Dead Among Us: A Zombie Apocalypse Thriller Read online

  Dead Among Us

  Frank Robertson

  Copyright © 2021 by Frank Robertson

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  This book is dedicated to my parents, friends and family who have supported me on this journey.

  Especially my zombie apocalypse loving mom.

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Afterword

  About the Author

  1

  As Garret had expected, the shelves were empty. Three dry liquor stores in a week. It was bad luck or rural America coveted their booze. Garret watched as his companion's face turned to stone.

  When they first entered the store, the Irishman's eyes were bright with hope. But as he rifled through the looted store, his cheerful attitude evaporated. Despite knowing that the store was empty, the Irishman continued to check each shelf. Garret hoped they would find at least one bottle to placate the stubborn brute.

  "You won't make it appear out of thin air," Garret said.

  Broken shards of glass crunched under the Irishman's boots as he made his way to the back of the tiny store.

  Garret turned towards Maps, who stood outside on watch as usual, soaking in the blazing summer sun, reading a newspaper he'd pulled from a vending machine. Garret tried to motion him inside, hoping he'd help diffuse the lit powder keg that was about to go off. Just when Garret thought he grabbed the stickman's attention, Maps looked back down into the newspaper, uninterested in intervening.

  "Goddamned alcoholic small-town, hick fucks," the Irishman ranted.

  "Let's go. There's a grocery store down the road we can hit. Might get lucky over there," Garret said.

  The Irishman slammed his hand down on the counter.

  "Keep it down, man," Garret said.

  "This whole fucking town is dry."

  "How about this?" Garret held up a bottle of expired Margarita mix.

  The Irishman swept up the cash register in his arms and launched it through the front store window. Garret cringed at the noise of the window shattering.

  "It was just a joke. Lighten up. Do you really need to drink tonight? And they're going to hear us if you keep making noise," Garret said and shuddered at the thought of the dead descending upon them.

  "Fuck off," the Irishman spat.

  And with that, five corpses turned the corner of Walnut Avenue. They were two blocks down the street, but Garret could already hear their obnoxious moans. He was almost certain their cries would draw more of the lifeless beings.

  Maps acknowledged their presence with the sound of a sharp blade sliding out of its sheath.

  "Great job! I'm surprised you didn't alert more."

  The Irishman ignored Garret and stepped through the broken window, out into the street. "Hey, you fuckers, come get me. Brains, plenty of fresh brains, right here," the Irishman shouted. Without an ounce of fear he slid his blood stained brass knuckles over his right hand and thumped his chest with his left, bolstering himself before the battle.

  Maps sheathed his K-bar knife and returned to reading the three-month-old newspaper.

  "You going to help?" Garret asked, but Maps pretended not to hear him.

  The five zombies shambled down the street with their eyes glued on the three humans. A raucous of growls and pained moans filled the air. The Irishman barreled toward them, Garret followed behind as backup, keeping his hand on the tool belt wrapped around his waist.

  A former priest led the charge before he tripped on its own tattered robes and crashed into the street. An unfortunate fall landed him near the Irishman's boots. The Irishman stomped the creature's head into the curb, silencing its wretched moans. The sickening crunch echoed down the street as a warning to those that followed.

  A short, chubby zombie missing the lower half of its jaw was next. The Irishman threw a vicious right hook. His brass knuckles caved in the corpse's forehead, causing the monster to fall backwards into the group. The Irishman followed through with three lightning fast punches, dealing out death to the remaining zombies. He brushed the gory brass knuckles off on his jeans.

  "No problem here, mate. Don't get so bent out of shape over five of 'em." He patted Garret on the back and continued down the street towards the grocery store.

  Garret looked down at the mess the Irishman left in his wake. Chipped bone fragments and rotten flesh lay at his feet. Three months ago the sight would have made Garret puke. Now it was normal. Garret stared into the puddle of gore.

  When reality first warped into this hellish nightmare, Garret had been on a business trip, staying at a hotel in Miami over one thousand miles away from home. For a week he stayed holed up in his hotel room. He watched the world spiral out of control on T.V. During the first few days, news stations went back and forth, trying to decipher what happened. At first the media labeled it as a pandemic and then a bio-terrorist attack. But Garret got the sense that nobody knew the truth.

  Then the broadcasts stopped. Chaos unfolded around him. Outside of his room on the 20th floor, the city buzzed with panic, sirens and screams. So he waited, hoping it would blow over. Slowly man made noise faded away, day by day as the dead overwhelmed the city. The help he expected never came.

  Garret survived off of trail mix, candy bars and a random assortment of snacks for two weeks. The hotel lost power and running water after that, leaving Garret in darkness. Even then Garret stayed huddled in his hotel room, gripped by fear. He'd rather die from starvation than risk getting torn to pieces by a mob of corpses. After several days of drinking out of the toilet tank, Garret worked up enough courage to leave.

