Books of the Dead (Book 1): Sanctuary From The Dead Read online

  I honked my horn insistently, but had no place to go. I looked back at the people in the cars behind me and saw the panic on their faces. Further down the street, a swarm of zombies was coming at a slow but steady pace like an inexorable flow of lava from a volcano. The swarm grew in size as more undead streamed out of the yards along the street joining the herd.

  Up to this point, I had seen a few pockets of zombies and some individual undead shambling along on my way to the church, but this throng stopped me in my tracks. There were at least forty to fifty walking toward us, some making faster progress than the others. All of them looked hungry.

  The driver of the pick-up directly behind me put his truck in reverse and floored it, but only got as far as the car behind him as his back bumper smashed in the front of that car with a loud metal against metal crunching sound. I watched in horror as an elderly man got out of the car and started shouting at the pick-up truck driver, seemingly oblivious to the encroaching danger behind him. The man got out of the pick-up with a tire iron in hand and headed back towards the old man, shouting. In their confusion and stupidity, neither of these men were getting it. Not at all.

  The man’s wife did get it, loud and clear. She opened her door, dragged out two small kids, and yelled at her husband to leave the old man alone, but the man had his hate on and was determined to deal with this old bastard who had blocked them in. She picked-up a little boy, who was probably around three or four, and told the other kid to follow her. When I saw their eyes, as they passed by me, they were open wide in terror. They took off running around a dry cleaning business on the corner of the block and disappeared.

  The father stood shouting, face-to-face with the old man. I saw I was getting nowhere, grabbed my baseball bat, and ran around the front of my car then started around the semi-trailer. My heart went out to the driver of the Chevy, but when I looked back, I saw the zombies coming in over us like a wave.

  The tire-iron toting father ran off in the direction of where his wife and kids had gone. The old man held his head and leaned against the side of his car, blood dripping off a gaping wound in his forehead. The zombies swept in on him like dark flood waters, enveloping him, and he started screaming. I sprinted away without looking back, but heard the echoes of the old man’s screams for at least a block until they ceased completely. It only took me five minutes at a full out sprint to make it to the church where I sat in wait for my parents.

  By the third day I was out of my mind with worry. There had been no word from my parents. The nation’s extensive communication network teetered on the verge of collapse in the first twelve hours of the Outbreak -- every panicked call stressing the network like a house of cards; and it was brought to its knees and flattened. The cell phone I carried as a constant companion became nothing more than a paper weight, yet I held onto it for several weeks hoping that I would still get the call that never came.

  I wasn’t the only person separated from family and friends, but it offered little solace. My parents ones were one-of-a-kind people and the kindness and company of strangers could never replace them. Never.

  Contrary to all the zombie films, the world didn’t turn into a place overrun with zombie hordes overnight. The reality was even worse. It was like death by a thousand cuts being carried out on all the survivors. During those first few days people streamed into the church. Some had stories that made war crimes seem like the tamest TV movies. Others were so shell shocked that they were incapable of recounting anything.

  Within a week, the worst of what was going to happen reached its apex. The streets were swamped with the undead. Going outside was out of the question -- that is if you wanted to live. There were more than a few people at the church in my situation, with family members out there, maybe on their own, locked in their houses, or on the run just staying out of reach of the undead. Or maybe they were already dead or worse, undead. A part of me wanted to leave this world, but something stronger made me want to survive. Maybe I was just too much of a coward to take that sort of definitive action.

  It was all so hard to accept the world that we once took for granted was totally gone. When faced with the undeniable reality of the old world being dead and buried, we had no choice but to soldier on and survive. This horror film “reality” became the new normal for us as we learned to accept the unacceptable. The dead were walking the earth and if you wanted to live you had better damn well believe it or else you’d join their ranks -- fast. They weren’t very selective; if you lived and breathed, you were on their dinner menu. Maybe even breakfast if it was early in the morning. They weren’t picky and never skipped a meal.

  After the Outbreak, we all expected the cavalry to arrive and save us, but with each passing day that didn’t happen. The realization that we were on our own slowly crept in. The days turned to weeks and then months. The zombies that initially swarmed the city dispersed into small roving groups, going off in search of new sources of food because that’s what we now were -- food.

  The church was originally established for a Baptist congregation which meant it employed the no-nonsense style of a modern big box store, only circa 1920. We took it over in the late 1980’s. The intent of the original designers was to avoid anything that might distract worshippers or be too showy; if it might come across fancy or proud, it was out. In that goal, they succeeded spectacularly. This utilitarian design served us well as the entrances were narrow and easily sealed and protected.

  The most beneficial part of the building’s design was the sanctuary situated on the second floor with a limited number of windows at street level. Boarding these windows up and securing the entrances were the first priority.

  Sound was also kept to bare minimum. Since the sanctuary was on the interior of the church, the outer walls absorbed most of the sound from the worship services and any of our other activities. There had been much debate early on about continuing the worship services, but the true believers won that battle maintaining that they had to feed our souls as well as our bodies.

