The Creeping Dead: A Zombie Novel (42 page)

The gang didn’t need to be told twice. They sent Dharma up first to open the hatch up top. Both children followed closely behind.

“Hurry!” shouted Vinnie. “They’re coming in!”

Mike and Nancy insisted that Vinnie go up next.

Dharma pulled the children up onto the flat roof. It was sagging and dilapidated from storm damage and having a third of it torn away.

“Go ahead,” said Holbrook, gesturing to Nancy.

“You first,” she said.

“There’s no time to argue,” said Holbrook. Ladies first. I insist.”

Nancy grabbed the rungs and began her ascent. She’d done this a few times before to shovel the snow off. It had to be done with a flat roof, or it would cave in from the weight.

“Come on, Mike. You next.”

A few of the zombies had made it under the gate and were inside the arcade. Mike shook his head. “You’re a family man, Chief. You first.”

The zombies who made it in were getting to their feet, while the next wave squirmed under the gate. Mike looked around at all of the ruin. Everything that made him happy, his whole purpose in life, was destroyed.

Holbrook recognized the look in Mike’s eyes. He knew a suicidal person when he saw one. “I have to insist. Hurry up, or we’ll both die.”

Nancy stuck her head through the hatch. “Jesus Christ, Michael! Stop lollygagging and get your handsome ass up here!”

That remark hit Mike like a hard slap to the face. He snapped out of his funk and grabbed a rung of the ladder. “You’ll be right behind me?” he said to Holbrook, more than asked.

“Not unless you move your ass,” said Holbrook.

Mike climbed the ladder, and as promised, Holbrook was right behind him. Holbrook climbed just high enough as a zombie swiped at his foot, missing it by mere inches.

“Let’s hope they don’t know how to climb ladders,” quipped Mike as he reached the hatch.

When Holbrook pulled himself onto the roof, aided by Vinnie and Dharma, he stood and got a good view of Smuggler’s Bay.

Or what was left of it.

Parts of the boardwalk were missing. Ripped up boards littered the remaining parts and the beach. Sand was everywhere, even on the streets beyond the boardwalk. Storefronts were ruined, gates bent inward with debris hanging out.

He looked to the left and saw that half of Blackbeard’s Pier was indeed missing. The top of the iconic Albatross poked out of the ocean, the rest of it submerged like a metallic iceberg.

The group was stunned into silence. They were all taking in the destruction of their home, their livelihood.

Nancy held the children close.

Dharma hugged Vinnie, sobbing.

Holbrook looked down the ladder. None of the dead appeared to know how to climb. However, they were surrounded on all sides on top of a damaged structure that was on the verge of collapse.

They were screwed.

Holbrook took his cell phone out of his pocket. It was on its last bar. He wanted to call Lena and Robbie to tell them that he loved them very much. He wanted to say goodbye.

Suddenly, the air echoed with the popping of gunfire. Holbrook’s cell phone rang, and he answered. “Chief Holbrook…yes, we’re on the roof of the Blackbeard’s Pier Arcade…we lost a man…I don’t know how much longer this building is going to hold up…Okay.” He hung up.

Mike, Nancy, Dharma, Vinnie, and the children looked at him expectantly.

“The National Guard is coming to get us.”

“We’re saved!” yelled Nancy. “It’s about damned time!”

Within minutes they saw the National Guard advance up the boardwalk, taking out zombies with well-placed headshots. When they reached the arcade, a man who identified himself as Sergeant Miller called out to them on a bullhorn, telling them to stay put. As if they had a choice.

They surrounded the arcade and fired into it, dispatching the hoard of zombies within. When the arcade no longer moved with the dead, they entered and helped everyone down from the roof.

On the ground, Sergeant Miller immediately approached Holbrook and introduced himself. They discussed the state of the Bay, the CDC, and how the infection appeared to be contained on the barrier island, with only a few isolated incidents in neighboring towns.

The Bay, however, was trashed. The flooding had not only destroyed the boardwalk and many of its businesses. There were houses that were shifted off their foundations, inundated with water and sand. Boats were deposited randomly in the middle of roads and between houses.

Nancy looked all around and put her hands on her hips. “Well, Michael. Looks like you’re going to be helping me clean all this up.”

Mike looked dejected. “What are you talking about, Nancy?”

Mike gestured at their surroundings. “Look at this. Look at it. What are we going to do?”

Nancy smiled. “What we have to. Rebuild.”

“You’re nuts.”

Nancy shrugged. “The insurance company’s going to drag its ass in paying out. I’m going to need some capital up front. How would you like to go in on it?”

“As partners?” asked Mike, not sure if he understood what she was saying.

