Dead World (Book 1): Dead Come Home (12 page)

“What the fuck’re you pointing at me f—aaahhh.”

The man wrapped his arms over the shoulders of the shotgun-wielding station owner and bit down hard on a shoulder. A finger must have twitched, sending a blast from the shotgun, shattering the glass door of a beverage refrigerator.

Self-preservation sent Joseph running back to his car. He slid across the hood, fell to the ground, picked himself up, opened the door, and jumped in. Just as he slammed the door, two bloodstained people came around the corner of the shop at a run. He watched their forced strides as he shoved the key in the ignition. The car sputtered to life. Joseph gunned the engine, flinging gravel everywhere as he fishtailed out of the parking lot heading back toward the interstate.

He almost got back to the last major intersection when the engine started choking. Just past a church, he turned left into the rural suburb of Lakeside City. He went straight because the road left of him was blocked by a three-car pileup. At the end, he followed the road to the left past a row of mostly brick houses.

Fuck no. No, NO, NO! Don’t die on me yet. Come on, just a little farther.

The engine sputtered twice and died, leaving him stranded in front of the twelfth house. Joseph shoved it in neutral and turned on the parking brake. He got out, braced himself and turned off the parking brake. He pushed the car just far enough to get it out from in front of the house’s driveway. He walked up the driveway, past a black, heavily tinted Chevy Blazer, and knocked on the glass storm door.

“Hello? Anybody home? I ran out of gas and could use some help,” Joseph yelled, banging on the door again and peering through the glass to see if he could spy anyone inside. He looked nervously over his shoulder, back toward the street. When he brought his head back around, he found a gun barrel sitting just inches from his nose for the second time in just a few minutes.

“Are you bit?” the man behind the gun demanded with a strange tone of calm in his voice. He wasn’t exactly a huge guy, but he definitely had the look of a person that Joseph did not want to fuck with. The young man’s black cargo pants and blood splattered olive drab T-shirt reminded Joseph of a deranged serial killer from some horror movie. His pale-blue eyes were all the brighter when contrasted by his military-short dark brown hair. Joseph was sure the man would shoot if he didn’t answer the
right
way, but he was almost doubly sure the man would shoot him if he attempted to run away. “Damn it, are you bit? Yes or no?”

Before the blood-spattered gunman could finish his sentence, Joseph was tackled from the side. He got his knee up and placed a hand around the throat of the woman attacking him. A bloody eyeball dangled from her left ocular cavity. Her hands were covered with a pair of leather gardening gloves and the flesh of her left forearm had been torn down to the bone.

Fuck! Again? Today is just not a good day to be me.

Joseph used his free arm to pound on the ribs of the crazed lady on top of him. She didn’t so much as wince at the barrage of heavy punches.

The gunman clubbed the back of the woman’s head with the butt of his pistol, which seemed to have little effect on her attack. He then grabbed her by the hair and jerked, pulling her off of Joseph. She stood, clicking her teeth on empty air. The gunman kept his grip on her hair, torqued his hips, and twisted his frame around, putting the woman off balance enough to lose her footing. He kept on coming, and kicked her in the crook of the hip with the heel of his right boot. The blow was enough to put her to the ground. She rolled to the ground and landed on her back a few feet away. He calmly raised his gun and, as she began to sit up, shot her square in the face.

Joseph jumped, startled by the gunshot.

“Why did you shoot her?” he yelled.

“You’re not playing with a full deck, are you? Do you have any idea what’s going on or have you been jerking off in a bathroom stall somewhere for the last twenty-four hours?” the man asked, leering at Joseph with intense, flashing eyes. “Look, just get inside before more of these fuckers show up. Noise tends to attract their attention, and we just made a shitload of it. Or … you can stay out here.”

Dead Come Home

Chapter 6

Hell Comes Home

Mike turned the doorknob lock, engaged the deadbolt, and slid the door chain firmly into place. He took a look at his panicked visitor. He was a young fellow, but probably not much younger than Mike. Life “in the shit” tends to age a guy, as Mike well knew. The man’s eyes were wide, his expression one of shock and confusion. Mike suddenly realized what a sight he must make, his clothes spattered with blood, face dirty and tear-strewn, and holding a monster of gun in his hand.

“Take it easy,” Mike said, still catching his breath a bit. “I ain’t gonna hurt you. If I was, I’d have just left you to that thing out there. What’s your name, friend?”

“Sounds like you met Bob Cutching. Yeah, he’s always struck me as being a bit on edge.” Mike chuckled, imagining big, hulky Bob pulling a shotgun on this average-sized gent.

Joseph paused, suddenly struck by a sinking pang of guilt in his gut for abandoning a man in trouble. The knowledge that he was still alive, however, more than cancelled out the guilt.

“Calm down, Joe-Joseph,” Mike sighed. “Not passing judgment. If he was bit, there was nothin’ you coulda done to help him anyway. But you
can
help me.”

“Help you with what?”

“Well, if you will turn your attention to the living room,” Mike said, holding his arm out like a tour guide. “You will notice that I’ve had quite the party. And my guests have made one helluva mess.”

Joseph’s stomach twisted at the sight of the mutilated corpses.

“What is this? What have you done?”

