Blood of the Dead: A Zombie Novel (Undead World Trilogy, Book One) (3 page)

Wheezing, she stopped, put her hands on her knees, and tried to catch her breath. Only now was she able to taste the salt of this bizarre rain on her tongue. Spitting it out, hoping it wouldn’t make her sick or do to her what it had done to her sister, she tried calling out to the three shadows. Only a small squeak escaped her lips.

Audrey emerged from the rain, as did the redhead and the tall black guy.

The three walked at the same pace toward her, their footing weak and unsure.

Head dizzy from the exertion, Billie knew she was supposed to be doing something right now but wasn’t sure what. It involved movement, but what kind? What was she supposed to do? Her head ached from the crying, the running, the frantic breaths of fear.

With rubbery arms, Billie tried to push her away but Audrey was too strong. Her sister’s steps were feeble and at one point in the struggle, Billie tripped over Audrey’s feet. A spike of pain shot through her already-tender ankle. She fell to the pavement. Audrey jumped on top of her, her weight uncontrolled. Dead weight.

“What are you doing? What are you doing? Get off!” Billie shouted.

Audrey reached for Billie’s neck. It was impossible to shove her sister’s hands and arms away; her hands kept sliding off Audrey’s rain-slicked skin.

Thunder boomed and for a moment Audrey seemed distracted. Billie torqued her body to the side but Audrey quickly snapped her back into place on her back, helpless.

Tears distorted Billie’s vision, turning Audrey’s gray face with red lips and blood dripping down her chin into some kind of funhouse mosaic.

She’d never forget the look on her sister’s face when she managed to push the head far enough away from her neck then off to the side: anger.

Billie couldn’t remember what happened next, just the sense of freedom from being out from under the weight of her sister’s body and the joy of leaving the other two white-eyed people behind.

But she’d never forget that rain.

It lasted for a week.

Des Nottingham: Zombie Wrangler

“Ha! And they said I couldn’t stand up for myself,” Des shouted, thinking back to the kids of four years ago who stuffed him in a locker at school. “Now I’m king and all you bozos are gonna pay!”

He hid just inside the mouth of an alley and peered out onto the dark street. It was littered with dismantled cars, each stripped for anything that might be useful or of value. The surrounding buildings were all dark. It was night, just the way he liked it.

Just him and the undead.

Several blocks down the street, four members of the dead ambled down the sidewalk, their bodies swaying awkwardly side to side as they planted decrepit feet down one in front of the other. It was because of them and those like them that the world was in the state it was in.

Des Nottingham waited, careful to remain out of sight. When the time was right, he would pounce and take the suckers down.

Just like at school: sneak up on ol’ Des and snuff him out. Ha! Now it’s
my
turn to have my way!

He admired his well-muscled arms, as rippled as sandbars. His body was a far cry from what it used to be and from what people remembered.

For a moment, he thought he should have had a gun then thought better of it, remembering that, for him, he just simply preferred to smash heads. Most folks just settled for popping a bullet between the creatures’ eyes and left it at that. Des preferred to plow their skull into the pavement whenever he could, cracking the bone and smearing sweet goo and brain matter across the concrete.

“Can’t live without yer brains, can you?” he said.

The dead men drew nearer. Each had been middle-aged when they’d died. Now they were mere shells of their former selves, all pasty gray skin and bulging eyes.

Leaning up against the wall inside the alley, Des went over the game plan in his mind. This was his favorite part, the few seconds before the kill (if killing something that was already dead counted as killing, that was).

He peered around the corner.

The zombies stopped, as if sensing his presence.

“Uh oh,” Des breathed.
Don’t say “uh oh,” you idiot! You knew you were going to face them. What’s the difference if they saw you first?
He smirked.
Hmph. Life or death. That’s the difference. Just don’t let them bite you and you won’t come back as one of them.

The creatures drew nearer, arranging themselves single file, each hugging the wall of the building beside them.

Sure, make it easier for me. Figures. No challenges left in life, it seems. Bummer.

He waited a moment longer and the second the shadow of one of the undead materialized at the mouth of the alley, Des jumped out, Black Sabbath’s “Iron Man” playing in his head. He wrapped his fingers around the zombie’s neck. Using the momentum from the jump, he swung on the zombie’s neck to the side, yanking the creature down and taking it to the pavement. He landed on top of it then quickly got to his feet and sent the heel of his heavy, steel-toed boot into the back of the zombie’s skull, cracking it like an egg. He brought his knee up and mashed his foot down again, further splitting the bone. A splash of black blood and mooshy brain burst from its housing and splattered onto the pavement. Des leapt into the air and landed on the zombie’s head with both feet, squashing it like a melon.

The other three creatures came toward him, two of them with their arms raised, trying to grab him.

He took the closest one’s wrist in his hands, spun on his heels so his back was facing it, then brought the creature’s elbow down on his shoulder, breaking it against the joint. A sharp shard of bone popped through the remains of the creature’s dust-covered navy blue suit jacket. The break didn’t faze the dead man, not that Des expected it to, but at least this way the creature was with one less useful appendage.