Nancy extended her hand. “Partners.”

Mike took it, and they shook on it.

Miller strode up to Salvatore and Alessandra. “My name is Sergeant Miller. Are you the Russo kids?”

They both nodded tentatively.

“Your mother’s worried sick about you.”

Their eyes lit up. Alessandra hugged her brother. Tears welled up in her eyes.

Salvatore’s grin nearly split his face in two.

“Yeah, she’s with a group of other survivors,” said Miller. “Why don’t you come with me? I’ll take you to her.”

Vinnie and Dharma were off to the side, holding hands and gazing into each other’s eyes.

“Well, I guess this means I get to go to college after all,” said Vinnie, smirking.

“Oh, right,” said Dharma, returning the smile, “leave me here to clean up this mess.”

“I’m glad I met you.”

“You’re talking as if you’re never going to see me again.”

“No, it’s not that,” said Vinnie, looking around. “It’s just that nothing’s going to be the same anymore.”

“It never is,” said Dharma.

Truer words were never spoken. That was a summer for the history books. Smuggler’s Bay had survived a superstorm and its first zombie outbreak.
The
first actual zombie outbreak.

The experience left the town in ruins, but then again, Smuggler’s Bay was more than a bunch of buildings and a boardwalk. It was a strong, tightly-knit community. Smuggler’s Bay was a Jersey Shore institution. It had survived fires and storms in the past, and it would continue on.

* * *

Holbrook just got off the phone with Lena and Robbie, and he was fighting back tears of relief. The National Guard had created a HQ at the Ocean’s Gate.

When he walked into the office with Sergeant Miller, he saw Lenny behind the counter working the phones. Holbrook smiled. “Lenny Krueger, I should’ve known I’d find you here.”

Lenny smiled at him. “Hello, Chief! I’m helping out.”

“I hear you’re quite the hero. You saved some people.”

Sergeant Miller smiled. “We found this man running a survivor’s camp out of the second floor.”

“Good man, Lenny,” said Holbrook.

Lenny’s expression saddened. “I miss my sidekick.”

“Your sidekick?” asked Miller.

“You miss Billy?” asked Holbrook, knowing exactly who Lenny meant.

Lenny nodded solemnly. “He shouldn’t have hurt Officer Campbell.”

“Joann? He never hurt Joann, Lenny.”

Lenny nodded and decided to let it drop. He didn’t want to tell Chief Holbrook how he saw Billy and Joann together in the back of Billy’s store. Billy had his hands around her throat, and she was moaning in pain as he slammed into her over and over.

Lenny hated himself for being too cowardly to do anything about it when it happened, but he made up for it after the fact. After all, Lenny was her superhero. He had to protect her.

Billy Blake wasn’t going to hurt Officer Campbell anymore.

The End

Read on for a free sample of Insurgent Z: A Zombie Novel

1

Betrayal of a Brother

Eight years ago...

“I don’t like it. Something doesn’t feel right.” The whisper came from one of the three figures, each shrouded head to toe in black burqas.

“Doesn’t feel right? They give you a thong to wear, too, Webb, when they handed you the burqa?” Sanderson chuckled at his own joke.

“What’s the concern?” Mason casually asked. “We passed through the market unnoticed, and the key opened the door to the room directly across from our target. The mission is right on schedule. Soon as the marks enter the apartment across the street, we blow ’em to hell, and then get out of here.”

Mason pulled the field glasses from his eyes and looked away from the window. Three stories down, an alley separated the two apartment complexes. There was nothing much to see other than overflowing dumpsters and trash scattered about. If the INTEL report was accurate, and he prayed it was, one of the top masterminds responsible for the IEDs that took numerous American lives would soon be dead and gone. Mason had already lost a few close friends to cowardly roadside attacks. He’d be damned if he lost another comrade.   

“Okay, guys, hand them over.” Mason reached his hand out and snapped his fingers. Webb lifted his burqa and removed one-half of an assembly that had been taped around his leg. It was one piece to a puzzle that would launch a rocket-propelled grenade. Sanderson followed suit and peeled off the other half.

“That thing started to rub me raw ten minutes after we hit the street. I’m glad to be rid of it,” Sanderson said.

“At least you didn’t have a damn grenade inches away from your nuts.” Mason removed the tape from the RPG snuggled against his thigh.

His fingers slightly tingled when they met the steel casing, in awe of the power harbored within. The single-stage thermobaric projectile was designed specifically for antipersonnel and urban warfare. The contents of the warhead would scatter on impact in aerosol form and then ignite. A high-pressure blast wave equal to 2kg of TNT would obliterate any object inside the apartment. At least if the thing had pre-detonated, Mason wouldn’t have lived to regret accepting the mission.