“Well, I’d have thought that was obvious … I killed three people in my living room. And pretty soon, they’re gonna start getting ripe. Besides that, I don’t exactly wanna be tripping around in the dark, stumbling over dead people all night. We need to move them to the far end of the house. I’d do it myself, but old Tom over there is a pretty big guy, even with most of his head gone. If you hadn’t shown up, I woulda had to chop him up to get him moved and, to be honest with you, we don’t really have that kinda time.”

“I think I’m going to be sick,” Joseph choked on the words.

“Bathroom’s through there,” Mike said, pointing to the master bedroom door on the right side of the living room. “There’s another one at the far end but, trust me, you don’t wanna go that way.”

Joseph darted off for the toilet before Mike finished speaking. Mike stood in the living room, keeping his eye on the front door as he listened to the muffled sounds of Joseph retching and gagging. Then he heard the sink running. A few moments later, the young man emerged from the bedroom door.

“Better?”

“I’m okay now,” Joseph said, wiping his water-soaked face with the back of his forearm. “Sorry about that. I’ve just … I mean, I’ve never.”

“Never seen dead bodies? It’s fine,” Mike said. “Are you gonna be able to do this?”

Joseph nodded that he would and swallowed hard on the lump of nausea that was again swelling in his throat. He took a few deep breaths; soon, the initial wave of vertigo began to subside. He tightened his fists and readied himself for the terrible task that lay before him.

“It’s not that I haven’t seen a dead body before. It’s just that last time … ” Joseph said, “Last time I didn’t have time to look at it for long. I hardly saw what it looked like.”

“Yeah,” Mike replied. “It really gives you a newfound respect for morticians, doesn’t it? Imagine if you had to look at your loved ones like this …”

Joseph saw Mike’s expression change, saw a wave of sadness wash across Mike’s face. Just as quickly, it faded away as the young man gritted his teeth and took hold of a pair of flannel-clad shoulders.

“Just get his feet, would ya?”

* * *

Mike and Joseph made quick work of their morbid detail. They piled the bodies into a small bathroom at the far end of the house. Joseph managed not to get sick until they were disposing of the very last body. A chunk of Sheriff Tom’s esophagus had slid grotesquely out of his neck and rolled down Joseph’s leg. He’d blown chunks over the piled bodies, christening their defiled corpses in putrid vomit. Mike said nothing about it. He just nodded in an odd gesture of understanding, as if to say, “I used to do the same thing, once upon a time.”

In all honesty, however, Joseph found Mike’s calm demeanor rather disconcerting. The emotionless way in which he seemed to deal with the situation put an odd fear in Joseph’s already nauseated belly. Joseph wondered if Mike would be so cold and calm and kill him as he had these three men. The young business intern decided that it was in his best interest not to let himself be perceived as a threat by this blood-soaked, gun-wielding fellow.

Joseph followed Mike to the kitchen. Mike reached into one of the cabinets and pulled out a yellow plastic glass. He handed it to Joseph.

Joseph filled the glass at the fridge and gulped the ice cold water down. His head suddenly ached from the “brain freeze,” making him regret drinking so fast. He winced and shoved his tongue to the roof of his mouth until the pain subsided.

“What do you mean, ‘miles to go?’”

“Well, I don’t know about you, but I don’t think that staying here for long would be too bright. I mean, this house ain’t exactly Fort Knox and, in case you haven’t noticed, the cavalry ain’t exactly on the way to save us. We need to get our hands on all the supplies we can, load up the Blazer, and get the heck outta here while we still can.”

“Listen to me,” Mike said, pulling himself up and sitting on the countertop. “These things are infected with some kind of a virus. It’s the bites. I have a friend who’s a genuine G-man of a spook. He was kind enough to let me in on that much.”

“A spook?” Joseph asked, with a skeptical grin on his face.

“That means he works for military intelligence,” Mike explained. “I guess protocols aren’t gonna do me much good now, so I’ll come clean with you. After all, what’re they gonna do? Throw me in jail while the rest of the world is going to hell? My buddy told me the CDC sent word to all field personnel that anyone with bites should be avoided at all costs or killed on sight. They also said the only way to put these fuckers down is to hit ‘em in the head. Apparently, it’s gotta be hard enough to seriously injure the brain if not destroy it. I nailed that lady who jumped you pretty damn hard with the butt of my pistol. But she didn’t go down until I busted a cap in her face. Same thing happened with the guy in the scrubs. I put one square through his chest, center mast, and he just kept coming. I even nailed him upside the head with a fireplace shovel … twice. It stunned him, but he didn’t stay down for good until I shot him in the head.”

“If you’ve got friends in high places, like you say, then why don’t you just call somebody and ask them to send help?”

“Because … my friend is already dead,” Mike said blankly. “So is another buddy of mine in Lake Tahoe. Even my Ma is …” Now it was Mike’s turn to choke on his words.

“I’m sorry,” Joseph said. “I didn’t know.”

“Well we don’t have time to fall apart about it right now, do we? Not if we want to survive the night,” Mike said, slapping his palms on the countertop.

Joseph made a decision that he would help this gentleman for just as long as it took them to find help—military, police, or otherwise. Then he’d just go his own way. After all, there was safety in numbers.

This guy doesn’t seem to have much need for help. He doesn’t need me, and I don’t want to get killed or worse following him on some crazy road trip. As soon as I see anything with flashing lights, I’m gone.

Mike decided that he would keep this young man safe until they came across some form of safe haven—military, police, or otherwise. After all, he doubted this … “kid” … would be much more than a burden once he got on the road toward Hanse’s place. The guy was better off under police or military protection.