The Infected (Book 3): Nightfall
The Infected: Nightfall
Book Three
By Joseph “Zombie” Zuko
This book is a
work of fiction.
Names and
characters are fictitious, and any resemblance to actual persons,
living or dead, is
entirely coincidental.
Text copyright ©
2015 Joseph Zuko
All Rights
Reserved
Thank you to Josh McCullough, Fox Emm, Kim Hill, Linda
Kim, Katie Zuko and Pam Anderson for helping me edit my book.
Thank you to my Mom and Dad for always being so
supportive.
Thank you to Sam for the idea to start writing this
book.
Thank you to my wife Katie Zuko. She cheers me on like
I am her local sports team and thank you for not letting me give up on my
dreams.
Dedicated to all three of my zombie loving children.
Thank you to the fans of Jim’s First Day and Karen’s First
Day
.
Without your support I wouldn’t have had the guts to
attempt to finish any of The Infected series. You have all changed my life for
the better. Your positive reviews and comments kept me motivated to finish these
books. Thank you again.
Cover art by Paul Copeland
How this whole damn thing
started.
In 1997 I was a freshman
in college, had a full time job and just turned nineteen. I still lived at home
with my folks and they told me that if I wanted to start building credit I
should go to Sears and get a credit card. I was a man now so I needed to
have credit in order to buy things in the future, right? No one wants to marry
a man that isn't up to his eyeballs in soul crushing debt. At least that's what
I thought back then. I ran down to Sears, applied for a card and got approved
for about three hundred dollars. I didn’t need a Kenmore washer and dryer. I
didn’t need Craftsman tools. I owned a TV already and computers cost too much.
I did the manliest thing I could do and bought a Playstation and the game
Resident Evil 2. The game scared the poopoo out of me. I played late at night
in my dark room and jumped at every scare. After that I was hooked. Zombies
terrified me and I loved it. The idea that anyone can get infected and be
turned into a lethal killing machine thrilled me to the bone. Grandma gets bit
on the hand and now she can’t be trusted. She wants to eat your face. That’s
really, really scary. I don’t care who you are. If Grandma wants to tear out
your guts and chew on them, that’s scarier than sharks, chainsaws, dying in
your dreams or camping with a maniac. I hope you enjoy reading my nightmare.
Sign up for our spam free
mailer. You can win prizes and get insider info on what I have cooking up next.
Table of Contents
An empty can of Tecate
shook in Jim’s weary hand. Every inch of his body ached. The stitches in his
forehead and leg pulled tight and burned every time he moved. The searing pain
was a constant reminder of how close he had come to dying that day. His busted
nose made it difficult to take in full breaths, and when he did breathe deep he
could smell the stench of the day on him. Dehydration and exhaustion was taking
its toll and the light beer had begun its magical journey into his starving stomach.
Being void of real food helped the booze travel like a bolt of lightning
through his veins. He watched as his neighbor, Tina, worked to stop the
bleeding gunshot wound in Devon’s leg.
Tina’s mind raced. She had
read the textbooks, seen videos and visited the hospital as a student many
times, but this was the real deal. This young man’s life was resting in her
untested hands. Her love of research and studying new subjects served her well
at nursing school. She had aced most of her tests in the last year, but this
was not a test she could fail. There was no asking the teacher for help.
Surprisingly, even with all of the stress and fear of this horrible situation,
she was easily recalling all of the knowledge needed to help save him.
“He’s going to need a
blood transfusion and antibiotics. If we can keep enough pressure on it we
might be able to keep him from going into shock. We have aspirin for the pain,
but I don’t know how to administer anesthetics,” Tina said as she applied a
fresh pad of gauze to the open wound on top of Devon’s thigh.
Cliff moved to her side, “We
don’t have that kind of equipment here and whose blood would we give him?” He
helped his wife place the last strip of tape to the bandage.
Sara knelt on the floor
next to Devon and clutched his hand as she looked to Jim, “There has to be
something we can do?”
“I’m O negative. I can
give him my blood,” Jim said as he placed his empty can on the kitchen counter
and moved over to the dining table where Frank had set up shop refilling his
empty magazines. “What kind of place would have what we need?” Jim asked as he
pulled his backpack off his shoulders.
“There’s a facility called
RS Medical a few blocks from here. If any store would have a transfusion kit,
it’d be them.” Tina pulled off her blood soaked rubber gloves with a snap. She
moved quickly across the apartment over to Jim. Tina pulled him by the arm and
spun him around. Without asking, she pulled at the bandages on his forehead.
Jim winced and closed his eyes as she investigated the wound. The stitches were
caked with dried blood. “What did you use to clean this?” Tina asked softly.
“Alcohol.” Sara spoke for
Jim. “I did the stiches.” She said with a half-smile.
