Dead Series (Book 3): A Little More Alive (16 page)

The heavyset man
sharpened his gaze and stepped closer, letting the sunlight hit his face and
turning his rifle to Paul. Most of the man’s group had revolvers or semi-autos
and Paul counted three men with assault rifles they probably took from the
village’s onsite police department. He could tell by their clothing they were
still living out of the suitcases they packed just before the virus shut down
the airports. They were of the last to fly commercial air and whether that was
a lucky break or a sardonic curse, he didn’t yet know.

“You cops?” Mangy
Beard asked, noting the badges pinned to their coats.

“That’s right.”
Paul relaxed his muscles just enough to let them know he meant them no harm.
“Are any of you hurt? We have medicine and first-aid supplies.”

“So do we.” He
traded a cocky grin with the tall man standing next to him that Paul didn’t
care for. “Now, why don’t you folks set your weapons on those tables and we’ll
settle this like civilized adults.”

“You first,” Paul
replied, tempted to spray him with bullets like he did to Booth and his posse.
The trigger was smooth against his skin, comforting, but something in their
eyes held him back. Even though they outnumbered Paul’s team five to one, they
looked like they’d been here for weeks and had no idea where this was going. Like
maybe they were ready for a change. For a chance at something real. And before
Paul pulled that trigger and sent them to the next world, he would give them that
very chance.

Mangy Beard
dropped his head and peered through the rifle’s scope, drawing a bead on Paul’s
face. “I’m only going to tell you one more time, hotshot, put the guns on the
tables.”

“Look, my name is
Paul and we just want to talk.”

“Talk?” Mangy
laughed and swapped a smug glance with the anxious looking tall man next to him.

The tall man swept
his oily locks back and returned his long skinny fingers to the assault rifle
hanging from his neck. “Talk about what?”

“About taking this
place back from the dead.”

Mangy looked
through the scope again. “Already beat ya to it, slick. Cleared the undead out
of here over two weeks ago.”

“Most of em
anyway,” the tall man grumbled under his breath, drawing a heated look from
Mangy.

Paul shook his
head. “No, I mean all of it, not just the mountain. The entire country.”

A wave of stunned
looks and murmurs rolled through the crowd. They exchanged questioning glances,
sobering Mangy’s face. “Jibe-ho!” he yelled, causing the others to take two steps
closer to Paul’s group like North Korean soldiers, feet clapping against the
floor in unison, weapons drawn and fingers hugging the triggers.

Paul held his
ground, clenching his teeth and popping a vein in his neck. “Jesus Christ, just
take it easy!”

Curtis swung his gun
around the room, picking targets. “And just for the record, Captain Jack,
Jibe-ho
is a sailing term. Not an attack
command.”

“Put the guns down
or we’ll drop you where you stand on the count of three.” Mangy Beard tipped
his head down to show Paul his
I mean
business
face.

Curtis smiled at
Brian. “Now that’s more like it.
On the
count of three
,” he said, shaking his head. “An oldie but a goodie.”

Stephanie shrieked
when someone stuck a shotgun barrel in her back. Brian and Billy were next to
find the long end of assault rifles poking them from behind. When it became
clear they were outnumbered and outgunned, Paul held his hands up and let the
M4 hang from his neck.

“Okay, okay,” he
said, showing them his palms. “What’s your name?”

The man turned his
heated glare a few degrees higher and spoke in a low, slow voice. “One.”

Curtis looked at
Billy. “
One
? What the hell kind of
name is that?”

Billy shook his
head, chest pumping. “I think it’s Jedi,” he panted, stiffening when the man behind
him jabbed him again. “Okay, take it easy, brother!”

“Look, we don’t
want any trouble,” Paul said, scanning the crowd. “We just want to help. We’re
not the enemy.”

“Two.”

