The Fall of Society (Book 2): The Fight of Society

THE FIGHT of  SOCIETY

By

Thonas Rand

Copyright © 2013 by the author.

First Edition.

Cover image from istockphoto.com, two images altered by the author.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or any storage and retrieval system, without written permission from the author.

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This is a work of fiction. All characters, names, and places are products of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual people, locations, or events is coincidental or fictionalized.

A Note From The Author

THE FIGHT OF SOCIETY is my third novel and the second of the Society series. I’m not sure why the zombie genre influences me so. Besides all the movies and a great show like The Walking Dead. Perhaps it’s because the human race is so fragile, but yet, so careless on how we treat one another and the planet. This is why I believe, in the dark recesses of my mind, that an infection outbreak is possible. Let’s face it, zombies are terrifying. Of course, it’s just a horror story, so I’d like it to go no further than having its own film or TV series. That would be very nice. ;-)

With the help of my editor, I’ve worked very hard to make this book a better reading experience than book one. I think you will agree with me.

I am very proud of this story and the books in the series to follow.

Thank you for taking the time to read my novel and I would appreciate it very much if you would leave a review; whatever the content, I welcome it. Since I am not the type of author that manufactures his own reviews, I rely on the judgment of good people.

I hope you enjoy THE FIGHT OF SOCIETY.

—Thonas Rand

Facebook.com/Thonas Rand

“Excuse me, uh, not to shit on anyone’s riff here, but let me just see if I grasp this concept, okay? You’re suggesting that we take some fucking parking shuttles and reinforce them with some aluminum siding, and then just head on over to the gun store and watch our good friend Andy play some cowboy movie, jump-on-the-covered-wagon bullshit. Then, we’re gonna drive across the ruined city through a welcome committee of a few hundred thousand dead cannibals, all so that we can sail off into the sunset on this fuckin’ asshole’s boat? And for some island that for all we know doesn't even exist?”

The group: “Pretty much, yeah.”

“Okay, I’m in.”

―CJ

“From my rotting body, flowers shall grow and I am in them and that is eternity.”

―Edvard Munch

“The life of the dead is placed in the memory of the living.”

―Marcus Tullius Cicero

“The fear of death follows from the fear of life. A man who lives fully is prepared to die at any time.”

―Mark Twain

“Death is the last friend you will ever make.”

―Thonas Rand

PROLOGUE

ECHOES

            “So if we didn’t use any nuclear weapons on the dead, then why does the sky look strange at times?” Anthony asked.

            “Probably from all the fires everywhere.” Alan guessed.

            “That’s what I thought, too, but the really big fires burned out a long time ago, and the sky still looks weird to me.”

            “That could be from a nuclear blast,” Bear said.

            “But I thought you said we wouldn’t use one on our own soil?” Anthony said.

            “Not us,” Ardent clarified.

            “Then who?” asked Anthony.

            “As communications began to break down, we heard rumors,” Bear said.

            “Who?” Joe asked. “The British? The Chinese?”

            “Not them,” John said.

            “The Russians,” said Ardent.

• • •

            “Stop, Gregor!” a voice shouted.

            He turned to see Ivan standing at the storage room’s entrance thirty feet from him. He was barely able to stand. It was clear why—he had been attacked by a few of the undead—he had deep bite wounds on his legs, arms and chest. He had a severe bite in his neck that squirted blood with the pace of his heartbeat. Blood gushed between the fingers of his hand that he had pressed against the vicious wound.

            In his other hand was a pistol that he had aimed at Gregor.

            “Stop,” Ivan said with a weak voice. “Don’t.”

            His face was ghost-pale, he was near death, but he mustered all his strength to hold the gun steady on his commander.

            “Ivan, all is lost.”

            “I…don’t care…you can’t…do…this…not this.”

            “Then you should pull the trigger, my friend,” Gregor said, his hard face crowned in tears.

            Gregor moved his finger toward the button for the final push…

            And Ivan took aim at his head. “No,” he said as he depressed the pistol’s trigger.

            Both of them suddenly stopped when they heard—

            Them.

            In Ivan’s desperation to get to Gregor…

            He didn’t close any of the doors he opened to get in—

            And they followed him.

            Inhuman screeches and demon roars approached quickly.

            Ivan turned toward the section entrance and yelled in fear. He rapid-fired his pistol and a second later—

            Twenty of the undead tackled him to the floor and began to feast.

            He screamed in gurgled agony as they ripped chunks out of him.

            Gregor watched with horror-filled eyes; then they saw him…

            Dozens rushed in with Gregor in their mutated vision…

            He placed his finger on the button…

            He said a silent prayer…

            “Mother…forgive me,” he whispered.

            The undead would not…

            He pressed the button—

            Everything froze in heat—

            And became blinding white…

THE FALL of  SOCIETY

BOOK TWO

THE FIGHT

of

SOCIETY

DAY 45:

ARDENT KELLER

       Population of San Diego, California, before the infection: 1,400,000.

