Cryonic
A
ZOMBIE
NOVEL
TRAVIS BRADBERRY
Bruyere
Bruyere Publishing
c/o Michael Schmidt
11526 Sorrento Valley Road, Suite A-2
San Diego, CA 92121
For information regarding special discounts for bulk purchases and author appearances, call 858-509-0582 x 250 or email
[email protected]
Copyright © 2013 by Travis Bradberry. All rights reserved, including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form.
ISBN: 978-0974320656
First Printing: 2013
This book is dedicated to Maribel, my biggest fan.
1.
I didn't have the slightest inkling I was going to die that day. Though some will argue that I didn't really experience death. The blood stopped coursing through my veinsâthis much is certainâjust as it will some day for you, but there were no pearly gates, no departed loved ones guiding me into the light. While I was away, I experienced nothingness. Perhaps this was intentional, as the great cosmic scorekeeper knew I wasn't finished walking the earth.
I awoke to the dry howl of Santa Ana winds that snaked down through the coastal canyons on their way out to sea. The sagging backs of aging patio chairs fluttered nervously on the porch. I lived in a shingled Craftsman, with a sprawling deck that sat perilously on the edge of a tall sandstone bluff overlooking the Pacific Ocean. A few years before, I'd outbid uppity suburbanites and wealthy retirees for the home. They'd have to find their status symbol elsewhere. I had but one favorite wave in San Diego, and my home was perched directly above it.
I yanked the handle on the sliding door and stepped outside. The cold wind sent the hair on my bare arms bristling to attention. I took a gulp from my steaming morning coffee and observed the expectant crowd bobbing up and down amidst the crashing surf below. Most mornings, I would nurse my coffee and lament the burgeoning surfing population. I'd long for the days when a man could hit the waves with nothing but the dolphins to keep him company. But there was no bellyaching today; I had better plans.
My phone buzzed in my pocket. I pulled it out and fumbled about before flicking it open with my thumb.
“You up?” my son Colt's voice buzzed from the tiny speaker.
“I'm here in the car. Just about to start 'er up,” I lied.
“All right, see you there.”
I snapped the phone shut between my cheek and shoulder and took a final gulp from my coffee. I slammed the mug down onto the porch railing and scurried down the patio steps toward the open garage. Surfboards and wetsuits were strewn about as if the place had been ransacked. I grabbed what I needed and slid the boards and neoprene into the back of my truck.
I threw the truck into gear and raced down the driveway. When I reached the bottom, I stomped on the brake and threw the truck into park. I hopped out of the truck and ran back up to the house through a biting gust of wind. I never left the house without kissing my wife first.
She was curled up in the living room lounge chair reading a book. The rising sun cast a warm glow through the window behind her that made her look angelic. I snuck up behind her and draped my arms around her neck.
“Royce Bruyere, what
are
you doing?” she cooed.
“Just saying bye.”
She dropped her book into her lap, turned, and kissed me on the mouth. “Be careful out there today, OK? I don't like the sound of that wind.”
“I will. I promise. See you at eight sharp.”
When I pulled into the airfield parking lot, Colt was already inspecting the plane. A six-seater, the Cessna 206 was a lot of airplane for a guy who'd just earned his pilot's license, but it left plenty of room for surfboards. Besides, I
could afford it. I'd spent two decades building a software company from the ground up. Most of my competitors had lost fistfuls of other people's cash, along with their companies, during the dot-com bubble, but I never succumbed to the temptation. I believed in bootstrapping it and being the master of your own destiny. These days, I spent more time in the water than in the office.
Colt leaned against the plane's protruding cowl while he checked the propeller blades for nicks. He was too focused on the task to see me walking toward him. I couldn't help but admire my son. He looked much like I had in my early twentiesâwide in the shoulders but lanky with long swinging arms like a gorilla. Colt's jaw was wide and masculine, his face dotted with thick overgrown stubble. Bleached-blond tips of hair wormed out beneath his ball cap and fluttered in the wind.
“She ready?” I asked.
“Yup. Everything checks out.”
I ran my hand delicately along the leading edge of the wing. Colt clasped my shoulder and jerked the door open.
“Come on, old man. Let's get to it!”
