Dove: A Zombie Tale (Byron: A Zombie Tale Book 2) (8 page)

“I told you, dad. This is Byron. One of my frat brothers. Now let’s do what he says, otherwise there won’t be time for any explanations.”

Another crash resonated from the kitchen. Sammy peeked down the hall. “Oh hell no! Them Goners is busting through the back door. And they look mighty hungry.”

“Do you have an attic?” I asked, finally stepping into the group.

The burly man nodded. “Yes. There’s a drop down staircase in my bedroom.”

“Good,” Byron nodded. “Then let’s get up there.”

John’s father led the way up the stairs and down the hall. Byron covered the rear, both of his Katanas drawn and ready for action. It struck me as odd that for someone who had such awesome weapons, he did everything he could to avoid fighting. I would have to ask him about that some time.

Filing up one at a time into the attic, we heard the sounds of shuffling and crashing downstairs on the main floor. Furniture slid. Lamps fell. Glass and ceramic broke. Byron jammed a chair up underneath the door handle as we climbed the old fold down stair.

“What the hell is going on, John?” the big man’s voice wavered. “What are those things?”

As Byron pulled the stair up behind him, Sammy and I flipped on our flashlights.

“They’re zombies, dad. Zombies. Thanks to Dove, here, we call them Goners. It just has a better tone to it.”

“Okay. Who is Dove? In fact, who are all these people?”

John smiled. “Well, now that we’re in relative safety, let’s make some quick introductions. Dad, you already met Byron. This is Evan, also from my fraternity. And these are Dove and Sammy. Dove has a YouTube channel where she explores abandoned buildings.”

I eyed him, tapping my hand against my thigh. Really? We’re going to do this now? With the zombie apocalypse pouring into the house below us?

“Wait… You’re Sabrina Dove?”

At the mention of my name, I snapped away from my thoughts. I could feel the warmth of a blush flood my cheeks. “Another fan? Yes, I am. Very pleased to meet you. And you are?”

“Jacob. But please, call me Jake.”

“Nice to meet you, Jake.” I shook his large hand.

“It’s a pleasure.” Jacob turned to look at Sam. “I know you. You worked for Public Works, right? Samson, right? I think we worked together on a couple of projects.”

Sammy squinted, then his face brightened. “Oh yeah, Jake. You were with corrections, then the Philly water department, right?”

“Yeah. And didn’t you head up solid waste?” They shook hands. “What the hell happened to you?”

“Heart attack. The city pushed me out after that. I’m sure they didn’t want to pay the medical bills.”

“That’s right, I remember that. How’s your wife? Didn’t you have a couple kids?”

“I don’t know. If you see her, I’d like to know how she is, myself. She left me and took our kids with her. Haven’t heard from her since.”

“Wow, that’s harsh…”

Byron cleared his throat. “I hate to cut the reunion short, but we have something a little more important to deal with right now. Survival. I can hear them all moving their way up the stairs. There have to be at least a dozen or so down there. And it won’t be long until a Lord comes to investigate. We need to get out of here, and get somewhere safe.”

“We could go to the prison,” John said. “If we lock down some of the cell blocks, we should be relatively safe.”

“What about my aunt?” I protested. “We need to check on her.”

“Jake, have you heard anything about what’s happening out there? Have there been any news reports in the last few days?” Byron tried to corral the conversation back around.

He shook his head. Sammy’s flashlight dimmed. “Battery’s running low.”

“Hey, go to the prison if you want to,” I said. “I need to find my aunt.”

Silence passed over the group for a few moments as all eyes turned to Byron.

“Okay, here’s the plan. I’ll get us out of here. I can cut a hole in the roof. John, Evan, Sammy, and Jake will make their way to the Prison and dig in there. Dove and I will go find her aunt.”

“Yeah, but you don’t know the city for crap, Byron,” Evan protested.

“True, but Dove does. She should know where to go to find her aunt.”

