Zombie Dawn
Authors: J.A. Crowley
Contents
Chapter Nine: Back to the Snow House
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55
Chapter Thirteen: Bill and Nancy
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78
Chapter Fifteen: Survivor Issues
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89
Chapter Seventeen: Division
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102
Chapter Eighteen: North to Vermont
105
Chapter Nineteen: The First Battle of Burlington
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108
Chapter Twenty: The Islands
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115
Chapter Twenty One: South Hero
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118
Chapter Twenty Two: The Witches
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121
Chapter Twenty Three: Grand Isle
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125
Chapter Twenty Four: The Fort
129
Chapter Twenty Five: Caterpillar
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131
Chapter Twenty Six: Canadians
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133
Chapter Twenty Seven: Winter Preparations
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135
Chapter Twenty Eight: Winter Patrols
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137
Chapter Twenty Nine: The Bat Cave
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154
Chapter Thirty: The Armory
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158
Chapter Thirty One: The Farm
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163
Chapter Thirty Two: Big Boy Toys
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167
Chapter Thirty Three: Jim Returns
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170
Chapter Thirty Four: Winter at the Farm
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174
Chapter Thirty Five: Back to Burlington
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178
Chapter Thirty Six: The Eagle’s Nest
179
Chapter Thirty Seven: Mike and Kate
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182
Chapter Thirty Eight: “Rats”
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183
Chapter Thirty Nine: A Chilling Discovery
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185
Chapter Forty One: Preparations
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188
Chapter Forty Two: The Battle of the Farm
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189
Chapter Forty Four: Attack From the North
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194
Chapter Forty Five: Sneak Attack
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196
Chapter Forty Six: Headshot
201
Chapter Forty Seven: Battle Over
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203
Chapter Forty Eight: Next Stage
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208
My wife is a true survivor. She can be difficult to deal with, but Kate was the one who saved us. When the virus (or whatever it was) hit, millions of otherwise intelligent and capable people waited too long to respond. They died. I would have been one of them.
I’m the type who analyzes, considers, and reviews before taking drastic action. Kate leaps right in. Not only that, but it was her time of the month so she was on a hair trigger.
I hated PMS until the day we later began to call “Day One.” How could God allow otherwise wonderful, maternal, sexy and loving people to become infested by demons every month or so? I guess it might have been part of the big plan after all—because it saved me and my kids.
I think about Kate every day.
Not only did lots of capable people die when it happened, but they turned around and attacked others, who passed it to others, and so on. It was a geometric progression. People didn’t do anything wrong, they just waited too long to react to situations that they literally could not comprehend. By the time they figured it out, it was too late. And the cycle continued.
Towards the end, the best estimates of the “Incident” were that about ninety percent of the population “turned” within the first four days. About five percent were physically damaged to the point where the virus didn’t matter; they couldn’t move or act and truly “died.” Some of the remaining five percent survived, at least temporarily.
Actually, I don’t say “died” anymore because no one knows if the “zombies” are dead or not when they attack. I maintain they’re dead, and always treat them as such. To avoid confusion, we eventually started to use the term “ended” to describe a being that, whether zombie or human, could no longer move or act. The term also referred to the humane act of terminating an infected human before it turned. Or of bashing in the brains of zombie.
We’ve since learned that the Zs do change over time and that there are differences among them—but I’ll leave it to the philosophers to decide if they’re alive and to the politicians to determine if they have rights. All I care about is avoiding being eaten.
Most people, whatever their religious or cultural background, believe (or claim to believe) in the “Golden Rule”—“Do unto others as you would have them do unto you.”
I agree. If I ever try to tear you or your loved ones apart and consume you, please feel free to “end” me. Trust me—I’ll do the same for you!
The initial survivors made it though the early days, but most of them succumbed to attacks, disease, starvation, suicide and dehydration over the following months. I’d say we’re down to way less than one percent of the original population, at least in the northeast of the United States. No one really knows, because there are certainly no census takers left. Pretty much no police, fire, or medical people either. It’s a tough new world. No one misses the census takers—or the IRS. A few good cops would be nice, though.
That Friday, I had just returned home from my small law firm. Over the past few weeks, it seemed like the world was falling apart—floods in Pakistan, revolution in South America, famine in Africa, stock market crashes everywhere, reports of cannibalism in Haiti, a flu epidemic in Europe and the United States spreading like wildfire, actual wildfires—and even though we’re no survivalists, my wife Kate and I had started to stock up on food, water, and supplies. There was simply no good news any more.
Our supplies would never be enough, based on how much the kids ate each day, but we hoped it would hold us for awhile in the event that we lost power or had to isolate ourselves if the flu epidemic came around.
We relied totally on the global and local support networks—utilities, food, water—everything. How many days worth of food do you think are on the shelves at your local market after the trucks stop rolling? We knew how quickly it could all fall apart. But who had the time, the money, and the certainty to do anything about it? Half measures were about the most you could do without bankrupting yourself or being considered a survival freak.
In any event, we later learned that lots of the survival freaks, while they were certainly odd and did bankrupt themselves, actually weren’t too good at it. Maybe because they were so freakin’ odd to begin with. We do appreciate their stuff, when we find it. That’s getting harder and harder. Everything is picked through and used up.
