Zocopalypse

Zocopalypse

By Angel Lawson

Zocopalypse

By Angel Lawson

© Angel Lawson 2015

Published by Entertwine Publishing 2015

All rights reserved

License Note

No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without authorization of the Author or Entertwine Publishing. Any distribution without express consent is illegal and punishable in court of law.

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental

I thought I understood quiet. How it sounded or more like, how it didn’t sound. But there’s nothing like the end of the world to put things into perspective. Before there was always something, some sort of constant. The steady hum of an air conditioner or the churning roar of a lawnmower. Only once before can I recall such silence. We’d had a massive snow storm, rare for this part of the south, and everything came to a sudden halt. Tree limbs fell on power lines. The roads iced over. At night we’d go outside and walk the snowy streets in the dark—lit only by the yellow glow of a flashlight. We stayed outside as long as possible, listening to the creaks and cracking of the ice covered world.

Back then though, the quiet seemed safe. Pure.

It didn’t happen all at once. It was more of a trickle. The absence of planes and later, cars. The sky and road fell eerily silent. People holed up inside, waiting for it to pass. Once the machines stopped there were only people sounds. Footsteps, doors slamming, voices calling out. One by one the noises slowed and the silence became deafening. Scary. But then, like everything else at the end, things changed and I realized the safety in quiet.

Silence was bad enough, but the screams were worse.

Chapter One

~Now~

I creep through the woods as though I know what I am doing. I don’t, but I am a fast learner. “Adaptable” my teacher inked at the bottom of my report card in the fourth grade. I didn’t know what that meant at the time. How could I? Everything in my life at that point had been entirely predictable. What would have made me adapt? Sharing my PB&J with Pete Moore at the lunch table when I knew he never washed his hands? These are the inane questions that I consider as I tiptoe through the shady afternoon, gun at my hip, hatchet in my hands. My eyes scan the ground for any sign of disturbance.

“I wonder what happened to Mrs. Crane?” I whisper breaking the oppressive silence.

“Who?” my mother asks. She walks so close to me she may as well have been my shadow. A clingy shadow with a limpy foot and a makeshift cane that makes too much noise.

My mother would
not
have been given the notation of “adaptable” on her report card. We’ve learned this the hard way.

“Mrs. Crane. My fourth grade teacher?”

My mother grunted a small acknowledgement followed by a heavy sigh.
I know
, I wanted to say. She’s dead. They’re all dead. But can’t we just pretend, just for a minute?

A branch snapped to our left, cracking like a shot in the late afternoon sky. We froze, heartbeats pounding in our ears and waited. Ten seconds. Twenty. Thirty…

There’s the answer to my question.

You can’t ever pretend. Not even for a minute.

Chapter Two

~Before~

8 Months Earlier

The second hand on the big, round clock moves slow and steady. It’s old-fashioned. The kind found in schools before most were replaced with digital, glowing red numbers. They must have kept it here to increase the pressure.

Tick. Tick. Tick.

The sound reminds me of each passing second before I have to turn in my final exam. The room is so quiet, except for the occasional rubbing eraser or strangled sigh.

Tick, tick, tick.

I never want to hear silence like this again.

“Time,” the woman up front announces. Booklets flip shut and the entire room breathes for the first time in an hour. I turn my paperwork in and try, for the gazmillionth time, to pretend that I don’t care if I make valedictorian or not. Denial is a trait I learned from my mother.

I spot Liza in the hallway. She looks distressed but manages a smile. “How’d you do?” she asks.

“Okay, I guess. I’ve done pretty well in calculus all year.”

“Please, Alex, let’s not pretend this isn’t you getting one step closer to valedictorian. I’m sure you did fine.”

Fine isn’t good enough. Not when you’re expected to be the best. “How about you?” I ask, already knowing. Liza isn’t the best test taker—she’s been in tutoring for months trying to raise her GPA, and even then it’s a long shot for her standardized tests being high enough for college acceptance. She and I both know the odds aren’t in her favor.

“Eh. I don’t want to think or talk about it anymore, okay?”

“Fine by me,” I agree. We push through the front doors of the school and walk into the bright, spring afternoon. I look at my best friend and try to think of something to lift her spirits. Today is just another reminder we wouldn’t be together forever. We’d always be friends but Duke was in my future. Liza would be lucky to get into a two year school. Her stomach rumbles loudly and I laugh. “I’m hungry. Are you hungry?”

“Starving.”

“Tacos?” I ask.

“Obviously.”

I link my arm with hers and say, “Let’s go.”

Over tacos and a vat of cheese dip I think about the differences between Liza and me. She’s beautiful, in that classic southern way. Long golden hair, big blue eyes, her skin carries a sun-kissed glow even when it’s not summer. I’m definitely the geekier of the two—including the grades. My dark hair is short with no definitive style. My skin is pale from too much time indoors and the last time I attempted a sport…well, the good news is that I didn’t break any bones. The bad news is that I managed to break someone else’s.

