Unnamed Zombies Novel Chap. 1

[MexicanIlluminati]

This is the beginning of something huge. I DEFINIELY need harsh feedback here because I want to work hard to make this an absolute work of art. The end gets sloppy, I know, but don't worry I intend on revising this later. Without further ado, here is Chapter 1 of my Unnamed Zombies Novel (i'm taking suggestions for names!).

Alex Lockheart looked through reddened eyes at the TV screen in front of him. The sweltering heat of a San Diego spring night had begun to form beads of sweat on his forehead, and his burning eyes and weary body were a constant reminder of the lateness of the hour. The night was humid and damp, and the silence was only broken by the whirring of the fan in the corner of the room and the faint arguing of the commentators onscreen. The quietness of Alex’s room offered a seclusion that he enjoyed, and often times, preferred to the hustle and bustle of the outside world. It allowed him an opportunity to recount the events of the day and better organize his thoughts toward subjects such as school, friends, relationships, family and the like. But tonight, his mind was not occupied by such things. Tonight, he directed his energy at the screen. He had to strain his eyes through dried contact lenses to make sense of the images before him.

The commentators’ voices were sullen, and one could tell by their rigid faces alone that their subject of debate was not a happy one. They squabbled back and forth, exchanging aphoristic arguments until they got red in the face, but their commentary did not interest Alex. His eyes remained fixated on the large, bold words along the bottom of the screen: “HOUSTON HAS FALLEN”, under the words were the subtitles “Government calls for full military evacuation”. The news had been announced a few hours earlier, and still the idea seemed just as surreal and horrifying to Alex as when he had first heard it.

Houston had been praised by the entire country as an all but impenetrable haven of safety. At the beginning of the conflict, many Houstonians had banded together in organized militias aimed at defending their families and properties and circulating information around the city. As a result, casualty levels in Houston were very low. When the military arrived, they succeeded in completely clearing the city of their unorthodox enemy and declared the city a safe zone. The military forces stationed there had far outnumbered those at any other city and henceforth it served as a “promised land” of sorts for thousands of Texans for miles around. But now, just a month after the military arrived, the city fell under siege by millions of them. The resulting battle had lasted about 2 weeks. The first week had passed without incident, and the military were cutting through the streets with perfect efficiency. The next week began with a few unfortunate incidents; miscommunications, casualties, groups of civilians lost. Yet despite these complications, up until yesterday the public had been confident that total victory in the city was close at hand. They were sure their bastion of hope would remain unshakable. And now the city was in shambles. No one was quite sure what had happened to the military; so called “experts” speculated that an unseen hoard had attacked from the rear. In any case, none disagreed that Houston was completely, irreversibly lost.

Houston is lost. Alex had never thought he would hear those words echo in his head. The city had stood for hope, an untouchable shelter that would never flinch at the hoards that afflicted the rest of the country. It had become a running joke in the media, “Well, the entire country may fall to ruin, but at least we’ll still have Houston!” Alex shook his head and chuckled morbidly at the memory. To hear there was an outbreak in Houston, that was absurd. But to hear that Houston had fallen? That was unthinkable. Demoralizing. Terrible.

The talk show segued to a commercial break. Alex rolled over in bed and sighed.

The fall of such a populous city would only strengthen their numbers. It would not be long until the crumbling forces in Austin gave in and then, all of Texas would be lost. There would no doubt be bands of stragglers who would survive for awhile, rising from the remnants of the old militias. But like all the other lost states, their supplies would soon dwindle and they would either starve or fall victim to the hoardes. Another entire state lost.

Of course, the government would do everything in its power to downplay the significance of the loss. Alex could hear the President’s speech now. The generic crowd-pleaser. Riddled with references to “the resilient American spirit”. Maybe throw in a few “God bless America’s for good measure. Alex couldn’t help but wonder at what point the President’s job description transitioned from preserving the people’s morale to preserving the people itself. How long would it be until the government decided the people were entitled to the truth about this new strange enemy? Until they came moaning to our doorsteps?

Alex shivered at the thought. His room was suddenly a very lonely place. The commentators heated faces and flamboyant hand gestures had now been replaced onscreen by images from Houston: rotting corpses littered the streets. Here, the red sky was a hellish background to collapsed buildings and burning houses. The camera moved in on a close-up of a body lying up against a burning ice cream truck. Alex could only begin to imagine the smell of the scene. He gagged.