“Alright!” Pulling
the strap over his head, Paul set the weapon on the table next to him. He
nodded at his team to follow suit, prompting Mangy Beard to boldly step closer.
Paul glanced at Curtis, ready to communicate his silent plan to ambush this
fucker on his command. If Paul guessed right, most wouldn’t remain loyal when
push came to shove. Most would stand and watch. Or run. This is what he wanted
to communicate with Curtis using just a single head nod but Curtis was too busy
staring across the room with his jaw dragging on the floor and the color fleeing
his cheeks. Mangy Beard noticed the warped look gripping Curtis’ face and turned
to follow his wide eyes to a man with dark wavy hair standing by the hostess
stand. The man just stood there like he was waiting for someone to seat him.
Like the blood running from the corners of his mouth and the purple veins
spider-webbing through his ashen skin were completely normal and shouldn’t
interfere with enjoying his meal in the slightest. He opened and closed his
mouth but the only thing that came out was a stream of dark fluid that oozed
down his Chevy cut-off and slapped to the floor around his bare feet.

Curtis stepped
forward. “Troy?” His voice was barely audible but Paul heard it and so did
Stephanie, who inhaled sharply and clapped a hand over her mouth.

“Troy,” she
shouted, drawing her dead older brother’s hollow eyes.

Paul’s gaze
flickered to the M4 on the table next to him, mentally preparing for a quick
grab because this was it.
They
were
back.

“Corpse!” The tall
man with oily hair took aim at Curtis’ dead brother.

“Noooo!” Curtis
yelled, elbowing the man standing behind him in the nose. There was a loud
crunch when the cartilage broke but it was too late. The tall man opened fire
on Troy, spraying him with lead that didn’t last for long. His weapon clicked
dry and that’s when Paul knew the ragtag group was low on ammo. He was about to
grab his M4 when more of the dead suddenly appeared around the edges of the
room, floating from the shadows and glaring at Mangy Beard with hatred coiling
in their vacant eyes.

Mangy Beard opened
fire as well but, like the tall man, his shots went right through Sophia and
Dan, blowing out one of the huge ceiling-to-floor windows behind them. The wind
rushed into the room, stirring the dead into closing the circle.

“Lower your
weapons or I will have them tear you in two!”

Mangy’s bulging
eyes snapped to Paul, fear and confusion stretching his weathered face. “You…”
He paused to collect his breath. “You control the dead?”

Paul glanced at
his team fanned out behind him. “
We
control the dead.”

Stephanie stepped
forward, reaching for Troy standing across the room. Teardrops raced over her
cheeks as she curled her hand into a fist and brought it to her chest. “Paul
has the cure!” she said, letting her eyes sweep over the group of survivors.
“But it won’t work without you.”

“They have helped
us before,” Paul added, looking around the room. “But the question is: will
you?”

The tall man was
the first to set his weapon on a table.

“Finn!” Mangy
Beard shouted. “Pick it up!”

“Fuck that, Ed!
I’m done with this shit. These people didn’t do anything to us.”

“Coward!” Ed spit
back, slowly backpedaling from Sophia and Dan who were coming closer with
uneven steps and outstretched hands. His face fell when he backed into
something large and unmoving. Turning, he looked up into Brock’s dead eyes, jaw
falling unhinged.

Brock tipped his
cowboy hat back with a decomposing finger and spread a greasy grin. “There’s a
new sheriff in town, hoss, and y’all best get used to it.”

“Okay!” Ed dropped
the rifle to the tiled floor and shot his hands into the air. “Okay.” He backed
away from Brock and Cora, startling when he ran into Carla, Matt and Mike.
Spinning in circles, his face turned as white as Sophia when he saw the dead
gathering around him like ants to candy.

Paul gave Dan a
tight-lipped nod of the head, heart swelling in his chest, and wiped at his
misty eyes. They were here to help and he couldn’t believe it. If it weren’t for
the stunned look on Billy’s face, he’d think he was seeing things again. Would
think he was certifiably insane. But he wasn’t.

“Holy fucking
shit,” Billy gasped, slowly backing away from the wall of windows.

Paul followed his
pointing finger, pulse jumping when he saw all of the dead people standing
outside the broken window. They were everywhere, covering the patios and bunny
hills, filling the slopes rising to the top of the mountain like the world’s
largest amphitheater.

“They won’t hurt
you!” Paul’s voice rang through the dining room and slipped out the shattered
window. He turned to the forty or so survivors they just came across, wanting
to ease the alarm twisting their faces. “They are here to help us; all of us,
but only if we work together.”

With terror enlarging
their eyes, they slowly set their weapons down and trembled in their boots,
unable to look away from the ghastly horde now outnumbering them ten thousand
to one. “Who are they?” a gray haired woman asked, leaning against Finn to
support her wobbly legs.

