Dove: A Zombie Tale (Byron: A Zombie Tale Book 2) (7 page)

I hesitated, trying to read his expression. “Yes.”

“I watch your channel on YouTube. I love the work you do—documenting old factories, churches, schools. The coolest was that haunted insane asylum a few years back. Looked like you had your wits scared out of you.”

I chuckled. A fan! “Yeah. That episode got pretty intense.”

“So how is it that you missed the zombie apocalypse erupting around you?”

I stopped chuckling. “I don’t pay attention to the news and I’m off and about at odd hours. Sometimes I need to go visit places late at night. Other times, I need to go early in the morning. Sometimes I’m lucky to go around noon. I don’t always have the news on the radio. I’m usually listening to some CDs or my MP3 player. Sorry. I didn’t know it was a crime not to listen to the news.”

“Not a crime,” Byron chimed in, his voice just above a whisper. “Just an inconvenience. I missed the news, too. The difference being that death makes it hard to catch a newscast.” I couldn’t tell where he meant to direct the authoritative tone in his voice. “We should talk a little quieter. I can hear some of the commoners wandering inside the buildings. We don’t want to attract a swarm.”

“Commoner? Do you mean a Goner?”

He stopped walking and turned in my direction. His gaze made me feel uneasy. “Goner? Is that what you’re calling them here? Goners?” He tipped his head to one side, as if trying the word on for size. “I like it. What you are calling Goners, I call common zombies, or Commoners.”

“What are the Lords?”

“Lords are like me. They are enhanced by the microorganisms. However, they no longer retain any of their humanity. They are driven purely by the demented microorganisms inside them. They kill and eat without any preference. They’ll eat humans, animals, anything. That’s why they retain the high functions. Because they intake non-human animals, the microorganisms survive better and make the Lords into more efficient hunter/killers. Their appetite is insatiable so far as we’ve seen. The colonies inside of me have never seen anything like this happen before in all the species they have invaded. Humans have had a truly unique reaction to them.”

“What happened to those Lords you mentioned were following us before?”

“They are still there. Just laying low. I would hazard a guess that John, Evan, and I have developed quite a reputation among the Lords, so they keep their distance. We have killed a few dozen of them. The colonies have a way of communicating with each other through the use of chemical and hormonal signals. So my colonies send out a strong warning signal, and most Lords pay attention. The colonies occupying the commoners have lost too much of their own identities to even understand their own communication methods. So they will attack without hesitation.”

“At least we’re safe from the Lords, then.”

“Not quite. If a horde swarms us, the Lords will push the advantage and attack, too. We’ve had it happen. Which is why we need to stay as quiet as possible.”

We stopped at the corner of Brown and North 26th Street. Small storefront delis and coffee shops fronted toward the intersection. Shadows passed behind the windows with odd, jerky movements. The figures that came into view wore clothing blackened with various unidentifiable stains. Gray and white flesh poked out from rips and tears, or the occasional uncovered area. None lived.

“We need to keep moving,” Byron whispered. I could smell his breath. Despite what he told me about being undead and drinking blood, it smelled minty. “There are only Goners here, and they’re beginning to notice us.”

Almost as if it heard his comment, a glass pane broke in one of the doors and a hand reached through. Moans resonated through the desolate intersection.

I didn’t need much more inspiration than that. Breaking into a sprint, I headed south along North 26th Street on John’s heels. Evan and Sammy kept pace right behind me. Byron stood back in the intersection, both Katanas drawn, ready to protect our retreat.

John turned right down the first block across from a row of mansard-roofed townhouses. Little more than a glorified alley, cars choked Swain Street. John ran to the far end of the block and stopped in front of a two-story row home with a rooftop garden spilling over its walls.

I turned to see Sammy and Evan a few paces behind, but saw no sign of Byron. Turning back to John, I saw him remove his key. Byron materialized from nowhere, walked up the steps and placed a hand on his friend’s shoulder. “Remember John, whatever happens—happens.”

