My Zombie Summer (Book 1): The Undead Road (2 page)

Jewel had her eye on her sights.

“What are you shooting at?” I asked.

“Stalkers! They’re going after Mom and Dad!”

Stalkers
. I knew those monsters well enough.
Stage 2 Vectors
were the most common, not by themselves or in small groups, but in packs. If they wanted to eat, their chances of trapping some poor sap was better in numbers. Unlike the Crawlers, these things could move around on their own feet, but no faster than a power walk. Atrophy and deterioration hadn’t set in just yet. Each of them had fresh blood all over themselves. They had to have devoured something recently.

I didn’t want to know what.

Dad was hauling a heavy black duffle bag over his shoulder, with Mom following close behind him. She looked back often, her finger hugging the trigger of a Remington 870 Express.

Crack! Crack! Crack!

“Don’t waste your rounds!” I warned Jewel. “Trigger-happy little . . .”

I turned around. The Crawlers had made their way to the divided yellow line and started to cross it. If we didn’t leave soon, I would have to waste a few bullets.

Crack—crack, crack, crack—crack . . . crack, crack!

Jewel played her .22 like a musical instrument. I had to guess the melody. “Shave and a Haircut?”

She nodded as Dad gestured Mom to her seat. “After you, my dear.” Mom jumped into the car while Dad shoved the giant bag through Jewel’s window. “Careful with this, guys.”

The passenger door slammed, and both windows rolled up. Dad made his way to the driver’s side, holding his AR-15 steady and ready. A Crawler—her face hollowed—reached for his ankle. I fired and landed a dime-sized round in her sunken temple. No more reaching. No more moaning. She was dead.

“Watch your left, Jeremy,” Dad warned as he climbed into his seat.

I turned and fired another round into the crown of a boy—about Jewel’s age—with an unhinged jaw. He stopped moving. Black ooze dripped from his nose. Now that everyone was inside, I hopped in and closed my door before the grease monkey dude could grab me.

“Buckle up,” Dad said. “We found a Runner—”

Something rammed into Jewel’s door, jostling the Explorer. She recoiled. “Where’d
he
come from?”

A Vector with a missing cheek had its face pressed against her window. It stared and balled its fists against the glass. The Stalkers hadn’t made their way across the lawn yet. This had to be the guy Dad was talking about. Dark foam dangled from its chin as it snarled.

Runners
, or
Stage 1 Vectors
, are the deadliest. At the time, I hadn’t seen a Runner in over a week. Cassidy was one of them. And she wasn’t the only one.

She went home from our eighth-grade graduation rehearsal with a fever, along with a few other kids from different grades. Everyone thought it was some kind of flu, but as you know by now, it was something else entirely. The next night, our neighborhood went berserk. People chasing or running from each other until they were eaten or turned into Vectors themselves.

When it comes to Runners, they
run
—original name, I know—but unlike the others, they could open doors, pick up rocks, and climb stairs. By extension, Runners are the hardest Vectors to put down. That’s why we had this rule: when you see a Runner, you run. Do not pass go. Do not collect two hundred dollars.

“Anytime you’re ready, Sweetie,” Mom told Dad.

He kicked the gear into drive and stepped on the gas. The Runner scratching at Jewel’s door sprinted for us after speeding off. The others hinged and continued their labored walk in our direction. I turned in my seat and watched as they followed. Even the Crawlers shifted, not that they stood a Hades’ chance of catching us before they disintegrated into puddles of goop.

We headed south, down
North Chestnut
, passing house after house and City Hall. About a hundred Vectors appeared out of nowhere. We had stirred the pot. One Vector was harmless, but a ginormous horde of them could smash our Explorer in like a soda can. The sight terrified me, but I kept looking as Dad swerved around them. I actually felt sorry for them. We left the Nebraska town with its white water tower and passed their sign, its letters shrinking as we raced away.

I strained to read them:
Welcome to Wahoo

“Wahoo . . .”

I had to say it a few more times in my head.

Wahoo . . . Wahoo . . .

I laughed, mostly to myself. Nothing about the last few weeks was worth laughing about. If the pandemic hadn’t happen over Memorial Day weekend, I doubt we would’ve been together when the world went insane. Mom would’ve worked, Dad would’ve been at his shop, and my little sister would’ve gone to one of her friend’s houses to watch
My Little Pony
or some junk. I’m not sure what I would’ve done—maybe go to a movie.

The carnage that we stared at through my sister’s bedroom window was enough to keep us housebound for a week, until things were quiet enough to slip away.

“Happy Birthday, Jewel,” Dad said, handing her a bolt-action rifle.

“Wow! For real?!” She snatched it from him, no longer stunned by the Runner or the thin sheet of glass that had separated her from getting her skin ripped off. “So. Cool. Thanks, Dad!”

“Wait,” Mom protested. “You’re giving it to
her
? It’s a hunting rifle!”

“Or a sniper rifle,” Dad said. “It’s more effective than that peashooter she has right now.”

My parents squabbled as Jewel hugged her new piece like a stuffed teddy bear. I couldn’t help being jealous. Not because of her rifle, but for her attitude over the situation. It had been a week since we’d last seen a living person—which didn’t last long—and I was doubtful that we would see another person anytime soon. And I was supposed to start my freshman year of high school in the fall. A hunch told me this wouldn’t happen. Being fifteen would be harder than I thought.

To make matters worse, finding a girlfriend would be difficult, if not impossible. For all I knew, the Vectors had eaten every fish in my prospective ocean.

