Z-Risen (Book 2): Outcasts (21 page)
Read the Permuted Press novel that inspired
the Z-Risen series.
Beyond the Barriers is a military style zombie book set in the same world as Z-Risen.
When the dead rise, Ex-Special Forces soldier Erik
Tragger flees to the mountains to wait out the end of the world. Cut off from civilization for months, he returns to find cities ruined and ruled by the walking dead.
Tragger reluctantly joins a group of survivors with a plan: flee to Portland where humanity is carving out a stronghold. But along the way they face opposition at every turn—the dead, rogue military forces, looters... and a new enemy more dangerous than any they have yet encountered.
Among the stumbling, mindless zombies walk the ghouls. The ghouls are living dead creatures that not only strategize and plan, but also possess the ability to guide their shambling brothers.
With weapons and supplies dwindling, Erik and his companions will faceoff against millions of the dead who have but one goal: complete eradication of the last of the living.
A sample chapter from:
AMONG THE LIVING
A zombie novel
By Timothy W. Long
The dead walk. Now the real battle for Seattle has begun.
When a gas leak causes the National Guard to forcibly evacuate the neighborhood, Lester isn't going anywhere. The former dope pusher has a new clientele… the kind that require him to deal lead instead of drugs.
Mike, a newspaper reporter, suspects a conspiracy lies behind the chaos. He’s driven to find the truth, even if it means dragging his beautiful co-worker into danger.
Kate has a dark secret: she’s a budding young serial killer. As society collapses, her skill in dealing death may be the one thing that can keep her alive.
These survivors, along with others, are drawn together in their quest to find not only the truth behind the spreading apocalypse, but also to escape the madness they face at every turn.
“
I really loved the entire overall plot, the characterization as a whole, and the gory, action-packed scenes. This is a good, solid zombie book and I highly recommend it.”
—Rhiannon Frater, author of FIRST DAYS: AS THE WORLD DIES
Prelude
Lost, and for a time so is he. Breath rasps in and out as her lungs begin to fail.
Cold, and so is she. Her hand is ice, a rigid claw that grips with the force of a newborn. Skin translucent, wisps of gray hair that struggle to rise as he strokes her arm. Bone thin, old, past her prime and yet barely in her fifth decade.
Hours spent by her side, and for it her eyes opened but once. She stared past him at the ceiling as if it held less recrimination than his gaze. Milky and gone to smoke, at least the one on the left, while the other is clear and the bluest blue he has ever seen.
They pulled him in from the first, dug into his soul and now, twenty-two years later, it continues to haunt.
The syringe is cool as he rolls it across the tabletop. He picks it up again to feel the weight of the world. Clear and languid, the liquid rests, unassuming.
If it does what he asks, what he hopes, it will be her savior and perhaps his.
The brush of alcohol, but she doesn’t stir. Then a stab and the deed
is done. Just a waiting game now, and for all the long months he has been away, he will not leave her side until it works—or kills her.
It may be some time before the tumor shrinks.
That thing that looks like a balloon in her head. It grows daily as if pumped full of air; the pressure must be immense.
The virus is ‘programmed’ to seek out the tumor and enter it. There it will begin eating the thing with
a vengeance, his vengeance. Minutes are all it needs to start working, maybe days until she is coherent.
She sighs and her head stirs. He leans over and presses his lips to dry skin next to her pale mouth. Then she is silent once again, and he waits.
The light from the window paints landscapes across the blankets. Mountains made of knees, hips for land fall, waist a pool of lake water. Later, night slips in and the painting is reversed.
She stirs again, and one eye drifts open. It is clear for the first time in as long as he can remember. The other is still milky and may never recover from the damage.
“Herb ...” Just a whisper, and he has to lean close.
“Ruth?”
“Herb, I feel strange … like my blood is on fire.”
“Try to relax, my love. Everything will be back to normal soon. Very soon now.”
“It’s not okay; it hurts. My head feels like it’s going to explode. ”
“I did it, Ruth. All those years of research and I have the cure. Finally. I gave you a shot that is killing the tumor.”
