Authors: Patrick D'Orazio
Tags: #zombie apocalypse, #(¯`'•.¸//(*_*)\\¸.•'´¯)
A road cut north before the gas station. A sign, badly damaged, pointed travelers down the path, but it was hard to tell what the name of the road was. The sign was bent sideways and caked with layers of clay or mud. As Megan looked closer, her stomach roiled. Some of the filth on the sign was ropy and viscous.
“
That’s Route One-Twenty-Three.” Megan glanced over at Jeff, glad for the distraction of his voice as he pointed at the road in question. “It splits to the north here but merges with the main drag ahead of us. We’ll have to go a bit farther into town and then maybe we can turn south.”
That had been the plan. They would find a car for George, wish him luck, and then find some road that wasn’t too clogged, which would hopefully lead them farther from more clots of infected population.
Megan slowed the van and scanned the gas station. Nothing stirred inside as they rolled along. Beyond it, the roadway looked almost normal, like it would in any sleepy Midwestern town. She gave the building another glance as they passed and noticed more signs facing away from them on the left side of the road. As they went by, she glanced back at them. One welcomed drivers to Harris Township while another informed them they were entering Warren and leaving Clinton County. The other two narrow green signs gave distance markers for towns that were north on Route 123.
George tightened his grip on the back of Megan’s chair as he stared at the last two signs. The words on them were: Morris 10 and Liston 19.
He felt a hand on his shoulder and his eyes darted over to Jeff. “How far is Wildwood from here?”
George looked back at the sign again, his eyes distant as he thought about the question. “Thirty, maybe thirty-five miles north.”
Jeff grunted his acknowledgement before turning to stare out the window again.
There were more buildings on both sides of the street past the convenience store. They were widely spaced with ample grassy areas between them. Gravel parking lots were shared by simple, drab tin buildings. There were no streets behind the businesses, just farmland … flat open fields interspersed with small wooded areas. The buildings looked tired and worn down, sporting faded paint and dirty façades. Some looked like they had been abandoned long ago. There were a few boarded-up windows, but it looked like this part of Manchester had been a ghost town long before the infected came. A couple of small billboards for McDonald’s and a new subdivision from Vancouver Builders were ripped and tattered but did their best to dispel the image of a town that had been slowly dying for years. The wood and corrugated tin buildings that stretched along the road looked dated. “Scrubbing Bubbles” Car Wash and Laundromat, Cockrell’s Family Dining, and a Bridgestone Tire Store were just a few of the businesses that welcomed the foursome to the remains of Manchester.
The unnatural stillness outside was a good match for the silence inside the van. The engine noise of the Odyssey only had to compete with the chirping of a few birds and insects.
The road straightened out and they were moving southeast. They saw cars and trucks lined up on both sides of the road in front of even more commercial structures. Some were parked normally while others looked like they had been pushed aside by something huge.
Looking ahead toward the crowd of vehicles, Jeff assessed the situation. “Well, George, we should be able to find you a car in no time.”
Jeff was hunched over, rifle in hand as he stared ahead, looking inside each vehicle for signs of movement. There wasn’t any, and he glanced over at yet another sign that dotted the entrance of the town. It was tattooed with emblems of all the civic organizations that had chapters in Manchester: the Rotarians, the Jaycees, etc. A few of the churches had also joined in with placards encouraging folks to attend the Church of Christ or United Methodist. Like everything else in the town, the sign had seen better days and leaned precariously to one side. A message in the bottom right corner stated that the sign appeared courtesy of McDonald’s.
Jeff saw no bodies, living or dead, anywhere. Sweat rose on his brow as he scanned the area once again for movement.
Near the wooden sign and closer to the van were more buildings. There was a sizeable gap between two of the drab one-story structures at which he was staring. Railroad tracks ran behind it with farmland even farther back. Jeff spied a house off in the distance about a half-mile away with some dense woodland beyond. Nothing moved as he scrutinized the landscape.
On the opposite side of the road, several businesses crowded close to the street for a stretch. More billboards vied for attention along with a bright yellow Dollar General sign close to the road. Small parking lots that were mostly empty provided a gap between the road and darkened buildings. On the other side, the nondescript boxy brown shops were even closer to the road, no farther back than ten or fifteen feet. A row of vehicles served as a buffer between the shops and the van.
They started moving between the two lines of cars, which appeared to stretch about a quarter of a mile down the straightaway. The path between them was tight but gave the van enough room to maneuver. At the beginning of the line, a car was angled sideways on the right side of the road. Jeff stared down at it and nodded to himself.
“
Let’s check out all of these cars, but I think that first one might be your best bet.” He gestured with his head as George looked out the window to examine the vehicle.
His eyes grew wide as they drove past the car. It looked good, and so did several others. Megan and Jeff were studying them as well and didn’t notice Jason peering out the rear of the van, even when he moved back to the third row of seats.
“
Guys, I think you better look behind us.”
The van slowed as everyone turned to look at whatever it was that had caught the boy’s eye.
Jason had not been too concerned about finding a car for George. The close encounters he’d had with both the infected and the living over the past few days had him on edge. So when he saw the shadow shift near one of the cars, he immediately assumed it was a ghoul. When a head popped up from behind the vehicle, and whoever it was started running, he did a double take. It certainly didn’t look like one of the infected.
“
What the-?”
Jeff moved next to Jason, wading past the seats and piles of supplies they had collected. When he looked out the window, he could not believe what he was seeing.