  His survival instincts always urged him to run. When it boiled down to fight-or-flight, Garret always chose the latter. So he ran as they chased him down 26 flights of stairs. Garret still had nightmares about that day. Their arms lashed out, dirty fingernails nipping at his back. Just run, he thought.

  With a bit of luck, he escaped from the hotel. Though the streets of Miami weren't much safer. Thankfully, Garret ran into Maps and the Irishman. Two embodiments of fight. Exactly what he needed to stand a chance to get home. He knew if he hadn't met them, he would have died there. Either torn to bits by the dead or murdered by those that lost their humanity.

  Garret's stomach rumbled, snapping him back to reality. Maybe they'd get lucky and find some beer to placate the alcoholic.

  "I need a fucking drink, let's get moving," the Irishman said.

  Maps finished reading the newspaper and dropped it to the ground, letting the wind carr
y it off into the road.

  Albert's Grocery was looted except for two cans of carrots that had rolled underneath a shelf. Countless bodies littered the rest of the store.

  Garret counted over twenty decomposing corpses as they walked the aisles, all of which were picked down to the bone. Bloody footprints caked the tiled floor. Rancid meat and the smell of death wafted through the air, making Garret gag.

  The noxious odor didn't stop the Irishman from popping a can of carrots open and dumping half of the contents into his mouth. He titled the can towards Maps, offering him a portion, but the thin man declined. The Irishman ignored Garret and continued devouring his meal. Carrot juice slid down the side of his grizzled face.

  Garret didn't mind the Irishman's slight. He would rather have the brute not share food than cause anymore commotion. Plus, he hated carrots. They used to have two backpacks filled with canned goods and granola bars, but those supplies had dwindled. They had maybe a week's worth of food if they stretched it. Garret had been saving a chewy peanut butter bar for when he was really starving.

  Maps only ate when necessary. His skinny build reflected his dislike of canned foods. The Irishman, on the other-hand ate like a mule. Garret refused to let him carry the food supply backpack. Instead, they made him carry a bag of other equipment.

  "Are we setting up camp?" the Irishman asked Maps. Maps turned to Garret and shrugged.

  "No, we can cover at least two more miles. Put some distance between us and Greensville."

  The Irishman spat on the ground, obviously not interested in more walking. They had already covered twenty miles, which was more than usual in one day.

  Walking was how they spent most of their time. They often traversed through the woods on roundabout trails and back roads, avoiding major highways and dense population centers. When supplies dwindled, they dipped into low population areas to scavenge for food, booze, and meds. Maps had a clear talent for navigation and had yet to get them lost. Hence the nickname Garret had given him.

  Garret traveled with the odd pair now for two months and still didn't know their names. When he asked the Irishman, the brute laughed and said, "We're all living on borrowed time. What's the point of getting to know someone when we're all one bad day away from death?"

  When Garret asked Maps, the thin man just didn't respond. He didn't take it personally. The guy talked about as much as he smiled. Instead of pushing them, Garret gave up. He didn't care who they were as long as he made it home.

  Garret recognized early on that he wasn't cut out for survival. No, he should've been dead several times over. And despite the pair saving his life multiple times in the previous weeks, Garret felt disposable. He imagined if he died the Irishman would say something like, "Rest in peace, dumbass."

  He'd barely convinced the two survivors to even accompany him. Like a true salesman, Garret sold them on an idea by weaving a tale of his fortress in Pennsylvania. A fortress that contained a massive collection of expensive liquor Garret stocked over the years, and a bunker filled to the brim with MREs and supplies.

  Garret remembered telling his wife that a bomb shelter was a silly idea. In fact, for months the topic was a launch board for arguments. If he ever got the chance to see her again, he'd admit he was wrong. Actually, he'd kill to hear her say, "I told you so," one more time.

  "Bunch of damn drunks in this town," the Irishman complained.

  "They can't be worse than you. I'd be your sponsor if I wasn't sure you'd kill me," Garret said.

  "Shut up. These bastards didn't leave one drop of booze in this place. I hope they fucking choke on it. Hell, I'd even drink some wine at this point."

  "Maybe we'll find some in the next town."

  "Forget it, let's get out of this shit hole," the Irishman said as he finished his canned carrots.

  As they prepared for departure, Garret heard a rustling in the back, mixed with faint cries of agony. Garret stood up, his fingernails bit into the head of his hammer.

  "Yeah, let's get moving." He shuddered.

  2

  Greensville resembled the dozen other ghost towns they'd traveled through before it. The dead picked the rural town clean and moved on, leaving it void of life. Only a few stragglers remained.

