen years old.
I am not infected.
These are the thoughts that run through my head as I shuffle forward one place in line with my backpack slung over my shoulder and a scowl etched deeply into my face. As a general rule, I don’t do early morning wake up calls with a freakin’ bugle, trigger-happy soldiers with a serious chip on their shoulder and I sure as hell don’t do daily blood tests.
Of course, no one around this shithole cares what I think.
Needles have become a regular part of my life since I was trucked through the gates of the Charleston Safe Zone nearly three weeks ago. So have weekly physicals, the occasional body cavity search from hell and disinfecting showers that are practically subarctic. There isn’t much to love about this place...apart from the fact that there are a few hot girls. They aren’t so bad.
“Hey, Roan! You look like Sammy took a crap in your shoes this morning,” a voice calls from two lines to my left and I lift my hand in greeting to Flynn Matthews. He’s pretty much the only other inmate in the Zone that remembered to bring a sense of humor with him. “You ok, man?”
“Just peachy.”
I’m not peachy. Hell, I’m not even remotely ok. I hate this place in a monumental way and it's getting harder to hide it.
I hate the rigidity of the safety guidelines and bylaws which govern this Zone. They make me twitch. Of course, that's probably because I’m a certified rule breaker on a good day.
What else do I hate? How about being confined to a five square mile radius behind tall chain link fences and manned guard posts stocked with AK-47s, grenades, tear gas, and tasers? There's nothing quite like feeling poked, prodded and micromanaged at all hours of the day.
The powers that be like to claim that we are safer within these fences, that we are living in one of the last free parts of the country, but it sure feels a lot like jail. Maybe the rumors are true and we really have lost the rest of the world to the outbreak. How would we know any different? We’re stuck rotting away in here.
I shuffle forward in line, counting the heads in front of me. There are twenty-seven lab rats waiting for their turn on the proverbial wheel and a butt load behind me. My check in time is 0700. After that, it's anyone's guess as to how long it takes to get through the line. With more refugees being bussed in each day, the line just keeps getting longer.
“Did you see the extraction last night?” Flynn calls again as he ruffles his hair back out of his eyes.
I can tell by his messy look that he tossed and turned all night and then somehow managed to escape his group home without looking in a single mirror. I don't really blame him for being preoccupied. The sounds of gunfire two streets over from where Flynn and I live as neighbors were enough to wake the dead. When you add on top the crow’s nest lights that lit up the place, it was impossible not to know what was happening.
The soldiers call it a sanitizing. Those proven to be infected who come without a fight are taken to quarantine at the hospital peacefully. Those who don't...well, there’s a reason why the soldiers carry guns. Sometimes the threat comes from within first.
I glance over my shoulder at Flynn and then back toward the soldier pacing less than twenty steps away. Of course, I saw the sanitizing first hand, but I can’t admit to that. To do so would be to publicly admit that I broke curfew, which I do on a nightly basis, and land me in solitary for at least two days so I can think about my crimes. The time spent alone hasn't helped yet.
“Heard about it on the way in,” I say instead.
Flynn nods and shuffles forward in line. “Yeah. Poor Mrs. Gentry. She lost half her family home and her husband on top. Heard she had to be medicated.”
That isn't exactly true but I say nothing. Admitting that I saw her attack a guard and subsequently get her bell rung by the brunt end of a rifle isn't something I'd admit to either.
I don’t feel bad for Mrs. Gentry, though. She was harboring one of them, the Dead Heads as I’ve come to call them. There are other names that have surfaced since I arrived: Stiffs, Lurchers, Lame Brains, Rotters, etc. After a while, you just roll with it. We’ve all come from different parts of a three state radius so it makes sense that we would each identify with the Dead Heads in our own way.
But no matter what label we give them, in the end, they are still nothing more than zombies. Not the sort that you see chowing down on an arm on TV, read about in a comic book or splatter their brains across a digital wall in a video game, mind you. These things are different. The Dead Heads are non-violent, blank, walking vessels without emotion or feeling.
For the first time since this mess began, I wonder if we might have finally caught a break. At least I won’t have to always be looking over my shoulder in fear that something will come out of the dark to start gnawing on my feet while I’m asleep. I just have to deal with a few hundred prison guards toting high-powered sniper rifles and an insatiable need to escape.
Where will I go? Anywhere but here.
Personally, I think the government was in on it from the very beginning so why should we trust them now? What with their global warming propaganda and animal activists spouting off about how population needed to be controlled, it wouldn’t surprise me one bit if some whack job took them seriously and found an answer to the homo sapien issue.
Not everyone was infected by the invisible virus that attacked the country in three waves. The first began like a flu epidemic that overran the hospitals and care centers within days. The Red Cross buckled under the sheer volume of need and the National Guard became glorified crossing guards as people flooded the roads in panic.
The second wave was brought on by unforeseen genetic mutations caused by the MONE vaccine. That's when the flu became truly deadly. The third wave...well, those are the walking Dead Heads I can see from my bedroom window as they head South, sometimes alone but often in large groups.
The fact that my mom and I, along with the other Zone prisoners, have survived tells me that maybe that Darwin guy might not have been completely off his rocker after all. Obviously, mother nature knew I’d been a hard one to kill.
“What do you think will happen to them?” Flynn asks after several moments lost in thought as we shuffle forward, keeping pace with our respective lines.
“Same as all the rest, I guess.”
I know that I sound far from sympathetic but after a while loss just becomes as normal as the flood of needy. Everyone is scared. Everyone is looking for someone. Everyone is expendable.