  While the true believers won many arguments, there were other factions that held sway over decisions. The four factions broke down neatly into distinct categories, the true believers being one of them.

  These good-hearted folks blindly followed the precepts of their faith and applied them even more in the face of a zombie apocalypse. They practiced kindness and charity no matter what. Part of me found them deluded, yet another (and bigger) part envied them for their devotion and commitment.

  The second group was our warriors. These were warrior Christians who had a more aggressive philosophy than the true believers. These brave souls saw it as their mission to protect the group by any means necessary. God had given them the blessing of firearms and these guns became holy instruments. They came to the party heavily armed. They split those outside the defense parameters of the church into two groups: the dead and the soon to be dead.

  Our third group was the poseurs. These people most likely had little or no faith but saw the church and our little set-up as a safe haven in the shit-storm that was now our world. They were the “any port in a storm folks” and were not to be trusted. Some sat the fence between this group and others, but mostly for self-serving reasons.

  The last group was the lost. These were the people that had seen members of their family ripped apart and eaten by the undead. They had that thousand-mile stare that soldiers brought back from wars, tortured, broken, and beaten. They shuffled about trying to find some reason to live. These folks were liabilities, draining the limited resources we had gathered but the true believers refused to allow the group to cast out any of these lost souls.

  Looking back, I really didn’t know where I fit in. I aspired to altruism and service, but I feared I lacked execution on both counts. Whatever appraisal was used, I certainly wasn’t a paragon of virtue. The only thing that allowed me to fit in at all was my legacy status at the church due to my parent’s steadfast attendance each Sunday. My attendance, on the contrary, had bee
n spotty at best.

  CHAPTER 3

  The Horde - Part II

  Outside the sanctuary, a group of very agitated people stood around Greg and Pastor Stevens in the front hallway. Things were getting heated.

  Pastor Stevens, a tall man with gray hair and a firm but gentle demeanor, was the glue that held us together. He was a contradictory juxtaposition of fire and water, inspiring the congregation with thoughtful messages from the good book and calling out to our better angels.

  Several of the people were in Pastor Stevens’ face giving him their opinion in a very forceful manner.

  “We can’t let this kid in,” a red-faced woman said to Greg, her voice bordering on hysterics. Her last name was Hatcher. “She’ll lead the zombies right to us. My children are in here.”

  “That one horde nearly got inside,” said an elderly man named Rudy, holding his hand to his chest, his face tight with worry. “It’s too big of a risk.”

  Greg started to say something but Pastor Stevens raised his hands in the air. “People, where would you be if we hadn’t opened our doors to you?”

  “You’re risking all our lives for one person,” the woman said in a shrill voice.

  “I hear your concerns, but all of us have been given a second chance to live because this church was open for you. There is no other choice. We’re taking this child in.”

  The red-faced woman started to talk, but Greg broke in, “There’s no debate here. We’re letting her in.” He spoke into the walkie-talkie, “Logan, where is she?”

  “She’s at the bottom of the hill. It looks like she’s having trouble with the bike, but she’s still coming,” Logan said over the walkie-talkie.

  “You people all move back,” Greg said motioning with arms. While the rest of the group acquiesced, the elderly man remained rooted in place, his face set like a statue.

  “Now Rudy, I know you want to help,” Pastor Stevens said using a soothing tone that came across as neither placating or patronizing. “But with your bad heart, it would be best if you helped move the children to the basement.” He paused to see if his message got through. “Those kids will really need you down there.”

  Rudy held a stare on the Pastor for a moment, then broke and started back toward the sanctuary. The tension level dropped a hundred points. Both Greg and Pastor Stevens audibly sighed.

  “We’ll direct her around the back if we can get her attention,” Greg said. “Mike,” he said to a broad-shoulder black man wearing military fatigues, “I’d like you to circle around from the west door to the east side back corner of the church and do what you can to get the girl’s attention. If we get her out of view quickly, then maybe the zombies will move on past. Take a couple men with you. Like Frank. Got it?”

  The only men that would be selected would be warriors. While Frank was a contentious member of that group, he’d get the job done.

  “Joel, go down to the east door, but only open it if it’s absolutely necessary. Okay?” I nodded and headed towards my post.

  The plan was set, but as is with the best laid plans of mice and men, things almost never work out like you want.

  CHAPTER 4

  The Outsider

  I peeked through a slight crack of the open door when she popped into view. She was chugging hard on the bike’s pedals with the zombies a good block behind her. She struggled to pedal, her legs moving in a herky-jerky motion. Something was wrong with the bike. I wondered if she’d be better off running for it.

  “What do you see?” a voice behind me whispered.

  I looked back and saw Steve Hampton, a guy in his mid-30s with a scraggly beard, standing behind me. He was one of the poseurs. We found him one morning in a shredded thousand dollar suit pounding on the church doors, crying to be let in. I’d never really liked him. He acted like he was a big-shot in the old world and somehow that elite status should be carried over into the new world. I figured the zombie apocalypse sort of leveled out our country’s caste system.