The van came to a stop as Megan turned to see what was up. Now George was in the back as well, and the three were blocking her view.
“
Well, what is it?”
One of the cars was moving. The very first one they had seen. The one that had been perpendicular to the others. It had quietly rolled into the middle of the road. Jeff and George shared a glance, confusion etched on their faces.
It was Jeff who realized what was happening first and turned to face Megan, whose look of exasperation at a lack of explanation quickly changed. “Get out of here! Now!”
Megan swallowed another question as she turned around. Her foot moved to the gas, but before she could touch it, her eyes widened at what she saw through the windshield.
It was already too late.
While they had been busy studying what was going on behind them, another car had pulled onto the road up front, at the end of the quarter-mile-long stretch of vehicles. They were cut off.
Megan saw a figure pop up over the hood of a Nissan Maxima nearby. It pointed a semiautomatic pistol directly at her head. Another stranger, this one holding a rifle, sheltered behind a Volvo station wagon on the other side of the street.
Jeff rushed back to the front of the van just in time to see another man popping up between the cars outside. Jeff froze between the seats, his breathing harsh. He spied Megan out of the corner of his eye and saw that she had gone rigid as well. In that moment, he wished he could will himself invisible as he saw the man outside taking aim at him with an M16.
“
Shit! There are two guys pointing shotguns at us!”
When George heard no response to his comment, he turned and saw that Jeff was not moving. Jason was bent over in his seat, his hands covering his head. Most important, in George’s mind, was the fact that they were not flying down the road to escape the impending attack from behind.
“
You, in the van. Show your hands now! Make a move toward any weapons and we start shooting!”
Fear sliced through the four survivors’ minds like a razor as they heard the voice shouting from outside. Slowly, Jeff, Megan, and George raised their hands. Jason, realizing they were not going to be fired on—at least not immediately—sat up carefully and slowly raised his hands as well as he stared out the back window.
As the men outside inched closer to the minivan, Jeff’s mind raced over the events of the last few days. He had not cared whether he lived or died when he fled his house, but there were others relying on him now, and he had more than enough reasons to want to stay alive.
But as he stared down the barrel of a rifle for the second time in as many days, he was beginning to doubt that he was going to last much longer.
INTRODUCTION
I still remember the first time I saw the name Patrick D'Orazio. I was looking for good zombie stories. Pat's name was on one review after another of the zompocalypse novels listed on Amazon. Each review was not only fair, but detailed and gave me a good idea whether to read the book.
So one thing I did know was that he was a skilled book reviewer. Turns out that he is also a talented writer. Not sure at this moment where we officially met, but I'm pretty sure it was over on the Library of the Living Dead's forum. On that forum, Pat was offering a sample chapter from his book at least once a week. Each chapter's end would leave me wishing I had the complete book in my hands. Pat knows how to craft a story and keep you chained to it.
I actually asked him to stop. He was killing me. I wanted to read the whole thing in one fell swoop. Dribs and drabs of a gripping story are okay for some people, maybe, but not me. One lucky day, Pat asked me to read the whole story, and emailed it to me. I'm not a big fan of reading entire novels on the computer, but this one made me forget about personal comfort. Pat's story grabbed me and didn't let go until the end.
What I found were tense situations with Romero-style zombies, great characters, a fast pace, and an unblinking eye for gore and detail. If you bought this book, know that you are in good hands. If you are still thinking about it, roll the dice, take a chance. None of us is coming out alive.
Stephen A. North
Author of
Dead Tide
and
Dead Tide Rising
Wild shrieks have issued from the hollow tombs;
Dead men have come again, and walk’d about;
And the great bell has toll’d, unrung, untouch’d
From “The Grave” by Robert Blair
Chapter 1
There was a blur of activity outside the van. The meager hope that the men outside were military was dashed when Jeff saw their captors' civilian attire. They were marched out of the vehicle and ordered to lie flat on the road in front of the van.
“
Do any of you have weapons on you? Answer me!” It was a different voice than the one they had heard earlier from inside their vehicle.
George could feel the rounded metal point of a shotgun as it pressed down on the back of his skull. It pushed him flat to the pavement, and he thought he could hear the shallow breathing of the person holding it on him. “What about you, big man? You got a hog leg tucked up next to your prick?”
Sweat dripped down George’s face as heat from the asphalt competed with the blazing sun at his back. He attempted to lift his head to give a negative response, fearing that speaking might exacerbate things, but the shotgun forced him to remain motionless.
When George did attempt to speak, he discovered that his throat had closed up and saliva was pooling in it. He coughed uncontrollably, hacking and spitting, still trying to remain stationary as the man hovered above him.
“
You gonna answer me or you gonna puke yer guts out, Nancy?”
George felt the edge of the sharp metal press down harder.
“
No. NO! I don’t … have any … guns on me. I swear!” He hacked his way through the words, feeling like his mouth and throat were buried in six inches of water.
George heard the sound of something skipping over the pavement. The pressure from the shotgun disappeared in an instant. Even with it gone, his nerves continued to sing with terror, fear gluing him in place.
“
There, now leave him alone! I’m the only one with a weapon, you asshole! No one else has anything on them!”
The feet of the man who had been next to George moved away, toward Megan. There were more footsteps. In the background, George thought he could hear someone rooting through the van.
“
Well, well. Looks like we got ourselves Dirty Harriet here.”
Someone else snickered at the lame joke, and George discovered he could breathe again. The tone of the voice sounded casual. He tensed as he waited to hear what would happen next.