“I don’t think so, Herb, I don’t think so.” Her eye moves back and forth as if trapped. Her head shakes, and her body shifts under the blanket. The dead eye turns and looks past him at a spot on the wall.
Blood pours into the other one, beneath the surface of the cornea. Within seconds, it is crimson. One side of her face slopes down as if it is about to slide off her head. Oh God, a stroke! He grabs his bag from the floor and paws through it as she starts to
shake. She thrashes on the bed, foam bubbling from her mouth.
He flips the bag over her body and continues to look through it as he holds her down. He is sure he has Coumadin, but Aspirin will do as well, just in case, oh God—just in case. She writhes, and he feels her heart beating through her chest. It rumbles, pounds and then, to his horror, slows down and shudders to a halt.
“Ruth, my God. RUTH!”
“Herb,” she sighs then sits up in bed and sinks her teeth into his exposed neck. He screams, but not for long.
Dead, and so is he.
Part One
Day 0 – Lester
“Oh my God, what is she wearing? It’s like a cross between a robe and a big
ol’ cow.”
“Don’t know, babe. She looks like a sleepwalker to me.”
Angela lies sprawled between two chairs with her legs poking out of a summer dress so she can soak up the afternoon sun. She studies the shambling figure through reflective sunglasses. A floppy pink hat shades the rest of her perky face even though the line of sunlight cuts her torso neatly in half.
The street has been quiet for a couple of hours. Neighbors used to poke their faces out of similar houses along Cole Avenue. They used to walk by with heads held high, aloof, as if oblivious to the fact that they had renters such as Lester and Angela near their precious property value.
Then those fuckers in trucks showed up, drove around yelling through bullhorns about a gas leak, get out, go somewhere else, get a couple days’ clothes, the Red Cross are standing by, so are hotels—bring your credit card. Screw that was Lester’s opinion. There was no way he was leaving his rented house, his supply of weed and alcohol.
A quick call to his attorney informed him that they couldn’t make him leave. They can’t make you, and don’t you let them fucking try it! He could picture Jerry in his office, walking around with that headset plastered to his ear while he screamed about Lester’s rights. He gets worked up because he is a good lawyer, also because he does coke, which he buys from Lester by the
truckfull.
So they stayed inside while the guys passed by in their trucks with their green clothes that provided about as much camouflage as if they were dressed in bright red with ‘Eat At Joe’s’ balloons over their heads.
Some of the people who looked like sleepwalkers had been rounded up. That’s when Les knew something was not right in Dodge. Not fucking right at all. Other men came. These were suited up in puffy white outfits, sealed up like they expected a chemical attack at any moment. They patrolled the streets after the soldiers and rounded up a couple of the people who were acting strange. Les had just hit his bong for the second time when one of the walkers attacked a guy in a space suit. He was crazy, like a rabid dog, thrashing and trying to bite the guy. A soldier jumped out of a truck and shocked the guy with a Taser. He hit the ground like a brick, then flopped around like a fish out of water.
But he was back on his feet in half a dozen heartbeats. Lester started giggling at the guys in white—the guys in green for that matter.
Then they brought out the electric guns. Poor bastard. That laid him out for the count. They wrapped him in some kind of plastic that covered him from chest to toe. Then they put something that looked like a hockey mask on the guy like he was Hannibal Lecter himself.
“There are guys who would pay big money to be tied up like that,” Les chuckled.
“That’s sick, Les.” Angela frowned.
Lester and Angela were lying upstairs, peering through slits in the blinds. This let them watch the action without being seen, or so he hoped. They lay side by side, and she kicked her legs up and down like a hyper kid who’d gotten into the chocolate chip cookies. She was also smiling from the weed, a big dopey grin that must reflect the one on his face. Not even the horror outside could crack their glossy stoned smiles.
The house was locked up tight as a drum. When the soldiers came to pound on the door, he and Angela stayed silent except for the sound of the bong gurgling. They fought down giggles as they played grab ass on the guest bed. The invaders yelled and banged on the back door next, but they didn’t break it down.
A shot rang out crisp and loud, shattering the already fucked-up morning with its retort. This would pretty much set the pace for the next two days of Lester’s life.
