Zombies in Paradise (Love in the Age of Zombies Book 2)

This is a work of fiction. Other than Brian Confer and Rick Schmitt at Stormcloud brewing, all persons, living, dead, and undead, and all incidents portrayed in this book, are products of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, including exhibitionists and medical marijuana providers living on the Elberta Bluffs, is entirely coincidental.

It was necessary to take minor liberties with the terrain surrounding Frankfort, especially Elberta, to further the story.

Lines quoted on page 61: W.D. Snodgrass, “Mementos, 1” from Selected Poems, 1957-1987 (New York: Soho Press, 1987). Copyright © 1987 by W.D. Snodgrass.

Despite every effort, no zombies were harmed in the making of this book.

This work, including the cover design, graphics, and poetry,

Copyright © 2016 James K. Evans

All rights reserved.

ISBN: 151976166X

ISBN-13: 978-1519761668

For Gretchen:

May your lips ever hunger for mine.

But not in a zombie kind of way.

Thanks to my editors for their tireless work and brilliant suggestions: Michael Coleman, Vicki Connell, Stacie Court, Paul and Diane Kolak, and Penny Overcash.

Thanks to nurse Gretchen for her medical input.

Thanks to John Washington for his scientific advice and input.

I am grateful to Brian Confer and Rick Schmitt for allowing me to use their names and the name of the fabulous Stormcloud brewery in Frankfort, Michigan.

Thanks to the
Sure Happy It’s Thursday
gang for their constant friendship, encouragement, and support.

Thanks to Gabriel for making me a proud father. Go big or go home.

Chapter One

Near the small town of Brohman, Michigan, Kevin Williams rounded a curve and nearly ran into a roadblock. Wrecked cars and barbed-wire fencing completely barricaded the road. He saw skid marks on the road and slight movement as a head ducked behind the rusting body of the center car. His friend Doc had warned him about mercenaries, and without hesitation—barely even slowing down—Kevin turned the wheel of the Jeep sharply and spun out, surprising himself by doing a complete one-eighty almost as neatly as they used to do in the movies, except he ran off the shoulder and part way into the drainage ditch. Kevin floored it and raced away just in time. In his rear view mirror he saw a few flashes of light and heard the sound of guns. A bullet smashed a not-so-neat hole in the back window. He flew down the highway, sure he was being chased, and nearly lost control of the Jeep when he had to swerve around a zombie ambling senselessly down the road. After a very quick two miles he turned sharply onto a small dirt road. It had rained a few days ago so the ground was hard but wasn’t dusty; hopefully he wouldn’t leave an easy trail.

Kevin had never done any four-wheel off-road driving. Doc bragged that the Jeep could handle some pretty rough terrain and Kevin prayed he was right. Once he whipped around a curve he was out of sight of passing vehicles. Very quickly the road deteriorated to nothing but a two-track. At first he was glad, but the farther he went, the more he questioned his decision to continue. The sandy soil was looser and large rocks began to interrupt the trail. He was jostled about as he raced over them and grimaced when he heard rocks scrape the undercarriage. Momentarily he was worried about the rocks causing damage, but remembered Doc saying he’d installed skid plates to prevent damage to the underside when contact is made with the ground.

The terrain continued to get rougher; boulders on the side of the road, downed trees, and a quick rise so steep Kevin could barely get any traction. Feeling stupid, he finally remembered to engage the four-wheel drive and climbed the hill. All he could see through the windshield was the canopy of trees before he abruptly angled down into a small gulley. He pressed on, his heart pounding and the engine roaring.

Low hanging branches scraped the side of the Jeep. Two trees were so close together he barely avoided knocking off his side mirrors, and rock formations on either side formed a narrow bottleneck. He crested the top of another sandy rise and suddenly plummeted down a short but steep ravine with a creek traversing the bottom. He let out an involuntary shout and grasped the steering wheel with white knuckles. Despite having slammed on the brakes, He skidded down the steep bank toward the slow-moving water, unable to tell whether it was six inches deep or six feet. Still hurtling along, Kevin hit the creek; muddy water splashed thick onto the windshield and he couldn’t see where he was going. He was tempted to keep his foot on the brakes, but was afraid of stopping completely and sinking down into sandy muck. He turned on the wipers and, ignoring the voice in his head screaming to slow down, gunned the Jeep again, suddenly climbing the bank on the other side. The Jeep crested the rise, front tires momentarily gaining some air before slamming back down onto the ground. He felt his body strain against the shoulder harness and seat belts as the Jeep lurched over the rough ground. He jerked the wheel to the left, then right as he swerved to avoid running into a boulder larger than the Jeep. He was in a very narrow, very well concealed basin. He abruptly stopped, grabbed the revolver, and jumped out of the cab, his leg muscles trembling with adrenalin aftershocks.