Enough bad news for the night.

Alex flicked off the TV, and groggily removed his contacts. He settled into his bed and slowly let the images from Houston fade away into the dark of the night.

----------------

Alex had slept only minutes before he was awakened.

The sound was loud. It was close. It was everywhere.

He awoke in a sweat and gasped heavily as the muscles throughout his entire body tensed in response to the sound that was now ringing in his hears. He slowly regained control of his senses and recognized the sound.

Gunshots. Multiple. The sound was loud enough for him to estimate that they were on his own street.

As his senses became clearer, he soon distinguished another sound. A woman’s voice. Crying. No, more of a wailing, mixed in with cries of agony.

The agonized voice was a separate entity. Younger, masculine, sounding no older than his own voice.

He moved to his window, and struggled to make out the faint outline of a woman across the street cradling the crumpled body of a boy that looked about fifteen. The woman lay up against a parked car, and was stroking the boy’s hair, frantically looking back and forth about the street. The boy’s legs twisted and contorted in agony, but his hands remained firmly fixed on his lower abdomen, where an apparent bullet wound was burning his flesh.

The hair on the back of Alex’s neck began to stand up. This was too close. The violence was supposed to happen in faraway places, places like Texas. Places that Alex could only see on TV. It was never supposed to happen this close to home.

He had no sooner recognized the shapes when he heard movement in the next room. His brother was up and had now moved into the hallway. His footsteps were heavy and purposeful. He heard his mother’s door open as the footsteps reached the stairs.

“Will, where are you going?”

“Mom, go back to bed.”

His mother’s voice was desperate, “Will, what are you doing?! You can’t go out there they’ve got a gun!”

Their voices grew louder, and they began to speak simultaneously.

“Are you crazy?! You’re not going out there, Will!”

“Mom, just stay here! We just need to know what’s going on.”

“I won’t let you!”

Alex guessed by the sound of his brother’s feet descending the stairs that his mother had lost the argument.

The front door flew open and Will’s voice came booming out, loud and commanding.

“Hey! What’s going on here?!”

He crossed the street, baseball bat in hand, towards the woman, where Alex could see him through the window. Who was this strange, brave man who had taken his brother’s place? His bold muscles were tight with adrenaline. His quick, careful movements seemed foreign; far too focused; far too urgent to belong to the easy-going boy he grew up with. The happy-go-lucky smile that normally graced his face had been replaced by a tense expression that seemed to be ready for anything.

The woman’s response came in short, quick breaths, “Oh god! Please help me my son’s been shot!”

“Who shot your son?”

At this the woman began sobbing uncontrollably. Alex noticed the pistol in the woman’s hand.

“I’m so sorry, it was dark and I was afraid, I thought he was one of them, and it was dark and he was moving like one of them, I was so afraid I’m sorry-” the rest of her speech became unintelligible as she buried her tear-drenched face in the boy’s shirt.

It then became apparent to Alex that his mother was also listening in from the front door, when he heard her release a yelp that momentarily dissolved into tears.

However, Will did not miss a beat. He swiftly checked for an exit wound and found none, then proceeded to tear a section away from the back of his shirt and apply it to the lower left rib, where the wound was. The woman blinked and stopped her weeping. She watched with curiosity as Will put the finishing touches on the bandage. The boy screamed as he pulled the bandage tight.

“Well at least we know your breathing fine.” A familiar smile graced Will’s face. “Can you move your legs?”

The boy wiggled his toes and then stretched and retracted his legs.

“Yes” He said through a grimace.

“Alright, if there’s no spinal damage then our main concern is controlling the bleeding. In which case, we’ve done all we can do here.”

He held out his big hands for the boy.

“Alright let’s get him to the hospital”.

She seemed momentarily shocked at his goodwill, yet presently she nodded, and Will effortlessly lifted the boy out of her hands and headed for his car.

Back in the house, Alex soon became aware of his mother standing in his doorway. He turned and faced her. Her eyes were red with tears and her face was weary.

“Mom it’s alright, Will’s gonna be fine.”

His voice came out weaker than he had expected. He had not realized that he had been crying himself. He quickly wiped the tears from his eyes.