He slid closer to the window. Did they just shoot someone? And, sure enough, there was a man down in the street bleeding from a shot to the chest. Then the poor injured bastard struggled to his feet, and one of the soldiers shot him in the head. Just stepped up with his M-16 and put a bullet in the guy’s brainpan like he was going for a walk in the park. Blood and gore exploded outward, splattering the street. The noise was gruesome, like a bowl of spaghetti dropped on the floor, and was somehow louder than the actual gunshot. Suddenly the pot was no barrier to shock.
“...
the fuck?” he muttered. He stared as the men moved on, but they left the guy in the street. That was yesterday. No one had returned to claim the body.
Now a couple of the walkers have come to make a social call.
Lester raises the rifle to his shoulder and looks into the scope. The figure leaps into view, red from scalp to sternum with a red stain down her robe. She is not a small girl; her neck seems to merge from her chin into a steady flow of skin that marks the beginning of her chest. The white robe is covered in cow spots and blood. Lester can’t help but think of a slaughterhouse.
“This
ain’t a damn gas leak. They’re hiding something from us. All those soldiers here yesterday, driving up and down the road in their Humvees.” He lowers the gun and looks at Angela. “It’s bullshit. They’re covering up whatever made these people sick.” He says people because a few of them have wandered past the house. Some walking, some shambling, and some loping like dogs.
“Deader is missing an ear and part of her left arm,” he says in a cold voice. They’d escaped to the shade outside after sitting in the stifling house all morning, but Angela moved her chairs closer to the edge of the porch to tan her legs.
Lester is in a shitty mood. After the power went out in the middle of the night, he started sweating from the humidity and had a hard time going back to sleep. Finally he split an Ambien in half and washed it down with some lukewarm water. He would have taken a full one, but he didn’t want to be a zombie in the morning. So he woke up to sheets drenched in sweat, body awash in its own perspiration.
Then he tried to make coffee with hot water from the tap, but it tasted like shit. He ran it until it was steaming, too. He even let the grounds sit in the water
for a few minutes and then strained the mess through a coffee filter. It tasted like some weak-ass tea. He contemplated boiling water in the fireplace, but that would just heat the house and add to the misery. He dug out an old bottle of caffeine pills instead, and chugged a couple.
“Deader?” Angela asks.
“Heard one of the soldier dudes call them that yesterday when they were in the yard looking around my house. I should sue the bastards for trespassing.”
“They were trying to help, Les. They were trying to evacuate everyone, including us.”
“It’s bullshit, babe. Do you smell a gas leak? I sure as hell don’t. Someone fucked up, and now these people are sick. We saw them execute one like he was a criminal. Do you really want those guys ‘escorting’ us off Queen Anne?” In his contempt, he practically snarls his words.
“I don’t know, Les. I’m scared is all.
”
“Don’t be, babe. We got food, we got booze, we got weed and we got fucking guns … and the guys with guns always win.”
He watches her as she sighs and looks toward the end of the street that curves down the hill. The hill that leads downtown, the hill lined with trees and cars, other houses and the only exit out of the cul-de-sac.
“Do you think we can go to town tomorrow? I really need some new polish. I hate this shade, I just hate it,” she points at her feet while wiggling her toes.
“We’re going to need food soon enough, but I don’t think that’s such a good idea yet, babe. I’d rather those soldiers not see us.”
She sighs heavily and looks toward the end of the road again. “If they see us now, they might kick us out.”
“They can’t! Jerry said they can’t make us leave, they can just advise us that there is an emergency.”
“Don’t we have, like, a radio or something?”
“Got rid of it when we got the satellite.” He stands up for a stretch.
“When this is all over, we should get a radio that runs on batteries or something. You know, for emergencies.”
“What the fuck is this? If it ain’t an emergency, I don’t know what is.”
“I know, but we are safe, I mean it doesn’t feel like a real emergency. Hey, maybe we could get one of those windup radios; they charge when you crank them.”
“Good call, babe. It’ll be the first thing I buy when we get to a store. Meanwhile, I have something you can crank on.” He reaches down and shifts his junk in his shorts.