Okay that’s not completely true. Running. I run. In the seventh grade my mother made me pick a sport. I’d spent years in and out of various activities, hoping my ineptness would convince my mother it was useless to pursue it further. But no, she claimed “hormones” and a “well-rounded college application” required I get an hour of exercise a day. So I picked cross-country. My claim to fame was having my photograph in the
Cary Neighbor
paper congratulating me, post-race, on an amazing run. Unfortunately, I had come in last, something the photographer didn’t realize as there was a second heat that had already lapped me. 

Besides that my only other hobby is a nasty internet and gaming addiction. Liza actually socializes with people off screen. Despite all this we’re friends.

My phone buzzes and I shove the remainder of my taco in my mouth. It’s a text from Nerdgasam, a blog I follow on twitter. I read the first line. “Oh gross,” I say, the lump of gooey cheese and beans turning into mush in the back of my throat.

“What?” Liza asks.

“Some guy in Florida was arrested for going all cannibal on a homeless guy.”

She made a face. “Like he ate him? That kind of cannibal?”

I click on the link and scan the article. “Yeah, they say it’s drugs or something. There’s some sort of bad stuff floating around and it’s popular with the homeless?” I side-eye this story a little bit. What kind of drug makes you eat people? “Apparently he just went batshit and started chowing down on the guy. Like for real eating him. Look, there’s a video.”

“No thanks,” Liza says pushing away my phone and the remains of her meal. “That’s crazy.”

“Crack is whack.” I joke knowing the online community must be going crazy about this. Zombies are all the rage right now. Survivalists. Preppers. Sure, it’s fun to read about and even joke about how long you’d last during the end of times but people actually eating other people? Nope.

“Promise me that we’ll never eat one another okay? Even if we’re in an end of the world situation. No people eating. Ever,” Liza begs.

I smile at my best friend who is being more serious than she’d ever admit. “I promise.”

Chapter Three

~Now~

After the branch scare (it was just a deer) we find a well-worn path in the forest. According to my map and compass, we’re close to a small town. At the moment we have a week’s rations of food but only enough water to get through the rest of the day. After the last couple of days, we’ve been avoiding main roads. They’re just too dangerous.

We’ve taken a wide berth of cities, sticking to rural North Carolina. Getting out of Durham was tough. Deadly. Every step I take is just one more that surprises me. I shouldn’t be here. Not when so many others are gone.

To be honest, I don’t have a good idea on how many people are still out there and “normal.” By the time the media really caught on to what was going on and decided to get serious and not just sensationalize, the news programs were shut down—replaced by the endless and pointless emergency messages.

The trail ends and we come to the edge of the forest. A field stretches before us, filled with row after row of tobacco. From here I can see the small house positioned in the middle of the property. “See that barn?” I ask, pointing across the field. The house is a fair but walkable distance from the ancient looking barn. The walls are made of weathered gray planks, and the roof has rusty shingles. It looks like it’s been deserted for years.

Perfect.

“That should make an okay shelter tonight. Maybe we can find some food or at least water.”

“I can’t wait to sit down—even for a couple of hours,” she says. My mother isn’t old but walking ten miles a day over rocky terrain, in the middle of the summer has taken its toll, including a twisted and swollen ankle.

“Let’s try for a solid night’s sleep. I’ll take first shift.”

That brought some light to her gray eyes. “Thanks for taking care of me, Al. You’re kicking ass out here.”

“Thanks for making me go to Girl Scouts even though I refused to wear that stupid sash. Really? Who wears a sash? I mean, there’s a ninety-nine percent chance it will catch on fire while roasting marshmallows.”

My mother ignores me as she tends to do these days. We’re both tired, including of each other. I check the area carefully listening as much as looking. The Eaters are sneaky bastards—their brains may be fried but they still have some thinking parts up there and it sucks.

“Let’s go,” I say, leading the way down a flattened row between tobacco plants. The sandy dirt is soft under our feet and we move quickly toward the barn without incident getting there just before nightfall. We reach the massive door and I start to lift the rusted latch—Mom stops me by tugging on my pack.

“It’s not too late,” she reminds me for at least the fourth time today. Her voice quivers, sounding desperate. Panicked. She’s been up and down about this for weeks. I’m not sure how much longer she can take it.

“Mom,” I say trying not to get annoyed. “We promised.”

“There’s no way he could have known what would happen out here. He would want us to be at home, safe.”

I shake my head but keep quiet. She’s wrong. She just can’t bring herself to accept the truth. There is no home and there certainly isn’t any safe. Not now. Maybe not ever. But at least we have a mission. Something to get us moving every day. At least my father gave us that.