Using a hex key, Sanderson assembled the stock and trigger components. The finished product was a steel tube with a flared end wrapped in wood around the middle. The wood protected the user from heat, and the flared end would aid in blast shielding and recoil reduction. He checked the paint marks he inscribed earlier on the optical sights to ensure it was still aligned.

Webb stared at the weapon. The grenade was more than half the length of the launcher.

“The projectile is initially launched by a gunpowder booster charge and is powered thereafter by a rocket motor,” Mason said, explaining what they all already knew. He talked too much when he was nervous, and though he did his best to remain cool and calm, at the moment he was tipping his hand. Mason continued to hold it with both hands and waited for Sanderson to finish.

The apartment was a small studio. The room provided enough space for the full-sized mattress laying on the bare floor, and a sitting area that would look spacious if the only furniture were a couch and chair. A cheap row of cabinets hung above the sink in what was barely a kitchen. Mason thought the average Iraqi family would consider a place like this a mansion. Collateral damage from the initial bombings on Bagdad, and refugee migration, had residential living quarters going for a premium.    

“I still don’t like it,” Webb said.

Sanderson huffed out bad air and shook his head. “Webb, did anyone ever tell you those blue eyes of your sparkle like diamonds in the deep ocean?”

“What?”

“I bet you got a pretty mouth hidden under that burqa.”

“Sanderson, shut the fuck up!”

“No, you shut the fuck up. You need to focus on something else other than being scared of your shadow. Get your mind on the mission. We come. We kill. We leave. If you lose focus, you’re going to get yourself killed. Or worse, you might get me killed. I don’t know about you, but I don’t plan on dying out here.”

“Take a breather, both of you,” Mason said.

Webb turned and offered the flared end of the launcher; Mason inserted the grenade securely into place.

“We could be here for the next ten minutes or ten hours. Since the bathroom is down the hall, I’m going to open the latrine right here. I’ve got to piss so bad I can taste it.” Mason turned and walked over to a wall that had a short stack of newspapers scattered about. He glanced down, wondering if there might be something worth reading, then realized his Arabic was more than just a little rusty. He rolled the burqa high enough to find the zipper on his pants and fished for his manhood. Just as it hung out in open air, and he began to relieve himself, Webb whispered with surprise.

“Hey, a light just came on in the room.”

“Fucking great. I can’t stop pissing now. Do you see anyone?”

“No one yet, just—”

The door to the apartment burst open with a thunderous crash. Mason spun his head around and saw a boot level with the door lock hanging in the air. A small round object then bounced across the floor, metal clanking against stone.

“Jesus Christ! Get down!” he cried, but there was nowhere to seek cover.

He saw a bright flash. A shockwave grabbed his consciousness and shoved it into a deep abyss. The world went dark.

* * *

A tornado of thoughts weaved in a hodgepodge of unrelated images. A light in Mason’s mind glowed, and an assaultive, aromatic air entered his nostrils screaming for him to awake.  

His vision, blurred from the hold of unconsciousness, cleared as he blinked and struggled to assess the situation. A few feet away stood an unwashed man, unmistakably dressed in enemy garb. He held a crushed ampoule in his hand.

Mason found himself breathing rapidly through his nose. A piece of cloth had been stuffed into his mouth and his lips sealed with tape. The taste of mold and sour cheese from the rag trickled down his throat. Don’t throw up—don’t throw up, he commanded his body, following with a short prayer. A dull pain throbbed within his head.

“Good. The last one is awake now.”

Mason turned his head toward the voice and saw Webb and Sanderson bound in chairs. Like him, both were gagged. The muscles in his arms sprung to action, only to be thwarted by the abrasive cords that burned into his wrists, as he fought the restraints. His legs were similarly held captive. His bare feet scratched into the filth on the sandy, stone floor.  

The man who spoke wore a long sleeved dishdashah and stood a few feet from Webb. Mason noticed the sharp Persian features of the man wearing traditional Iraqi attire. To his left, three desert rats wearing tattered Iraqi Regular Army combat uniforms, waited at the ready with Kalashnikovs hanging from neck straps. “The eyes betray you, Americans. You struggle against your bonds as if you think that if you were free, you could somehow escape. But your eyes show the fear of what you know is to come,” the Persian said.

Mason racked his brain to remember if he’d seen this man’s face in the INTEL reports. It was distinctive enough with a scar tracing its way from his right eye down to the corner of his mouth. The man had long, straight black hair, and was clean-shaven. Mason couldn’t remember any photos of a rebel leader without facial hair of some sort. That profile would have stood out.