  “She’s south of 9th. The zombies are past the tracks about a block back.”

  “This is a bad idea, man,” he said. “Those dead things will come right to us. We should just let her pass.”

  “I think that debate is over,” I said. “Where would your ass be if we hadn’t taken you in?”

  “I didn’t have a whole dead army following me.”

  I finally turned my head toward him. “If you hadn’t noticed, there seem to be a whole lot more of the ‘dead army.’ I think if we can save anyone on our side of the life equation we should do it.”

  “So, you’re going with Pastor Steven’s ‘every life is sacred bullshit’?”

  I tried a steely stare, but don’t think I pulled it off.

  “I still think this is a bad call.”

  “Don’t you have somewhere else to be?”

  He tried on indignant and outraged, but couldn’t make it work, and instead, walked away in a huff. When I turned my attention back to the street I saw that the girl had made it to the north edge of the high school. A few of the faster moving zombies had separated themselves from the pack and had passed 9th. There was still a good block and half between them and her, leaving us a decent margin of error for getting the kid off the streets. If she made it around the back of the church (and was spirited inside), the zombies would most likely just surge south in search of her. They weren’t known for their smarts, but more for their endless appetites.

  She was parallel with the center of the high school when everything went to hell. The bike’s chain finally gave up the ghost, snapping in two, and spilling the girl to the street. It was a nasty fall as she pitched forward, tumbling over the handlebars. She ended up face down in the street, lying motionless.

  It was so violent, I wondered if the fall hadn’t killed her. Seconds ticked by, and I realized I was holding my breath.

  She finally tried to raise her head when I saw the lead zombies speed up to be the first one to the dinner table. I let out my breath and took in another deep one.

  I’m not the hero type, not at all, and I couldn’t tell you what got into me, other than a case of stark raving insanity; something pushed me out the door and had me sprinting up the street towards the fallen girl, almost before I realized it. Maybe it was because I knew that no one else had a chance of getting to her? Maybe a better angel was giving me the courage? Or maybe I’m just recklessly stupid?

  Since the zombies only shambled quickly, at best, I had the advantage. The real challenge would be getting back to the church. If I had to carry her, it would cut down on my chances of making a successful return trip. If that turned out to be the case, things would get interesting -- really fast.

  I had a pistol but I wouldn’t be able to carry her and shoot. Even at that, there were too many of them and not enough bullets for me to make some half-assed Custer’s Last Stand in the center of Waller Street. The only viable opportunity was to get her back to the church as quickly as I could.

  The lead zombies were parallel with the northern edge of the high school when I reached her sprawled. She was unnaturally still. Something in me hesitated, not wanting to touch her, fearing the worst. What had brought me out of the church at a run compelled me to reach down, though. As I touched her she moaned slightly and, as gently as possible, I turned her over. Her forehead was a mess. Blood flowed freely down her face, giving the impression she was wearing a skin-tight red mask. Her palms were badly abraded from trying to break her fall.

  Looking up I saw that I had seconds to get this child up and moving or the pack would be on us. As I reached under the girl’s armpits to pick her up, I heard footsteps coming up fast from behind me. The cavalry was coming to the rescue, but I knew that it probably would only be Mike and maybe a couple others -- not nearly enough to fend off the horde for more than a minute.

  When I finally got the girl into my arms, I was amazed at how light she was -- barely skin and bones. The zombies were closing fast, only fifteen feet away, when I pivoted to
make my run back to the church. I could almost swear that those undead bastards were licking their lips.

  Mike and another one of the warriors, Frank, a hulk of a man, sped by me and took up firing positions. I didn’t look back, but heard them firing followed by the wet, sloppy sounds of zombies hitting the pavement.

  She was so light I was able to make it back to the church in no time. Greg had the side door open for me, waiting with an M-16, ready to provide cover fire.

  “Get her inside,” he said, his face a mask of tension.

  When I got in, Kara, a girl about my age, and two other women were waiting with towels and a blanket. I laid the girl down in the hall, allowing them to attend to her and rushed back down to the door, pistol in hand.

  Mike and Frank backed down the street, firing into the horde taking many of them down, but the numbers were against them. The horde was not deterred by the loss of their moribund comrades. They didn’t experience fear or grief or regret. Only hunger drove them on. When one fell, two took its place. That sad fact is only demoralizing for us, not them.

  In an orchestrated movement, whose planning I had missed, Mike and Frank pulled out grenades and tossed them toward the oncoming throng of undead. As soon as the grenades left their hands, they turned and sprinted back to the church.

  As they hit the door, the blast of the grenades could be heard, echoing down the street. Despite the devastating effect on the zombies at the front of the horde, the grenades didn’t stop those behind the blast. A few stumbled around, their brains scrambled from the concussion of the blasts. Several badly mangled ones, with stumps for legs rolled in the street, and tried to pull themselves forward on bloodied arms. The rest just forged ahead, ready to move on to the main course - us.