Dammit. I look like a sniveling child. The first sign of conflict and I’m frozen here, cowering in my bed.

Alex knew she had seen the tears, as she quickly embraced him and then she herself began weeping into his shoulder.

“I’m so sorry Alex. I knew this craziness would reach us eventually. I saw the news. I knew about the cases down at city hall, I just didn’t believe them. It’s not safe here. It’s not safe here.”

She continued repeating the last phrase for about a minute, and then she simply sobbed, as Alex did his best to refrain from doing the same. This isn’t your fault mom. I saw the news reports too. I could have said something, anything to show you the danger. But I was too afraid to realize that what I was watching on the news was just around the corner. No, Mom, I’m sorry. Alex had to bite his tongue to keep himself from speaking aloud.

The weeping continued for what seemed like hours, but over time the tears ceased, and his mother lay motionless in his arms. The room was once again engulfed in the silence of the night. Yet now, the silence did not bring the same peace that Alex was accustomed to. The quietness was vast; it was dark, empty and unsure. He was beginning to think his mother had fallen asleep in his arms when she finally spoke.

“That’s it. I can’t take anymore. We’re leaving in the morning.”

----------------

It was a queer feeling. Alex was unsure how to go about packing for a trip that could last two months or two decades. He figured it safer he prepared for the latter. He had taken the better part of an hour to compact together the entirety of his closet into his bags, leaving little room for deodorant, contact cases and other toiletries. The bags were next to bursting. They reminded him of over-stuffed ravioli. He sighed. Food. The shelter where he was headed would no doubt serve nothing but government rations for the duration of their stay. Good food would be a luxury he would have to live without for awhile. He turned from the bags to his TV which was still tuned to the news channel from last night. He took in the images with a new understanding. The words, scenes, and ideas were no longer some far off, movie-like matter; they were close, intimate dangers.

“More Infections in Escondido. Military advises caution.” Alex sat down on his bed. These were the same reports he had seen for the past year. They had crept closer and closer and Alex had done nothing but wait as if the undead would pass harmlessly over them. He wondered how many were like him. How many had failed to realize the urgency of the situation, and perished because of it?

He remembered back to the beginning, when the crisis first started. Unbelief must have been the death of thousands when the dead began coming back to life and hunting the living.

The virus was of unknown origin, the best theory any biologists could come up with was that it was a cross-species variation of the mad cow disease. The first infections were said to have taken place in a small town in Ecuador, where, with the absence of advance medical science, the virus jumped rapidly from victim to victim while doctors scrambled to make sense of the data. It spread quickly through the streets, and before the week was over, the town belonged to the dead.

A month after the outbreaks in Ecuador, the US saw its first case, and with America being the cultural melting pot it is, it was a miracle the virus didn’t hit its shores sooner. The first case was a homeless man in Miami, who, after gnawing at a neighbor’s dog, was quickly incarcerated. The media was quick to explain to the frenzied public that the attacks were the result of a heavy hallucinogen nicknamed “bath salts”, and Miami accepted the explanation with hopeful optimism. The public soon became suspicious when the prison guards reported that at meal time the prisoner would viciously tear at only the meat on his plate, and let the rest of the meal fall to the ground.

Extreme cases across Asia were fuel to the hysteria that was engulfing the world. There was the woman in Japan who ate her own daughter, or the man in Nepal who woke up with a severed torso gnawing at his shin.

It was not long before entire cities across the globe began falling to the plague. New Delhi and Beijing were among the first major cities to fall, as their ridiculously dense populations served essentially as breeding grounds for the virus. The plague quickly exploded across China, India, Singapore and South Korea almost as fast as the undead could limp.

The sudden and massive outbreaks across the Asian countries got the attention of the world governments, and militaries were soon mobilized to fight the undead. Most campaigns were met with disaster, as their inexperience with fighting such an enemy proved fatal. Their artillery only created legless “crawlers”, which, due to their size, were basically hungry land mines in the dark alleyways of the cities. Heavy machine gun fire would only put holes in the corpses, who didn’t seem to care that their innards were showing or that they were missing an arm. As the military’s numbers dwindled, the undead’s numbers grew. Each fallen soldier was nothing more than fuel to the fire.

As the nations burned and armies crumbled, America was barely seeing its first major outbreaks. The lights of New York were the first to fade, quickly followed by other Eastern cities like Richmond and Cleveland.