~ ~ ~

The inside of John’s house surprised me. He had told me about it plenty of times, but I never realized that something so modern could exist within a brick-clad nineteenth century row house. It stood in stark contrast to the exterior decor of historic Philadelphia neighborhoods and reflected the ideals and beliefs of the early twentieth-century’s intellectual giants. Clean lines, geometric shapes, simple colors. That final aspect alone spoke volumes—simplicity.

“My God, John. I had no idea you grew up in an art museum,” Evan teased as we passed through the front door.

“Beats growing up in a sewer,” John mumbled back.

I drew in a deep breath. Nothing fetid struck me right away. Hope still lived that his parents may have survived.

“Mom! Dad!” John called out to them as he ran toward the back of the house.

Something moved upstairs.

“John, wait!” He stopped in his tracks and turned to look at me. I pointed my finger up at the ceiling. “There’s something moving about up there.”

“Is it a something, or a someone, Byron?”

I shrugged. In all honesty, I couldn’t tell. Usually my senses could detect if a place were occupied by Goners. But right now, I drew a blank. “Your guess is as good as mine.”

“Wrong,” he said, stabbing a finger at me. “Your guess is a hell of a lot more educated and accurate than mine ever will be.”

I grinned. “True.”

“I vote we send the dead guy to check it out,” Dove offered up.

I shot her a nasty glare. “The dead guy has a name, and it is Byron.”

“Yeah, well, miss punk rocker has a name, too,” Sammy interjected. “It’s Freakshow.” He started laughing, showing his browned and yellowed teeth.

“You two been dating long?” I asked Dove, chuckling under my breath.

She whipped around and glared at me with a stare that could freeze boiling water.

“Hey, if looks could kill, I’d be...” I gave her a huge grin. “Oh wait, I already am dead.”

Sammy’s laughter went from a rolling chuckle to snorts and guffaws.

John smacked him on the shoulder. “Hey, you mind keeping it down?”

I draped an arm around John’s shoulder. “What say we go upstairs and check on your parents?”

Tears threatened at the corners of his eyes. He nodded without lifting his gaze from the floor.

“Moment of truth,” I muttered as I ascended the stairway, drawing both Katanas as I did.

The modern decor continued up the stairs. I had to admit, despite the cold appearance to the style, it still managed to feel homey.

As we crested the stair into the hallway, a soft thump resonated from a room at the far end. John pointed, an aluminum baseball bat resting on his shoulder, looking like Babe Ruth calling out his hits. “That’s mom and dad’s room.”

I nodded, zipping down the hallway without a sound. I sniffed at the door. My senses reeled with the overpowering odors of Chanel perfume and human body stench.

I knocked on the door, with a light touch. “Hello? Anybody in there?”

Blam! Blam!

The door exploded outward. Thousands of lead pellets pelted my skin, sending me reeling backward. Both swords went flying from my hands. One stuck into a nearby wall, the other clattered to the floor.

“Whoa! Don’t shoot!” John shouted behind me.

“God dammit!” I shouted. “What the hell is wrong with you people? Zombies don’t knock!” I grabbed my chest as the sensation of being stabbed with a thousand acidic needles faded. I ripped the one sword from the wall and kicked the other up into the air before sheathing them both behind my back.

“Dad!” John shouted as he ran down the hallway.

“John? Is it really you?”

“Yeah, Dad! It’s me.”

“Is everyone okay?” A face peered around the doorjamb down the hallway at me, likely trying to figure out why I was still standing and not dead. “I didn’t mean to hurt anyone. It’s just that things have gotten a little tough around here.”

I heard footsteps pound on the stairs and I glanced over the railing, holding my hand up to stop anyone from coming up.

“Yeah, we noticed,” John replied to his dad. “Are you guys both okay?”

Silence. A taller, thicker version of John stepped through the doorway. He had gray hair and a beard, but in every other way, he seemed the identical match to what John would look like in his fifties.

“Dad? Is mom okay?”

The elder man turned his gaze to the floor. “I’m sorry son. One of those damn things got her the other day.” His voice cracked as he spoke. I could see dampness pooling along his lower eyelid. “She’s out there somewhere.”

John stepped in toward his father and wrapped his arms around the massive man. John’s father seemed the kind of man who never cried, the stoic, larger-than-life father figure of myth, legend, and childhood recollections. But to see him here so vulnerable dashed that illusion to pieces. I backed out of the room, my wounds already closing over. They needed some time alone. Time to talk, father to son. Time to grieve over a wife and mother.

About halfway down the steps, Dove shouted up the stairs at me. “What the hell happened up there? Did someone get shot?”

“Yeah, me. But the microorganisms already healed the wounds. Ruined my shirt, though. I liked this shirt.” I opened up my trench coat and showed her the tattered shreds of blood stained cloth. The color drained from her face, leaning toward pale green.

She collected herself, stiffened a little, and grimaced. “Oh. Okay. At least it’s nothing serious.” She turned her back to me and stalked across the room.

I joined the group in the front room. “Yeah. Taking both barrels of a shotgun point blank to the chest is nothing serious.” I glared at her a moment, trying to burn a hole in the back of her head with my stare, then turned to Evan. “John’s dad is still alive. He’s the one who shot me. His mom didn’t make it.”

Evan hung his head. “That’s terrible.”

“Hey,” I lay my hand on his shoulder, “his dad is still alive. And who knows, your parents may have survived as well.”

“I hope so.”

“So do I. As soon as we finish up with John’s dad, we’ll go find Dove’s aunt. Then we’re off to Ohio, where with any luck your family is still safe and sound.”

“Do you think others have survived? Could there be a place this thing hasn’t hit?”

“I don’t know,” I responded. “And neither does my colony. They were just part of the colonizing team. They didn’t have access to what sort of tactics were being employed during colonization. There could be places in the countryside where colonies didn’t reach. We will need explore more to be certain. I am hoping that John’s dad has a little more information about what’s been going on. Maybe there have been news reports or something.”

Almost in response to my words, two sets of footsteps echoed down the stairway.

~ ~ ~

The world is falling to hell in a hand basket, and this guy wants to listen to the news? I couldn’t believe my ears. How could someone infected with the cause of this plague not know more about it? I narrowed my eyes at him. Byron turned away from me as John and his burly father stomped down the stairs. The older man held a double-barreled shotgun in his meaty paws.

“I am so sorry,” Byron said as they reached the ground floor.

The older man put an arm around Byron’s shoulder. “No. I’m sorry. Sorry I nearly blew the crap out of you up there. Good thing I missed.” He looked at Byron’s shirt, then tightened his grip on his shotgun. “What the hell?”

John stepped in between them, his hands held out in front of him. “Whoa there, dad. Calm down. He’s cool. Byron is cool. I’ve told you about him before. He’s in my frat, remember?”

“Yeah, but I didn’t miss. What the hell is he doing walking and talking like nothing happened?” The burly man’s voice rose a few octaves as he brought the shotgun up to his shoulder.

“Dad. Put the gun down. Let’s all sit down, relax, and we’ll explain everything.”

“I ain’t lowering this gun until I get some answers.”

“Dad. Put it down.”

“No.”

I could see the knuckle on his trigger finger whitening.

Blam!

Byron had slid under the man’s arms and pointed the gun at the ceiling. Plaster fell, pelting Byron, John, and his father. Something banged against the door outside. A window smashed down the hall.

“Dammit. You just alerted every Goner in the neighborhood where we are.” Byron snatched the gun from John’s father’s hands. “Everyone upstairs. We need to find a safe place to barricade ourselves. There’s a couple dozen beasties outside looking to have us for lunch.”

John’s father stared at this son, then at Byron, then back to his son again. “Who the hell is this guy?”