The Jeep looked fine. In fact, the Jeep looked like the end of a commercial on TV where the manly guy pulls his muddy, dripping Jeep into the nice, neat and sterile suburban garage, a look of supreme satisfaction on his face. Kevin had no such look. As he stood panting on the dripping track, he could hear the sound of vehicles in pursuit about a quarter-mile away. He jammed the gun down his belt (making sure the safety was on), sprinted to the back of the Jeep, opened the hatch and grabbed his bike, then quickly ran the short distance back to the creek. Holding the bike over his head, he waded across. The cold water came up to his knees. He ran up the opposite bank and peered over the top before mounting the bike and racing down the trail. With the bike, he was able to move fast and quiet, and every few seconds he stopped to listen, gauging the distance and location of the men and vehicles. As they got closer, Kevin became more cautious. Within moments he could see through the trees a muddy black four-wheel pickup followed by a Jeep and a heavy-duty SUV. The truck was on his trail, picking its way over and past boulders and fallen trees just as Kevin had. He hid behind a large boulder, and as the truck slowed down to pass through the bottleneck he’d barely cleared, Kevin aimed carefully and let off a series of quick shots. He aimed first for the driver, then the radiator, then the front tires. As the driver slammed on the brakes, Kevin saw the windshield burst into myriad spider-web cracks and heard the sound of the right front tire burst as one of the bullets struck home. He must have missed with his other shots, but even so, he’d accomplished his goal—the truck was stopped between the two trees, effectively blocking the trail, and with the tire blown, Kevin hoped the truck would be immobile.

He didn’t wait to find out. He jumped on his bike and quickly rode back to the Jeep, once again lifting the bike to keep it out of the creek. He hastily tossed the bike into the cargo area, jumped into the cab and gunned the engine, spinning out in the sandy soil as he left his makeshift hideaway. The trail here was easier to traverse with fewer large boulders, but ruts and roots made it slow going. As one trail intersected another, Kevin took a series of somewhat random turns, always keeping his eye on the compass to make sure he was headed north-northwest. After an hour of zig-zagging, the trail joined a railway line, weeds growing between the ties, and he picked up speed on the relatively smooth track running alongside the rails. After another five minutes he intersected a dirt road and turned east. Kevin was nervous about this, as it felt like he was heading
toward
danger instead of
away
from it. He knew interstate US-31 was somewhere in the opposite direction, but what lay between him and the highway. Bogs? Towns? Rivers? He had no idea, but he knew M-37, the state road he’d been on before the roadblock, was only a mile away, so he continued east. He was hell-bent on heading north, far away from Brohman.

He sped past a series of scenic lakes interrupted here and there by the occasional house and even more occasional zombie. The zombie population was very sparse in keeping with the population in general. Still feeling the need to flee possible pursuers, Kevin kept the Jeep running at a fast clip. Abruptly he intersected a paved road where he turned and headed north, picking up speed. He began to relax after realizing the road was M-37. He passed a few side roads and small houses just before a road sign announced BALDWIN 5 MI. Not far from the sign was a gas station, empty and apparently abandoned since long before the Collapse. Part of the roof canopy over the gas pumps had fallen in and the parking lot had weed growth that looked much older than seven months.

He cautiously pulled the Jeep behind the station and out of sight, then willed himself to relax and breathe deeply. He killed the engine, lowered his window and sat looking at the map. With the window down, he’d be able to hear any sound of vehicular pursuit—or approaching zombies. He found his location and traced his route north.

Baldwin was a small town; just over twelve hundred residents, but even so, twelve hundred residents could mean twelve hundred zombies. Kevin plotted a series of side roads around the town, wanting to stick as close to M-37 as possible. Another twenty miles ahead was M-55, where he decided to find a place to stop for the night. It was late afternoon; Kevin didn’t want to drive after dark, as his headlights and the sound of his Jeep were sure to attract unwanted attention.

Hearing no sign of pursuit, Kevin considered staying where he was. He was tired. He lay his head back and very nearly fell asleep. But he didn’t feel secure and wanted to put more miles between himself and whomever had chased him. Every mile he drove took him farther from Michelle and caused his heart to ache; but the farther he drove today, the sooner he’d get to Frankfort, get his business over with, and go home. As he closed the window and pulled back onto the road, he glanced in his mirror and saw three zombies shuffle out of the woods behind the gas station, mere yards from where he’d been parked. He’d never heard them. He was tired; he was slipping.

He took the side roads and was soon deep in the forest. He took another two-track, this one on much more level ground and, after winding around for a while, skirted a small lake with an island in the center. The small beach was a mixture of sand, pebbles and small rocks. At the intersection of two trails approaching the lake, Kevin parked the car under a low-hanging tree, the leaves of a branch effectively blocking his windshield. He got out and stood listening with the Jeep door open. He heard an owl a fair distance away and the sound of a small animal in the underbrush. He heard no vehicles, no voices, no ungainly crashing around of a zombie. He took off his over shirt, rolled the driver’s side window down an inch and stuck the shirt in the gap before closing the window, snagging the shirt so it hung down and blocked any light or intrusive eyes. He did the same on the other side with his jacket. He snapped several branches from nearby trees and camouflaged the Jeep as much as he could. Between the branches, leaves, and the mud from his off-roading, it would be difficult to spot the Jeep unless someone knew exactly where to look.

He retrieved the small cooler from the rear and placed it on the hood of the Jeep. Light filtered through the trees at an angle from the west as sunset slowly approached. Kevin was hungry. He opened the cooler and was surprised to find a note: