Zombologist Book 1 Zombie Hunters (Zomboligist Series)

 

Zombologist Book 1

ZOMBIE HUNTERS
 
Zombies of the Rich & Famous--
Escape

©Copyright 2013 by: TJ Lynn for Kindle
All rights reserved
Kindle Edition

The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious.
Places and
events are used fictitiously. Any similarities to any real person either
living
or dead are coincidental and not intended by the author.

This book is for your personal enjoyment only

All ye who come my grave to see,
Prepare for death and follow me.
Prepare for death make no delay,
For suddenly I was called away

****

Pennsylvania 1886

The rat scurried across the desk looking for the usual
crumbs that the man always left behind. The man hadn’t been here for a while but
the rat was still looking for anything, any tiny dropping he may have missed.

Wax, pen quills, a glass dish, candles, more wax.

Nothing.

He sat upon his hunches and sniffed. Once again, he caught
the faint mesmerizing scent of rancid decay and death.

His stomach growled loudly.

He hesitated.

The smell, as delightful as it was, came from the area the
predator occupied. His heart gave a lurch, stay away - danger - it warned
habitually.

His empty belly rumbled. The ache was beginning to get
physical, dulling his eyesight and weakening his resolve. He knew better but
couldn’t stop his feet from moving. The odor was too intoxicating, too
overwhelming.

He stopped just outside the metal bars sniffing wildly. His
little whiskers twitched excitedly at the prospect of a full belly. He smelled
bones and the lingering odor of death. It was stronger now, enticing.

He knew he shouldn’t, but was unable to stop himself. He
also knew the bones were from the rest of his family, brothers and sisters that
got too close. Too close to the predator. He had heard their screams, their
cries when they had dared to play with death.

He inched closer.

Suddenly he was clenched in a vise like grip, rising
through the air. He wildly tried to twist his body and scratch with his feet to
be set free. His struggle was futile, so tight was the hold. He opened his mouth
to protest to squeal loudly but nothing came out, his lungs had collapsed under
the grip, his ribcage broken. Fingernails gripped his body, digging and ripping
into his soft underbelly, tearing his flesh and fur away.

The predator began to eat.

London 1886

Footsteps echoed dully as he walked. The fog swirled thick
and muffled his steps on the cobblestone road, deafening it before it could be
repeated back to him.

The London fog was unlike any he had ever seen before –
enveloping him like a cloak, curling around him and closing in like a soft
feathery blanket. But unlike a soft blanket, it unnerved him and set his jaw to
clench.

He had, just the day before, set foot on land for the first
time in seven weeks. He hadn’t been looking forward to the long voyage across
the ocean. The last time he had been on a ship had been with his wife en-route
to South America, and that hadn’t ended well.

This trip he made alone.

He had paid well and had been assigned a bunk above the
water line, but that didn’t diminish the smells drifting up from 3 decks below
where the crew and supplies were housed.

The trip started out pleasant enough, beautiful evening
sunsets and even a stream of porpoises to break up the sullenness. He had plenty
of time to catch up on his reading and writing, losing himself in the inspired
prose of Mark Twain, writing several letters and filling several pages of his
journal.

Having paid well, he was entitled to the better cuts of
meats and clean cups of water. Until they ran out that was. The remaining part
of the voyage had been spent fighting sea sickness and eating potatoes, bread
and biscuits. The remaining water was nasty - from casks previously filled with
oil, vinegar, turpentine or wine. It was foul smelling and rancid to drink.

Even now, bathed and dressed in clean pressed clothes,
walking the streets of London, he shivered at the thought.

On the final week of the trip, the ship had been pummeled
with strong headwinds that caused it to bounce and roll from side to side.
Buckets of salt water drenched the decks and leaked into the bunks below.
Several passengers were above ship trying to catch fresh rain water into
whatever they could carry.

He was above ship too, rain water pelting the brim of his
derby hat, black cloak pulled tightly around him, face hidden in the shadows.

Three days later they had docked. Finally there was relief
from the tiny portions of spongy potatoes and biscuits, as well as the rolling
ship. He literally stumbled to his knees on the splintery fish-smelling
boardwalk, spilling his belongings.