“Good job,” Tina said over
her shoulder to Sara. Then she turned back to Jim. “You’ll need antibiotics
too. Alcohol and peroxide won’t be enough for a cut this bad.”
“You’re going back out
there?” Frank grunted at Jim, as he forced another round into the banana mag of
his SKS rifle. It had only been a few hours since he first met Jim, but Frank
already knew the answer to his question. He stepped up the pace and loaded the
shells faster.
He’ll need my help to
get back here in one piece.
Frank
thought.
Click, click, Frank worked
the full mag into the bottom of the rifle. He loved the sound of a magazine
sliding into a gun. He found it comforting. The formed metal fitting perfectly
together. The two parts becoming one to make a functioning machine that could
be used to save someone or destroy them. He fell in love with the sound of a
gun as a young child when his father first showed him how to shoot a .22
caliber rifle. He was seven-years-old and they lived on twenty-five acres in
the out skirts of Washougal Washington. Their home was surrounded by trees and
wildlife. His dad, who he was named after, was the local Boy Scout leader. Frank
spent years with his father camping, hunting, wood carving, and learning
everything about being a good scout, but shooting rifles was always his
favorite. Frank was the youngest boy to ever become an Eagle Scout in the State
of Washington and it was a record that still stood. Frank pinched the last
round from a box of nine millimeter ammo, worked it into the mag and slid it
into the butt of his Beretta. His ears waited for the sound.
Click, clack.
There it is.
One of the greatest
lessons he ever learned from his old man was, “enjoy the little things in
life.”
Down the hall, the toilet
flushed and a moment later Morgan yelled, “Clifford, I need you.”
Cliff got to his feet and
headed back to the restroom.
Will this day ever end?
The hands of the clock
that hung in the hallway said it was only four-forty in the afternoon. Cliff’s
muscles ached as he stepped down the short hall. All of the running and slicing
infected creeps to death had put knots in his thighs and shoulders. No way in
hell was he stepping back out that door. Ten minutes ago he thought the day was
finally winding down. Cliff was inches from making sweet dirty love to his wife,
and then this crew of blood soaked strangers cock blocked him.
Before opening the
bathroom door he checked in on his kids. He had asked them to play in their
bedroom until he knew it was safe out in the living room. The three little
girls didn’t notice him at the bedroom doorway. The oldest, Eve, was pretending
to give her two younger sisters a makeover. She used an old brush her mother
had given her to apply pretend blush on Alex, the middle daughter. The
youngest, Brea, held a mirror in her little hands and watched as Eve worked her
magic on Alex.
“Now you look beautiful,”
Eve said as she helped Brea hold up the mirror to Alex’s face. There was not an
ounce of makeup on her little mug, but they acted like she had been completely
transformed into a beautiful princess. They ooohed and aahed. Apparently Eve
had worked one hell of a miracle with that brush. Cliff loved to watch his
children at play. If given the opportunity he would watch them all day every
day.
Cliff stepped away from
their doorway and opened the restroom door. Out of habit his eyelids dropped to
slits. The room became a fuzzy haze. Morgan sat like a queen on the throne. She
needed help getting her pants up and transferred back into her wheelchair. With
Cliff’s eyes almost shut, Morgan looked more like an out of focus Muppet than
his mother. The idea of Jim Henson’s hand up her backside running the show made
him have to stifle a smile. The two of them had done this dance many times and
without saying a word he lifted her by her torso. She wiggled back into her
black jeans. He could feel when she was done fastening the top button and he
set her slowly onto her chariot.
“Thank-you-Clifford.”
Morgan smooshed the three words into one. At the retirement community that she
lived in other residents and nurses would have a difficult time understanding
what she was saying from time to time, but Cliff had a PHD in Morgan
linguistics. He took his position behind the wheelchair and navigated her out
of the small bathroom and back towards the living room.
“No problem.” Cliff patted
her on the shoulder. He had almost gotten himself killed trying to get her to
his apartment. He didn’t know how long they could keep her going without a real
doctor or a pharmacy, but it was nice to know that he would be with her until
the end.
“Can I have another beer?”
She asked it with a little extra sugar on top, hoping that her sweetness would
win him over.
“Maybe in a little
while.”
Morgan knew her son well
enough to know that he meant “No.” It was okay. She would just wait for him to
be out of the room then she would ask Tina for the beer.
Jim unzipped his backpack,
grabbed the plush Bert and Ernie and laid them gently on the table. So many
times Jim had done puppet shows with those two dolls. He grew up on
Sesame
Street
and could do a spot on impression of both Bert and Ernie. Valerie
would ask him to do some of their famous bits over and over again. “Here fishy,
fishy, fishy!” A fish jumps up into their boat. “One fish,” followed by a
second fish. “Two fish. See Bert it’s easy.” Jim would say as Ernie. “How did
you do that?” Bert’s voice would ask. “You have to call them really loudly.”