Webb turned his head toward Sanderson, then craned his head over to meet Mason’s gaze. Sweat trickled down Webb’s cheek, and his face flushed red with white blotches.

“You see? Even this one can sense what is about to happen.” Scarface looked over to the soldier on his immediate left. His eyes narrowed, and he quickly nodded.

The soldier stepped forward and jerked the tape from Webb’s mouth. Webb’s skin clung tightly, refusing to let go. Beard stubble and a piece of skin from his lower lip remained on the adhesive side. Once the rag was out of his mouth, Webb attempted to dry spit the taste away.

“You bastards need to go ahead and kill me now. I ain’t telling you shit,” Webb rasped.

Scarface raised his eyebrows and pursed his lips, curious. He turned to one of the soldiers behind him and gave a quick nod.

The soldier took a step back, raised his rifle, and pulled the trigger with no hesitation.

The shot cracked loudly in the small room. Webb’s skull peeled open from the front, blowing the right half of the scalp off, and leaving the other half attached and hanging to the side. Brain matter splattered on the back wall.

Sanderson and Mason both jumped in their seats and redoubled their efforts to pull loose from the bonds.

“See, Americans? I am a compassionate man. I granted this man his final wish.”

Muffled curses from the Americans slowly curled a smile on Scarface’s lips.

“However, there are limits to my compassion. You two will not be as fortunate.” Scarface paced back and forth in front of the two Americans, his arms folded behind his back. “I am going to begin your torture now. You will have twenty-four hours to contemplate all the methods my people perfected over the centuries to extract information from the enemy. Dwell long and hard, dogs. There is no way out of your situation better than a quick death. Such a reward can only be earned by giving me information that I find useful.”

Scarface stepped to the door, stopped, and turned his head. “It would be wise not to disappoint me. You will find that I am a very, very, patient interrogator.”

Scarface left the room, and the four soldiers followed.

Pungent fecal odor drifted through the air as Webb’s muscles relaxed in death.

***

Mason’s mind drifted in and out of the present, delirious from dehydration and the oven-like heat in the room. He spent most of the last twenty-four hours communicating with Sanderson using sign language and eye movements. There was little to say, other than contemplating the chances of a rescue and encouraging each other to stay strong until the end.

The rage he felt after Webb’s murder sapped a good portion of his energy reserves. He imagined ripping free of his bonds, grabbing a Kalashnikov from a soldier, and beating the enemy’s head with the butt until his skull cracked open. He would then shoot the other soldiers, except Scarface. A bullet to the head couldn’t begin to even the score for what that monster had coming to him. Mason saw himself toss the gun aside, and then bound over to the Persian in three quick strides, his arm flying back like a baseball pitcher winding up for the game-ending fastball. His fist shooting forward and smashing Scarface’s nose with the force of a cannon ball. He’d hold the Persian by the collar and simply pound his face into oblivion. Again and again, his knuckles would mash soft cartilage and crush bone. All the while, savoring Scarface’s screams for mercy, but there would be none. Not now, not ever. Mason wished he had the power to turn the whole Middle East into a sea of radioactive glass. If he could make a deal with Satan, he’d sell his soul for just one nuclear bomb to drop.

Webb sat in the chair with what remained of his head tilted toward Mason. His one eye gazed into nothingness, but to Mason, it was saying, See, I told you something wasn’t right.

Webb’s body shifted throughout the hours, expelling gas, and tightening with rigor mortis. The dry heat accelerated the body’s decay. Mason’s nose stung from each breath as the taste of death settled in the back of his throat.

The door opened abruptly, and three armed soldiers led the way in front of Scarface. One carried a brown sack. The contents in the sack writhed with life.

The soldiers lined up against the wall at attention. Scarface stopped in front of Mason and Sanderson, holding bottles of water by his chest. His eyes scanned the prisoners, and his expression seemed to change from indifference to delight. “It is time to give me what I want. I will be a generous host and give you something you want first, but then you will owe me the same favor.”

A quick nod from Scarface and two soldiers left rank and slowly peeled the tape from the Americans’ mouths. Mason pushed the rag out with his tongue and spat, while Sanderson dry heaved.

“Here, drink this. It will ease the words from your throat.” Scarface uncapped a bottle of water and pushed it to Sanderson’s lips.

Sanderson hesitated for a second, but finally relented and opened his mouth. Scarface lifted the bottle and poured until Sanderson coughed. Water ran down his chin and onto his sweat-soaked shirt. After Sanderson cleared his throat, Scarface gave him the rest. Sanderson uttered a small sigh of relief, and relaxed in his chair.