  A long sigh escaped Garret's mouth as the blistering sun beat on the back of his neck. These long walks in the sweltering heat made Garret's clothes stick to his body as if he'd jumped into a pool. He wished they would just hot-wire another vehicle and take their chances on the road. Traveling by car had its pros, but also many cons. Risks heavily outweighed the reward. Especially when compared to moving by foot. The noise of a rumbling engine attracted both the dead and living alike. Wrecked vehicles and sometimes hordes of the dead blocked the highways, making extended drives difficult if not downright impossible. They could run over a pack of twenty zombies, but hundreds was another story.

  Less than a month ago they covered a good amount of ground in a brand new jeep they'd stolen off a car lot in North Carolina. The blisters on their feet convinced them to give driving another chance. The Irishman bitched the entire time. Garret convinced him with the idea that they could much more efficiently track down booze for his insatiable craving. They didn't make it over twenty miles before they got trapped on the interstate, pinned between two writhing armies of rotten flesh. The event resulted in them exhausting the rest of their ammo and abandoning their jeep. Over the next forty hours they moved by foot, putting distance between themselves and the dead. Most of the corpses moved at a snail's pace, but they were persistent. Eventually they lost the slow, plodding mass of death. Since then they opted for the safer but slower option of traveling by foot.

  "Double cheeseburger, with extra bacon, grilled onions and raw onions, fresh jalapeños, ketchup, mustard, mayo, fuck I'd even take a tomato and some lettuce, with a soft potato bun," the Irishman said.

  The thought made Garret's mouth water. Half of him hated this game, but the other half loved entertaining the idea of eating a proper meal. He doubted he'd ever enjoy the luxury of biting into a fresh, juicy burger again.

  "I want some greasy Chinese food from a hole in the wall joint, with crab rangoon. You know, the ones with the fake crab meat and too much cream cheese. Throw in two or three egg rolls, some pot stickers and a bowl of fried rice with some Szechuan chicken," Garret said.

  Maps said nothing, as usual. Garret wondered what kind of food the stick man consumed before the world ended. From his lean, bony build, Garret assumed he ate nothing but salads, fruits, and nuts.

  "Maps, what about you?" Garret asked.

  "Uh, a ham sandwich."

  The Irishman kicked an empty soda can out of the street. "Way to use your imagination, buddy."

  They walked a mile and a half north, entertaining the thought of setting up camp for the night. As they reached the outer edge of Greensville, the Irishman pointed to a church sitting atop a hill.

  Garret shook his head. "No, thanks. Let's just keep walking until we find a house to hunker down in." But it was too late. The Irishman ignored Garret and started up the hill.

  "That's fine. Me and Maps are leaving you, enjoy that creepy church."

  Maps brushed past Garret following the Irishman's lead.

  "You too? Fine..."

  The church looked more like a barn with a big cross posted above its front doors. The fading sun cast the church's shadow down the hill. Garret welcomed the refreshing coolness as he stepped into the shade. Maps and the Irishman waited for Garret in the modest parking lot at the top of the plateau.

  Worn wooden boards held the small house of worship together. A cross colored by chipped and faded white paint rested under the gable. It looked like a small gust of wind could send the whole building crashing down.

  "Why are you so set on staying in this dump? We still got an hour of sunlight left," Garret said.

  Neither Maps nor the Irishman bothered with answering Garret's question. Instead, they approached the front of the church with caution,
not wanting to make any noise. Garret heaved a deep sigh and walked toward them. His muscles ached with each step.

  The Irishman stood outside of a grime covered stained glass window. He spit on the pane of glass and rubbed away the grit with the bottom of his shirt. He cupped his hands around his eyes and pressed them to the window.

  "See anything?"

  "Yeah, don't you smell them?" the Irishman asked.

  Garret didn't notice any particularly foul scent besides the usual sweat and musk from not having a hot shower in three months. The closest thing he had to a shower was a quick sponge bath in a river last week.

  "Shit, there's a dozen in there," the Irishman said.

  "Good, let's forget about it then."

  The Irishman remained unswayed. Garret rested his hand on the hammer hanging from his tool belt. Maps unsheathed his knife.

  The Irishman turned to Garret. "It's your turn to be bait."

  "To hell with that. I'm always bait. I was bait the last five times -- no, six times actually," Garret said.

  "You're really keeping count? Being the bait is the easiest role. Just open the door and lead those fuckers out. Maps and I will swoop in from behind and brain the bastards," the Irishman said.

  "Fine."

  Exhausted from all the walking, Garret couldn't muster the resolve needed to argue with the brute. Not that there were any words in the entire English language that could persuade the Irishman to change his mind. Stubborn bastard.