“I do. I moved here from Boston when I was about ten. I know most of this city like the back of my hand—at least the safer parts.” I hoped the hesitation I felt didn’t come through in my voice. Could I trust this Byron?

“Then it’s settled. Jake, Sammy—you two take care of Evan and John. Get them to safety. When we find Dove’s aunt, we’ll bring her to the prison.”

We all nodded in agreement. In a flash, Byron drew both his swords and hacked a hole through the roof above our heads.

chapter six

Light flooded through
the hole I cut in the roof. Fresh air swept in, creating a breeze. I popped the square panel I created out of the opening and let it flop down before climbing out. Gazing across the rooftops, the prison stood a few short blocks to the east. Below us on the street, Goners swarmed around the front of the house. Movement on a rooftop across Swain Street revealed my worst fear—a Lord lying in wait.

“Dammit. There’s a Lord across the street, and you’ve got door to door zombies. Down there. You four are going to have to stick the the rooftops until you reach North 26th Street.” They each acknowledged my words with a nod or an mmm-hmm as they stepped up onto the roof beside me. Dove remained alone inside the attic. “I am going to need you to stay here.”

“Wait. What? You want me to stay here? And what, create a diversion so you can escape the creatures below?”

I narrowed my eyes at her. “Dove, I can tell you don’t trust me. But I need you to believe me when I say that you do not want to be any part of what happens next. Lords are nasty and vicious. Even with my enhanced abilities, they provide a challenge. You don’t want to get in the middle of that fight.”

She stared at me with a blank expression. Finally after a few moments, she blinked. “How can they be faster than you?”

“Trust me on this. Lords are not anything to be messed with. And right now, this guy is looking to party.” I cast a glance at the creature. He stood two blocks over, shifting his weight from one leg to the other. His movements reminded me of the back-and-forth stalking of a mighty jungle cat.

John’s group disappeared over a half-wall to the neighboring roof, and hopped from one to the next. I continued to stare down the Lord, watching his reaction to the team leaving. He remained focused on me. A low growl drifted across the distance between us. He saw me as a challenge and wanted my head for a trophy.

I dropped the roof panel back over her. “I’ll be right back.” Without awaiting a response, I leapt across Swain Street toward my enemy. He did likewise, landing a good distance away to make sure I couldn’t attack him in midair.

My swords sang as I whipped them from their scabbards and studied the Lord. At one time he had been a high school football player. He wore the varsity jacket of his past with the name Harold embroidered on it. He stood more than a head taller than me and about twice as wide—probably a defensive lineman. His skin appeared almost opalescent and paper thin. But I knew that to be a trick of the Lords. They appeared sickly and weak, but commanded immense power thanks to their microorganism colonies.

Harold sneered, his jaw distending to obscene proportions and his eyes pushing the limits of his orbital cavities. Blood and bits of gore matted his once-brown hair like he’d been rolling around in a pool of carcases.

“You’re one ugly son-of-a-bitch!” I crossed the swords low in front of me, preparing to do battle.

He stretched his arms in front of himself and growled. A painful scream accompanied the sound as thick, hard, razor-sharp claws grew through the ends of his fingers as if the microorganisms turned his bones into sharpened daggers. He reminded me of a sick, real-life version of some stylized Hollywood movie monster.

“I take that back. Now you’re ugly.”

It snarled, flexing its fingers at me. I adjusted my stance, lowering one sword in front of me, and raising the other behind me. If this bad boy wanted to dance, I wanted to be prepared for whatever moves it threw my way.

The Goner leaped, its claws cutting air in mighty swipes as it closed on me with unimaginable speed. I swung my lower sword upward and pinwheeled the other behind my back, bringing it around and back up again. The blades caught the creature across the chest, but it spun away before any real damage could be done. Its claws crashed down hard on my right arm, piercing my flesh and sending shocks of pain up into my shoulder and neck. It opened the fingers it dug into my arm as it pulled back, tearing large sections of meat away.