Des kicked the creature in the gut, the force of the blow making it double over. He then grabbed the zombie by the ears, jumped up and sent a knee into the dead man’s nose. The creature fell off to the side just as the other two came at him and worked together, each taking one of Des’s arms.

“This the best you got?” Des said and chuckled.

He ran for the wall in front of him, dragging the zombies with him. He kicked out his right leg and ran up the wall, flipped over and freed himself from their grasp. He landed behind them.

The creature with the broken arm moved for him.

Des ran around it, jumped on its back, and slammed his elbow down into the top of the dead man’s skull. The blow was enough to daze the creature. Des dismounted, grabbed the creature by the scruff of the neck and ran it into the building wall, smashing its face against the brick in a dark smear of black blood and scraped skin. He jerked the creature’s head back then launched it forward again, breaking the creature’s face and skull against the building like a water balloon. The corpse fell and hit the sidewalk and moved no more.

There were still the other two to take down and they were on him fast. He usually wasn’t this slow.

Don’t get distracted,
he told himself.

“You punks ready for some more?” he said as they grabbed him, one with its arms around his chest, the other scooping him up by the legs.

They hoisted him off the ground then tossed him several feet in the air, sending him flying into the frame of an Oldsmobile that had smashed into a streetlight long ago.

Des lay there against the ’mobile, unable to move.
Come on, get up.
He still lay there.
Let’s go already!
Slowly, he managed to right himself, then planted his feet on the ground.

The buzz of the boot spinning through the air sent a wave of excitement through him. He let the nearest creature have it, whacking the steel-tip of the boot into the side of its head. It stumbled off to the side. The other came closer. Des let him have one, too.

“You really think you’re gonna take me, don’t you?” He socked each of the creatures once more with the boot.

Dazed, the creatures stopped moving for a second before redoubling their efforts. One grabbed him, holding him tight, while the other moved in for the kill. Des whipped up his left boot and nailed the zombie between the legs just as it was about to bite. The blow didn’t faze it. Like kicking a heavy pillow.

As the creature’s mouth opened near Des’s neck, he realized he’d be done for if he didn’t act immediately.

With a violent jerk, he swung his head into the zombie’s, skull smacking against skull. The zombie teetered to the side, giving Des more room to maneuver.

He stomped on the foot of the one that held him, elbowed it in the stomach then yanked his arms free. Though he knew mashing down on its toe and hitting in the gut didn’t do anything, it still felt good to do it.

Des grabbed his boot off the pavement and threw it at them, not caring which one he hit. The boot smacked the zombie he’d headbutted. Des pounced on its back and tackled it to the ground. He landed on top of it, straddled its back, then picked up its head by the back of the hair and plowed its face into the pavement over and over, breaking its head open. Wet brain and black blood splashed all over him. He didn’t care.

Lost in the moment, he had forgotten about the last zombie until it grabbed his shoulders from behind, dragged him off its kin, and went to sink its teeth into his face.

Des punched it in the head square on then came in from the side and hook-punched its jaw, dislocating it.

“That’ll teach ya not to French me, you slimy goober!”
Sheesh. “Goober”? What a loser.

He wrestled out from underneath it, scrambled on all fours until he was behind it, stood, then grabbed the zombie by the shins and yanked the creature’s legs out from under it. The corpse hit the pavement with a sickening smack.

Quickly, Des made for the body of the zombie with the broken arm, tore the broken arm off at the elbow, then returned to the last of the creatures and beat it with the arm, using it as a club to the creature’s skull. He whacked it over and over until the zombie stirred no more.

Just then everything went black and Des was sucked off the street and back into the living room of his tiny bachelor apartment, reclining on his La-Z-Boy.

That was twice this week the power went out while he was in the middle of a game.

August Norton: Recluse Christian Dude

This wasn’t the way the world was supposed to end.

No matter which way August Norton approached it, nothing—
nothing
—that had happened was
supposed
to have happened.

The dead were not supposed to rise. Ever.

The only Biblical prophecy that stated the dead would appear was Revelation 20:12-13, which spoke of the sea and death and Hades giving up the dead that was in them to face the White Throne Judgment at the feet of Christ. Then, and only then, would the dead rise and, even when that event occurred, the dead wouldn’t be on the earth because the earth and sky would flee from the presence of Jesus.

But these weren’t the “dead,” he reminded himself. They were the
undead.
And they were on Earth and Planet Earth was still here.

Since the dead began to rise and transform any people unfortunate enough to be in their path, August had locked himself and his family away at his cabin an hour’s drive out of town, at first for safety, then for answers.

Over the past year he had read the Bible three times. Read every Bible commentary he had in his library—four, all told—poured over the ancient End of Days prophecies countless times, sought the Lord earnestly in prayer—and was met with a dead end at every turn.

For well over two hundred days he promised his wife, two sons, their wives, and his five grandchildren that the Lord Christ was in control and that what happened the world over wasn’t beyond God’s remedy. Even when his family’s faith began to falter he remained strong. Each morning they met in prayer. Each night they met again. Day in and day out.

Until the last day, the one that made him question God for the first time since being saved as a young man back in ’62.