“So,” she lets the syllable hang in the air as if considering it. “Are you saying that if I crank your cock, news will come out of you? Where will it come out of exactly?” She shoots him a full pearly white grin.
Lester takes his seat and reaches into the cooler. The ice melted off yesterday, but the water in it is still reasonably cold. He extracts a beer, a microbrew with a red label. They are running out of the cheap stuff, but he has been saving this one.
“It’s not even noon. Isn’t it too early to start?” Angela whines.
Bubbles hit the back of his throat, rough and bitter. After the first swallow, the rest goes down clean, so he drains a quarter of the beer and lets out a long belch.
“Hand me a Diet Pepsi.”
“Won’t taste good warm,” he says.
He pushes cans and bottles around until he locates one on the bottom. He pulls it out and pops the tab in one smooth motion before handing it to her. She smiles over the top and takes a few swallows, then belches with the back of her hand over her mouth.
“’Scuse me.”
Lester reaches over and pats her bare knee. He lets his hand linger, sliding up her smooth leg.
“Oh look, here comes another one!” She jumps up excitedly like a little girl at an ice cream parlor. Lester glances to the side and watches the cloth fall down her legs, covering her tanned skin.
A figure comes around the corner and stumbles over a body. It’s another girl, but this time dressed in a business suit with a button-down shirt. She wouldn’t attract attention if it weren’t for the blood staining the white and black clothing. She seems to be missing part of her forehead, and she is limping.
“Oh my God, is that Marlene?”
“Marlene with the big fake boobs?”
“Is that how you remember our friends, by the size of their tits?”
“In her case, it’s the only thing she has going for her. She is kind of a bitch. At least to me.”
“I think she is into women … well, sometimes. She usually has a guy with her, though.”
“She’s into women? Fuck, that’s hot.”
“Sicko.”
“What’s sick about it? Have you ever been with a woman?”
Angela puts her hands on her hips and swivels to meet his eye. He can’t tell if she is mad at the question. The shade of her hat droops over her eyes so they look half lidded.
“No, and I don’t want to.”
They are quiet for a moment, and then she says, “Why, do you want to see me with a woman?”
“Of course I do, but only if she isn’t a deader.” Lester laughs aloud, sits back in his chair and clutches his stomach.
“Men. Jesus,” she sighs and then turns her attention back to the new deader. “I think it is Marlene. Hey Marlene!” Angela yells.
The woman continues to stagger toward the fence. She stumbles over the body of the dog they had to shoot yesterday because it was chewing on the ankle of the guy left to rot. It was worrying at the flesh like a bone left in its kennel. Big sucker too. Rottweiler, or so Lester thinks.
Marlene recovers and does her mindless waltz toward their house. Moo cow girl turns to look at her but continues stumbling around in a full circle until she is staring at Angela again.
Lester raises the rifle and studies the other girl’s chest.
“Yeah, that’s her.”
“Oh my God. Oh my God. Poor Marlene. Remember when we had that picnic last summer with her and that guy, what was his name?”
“I called him assclown, but I think his name was Chuck. All he did was talk about his stupid Mustang, like I can’t afford one of the new ones. Is she still with him?”
“Babe, she isn’t with anyone. She isn’t even with herself right now. Oh my God! Poor Marlene.”
“Should I take her out?”
“No! She used to be our friend.”
Your friend, maybe.
Their friend—make that Angela’s friend—reaches the fence but keeps trying to walk forward like a retarded kid. The chain link fence forces her to stop, but she swings her arms in their direction as if trying to reach the twenty or so feet. She bares her mouth in a horrid visage of broken teeth, tongue held on by a hunk of muscle, and a splatter of dried blood on her lips and chin. Her shirt hangs open, but not enough for Lester to get a glimpse of those big boobs. Not that he wants to; her skin is the same putrid gray shade as her swollen tongue.
A bag dangles from one shoulder as if she were on the way to the store.
“Is that her Coach purse?” Angela moves down the stairs.
“What?”
“That purse, it was her pride and joy. She told me once it cost a grand.”