Ernie’s voice would answer and the girls would laugh and interact with the
dolls as if they were really alive and talking to them. The memory of them
playing together filled Jim’s aching heart with a sliver of joy.
Then he pulled the extra
knives and machete from his bag. He laid the blades out on the table next to Bert
and Ernie.
“Jim?” Devon’s weak voice
called across the room. Jim rushed to his side and took a seat on the floor
next to Sara.
“Hey buddy, I’m here.”
Devon’s face was pale and
black circles had formed around his eyes. He had a fever and was soaked with
sweat. His breathing had become shallow and he struggled to take in full
breaths, “Don’t risk it for me. You gotta like, find your family.”
Jim’s belt was still slung
tight around Devon’s upper thigh. He was going to need to borrow one off of
Cliff’s to hold his blades.
“I will find them, but
first I need to get you taken care of,” Jim patted the young man on his
shoulder. He gave Devon a nod and a firm squeeze to the shoulder to reaffirm
that he was going to be okay. “Can you make me a list of what we’ll need?” Jim
asked Tina as his tired legs got him up off the floor.
She was already scribbling
the list on a piece of paper along with the building’s address, “I’m almost
done.” Jim’s legs ached as he headed over to his two backpacks.
Cliff pushed Morgan’s wheelchair
back into the living room, “We have company? I thought I heard voices.” She
noticed Devon on the floor. His white bandage had already turned bright red.
“Oh no. Is he okay?”
“He’s going to be just
fine,” Tina said as she ripped the piece of paper from the pad.
Frank stood up from the
table, slung his bag over his shoulder and stuck his hand out for the slip of
paper. A few empty ammo boxes remained on the table after he finished reloading
his two Beretta’s and their spare magazines, both banana mags for the SKS rifle
and his two revolvers. Frank was loaded and ready to rock. He took the paper
from Tina, gave her a nod of gratitude and tucked it into his front shirt
pocket.
Jim stood at the dining
table. He dug through the bag he had just packed downstairs in his apartment.
He found what he was looking for, his father’s leather motorcycle riding jacket.
The thick worn leather smelled wonderful and it reminded Jim of the endless
summers he spent as a child riding on the back of his father’s Harley Davidson.
They had taken trips together all over the northwest. One of the best rides Jim
could remember taking was a two week vacation all the way to South Dakota for
the Sturgis Motorcycle Rally. Jim was fourteen and every time they stopped for
dinner his Dad would let him get a chocolate peanut butter milkshake. Jim
sampled some of the best shakes that region had to offer. He slung his father’s
old jacket onto the back of a chair.
Sara gave Devon’s hand
another squeeze. His unfocused eyes shifted off the action in the living room
and over to her. She was by far the prettiest girl he had ever talked to. All
day long she had given him a nervous lump in his stomach. The dried blood
clumped her red hair into long chunks of rope. The crud and grime that skirted
her hairline only made her soft alabaster skin shine brighter. Her full lips
held a perfect smile as she looked him in the eyes. Devon swore she was peering
into his soul. The blood loss had made him delirious. He couldn’t control the tears
that rained down his temples. The thought that he might never even get a chance
to kiss this girl filled his slow beating heart with dread.
Devon was an over talker
and never picked up on the fact that young girls don’t like to hear about
foreign horror movies from the seventies. Even though he was a good looking guy,
he talked the girl’s ear off until they found an excuse to leave him in the
dust. Devon had only kissed four females, romantically. He kissed a classmate
named Sasha when he was in the eighth grade at a birthday party on a dare.
Brenda, when he was a sophomore at a high school Sadie Hawkins dance. His
nerves got to him and he kissed her too hard and his braces nicked her bottom
lip bad enough to make it bleed. At a senior party Devon had his first six pack
of beer and later that night he landed a smooch on a girl, but never caught her
name. The last young lady was Isabelle, and it happened four months ago after a
long courtship on the internet. He finally worked up the nerve to ask her out on
a proper face to face date. The date ended shortly after he described a horror
film’s gruesome beheading in detail. It didn’t help matters that over a
spaghetti dinner at the Olive Garden. He walked Isabelle back to her car,
talking non-stop about his favorite horror trilogy she got into her vehicle and
drove away forever. She reached out to shake Devon’s hand and say thank you for
the meal. He moved in for an unwanted, uninvited French kiss. His tongue
crashed into her face. His mouth, still salty from the bread sticks, made
contact with Isabelle’s lips and her mouth became tight and unresponsive. It
was one of the most embarrassing moments of his life. She wiped her mouth off
with the back of her hand and said, “Thanks for dinner.” She couldn’t get into
her car and start it fast enough. Her tires screeched as she pulled away
leaving Devon broken-hearted and confused.