The US had easily been one of the luckiest countries in the world at the time. Unlike the rest of the world, the about half of the US’s fighting was done by organized militias and neighborhood watches such as the ones in Houston. The militias proved far more adept at combating the undead than the army. The small size of the militias allowed rapid responses to threats which they extinguished with efficiency, and they enjoyed the capability for quick precise movements that the large, clumsy military could never mimic. The greatest advantage to this small-scale defense however, was the ease of communication. The militias were capable of having eyes and ears in countless locations around the city. These scouts could relay information on undead sightings to extermination patrols who would take out the threat within minutes. This setup did a better job of keeping the streets safe than the military’s long sweeps ever could.

In this war, awareness was power. One country that didn’t seem to understand that was North Korea. At the start of the outbreaks there the “Great Leader” decided that the best strategy to fight off the threat was to keep it under wraps while the government dealt with the outbreaks quietly. The media was not allowed to show news of the zombie plague, and as a result many families doubted the existence of the undead until they came clawing at their doors.

In the US, if you weren’t in an infected city you were barely affected by the plague at all. Hollywood even stopped putting out horror movies to attempt to make sure that those immediately unaffected remain calm and uncaring about the rest of the country. And it worked. In school the outbreaks were never mentioned, and if they were, they were the butt of some awful joke. “Hey where has Joe been? I haven’t seen him all week.”, “Ahh the zombies probably got to him, hear they like white meat!” Of course no one doubted the existence of zombies, they would just rather sit and make jokes than stand and face the reality of the threat.

However, after Hawaii was overrun, and refugees began bringing unnoticed infections into California, the jokes began to fade. The undead crept closer every day. Every few days Alex would hear that so-and-so’s family moved away, until a fifth of his senior class was gone. Every night, Alex would hear more and more police sirens, no doubt responding to undead reports or the ever-increasing violence that ravaged the city. Alex had read somewhere that animals have a sort of sixth sense that enables them to know when disaster is coming. He would have done well to pay attention to the incessant howling of the dogs that cried longer and louder every night. Still, the school, the media, the government and culture in general were experts at the balancing act of keeping the people well-informed, and at the same time confident that the plague would never reach their doorsteps. This was probably why it had taken one year and a gunshot victim on their own street for the Lockheart family to wake up to the enemy that was breathing in their face.

Alex’s thoughts were interrupted by a sharp impact on his back. The force of the blow knocked him off his bed and landed him stomach-down on the floor. He looked up to see his brother smile as he took Alex’s place in the bed. He took a bite of the slice of pizza he had in hand and spoke through a full mouth.

“You plan on watching TV until the zombies get here?”

Alex smiled and grabbed the pizza from his hand, “Why’d you get pizza? I thought mom was making lunch.”

“We’ll be getting plenty of mom’s cooking at the shelter. Thought it’d be nice to say our goodbyes to good ole’ American fast food.” He grabbed at the slice of pizza, and Alex seized his outstretched arm and pulled. Will had at least fifty pounds on Alex, but eventually he allowed himself to be pulled off the bed to the floor where the two wrestled.

Will and their mother had spent the better half of the day packing and making preparations for their leave. They had put the house on sale on the internet last night after Will returned from the hospital, and by morning, it had 4 interested families. Refugees, no doubt. Alex was disgusted. It could be just weeks before this area too was completely overrun. They were like children running from a tidal wave.

His mother had already fired the gardener and the pool man, while Will had taken care of legal and financial issues and then booking the trip. With all this going on, Alex was glad Will could take the time out to come goof-off and reassure him.

When the time came to leave, Alex suddenly became aware that he and his family were being watched. As they approached the van, they could see nervous eyes staring at them from windows, watching them from doorsteps. Alex then realized that, to many of the watchers, they were taking hope with them. In being the first family on the street to leave, they were admitting vulnerability. They had lived in one of the richest neighborhoods in the area, and with such wealth came a feeling of invincibility, an understanding that their money could save them from any serious threat.