BLINDING WHITE FILLED HIS EYES, IT DIDN’T BURN HIM, BUT IT DID FLOOD HIS MIND WITH MEMORIES OF OLD.

         Times he spent with his wife and two sons at the beach…

            Playing Frisbee in the park…

            Giving his eldest son his first car…

            Lying next to his wife in bed…

            He especially remembered the texture of her eyes when she looked at him in bliss.

            Everything was right back then, everything was
perfect
. No longer. Everything was all wrong, his brain scarred and his heart tattooed from the world turning dark.

            His family—lost.

            His mind—lost.

            “What was left?”
he wondered as he stared at the ceiling.

            The blinding white from the fluorescent lights bathed his face, but couldn’t cleanse his soul.

            He lowered his head and cast his eyes on the hand he held.

            The hand was old, but lovely in his eyes. He held it tenderly, he held it softly, because this was a hand that belonged to a woman he loved. The hand was still and the skin was dark and grayish in color. It looked dry, but then droplets fractured on it and the skin soaked in Ardent’s tears. Besides the soothing fluorescent lighting, there were no dark colors in the hospital room; it was supposed to keep patients calm, along with their visitors. It was bullshit, because it wasn’t helping Ardent cope with the death of the woman on the hospital bed he sat next to.

            She looked serene, as if she had passed peacefully, which is what anyone could hope for. Her long, dark brown hair caressed the sides of her face and her dark skin was almost entirely free of age spots, which was rare for a person in her eighties. She was a beautiful woman in life and that was mirrored in the moments following her death. Ardent placed her hand gently on her chest. Her face was covered with some type of ash, perhaps from all the fires still burning throughout the city. Someone had tried to clean her face, but the soot was still present. She had medical tape on her arms from the intravenous needles the nurses had given her for needed fluids; electrodes were taped to her chest for monitoring vital signs. The machines were silent now. Otherwise, she bore no obvious signs of wounds or trauma that caused her death, save one—

            The bandage wrapped around her left forearm. The nature of the injury wasn’t visible, but her blood had soaked through the gauze and it was a circular pattern—

            The shape of a human mouth.

            Ardent stood up.

            His officer’s uniform was wrinkled from days of wear and his facial hair hadn’t seen a razor in days. His eyes were bloodshot from a combination of crying and sleep deprivation, and it wasn’t going to get any better from what he was about to do. He didn’t want to do it, but it was something that had to be done. He leaned over and tenderly kissed her on the forehead and then he carefully pulled the white sheet over her, all the way over the bed.

            His hands went lax at his sides and his right hand felt the cold steel of the .45 semi-automatic handgun in his holster.

            He drew his weapon.

            He cocked the hammer back and aimed it at the woman’s head.

            “Mother,” he said in a broken voice, “forgive me.”

            He placed his finger on the trigger…

            He began to squeeze…

            Just another sixteenth of an inch to pull, but he stopped to—

           
“Ahhh!”
a man shouted in fear from somewhere outside the room, accompanied by the sound of furniture breaking.

            Ardent lowered his weapon and went to investigate.

            The hospital corridor was empty of living people and it was in shambles, papers strewn all over, equipment overturned . . . and there were bodies. A few of them could be seen on the floor down the corridor, here and there, very still. That usually meant one thing, especially the bodies that were lying in pools and smears of blood. Ardent saw a nurse, or maybe a doctor, run by a corridor junction and disappear in a blur. He looked down the other way and saw the source of the commotion he had heard—two men were fighting in a waiting room—one was a younger sailor and the other was a man in a patient gown with his rear showing down the split of the garment.

            Ardent didn’t know what went on, but he didn’t like seeing a half-naked man attack a serviceman. He went over to break it up and that’s when he realized that the ‘patient’ was dead and had returned as a living corpse. Ardent rushed over, but it was too late. The walker overpowered the sailor, pinned him to the floor and bit into his face. The sailor shouted in pain as it tore part of his forehead off, blood sprinkling the sailor’s face and chest. The young man tried to fight it off and push its biting face away, but the creature bit into his hand and took his thumb and index finger. The ghoul clamped down on the boy’s cheek, thrashed its jaws and ripped a hole in his face. The sailor screamed as the thing chewed its meal. Ardent ran up and yanked it off him, the undead fell back and tried to attack Ardent, but he put a .45 slug through its forehead. The dead thing fell back in sync with the shell casing hitting the floor.

            Ardent looked at the sailor, who was bleeding badly, but the wounds weren’t life threatening. Ardent knew there was no saving the boy; he was infected now. And so did the sailor.

            “Please…” he spat out blood through the gash in his cheek, “Sir, I don’t wanna…become one of those…things.”

            He was just a boy, maybe nineteen. His hazel eyes, which would otherwise be beautiful, were desperate now, and Ardent would not deny a dying man’s last wish for his soul’s peaceful journey.