“They were the
first to fall and the last to get back up.” Paul pulled a chair out and used it
to step up onto a table. “Leave him!” he ordered. The corpses surrounding Ed
obediently pulled back, revealing the terror in his eyes and the urine stain in
his khakis. Paul studied the crowd standing before him, taking in their
bewildered faces and catching a weak smile from his dead mother standing at the
back of the room. “If you join us, they will help you take this country back.
The entire planet back.” The mangled faces watching from outside filled him
with some much needed hope that made it easier to breathe, easier to stand tall.
No matter someone’s training in modern warfare, a few lucky breaks along the
way could, ultimately, be the difference between life and death on the
battlefield. And
this
was the biggest
break of all.
This
would be the
difference. When most of the population disappeared overnight, Paul thought he’d
never stand a chance against an endless militia of famished corpses. But he was
wrong. Because this time they had the edge. This time they had the numbers. It
wasn’t about the dead getting back up. It was about
them
getting back up.

He stepped to the
middle of the table and spread his arms wide open, conviction lifting his
voice. “Together, we will bring the fight to the living dead without rest. We
will get smarter and stronger and if the undead have a single cell left in
their rotting brains, they will run when we come knocking. One town at a time,
we will wipe them from the face of the earth until the only thing left is
safety and peace for all!” His heart beat against his jacket, white breath
rushing past his lips. “I say enough is enough. This is our home and they can’t
have it because we are still alive!” He shoved a fist into the air and it was
like the entire mountain came to life. Fistfuls of promises thrust into the sky
around him in the dining room, rising all the way up the side of Copper
Mountain in an imposing display of force that made the hairs go up on his arms.

The survivors looked
at each other for an uncertain moment before cheering and hugging and that was
the moment when Paul knew they would take it back.

Knew this wasn’t
over by a longshot.

Knew that
this
…was just the beginning.

DAY ONE THOUSAND
TWENTY-NINE

C
urtis dropped a fifth of Jack Daniels to
the floor where it bounced onto its side and began staining the busy carpeting
with gurgling noises. “Fuckin shit, they’re all over the place!” He
backpedaled, the worn M4 snug against his shoulder, swinging the flashlight
clipped to the weapon around the casino.

Paul glanced
behind him to see where he was going, keeping his weapon light trained on the ragtag
horde shambling closer in the pale moonlight slipping through the slanted windows
above. The dead were skin and bones and how they continued to walk, he would
never know. “I told you we should’ve grabbed Billy and Scabs.”

Curtis jerked when
he pulled the trigger, putting a round through the nose of an emaciated naked woman
with gray hair hanging to her crusty feet. “Those lightweights passed out an
hour ago,” he replied, lining up his next shot.

“Which is why I
told you this was a bad idea.” Paul absorbed the weapon’s recoil like a sponge,
removing the forehead of a slender man sporting shredded black slacks and
fingernails that were so long, they curled like a wire whisk around his hands. “I
don’t know why I listen to you.” Nearly three years into this mess and he was
still making stupid mistakes. Still letting Curtis talk him into things that,
one day, would probably get them all killed.

Curtis popped a
cap into a young lady with curly hair and teeth so sharp, they were shark-like.
“Because I’m your second in command and we’re out of booze! What’d you wanna do
the rest of the night? Sit around drinking Arnold Palmers and playing chess.”

Paul shot a white
man with long silvery hair in the face. “Hey, I like chess!”

Curtis cried out
and teetered in the air. Paul reached for him and, for a glimmering moment, thought
he had him. Their fingertips brushed as Curtis fell backwards in slow motion,
falling off a single step that must’ve thwarted thousands of drunken tourists
over the years. Landing on his right side with an
oomph
rushing from his lips, his gun went off, striking a dead
Wheel of Fortune
slot machine right in
the kisser. Crying out in pain, he rolled onto his back, clutching his right
arm to his chest.

Paul hopped down the
step and helped him to his feet, the grisly throng coming closer with slow and
determined steps, a certain desperation swirling in their recessed eyes. “Are
you okay?”

Curtis staggered a
little and tried to straighten the weapon strap around his neck, cringing with
the movement and holding his right arm. “I dislocated my shoulder! You have to
pop it back in.”