In a way, the Lockheart family’s money had saved them. In such desperate times, the price of travel had skyrocketed to ridiculous heights. They had been able to purchase expensive tickets on a first-class train to Seattle, Washington, where they would take a refugee ship to a special shelter on Kodiak Island in Alaska. Alaska had been an extremely popular destination lately, as some professor had recently concluded that for whatever reason, zombies do not survive well in the cold. Something in their mysterious physiology had an aversion to cold, and there had not been one sighting of the undead that far north. Alex had had friends who took this same exodus, and he hoped to find some familiar faces waiting for them at the shelter.

Alex was perplexed at how much his mother had packed. Their van was designed to seat eight people, and about ninety percent of that area was now being used to accommodate their many suitcases and bags. The train had offered a maximum of three bags and one carry-on per passenger, and his mother had made sure to push each of her bags to the limit. Alex decided this was not without good reason, since they were unaware how long they would be gone. His mother was no drama-queen. No doubt there would be worse hoarders on the train. Alex realized the train would have to be huge to house many more passengers with comparable luggage.

The three took their seats in the van and sped off as Alex took a final look at the house. He would soon be on a train with plenty of others who have said goodbye to their normal lives. The thought of so many others being in their same situation had a calming sense; that because there were so many that left family and friends to seek shelter, there must be safety and peace at the end of all of it. There was still a sense of adventure, a feeling of excitedness that came with heading boldly into the unknown. Alex had never moved to a different house before, but it must be something like this, he imagined.

About 20 minutes into the drive, Mrs. Lockheart confessed she needed to stop and use the restroom, like she had repeatedly warned her sons to do before they left. With an ironic smile, Will got off the freeway and turned into the nearest gas station. Mrs. Lockheart had always had this problem of frequent urges; maybe it was that she drank too much water, maybe she was just nervous. Whatever the case, as she exited the van Alex recognized a smile on Will’s face that was waiting to comment on the matter as soon as she left.

“Ahh that woman.” Will quipped, “This is bordering on unhealthy. She should get that checked out!”

Alex seized the opportunity to shift about in his seat to appease his numbing leg. “It’s gonna be a long train ride. She better not be doing this all the way to Seattle.”

He rested his head on one of Will’s bags which was unexpectedly rigid. “Jeez, Will, what’d you pack, bricks?”

Will spun around.

“Oh yeah, I don’t know what that is.”

Will was funny, he was brave, sure, but he was no actor. His movement was just a tad too quick. His eyes just a little too suspicious.

Alex reached into the bag and fished out the object. It was a Glock 17 pistol, his father’s old handgun. Alex looked at Will, perplexed.

“You brought dad’s pistol?”

Will’s smile was gone. He shrugged, “Alex, it’s a different world out there. There may come a time where we have to use it. People are desperate. We can only pray we don’t run into any trouble, but its best we prepare for the worst.”

Will turned back around in his seat as Alex remained hypnotized by the pistol. He cursed himself for not thinking of this himself. As much as he hated to admit it, they were driving into a warzone, and if it weren’t for Will, they would be unarmed. It pained him even further to admit to himself that if push came to shove, he was unsure whether he would be able to take a life, even in defense of his family. He had never been one for violence; the closest he had ever gotten to a fight was wrestling with his brother. He had only even shot a gun once, when his father had dragged him and his brother along on a shooting trip and he managed to get off a few rounds.

Will spoke, “Listen, if you want the truth, I think it’s a long shot we’ll run into anything worse than a few fat bastards on the train unhappy with their lobster dinner, okay? Now put it away, mom’s coming back.”

“Are we hiding it from her?”

Will turned around again, “I think you know as well as I do that it’s best we just keep her happy alright? It’s gonna be hard enough getting them through security without her knowing about these.”

“Them?”

Will couldn’t answer before mom got back in the car, and just like that, they were back on the road, speeding toward their destination.

Alex was dumbstruck. They would have an interesting time getting multiple firearms through security. Alex wasn’t sure if he should admire or be ashamed of his brother attempting such a feat. Either way, it was evident that Will was, indeed, prepared for the worst. Alex could only imagine what Will expected to run in to that could threaten him enough to pack guns. Still, Alex felt safe in his brother’s care. He decided that he and his mother were in good hands. Capable hands. Will had been right about one thing: the world had changed, and in the coming weeks Alex would come to grips with every violent aspect of that change.

[MyLittleHellhound]

Damn this is some serious writing ability man, you have outdone yourself. I see nearly no errors or if any, spelling and grammar. Wow, just wow. :D