I shook my head to focus. I was still alive, sitting in a crowded car with the most jaded people in the history of Ever. Our mission? We were going to wait out the Vector Pandemic in my grandparent’s cabin in the Colorado Rockies. And this was my family. It was my responsibility to keep them safe.

Reaching for an opened bag of beef jerky, I watched as Jewel plugged a pair of headphones into her iPod. She jammed away to Imagine Dragons while my parent’s argument continued to escalate.

Nothing brings the family together like a zombie apocalypse.

“Would you hand me a bottle of water, Jeremy?”

Dad caught me staring out the back window without my seatbelt on. He had this way of making us useful whenever we’d break the rules. I scrounged about in the back for the first bottle I could find and twisted the cap off. I placed the bottle in his awaiting hand.

“Thanks,” he said before taking a big swig.

I buckled myself back in. “No problem.”

“This is
really
cool, Dad.” Jewel was stroking her new rifle like a braid of princess hair. She used to cuddle dolls not too long ago. “I can’t believe you found this.”

“I can’t believe how much we found,” Mom said. “You’d think someone would’ve cleared that place out before us. The outbreak must’ve hit hard here, too.”

Mom’s words fit well. Glancing out my window was enough to prove it, passing car after abandoned car. It was hard to keep my stomach in check whenever I saw a body in one of the cars—or what was left of it.

I was thirsty all of a sudden, so I unbuckled and went aqua hunting. “Anyone need a drink?” I asked. Mom declined. So did Jewel. I grabbed three bottles anyway, to save me a trip for later. “There’s about a dozen left, plus that five gallon jug and the root beer.”

“We’ll have to go shopping.” Dad laughed. “What’s the next town?”

Mrs. Navigator Mom grabbed the atlas on the dash board and traced her finger along a highlighted line. “David City . . .” she said slowly. “It’s a bit north of the highway—about two miles off.”

“We’ll top off there if the stations are clear,” Dad said. “That should get us to the border. We’ll find a hill, too. Jewel needs to learn how to use that rifle.”

I laughed. The rifle’s kick was sure to knock her off said hill.

She may have been small, but Jewel was our Eagle Eye, our sniper elite when Mom and Dad went into buildings, S.W.A.T-team-style, to scavenge for supplies. Having a gun dealer and a volunteer National Guardsman for a dad played a big part in our strategy, and it had saved our skins on more than one occasion. Mom was a registered nurse, or used to be. And she wasn’t a firearms fan. Now she was Point Guard, our shotgun-hauling slayer of the undead. Dad was Point Man, the guy in front, sporting a Colt AR-15 with all the accessories: laser sight, flashlight, night vision, you name it! If it had a grenade launcher, he’d be in heaven.

Well, if such a place existed.

I’ll get to that later.

As for me, I was . . . The Backup. Jewel was too young for close encountering, plus Mom and Dad wanted someone to make sure our car remained safe, so I had to stay behind. Babysitter. That’s what I was. I wasn’t too young, but I wasn’t old enough either—sucks to be me. I gazed at my .45 Beretta and released the magazine. Out of habit, I wanted to know how many rounds I had left: eight. I’d fired two back in Wahoo. Conserving ammunition was getting easier.

Now was as good a time as any to reload.

Reaching for the pouch on the back of Dad’s seat in front of me, I fished through a few leftover mini-donut wrappers and found my two squashed boxes of ammo—both light. I opened one. Not even a clip’s worth. If we didn’t find more soon, we’d be toast.

As I glanced up, I viewed a little farmhouse to our left with a white vinyl fence. The place had a couple sheds that reminded me of miniature greenhouses. There was a barn in the back, covered in the shade of two trees. Small towns and random houses were all we had seen after driving through three states in three weeks on our way to Colorado.

Traveling the interstates proved to be a bad idea. Really bad. Too many parked cars. Too many Vectors waiting. They liked to hang around cars. I had a hunch as to why. For them, cars meant,
there’s food in there!

And if the engine was running,
fast food!

“Do we have bullets for this?” Jewel asked.

Mom sighed. “Check the bag if you must.”

Jewel and I locked eyes. “Dibs!” she said.

She won that round. I pocketed my .45 while Jewel reached for the bag, grunting as she tugged. “Need help here . . .” The bag’s weight took me by surprise. Jewel found the zipper and opened the duffle. “Holy Toledo!” she cried. “That’s a lot. How’d you carry this, Dad?”

“
Buns of Steel
, princess,” he said, smiling again, “and a whole lot of adrenaline.”

Mom shook her head. “You used my DVDs . . .”

Several boxes of ammunition were inside the bag. I wasn’t familiar with some of it, so I reached in and searched for the ones we normally used: three and a half boxes of .45, a 200 round package of .40, lots of .22, tons of 12 Gauge shells, and an opened case of 5.56 mm. This bag would keep us well stocked for a while.

“Which one goes with mine?” Jewel asked.

“Don’t jostle the bag,” Dad warned. “We need to take inventory before we make our turn for David City—and the thirty-aught-six goes to yours, Jewel.”

“These.” I pointed at the 30.06 boxes. Knowing this surprised me.

She grabbed a box and opened it. “Are these bigger than Dad’s?”

“Are you sure she can handle that?” Mom asked.

Dad shrugged. “She’ll have to. If we want proper cover, she’ll need proper weight behind her shots, something that will knock those things off their feet.”

“And her with it!” Mom turned back and glanced at me before looking at my sister. “Don’t get your hopes up. If it’s too much, we won’t make you use it.”

Jewel rolled her eyes. “I nailed that Stalker chasing you, Mom. Relax.”