He found a room for the night and ordered a large meal,
soaking in the smells and sounds of normalcy. He needed all that he could get.
He slept for 12 hours and rose to coffee and ate another, though less portioned
meal. He had several hours until his appointment and filled the time walking the
streets of London taking in the sites.

The day had been cloudy, rainy and misty.

Now the fog was rolling in - thick walls of clouds drifted
around him as he set out for his scheduled appointment.

He passed the East London Cemetery, headstones looking
bleary through the fog. He saw one woman kneeling beside a freshly covered
grave. She was crying softly and looked up as he passed. He nodded and said a
short prayer for her under his breath; old habits were hard to break.

He climbed a small hill alongside the cemetery and stopped
once he reached a side street.  He pulled a well worn letter, postmarked from
London, from his cloak and double checked the street names. He took a right and
followed the road to the crosswalks and checking the letter again, turned left.

He was afraid of becoming lost. This was his first and only
trip to London and he wasn’t enchanted at all. But, he never expected
enchantment, he was there for answers.

The fog continued to thicken around him. Soon it was a
blanket of white, so thick that he had a hard time staying on the cobblestone
path. He found himself brushing against one of the musty smelling buildings that
had seen better days. A wooden splinter the size of a hand caught his oversized
coat, yanking him to a stop. With a cry, he pulled away and stumbled as his coat
tore free. Walking faster, he moved away from the buildings into the open
street. The buildings were now hazy stumps that he could barely see.

Open alleyways and doorways frightened him. He was an old
man now, far from the days when he had been strong and limber and less
frightened of his own shadow. Shivering slightly he pulled his cloak tighter and
continued to the next crosswalk.

This was it.

Skidmore and Barnsburry the intersecting signs read.

He turned right and this time walked along the buildings,
letter in hand, looking up, squinting into the fog.

There!

Above a darkened doorway a sign hung, swaying slightly from
rusted chains, even though there was no breeze.

The creaking of the sign was the only sound on the street.
It ran thin fingers of ice along his spine and the chill settled into his body.
He exhaled loudly, glancing around but saw nothing in the fog.

He climbed the stairs and peered inside the darkened
window. Years of grime lie on the window and he could no more see inside than if
there were a wall in front of him.

He rubbed a small round circle through the grime and tried
again. The grime he wiped off the outside seemed to have migrated to the inside.
He could make out a few shapes in the darkness, but nothing else.

He tried the doorknob.

It wouldn’t turn.

Locked.

He raised his gnarly fist and pounded.

****

After what seemed an eternity, the man heard several locks
engage and the door opened. There stood a small heap of a man, several years
older than himself, bent and gnarled.

Relief quickly replaced anxiety. “Mr. Cheshire? I am John
Dunning from America. I wrote you several months ago….”

He was cut off mid sentence as the small man mumbled
something he couldn’t quite hear and motioned him in, stepping away from the
door.

“I’m sorry if I am late or even early as the letter didn’t
specify a time. It just said evening.” John said as he walked across the
entryway. Feeling awkward, he quickly turned and locked the door behind him,
twisting lock after rusty lock. Satisfied, he set out to find the tiny man who
had disappeared.

He wound through heaps and mounds of shrunken heads, books
on the occult, jars of floating morbid objects-- rat tails, tongues, floating
eyeballs in greasy liquids and finally a collection of medieval torture
devices. 

A 7 foot tall iron maiden stood in a corner surrounded by
other morbid tools of torture, a confessional rack and the executioner’s
daughter. The floor was littered with several executioner axes and other
inventions and contraptions of centuries past that John had no name for; nor the
slightest idea of how they would be used.  

Revulsion and disgust shuddered through his body but John
couldn’t tear his eyes from the objects. Chills ran up his spine and not for the
first time that day. A deep foreboding came over him.
What in God’s name did
I get myself into,
he wondered
.

He considered leaving. Turning right around and heading
home.

Julian.

No! He had come too far to just turn around now.

Instead he looked for a door. He walked to the deepest
recesses of the store before he found one.

 He pushed the door open and relief overcame him as he
stepped into an overstuffed parlor.