The Hollow Men (Book 1): Crave
It’s a blisteringly hot December in New York.
The Earth gets increasingly more unpredictable. Erratic temperatures are unleashing a torrent of new viruses. In the chaos, health authorities are slow to isolate a strain that not only claims the lives of those it infects, but transforms them into the living dead–creatures with a powerful craving for human flesh.
Marine combat veteran Tom Park and extreme survivalist Scott Hale are as close as brothers and as tough as they come.
In the worst night of their lives, Tom, Scott and their families suffer cruelly at the hands of the living and come face-to-face with the deadly new disease.
There is nothing Tom and Scott won’t do to keep their families safe. But it’s already too late.
Someone has unknowingly been infected and will soon join the ranks of the undead.
CRAVE
Book One of the Hollow Men
A Z
OMBIE
A
POCALYPSE
T
HRILLER
B
Y
J
ONATHAN
T
EAGUE
CONTENTS
SYNOPSIS
|
TITLE PAGE
COPYRIGHT
|
DEDICATION
CHAPTER 10
|
CHAPTER 11
|
CHAPTER 12
CHAPTER 13
|
CHAPTER 14
|
CHAPTER 15
CHAPTER 16
|
CHAPTER 17
|
CHAPTER 18
CHAPTER 19
|
CHAPTER 20
|
CHAPTER 21
CHAPTER 22
|
CHAPTER 23
|
CHAPTER 24
CHAPTER 25
|
CHAPTER 26
|
CHAPTER 27
CHAPTER 28
|
CHAPTER 29
|
CHAPTER 30
CHAPTER 31
|
CHAPTER 32
|
CHAPTER 33
CHAPTER 34
|
CHAPTER 35
|
CHAPTER 36
CHAPTER 37
|
CHAPTER 38
|
CHAPTER 39
CHAPTER 40
|
CHAPTER 41
|
CHAPTER 42
CHAPTER 43
|
CHAPTER 44
|
CHAPTER 45
CHAPTER 46
|
CHAPTER 47
|
CHAPTER 48
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
|
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Copyright © 2016 by Jonathan Teague
All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
1. Zombie apocalypse—Fiction. 2. Thrillers—Suspense—Fiction. 3. Horror—Fiction 4. Hollow Men—Fiction I. Title
For all of my girls.
CHAPTER 1
D
ISGUISE
H
e wasn’t a panhandler.
Bedraggled and sweaty, wearing a wrinkled Santa suit, he stood on a corner and asked for money. But he wasn’t panhandling.
The Salvation Army Santa stood wilting in front of a mall in upstate New York in a sweltering 90 degrees. He looked as if he had taken a shower in his red velvet robe. Even the grubby white fur looked limp and wet. His short greying hair, drenched with perspiration, stuck to his head. His hat with attached wig rested on the ground near his boots. He shook the faintest of clangs from his brass bell.
For fifteen years now he’d been known as “Santa Mike”, though his real name wasn’t Mike. That had been the name of the bell-ringing Santa who first claimed this corner for Salvation Army donations in the mid-1980s.
The old Mike rang his bell with enthusiasm during his first three years of collecting donations. His vigorous efforts elicited small handfuls of coins and apologetic looks from those who passed by him and the red collection bucket.
Once a thriving industrial center built along a major tributary to the Hudson, the town of Riverton slowly weakened over decades. The recession in the early 1990s caused the shuttering of the steel foundry, the cornerstone of the local economy. Riverton waned from sick to terminally ill.
Each year Mike’s bell ringing tempo kept time with the slowing heartbeat of the town. His Santa suit faded to match the drabness of the surrounding buildings. His face slackened, his expression as dull as the lives of the people here. The cold passed over and through his body from December first to the end of December, thirty-one days of freezing so deep that he felt like he never thawed, even in the hottest summers. His back bent another notch lower every year. Christmas was a burden, for everyone. One December Mike didn’t show up, and no one noticed, except for one person.
The corner stayed empty for three days. The man who had noticed appeared suddenly, as if by magic, as the new Santa: ringing an oversized brass bell with a meaty left hand and singing Christmas carols cheerfully and loudly in his rich baritone. Happiness radiated from him. Like the character he played, his Santa-sized belly shook when he laughed and threw his head back in joyful abandon.
After a week, more people showed up at the mall, drawn to the larger-than-life Santa who filled them with the warmth of holiday spirit. The curious young owner of a small retail store bought a cup of hot coffee from the mall’s food court and carried it out to him. Though in her thirties, she was so small and thin that people often mistook her for a teenager. When she handed him the Styrofoam cup and looked into his eyes, she experienced flashbacks to standing in a line as a little girl, waiting to sit on Santa’s lap. She asked in a timid voice, “Who are you, really?” His smile crinkled at the edges of his clear blue eyes as he took a sip of the hot coffee. “I’m the new Santa Mike, dear. Thank you for the coffee.” Then he roared cheerfully, “Merry Christmas!”
The new Santa Mike brought life and color to Riverton. The economy recovered. Ever-growing crowds came to the mall to see the larger-than-life Santa. For many, it became a tradition to visit that street corner, throw off their inhibitions and sing carols with him before entering the mall to shop. Donations to the Salvation Army soared to $500 per day—five times the national average.
He’d become as much a bellwether for the Christmas season as holiday music on the radio and eggnog returning to grocery store shelves. People began preparing for the holidays when Santa showed up on that corner, singing in his booming voice.