“You’re fucking kidding me. For a bag?”
“Get it for me, babe,” she pleads, studying him up and down, her eyes promising him great things if he does.
Great things that happen in bed.
Another figure marches the drunken waltz around the entrance to the cul-de-sac, this one a large black guy wearing only a pair of pants. With each step, he leaves a bloody footprint. He pauses midstride, takes in the scene and approaches Marlene.
“Hurry, get it for me!” She turns and leans over so he has a flawless view down the front of her dress. She isn’t wearing a bra, and he marvels at the sight even though he has seen her large breasts countless times. There is something about a peek, that taste of voyeurism of which he never tires.
“Okay, but you need to cover me.”
“What do I do?” She does a little dance in place, clutching her hands together in front of her stomach like a child getting an allowance.
“Take the pistol and follow behind and to my side. If she gets too grabby, I want you to shoot her.”
He has his guns laid out on a little table with bullets and cleaning gear. He just went over the 9mm, figuring he may need to use it in the near future. He got the thing in a deal when one of his regulars didn’t have the scratch to pay for some coke.
Angela picks up the pistol and studies it for a moment.
“Where’s the safety thingy?”
He takes it from her hand and slips the magazine free, then peers at it. It’s packed with copper heads. He slams it back home and jerks the barrel back so there is one in the chamber. Trigger cocked, he slides the safety off and hands it back to Angela.
“Careful, that thing is ready to fire. All you have to do is aim and pull the trigger. Make sure you have a clear line of sight; don’t shoot me in the back.”
“Okay.” She raises the pistol in both hands and sights along the barrel, one eye squinted, head cocked to the side, looking sexy as hell as far as Lester is concerned.
“After this, we should go inside. I want to show you my other pistol.”
“Get me that bag and I’ll do anything you want, babe.” She grins.
Lester steps off the porch and into the muggy July sun. Even Seattle has brutally hot days when it decides not to rain. This is one of them, and he is not looking forward to this evening, when the sun will heat the house to a hundred degrees. With no power, there is no need to haul the air conditioning units upstairs like he has been promising to do for the past week.
Angela steps behind him and to the left, gun raised and pointed at her friend.
“Sorry, Marlene,” she whispers.
Lester steps up to the fence and bats Marlene’s hand aside. He grabs at the purse, but she flails her arms around, trying to get a grip on him. Her mouth opens and closes mechanically, chewing on the chunk of tongue that hangs loose. He tries not to look at the bloody gums, the broken teeth, but her terrible breath draws his eyes. It smells like rotten meat. Garbage left in the sun too long. Death.
He turns his head to the side, trying to avoid her breath, then he smacks her grasping claw away and grabs at the purse again. There is a little blood on the shoulder strap, but the rest seems to have avoided being splattered. He tugs the strap down her arm, but her other hand comes around and nearly cracks him across the face.
“Fuck, Marlene, just
gimme the goddamn thing. You don’t need it anymore.” He slaps her hand as he gets ahold of the strap again. He yanks back and then falls down as she leans forward to take a bite out of his cheek. She snaps forward quicker than he thought possible, nearly gets a taste too.
Lester’s teeth click together painfully as he lands, but he has the leather Coach purse his girlfriend wants. The other deader has approached the fence, but only one arm seems to work. He collides with Marlene, and the two stagger. He groans loudly, eyes fixed on Lester. Marlene stumbles into the large woman in the
moo cow robe, and they both go down in a heap.
Then Marlene is back on her feet and reaching over the fence for him. Lester scoots back on his butt, hands doing a crab walk as he tries to scurry away. The big guy is leaning over the fence when Lester gets a look at the guy’s eyes. They are rimmed with gray, filled with blood. It’s like something out of a horror movie.
“If you shoot him, I don’t think it will improve his looks,” he calls to Angela. “Fucker’s got the worst case of red eye I ever saw.”
The shirtless man sets his gaze on Angela and starts grunting while pushing against the fence like he is humping it. Lester is disturbed. The guy has a medium build but is completely bald. The way the guy is going at the fence reminds him of a child molester or something.