Colt wore the halo of an only child. If he said the plane checked out, it was ready. Colt's belongings rested neatly in the rear of the plane. I hustled to follow suit. I slipped my boards inside, threw wetsuits and bags on top, and jumped into the pilot's seat. Most men my age lacked the spunk needed for a spur-of-the-moment surf trip with a twenty year old. I was narrowing in on fifty, but a lifetime consumed with surfing meant I looked and felt a decade younger. I was fit with a head of thick salt and pepper hair and light blue eyes that were a stark contrast to my sun-bronzed skin. My wife always said what attracted her to
me was that I was blissfully unaware of my good looks. I thought she was just flattering me.
I put my headset on, cleared my throat, and prepared to fly. When I turned the key, the engine choked slightly before firing up. The propeller roared to life and settled into an even hum. Moments later, we were bouncing down the runway. I eased back on the yoke, and the plane leapt into the air.
We soared high until we crossed the border into Mexico, where we swung low above the rugged coastline of Northern Baja. The sea was a pristine sheet of cobalt blue that stretched out to the horizon. Beneath us, a winter swell finished its three-thousand-mile journey from the heart of a storm near the Aleutians. The waves traveled together in uniform corduroy lines that rose tall as they rolled toward the shoreline.
“Look at that, Dad . . . it's firing,” Colt crowed with his nose pressed against the glass.
“You ready for this?” I asked. “We'll be on the ground in an hour.”
Colt glared at me, scarcely taking his eyes off the water.
“What? You still been getting waves, what with finals and all?”
“Of course. I've always got time for a surf.”
I grew warm with pride. This was a young man who had his priorities straight. We marveled at the scene below us with only the vibrating hum of the engine breaking the silence.
We touched down in bouncing fits on a dusty airstrip in the middle of nowhere, its boundaries peppered with cacti and low-lying shrubs. The sandy dirt runway was soft and rutted. The only structure in sight was a weathered wooden lean-to alongside a rusting gas pump.
As I parked the plane at the end of the runway, a tall Ford pickup with oversized tires came tearing down a small hill in our direction. I stretched over the seat into the back of the plane and grabbed a small duffel. The truck slid to a halt alongside us. A leg sporting a cowboy boot deftly kicked the door open, and the truck's undersized occupant hopped out and landed firmly in the dust below.
“¡Nacho!” I exclaimed. “¿Que onda gordo?”
I was overjoyed by the sight of my old friend. Nacho was an ancient Mexican cowboy. His face bore deep lines and a withered complexion that exposed his age in ways his taut, muscular physique could not. A vigorous handshake quickly morphed into a man hug with lots of back patting.
“Where you been,
güero
? How come you no visit México?”
“Ay, no swell, amigo. No swell.”
“I had to drive you truck three times to keep the báteria working.”
“I know, I know. I'd rather be here than there, believe me, but the point doesn't work unless it's six foot. Oh, hey! I brought something for ya.”
I reached into the duffel and pulled out a bottle of Kentucky bourbon. Nacho held the bottle of bourbon up with both hands and admired it as if it were a child.
“Ay, Don Royce, thank you. Good boorbon no es easy to find here.”
“I have something else for you, too, buddy.”
I handed Nacho a Three Tenors CD.
“¡Los Tres Tenores! Gracias.”
Nacho paused. “¿Pues, no quieren surfiar?”
Nacho had a point. It was nice to catch up, but we were burning precious daylight. I motioned to Colt. “Let's go hit
it so we can get back before dark. You know how much Mom hates us flying at night.”
We loaded our gear in the truck and drove Nacho back to his ranch. Nacho hopped out and wished us well. I peeled out in the dirt and headed toward the beach.
“Dad?”
“Yeah.”
“Why do you call Ignacio, Nacho?” Colt's fingers danced nervously on the dashboard.
“What do you mean?”
“It just doesn't seem right to call him that.”
“Would you prefer I call him taco?” I kept my eyes fixed on the dirt road that wound back and forth through the chaparral. “Or maybe burrito?”
Colt swallowed. “It's just that I took this course on cultural diversity, and it sounds condescending. It'd be like him calling you hamburger or something.”
“Or mac n' cheese . . . no, no it'd be like him calling me pancakes.”