I like Flynn despite my general aversion for people. I’ve been a loner for as long as I can remember, mostly because people just flat annoy me. Sometimes it’s their voice or the way they carry themselves but other times it's just a broad disgust for stupidity.
Although I try my best to keep my distance from people, I know enough about Flynn to know that he’s worried about Meran, the girl he’s been sweet on ever since she arrived on a bus up from Savannah. She lives in Mrs. Gentry’s group home and has yet to show up for testing.
“She’ll be here. Don't sweat it, man.”
Flynn nods and then cranes his neck to check the room again as I shuffle forward three steps. I recognize a couple of the people around me. Old Man Bigsby, who lives on the corner of my street, taps his cane impatiently against the concrete floor as he waits his turn. He always has that special aroma of Heineken mixed with urine that affords him extra personal space. I've been tempted to root out his stash. I too have a serious itch to find a bar and sneak a drink or two. These days everyone deserves to drown a few brain cells for the chance to forget.
“Is your name Roan?” a meek voice asks from behind me and I turn to see a small boy, barely tall enough to reach my chest height standing in pajamas and holding a ratty teddy bear in a death grip. Though his pudgy little face is clean and his hair newly cut, there is a haunted look in his eyes that tells me he’s one of the newbies.
Glancing at the unmoving line ahead of me, I turn and dip down beside him. “I am. What’s your name?”
“I’m Peter but my mama always calls me Short Stack.”
I can’t help but smile at the solemn look on his face. “I see. And is that because you’re short?”
“No.” A hint of a small crosses his face as he looks at me. “It’s because I love pancakes so much.”
“Good call.” I lower myself to the floor and pat a section of concrete beside me. “How long have you been here, Short Stack?”
His little shoulders rise and fall. “I dunno.”
“Is this your first time in line?” Waves of golden hair fall around his eyes as he nods. “Well then let me give you some advice. Don’t cry.”
The boy scrunches up his face like he's just been force fed a prune and I have to fight against my laughter. It feels good to laugh. There hasn’t been much of a reason to do that for a while.
“They are going to do a bit of blood work on you to make sure you are healthy, Short Stack. You don’t mind needles, now do you?
When he lowers his gaze and chokes the life from his teddy bear, I reach out and place a hand on his arm and discover that he is shaking.
“Hey,” I duck my head to look at him. “It will be ok. I’ll be right ahead of you and I promise that it will be over fast.”
To his credit, Short Stack tries to put on a brave face as we are forced to stand and move forward. From time to time I feel him press in close to me when a soldier walks by, gun in hand and sour expression firmly seated on his face. As I glance out over the enormous room, I can only imagine how utterly small a boy like Peter must feel.
I don’t ask him about his parents. If they aren’t with him it’s for obvious reasons. He isn’t the only one who lost his parents. Mine were taken from me a while back.
Long before the flames of Mr. Pellagrino’s house began to smolder, gas mask toting soldiers busted down our door and frog-marched us outside. Susie was the first to turn in our neighborhood and because of that everyone within a 2 miles radius was sent into immediate quarantine. For two weeks after that, I had nothing to stare at but four white plastic walls and shadowy figures walking around in hazmat suits.
No one spoke to me. No one came to check on me. It was almost as if I were invisible.
For a while, I thought I would go crazy but that wasn’t the first time I’d been in solitary confinement. I knew they couldn’t break me, but I did worry about my mom. I hadn’t seen her since the fire.
After we were released we were told that my Dad would not be joining us. He had been reassigned to the CDC and would meet us at the Atlanta Safe Zone once a cure was firmly underway and then we’d be allowed to return home.
That was a lie.
The MONE vaccine that those jacked up brainiacs thought up in the CDC did squat to slow the spread of the infection. In fact, I think it may have made things worse. I don’t know if the vaccine was my Dad’s handiwork but it wouldn’t have surprised me.
We never saw him again after that.
Within an hour of being sanitized for transportation to the Atlanta Safe Zone, I found myself squished next to some Mexican kid who reeked of B.O. and wouldn’t shut up about soccer during the ride to Atlanta in the back of a rumbling camouflage truck. I almost felt sorry for the kid. With the way he rattled on, I got the feeling that he didn’t have a clue that most of those players were probably already dead like Susie.
When we had arrived on the outskirts of Atlanta, our convoy of ten trucks was met by armed soldiers who refused us access on the basis that the Zone was overrun with refugees. Apparently things had spiraled out of control while we were stuck in quarantine and there was no vacancy at the Georgia Inn so we were rerouted to Charleston. I’d never been so happy to see palm trees or smell sea salt on the air when I finally dismounted from that truck and wiped the gas fumes off my clothes. Mom said the three-day quarantine process we endured after we arrived was to be expected due to our time spent unprotected on the road.
It didn’t take long for me to realize that living in the Zone sucked. The weather wasn’t too bad but the fences that surrounded us made me feel like a true inmate. I’d spent my fair share of time behind chain link metal just like these to know that bad things happen inside, but life wasn’t like it used to be and I doubted that it ever would be again.
As I waded through the new routine and got a lay of the land, I pieced together rumors from other survivors who were bused in from a four state radius. The world was worse than I could have imagined. All cell phone towers and basic modes of communications were cut off entirely. The power restrictions that we’d experienced in Atlanta became sweeping outages with no hope of ever being repaired.
Businesses boarded up and people gathered together their possessions to try to outrun the outbreak, but there was nowhere you could run.
“Next.”
I blink and look up to see a grim-faced soldier waiting impatiently for me to approach. Realizing that I had been trapped in the past far longer than I should have allowed, I glance over my shoulder one last time at Short Stack and smile. “Just remember to be brave, no matter what.”