In this impossible-for-December heat, however, Santa Mike barely managed a raspy-voiced “Merry Christmas” to the infrequent passersby, none of whom would meet his eyes let alone put a coin or bill into the donation bucket.
Santa cursed the sun as he bent to retrieve a bottle of tepid water that he shaded under his crumpled Santa hat. After moistening his parched throat with an audible swallow, he licked away the sticky barnacles of saliva built up in the corners of his mouth.
Early autumn had arrived on schedule for New England. Chilly nights painted the trees a patchwork of vibrant reds, oranges and yellows. Cold winds began their rush from the north, numbing trees into dormancy. Then things changed abruptly. Halloween climbed to eighty degrees Fahrenheit, shattering the previous record high temperature of fifty-eight in October of 1920.
It only got hotter in November. New York City was mired in a band of heat that extended from Philadelphia to Newfoundland. Swaths of unnatural weather appeared as if two cosmic toddlers dipped enormous paintbrushes into weather-paint and were randomly splashing dollops of extreme temperatures around the world. London, Budapest, and Beijing soared above 100 degrees. Singapore and Rio de Janeiro raced to protect themselves as temperatures neared freezing.
The global changes triggered varying levels of fear and depression. People became as unpredictable as the radical weather. The gentlest of people could react violently to small annoyances. The cruelty that existed in every community spilled into the open. Barbaric crimes occurred regularly, even in small, otherwise-safe towns like Riverton.
Alone on the corner, Santa Mike glanced around nervously, often checking behind him to confirm he was alone. The street had been empty for half an hour, and he was close to heat exhaustion. The dense air was suffocating him, squeezing his lungs. His tongue was fat and dry, cleaving to the roof of his mouth. He put the plastic bottle to his lips for another swallow of the unpalatable water. When he tilted his head back, the sun burned dark spots into his vision, momentarily blinding him and washing out all colors. When he opened his eyes again, shapeless afterimages floated in his view as if shadowy beings were creeping up on him.
His raspy “Hello?” was so loud that he startled himself.
Furtive whispers hovered just out of range. Something tickled the back of his neck, setting the muscles along his spine twitching. He was on the verge of having a panic attack.
He was being watched, and blinked his eyes to clear his vision. A middle-aged Korean man was studying him from a midnight blue Cadillac Escalade that idled just ten yards away. Lost in his misery and paranoia, he hadn’t heard the rumble of the SUV’s engine. Piercing eyes assessed the bedraggled Santa and the surrounding area. It wasn’t a casual audit but practiced, thorough, and efficient. Not liking what he found, the driver frowned, shook his head, and jerked with his thumb.
Leave. Now.
Santa looked around and found no one else in sight. The driver waited, staring back at him expectantly. Santa hurriedly gathered his belongings and scrambled in the direction of his parked car.
The SUV rumbled away.
The effort of keeping the donation kettle and tripod stand from dragging on the sidewalk exhausted him. Santa stopped momentarily at the mouth of a shaded alley that was the shortest path to his parked car. The dark red brick had divots from age and abuse. Mortar had fallen out, leaving bulges on both sides of the alley under the bubble-writing of graffiti artists.
Taking the alley would lop five minutes off the time it took to reach his car, but the smell of alcohol-laced urine and decaying garbage made it a rat’s paradise. Thirty yards in, the street took a ninety-degree turn to the left and a lattice of fire escapes and bulky air-conditioning units overhead prevented much of the sunlight from reaching the alley floor, making it dark as twilight. He squinted into the alley and took a hesitant step inside. He paused, instinctively looking back at the sunshine. After a moment, he pressed his lips firmly together and marched into the shadows.
Ten yards in, Santa slipped on the juice from soggy, decomposing garbage. He fell sideways and back, slamming his right hip on the pavement. His kettle and tripod flew from his hands, noisily skittering on the dirty street. His right hand landed in a puddle of foul-smelling stew. “Disgusting,” he muttered, coughing as he regained his feet and shook the nasty goop from his hand.
His gear came to a stop near a pile of black trash bags. Bending to retrieve his kettle brought his eyes level with a white T-strapped sandal dangling from a motionless foot.
He stood up quickly. The dead girl’s body lay on her back on top of the pile of trash bags. A halo of broken beer bottles ringed her head. A small silver hair clip kept her straight blond hair from covering her face. Santa thought she looked to be in her late teens. Her thin nose and long eyelashes were pretty, or had been before they were covered with blood.
Her light pink button-up shirt covered her arms and shoulders—the only parts of her that were still clothed. Deep knife wounds punctured her chest and abdomen where her attacker had stabbed in a frenzy. Blood had spattered in a wide fan around her body and pooled below her pubic bone where chunks of flesh had been carved out.
Vomit spilled from his mouth in a watery gush. Tiny capillaries in his cheeks dilated and broke from the force of it, splotching his face with small red dots
When the roaring in his ears died down, he heard exaggerated footsteps pounding his way. Metal scraped on brick. “I’m coming for you,” a gravelly voice said.
Fear flooded through him, and he craned his neck toward the darkened corner. The voice came again. “Here I come.” Santa could see no one. He put his back against the wall and swiveled his head, scuttling sideways toward the daylight at the end of the alley, which seemed interminably far away. A metal pipe clanged on the pavement, on the brick walls, on the raised ladder of a fire escape, growing ever louder. His tormenter finally rounded the bend. Santa saw his shape, tall and thin, but the sunlight didn’t penetrate the shadowy corner enough to make out specific features. “You can’t run from me.” The figure struck his pipe against a metal drain.