Pushing through the pain, I lunged with my left arm, driving it toward the creature’s heart, but it twisted out of my reach. A guttural cadence coughed out from its mouth. Rage bubbled up inside with the understanding that it laughed at me. It actually laughed at me.

I narrowed my eyes and circled him as the flesh of my arm knit itself back together. In a few short moments, I gave my other sword a few test swings. A formidable opponent, without a doubt. I needed to find some kind of weakness. Everything has one. And most creatures have a nasty habit of telegraphing that weakness somehow. The only trick is learning how to spot it.

“You think you’re clever,” I called to it. “Got a little hurt in on me, huh? I don’t go down that easy.”

I feinted left, and jabbed to the right with both swords. One blade caught him in the throat, the other in the abdomen. The beast let out an ear-piercing roar and scurried back a few paces. I whipped the blood from both blades, letting it spatter across the Goner’s own face.

“How ya like me now, sucka?”

The wounds closed fast, but he jumped to the offensive even faster. It closed in with both arms swinging in wild arcs. I blocked the first two blows, deflected the third, but the fourth grazed me and the fifth caught me right across the abdomen, leaving a trail of bloody scars in its wake. I finally ducked low, stepped in toward the beast, and thrust upward with both swords. The blades entered through the armpits and exited to each side of its head, crossing somewhere in between. Bracing my foot on its chest, I kicked off and used the scissor-action of the crossed blades to sever the creature’s head from its body.

Looking down, I could see that my wounds were worse than I originally thought. They should have been closing by now. But for some reason, they kept bleeding freely. As the beast’s body lay twitching and thrashing on the rooftop, I leapt back to John’s house. My feet crashed down on the other side and my knees buckled, sending me sprawling.

The wounds burned like the fires of hell. Something had gone wrong. In a major way.

“Help! I need help!” I struggled to force the words out before darkness swallowed me up.

~ ~ ~

The sound of something crashing onto the roof startled me. But what chilled me were the words I heard come through the panel Byron had cut with his sword. “Help! I need help!”

How could that be? Wasn’t he undead? Didn’t he have little organisms keeping his dead body alive? How could he need help? How could I help him?

“Byron? Is that you?” I lifted the panel from its resting place, grunting from the effort. It moved, but not without great difficulty. “Are you there? Byron?”

I shoved harder and it moved a little more. With one last burst of effort, I popped the panel up and out. Byron’s limp body slipped through the opening, dangling inside.

“My God! Byron! Are you okay?” I flushed at my knee-jerk question. “Of course you’re not okay. You’re a walking dead guy who is passed out on a roof.”

I dragged him inside, his torso and legs dropping onto the attic floor with a dull thud, and rolled him onto his back. He looked like hell. Four dark ribbons of blood stretched across his abdomen like he’d been swiped by one of those cartoon super-heroes, the one with the blades shooting from his hands.

I tapped him on the face. No response. I shined my flashlight into his eyes. Nothing.

“Dammit. Now what?”

Maybe I could get some water to splash on him. There had to be a bathroom in this house. The sounds of crashing decorations reminded me why that would be a bad idea. I scooted toward the drop-down ladder and pushed down on the trap door to open it a crack. Five Goners shuffled around the room below. Trying my hardest to not make any noise, I let the trap door close. The springs creaked in spite of my best efforts.

I searched through my cargo pockets. I usually had nitrile or latex gloves stuffed in them somewhere. They had come in handy on many occasions while exploring old, abandoned buildings. After a few moments, I almost jumped as I pulled them out and slipped them on.

As quick as possible, I unbuttoned Byron’s shirt. The wounds still bled free, the skin around them turning a grayish white in color. Shifting my position, I slid toward a stack of boxes near the eaves. The first two contained old books, Christmas decorations, and a fake pine tree. The next one, a heavy bear of a thing, held meticulously stacked fine dishes. The fourth box had old clothes—perfect.

Grabbing as many cotton shirts as I could, I slid back toward Byron and covered his wounds, holding as much pressure as I could.