“Dad told us to go. He’s going to meet us. Leaving was what he wanted us to do. You know that.”

I see the change on her face—the one that happens when she’s not willing to accept reality. Denial has worked for her for many years but this time it won’t work. Reality is all we have—and our reality? It bites.

Chapter Four

~Before~

4 Months Ago

“Alex, your appointment time is at ten-thirty. Don’t be late.”

“I won’t, Dad.”

He’s talking to me from the other side of my bedroom door on his way to work at the lab. I’m barely awake, burrowed beneath my black and white patterned comforter. I fought the urge to shut my eyes again. I’d stayed up too late last night playing League of Mythmakers online.

“It’s important—don’t forget.”

“I won’t,” I say again. To be fair he normally just ignores me. I should be glad he’s taken an interest in something other than hook worms and ticks, right? “Promise.”

I arrive at the lab an hour later, early in fact. After a quick check-in at the desk, I go to the back and sit at one of the stations.

“How are you today?” the lab tech asks. I glance up and smile at my boyfriend, LabGuy. Okay, he’s not my boyfriend. Not by a longshot. I don’t know his name or anything else about him other than that he has a pair of bright blue eyes and the thickest, dark eyelashes I’ve ever seen on a guy. He wears a mask that covers his mouth and nose, making the rest of his face indistinguishable—but for some reason, that makes him even more enticing. His voice is deep and his hands are gentle. I wonder if they’re soft too but they’re wrapped in protective green gloves.

“I’m fine,” I say stifling a yawn. LabGuy takes my hand and wipes my finger with alcohol. I shiver but then he quickly stabs my finger with the prick “Mother-f—” I swear. Hurts every mother-f’ing time.

“Sorry,” he says, but I see the amusement in his eyes. He extracts a small, pin-sized vial of blood and then places a piece of cotton on my finger. My finger beats like a tiny drum when he wraps it with a Band-Aid.

“How much longer do we have to do this?” I ask feeling the pulsing heat at the tip of my finger.

He shrugs. “I’m not privy to that kind of information. I just collect the data.”

Data.

Blood.

Tests.

My father’s lab at the university had been running a new experiment for months. Normally we were kept out of this part of his work, only hearing the boring details over dinner. Research this…grant money that…but this time he asked us to participate in some blind studies. A little blood once a week didn’t hurt although I wished I’d been cut weeks ago like my mom. Apparently, whatever was in her blood wasn’t as interesting as what was in my blood.

Don’t tell the vampires I have special blood, okay?

“Here,” LabGuy says handing me a green lollipop wrapped in cellophane. “The sugar is good for you—replaces the nutrients from the blood loss.”

“You didn’t take that much blood, you know.”

“Humor me.”

I pull the lollipop out of the wrapper and stick it in my mouth. “Happy?” I ask around the sugary sweet.

“Yep.”

“See you next week,” I say acting braver than I really am. If I could see his whole face I’d never flirt with him. Odds are he’s a graduate student working for my dad or some exhausted bastard they found over at the med school that needed a job. Either way he’s older, has pretty eyes and is absolutely unattainable. Perfect for me to practice my college flirt game with.

I make my way through the lab and spot my father in one of the rooms. I start to tap against the glass but I don’t. He’s got that worried look on his face, the one that comes when things aren’t going exactly his way. Sucks to be a perfectionist.

Speaking of suckers, I finish mine while signing paperwork at the front desk. It’s not a normal doctor’s office waiting room—just a small office where a woman named Josie mans the desk. Like every other time I’ve come in, the TV hanging from the ceiling is on, flashing images from the news. From what I can tell (and read in closed captioning) there has been another attack. This time outside of a truck stop in South Georgia.

“Another one?” I ask the woman working the desk. I push the pump on the hand sanitizer and a cool pool of blue gel fills my palm. I rub it around my hands generously. “Jesus, how many is that now?”

“Yeah, third one this week,” she says. Her forehead lines with worry and her eyes never leave the screen. 

“They still blaming those off-market drugs? The ones truckers take or whatever?”

She nodded, eyes glued over my shoulder at the screen. The video is a constant loop of a man roaming around in a circle, hands balled into tight fists. There’s a lump on the ground blurred out—presumably a dead body.

“They said it took fifteen gunshots to take him down. The tasers and pepper spray didn’t even faze him.”

“You’re kidding.” I have a sudden desire to get home and look up this crazy situation on the internet. Some of my forum groups must be going wild. The news also could explain that look on my dad’s face. I’m sure he has plenty of thoughts on all this.

She shook her head. “They keep saying it’s isolated to the drug use, but seriously, what kind of drugs make you eat someone else? Last week that lady ate her dog. Her dog!” She pushes a stray piece of hair behind her ear and hands me a card with details about my next visit. We both watch the news a little longer but the show moves to a commercial break, breaking the spell.