“What!” Paul
squeezed off a single round, bringing a middle-aged bridesmaid down that did
little to impede the others behind her. “Right now?”

“I can’t shoot
like this!”

Together, they
backed their way across the colorful carpeting, looking for a way out of the
massive casino. Paul wondered if Billy and the others could hear the gunfire
from the penthouse suites perched on the top floor and seriously doubted it,
especially since everyone was asleep. No, he and Curtis were on their own.
“There!” Paul jerked his chin to an emergency exit partially hidden by a palm tree.
They ran to it, putting some distance between them and the encroaching pack so
Paul could go to work on Curtis’ shoulder. Weaving through some blackjack
tables and pit boss podiums, he slammed on the breaks, skidding to a stop in a
new pair of Nike running shoes.

“Okay, what do I
do?” Paul panted, glancing behind him to see the herd slowly closing the gap.

Curtis held his
right arm out from his body at a ninety-degree angle, wincing with the pain
ripping through him. “Okay,” he panted, “grab my wrist with your right hand and
my elbow with the other.”

The death moans
grew louder. Sweat tickled Paul’s temples.

“Okay, what now?”

Curtis took a few
quick breaths, body tensing. “Now pull and twist.”

With little time
to spare, Paul did a fast pull and twist. Curtis threw his head back and howled
his pain to the high ceiling above. “Jesus Christ!” Paul gasped, letting the
arm go. “Did I get it?”

Curtis hung his
head and shook it to clear the pain, chasing his racing breath. “No, you have
to pull and then…” He stopped talking when the double doored emergency exit
burst open, releasing a stream of foul smelling undead into the ginormous room.

“Oh shit!” Paul
spread his legs and raised the assault rifle, head dizzy with the alcohol
coursing through his bloodstream. He fired, feeling the magazine drain like
sand in an hourglass, knowing the stiffs had successfully corralled them like
cattle toward the exit. Skin and bones my ass.

Curtis started
shooting next to him and screamed at the top of his lungs, painting a yellow
wall with an errant arc of bullet holes. “Fuck!” he said, letting off the
trigger and clutching his shoulder.

Paul unloaded on
the things ambling from the emergency exit, glancing behind him to the other rancid
mob now passing a long bar with red chairs and no TVs. “Curtis! I need you to
fight through the pain and start shooting.”

“I can’t,” he
yelled, doubling over. “I’m going to pass out.”

With his head on a
swivel, Paul watched both herds approaching from opposite sides of the long
room. There was nowhere to run and the one magazine tucked in his black cargo
pants (the mag he almost left on the dresser upstairs) wouldn’t outlast the
corpses. There were too many of them. “We need to carve out a path this way,”
he said, turning to the dead people stumbling past the bar and firing off a
controlled three-round burst. The moans behind them got louder. Closer. “You
start shooting, Curtis, and that is an order!”

“Goddammit,”
Curtis cried through gritted teeth, using his hips to swing the weapon up to
eye level. Staring down the barrel, his body tensed in preparation for the bolt
of agony about to rip through him. His finger coiled around the worn trigger,
long hair sticking to his sweaty face and neck. He held his breath and squeezed,
crying out over the gunfire and unloading on the throng of walking corpses. The
buttstock hammered against his dislocated shoulder, squeezing teardrops from
the corners of his eyes. His first few shots went over the top but quickly
corrected course. The dead began hitting the carpet with the tears falling from
his cheeks.

“Let’s go,” Paul
yelled, heading back the way they came in.

“I’m never going
to Vegas again,” Curtis shouted, face red and glistening in the moonlight.

Paul shot a cocktail
waitress in the nose and hurdled her fallen body. “I told you we should’ve gone
to Yosemite!”

Curtis followed
him around a corner and skidded to a stop when a fat man in a black motorcycle
vest exploded from a restroom. Curtis blew his head off while the dead slowly
advanced behind them. “What’s with you and Yosemite anyway?”

Paul shrugged. “I
don’t know; they have bears and stuff.”

Curtis stared
blankly at him for a second or two before bursting into laughter and punching
back in with the M4, screaming like hell at the pain and following Sophia’s
ghost into a stairwell next to the defunct glass elevators.