The Dark Times: A Zombie Novel Read online

  While trying to wrap his mind around what he saw, two other vagrants bum rushed from his peripheral, slamming him against the open door. Rico fell backward into the establishment, landing hard on his butt on the floor. One of the attackers had grabbed hold of him and landed on top. The vagrant tried to pin Rico’s arms to his side during the fall.

  Rico had been taken by such surprise that he was lost at what to do next. He had expected to flex his muscles and give a stern warning to the homeless person to end the situation. Maybe it was the booze, maybe the emotions. Whatever it was, he had trouble focusing. The man on top of him writhed and slobbered thick muck. Rico managed to bring his arms up for protection. A withered face peered back at him with teeth chomping into empty air. The officer forced his forearm against his attacker’s throat holding the bites at bay.

  The other two assailants had turned their attention to the crowded bar.

  The blonde haired woman in the skirt jumped out of her booth, sloshing most of her drink onto the floor as the mayhem began. Several of the patrons screamed and ran by the walls for safety. A few of the younger men, on the other hand, stepped forward to confront the deranged interlopers.

  The three men who stepped forward to do something were all very different. One guy was short, looked to be in his early twenties. Height didn’t appear to be a hindrance. His wide frame made him a tank of a man. His pectorals bulged under his white shirt, and it was obvious he chose the tight fit as an intimidation tactic, or as a way to attract the ladies. Of the other two men at his side, one was tall and skinny and looked like he should be working as a tech support nerd at a computer store. He had thick framed glasses and wore a tie. The other man was not as notable. Aside from a small tribal tattoo that peeked out from the sleeve on his left arm, he was just a regular looking Joe. Really though, they were just ordinary people. Just guys at a bar trying to relax and have a good time. They probably were enjoying themselves before the crazy freaks busted into Pop’s and attacked a police officer.

  Rico was still on his back, wrestling with the one that had landed on him. Even though the thing didn’t feel like it weighed much, its strength more than made up for it. How was that sick old man able to keep him down?

  Shouts and screams echoed out from male and female voices alike.

  Louis sang on:

  ‘I hear babies cryin', I watch them grow’

  ‘They'll learn much more than I'll ever know’

  ‘And I think to myself, what a wonderful world’

  “Hey, buddy, what the hell’s the big idea?” The beefy short man shoved a finger into the chest of one of the vagrants. His attitude was a powerful as his punch.

  The vagrant staggered back. Only these weren’t normal vagrants. It was clear to everyone in the bar these weren’t homeless people. Their body movements were all wrong—robotic—not natural, and that wasn’t ordinary dirt and grime on their faces. The smell that preceded them was beyond sour body odor. It was a musty smell mingled with rot and decay. It was the smell of death. It lingered in the air so thick it burned at the back of the nostrils and found refuge in the throat.

  The computer geek put a hand over his mouth. “God, they smell worse than feta cheese.” He muffled a gag.

  “That ain’t no shit!” The man with the tribal tattoo agreed, sticking his tongue out like a dog trying to get a bad taste out of its mouth.

  “Someone, help that policeman,” a female voice shouted.

  The two decaying vagrants continued their slow trek toward muscle man, computer nerd, and tattoo arm. Rico fought for his life, and right now, the odds favored the attacker.

  The woman screamed again, “Do something!” The urgency in her cry slapped people out of the debilitating fear cementing them to the floor. It’s been written, ‘All the world’s a stage, and all the men and women merely players.’ Her command acted like a movie director calling ‘Action’ for the scene to start, setting the would-be actors into their roles. This wasn’t a play, or a script from some silly movie. This was real life. In real life, there is no script.

  The beefy workout man shoved the smelly bum in front of him again, knocking him back just like before. It caught its balance, as if becoming more comfortable in its new life, and continued its approach with a snarl. Its lips parted, showing rotted yellow teeth. The stench that bellowed out could only be described as coming from the sewage pits of Hell.

  “What’s wrong with these people?” the muscle man said with his arms held out at the ready.

  The computer nerd opened his mouth as if he was about to say something. Instead, he gasped as if it was his last breath.

  The nerd’s outburst distracted the muscle man enough for the bum kept at bay to lunge forward, sinking its teeth into his hand. Blood spurted from his callused palm as the creature mashed its jaws together and thrashed its head from side to side. The man yelled so loud that it hurt Rico’s left ear. His cry ignited the crowd, throwing another wave of panic across the bar. Blood splattered to the floor, peppering the side of Rico’s face.

  The creature pulled away with a mouthful of human flesh, its teeth stained with crimson and stuck bits of meat.

  Like a magic trick performed by the great Houdini, the muscle man’s hand was missing three fingers. A river of red gushed from the wound down his arm. He held it in front of his face, staring in disbelief, and lost all control of rationality.

  “What the fuck?” the tattooed man whispered, his gaze locked on the second ghoul shuffling toward him and the geek.

  The zombie—although not described as such until later— continued to chew a bit of meaty fingers in momentary contentment.

  “Get outta my bar!” Pop stepped out from around the counter with bat at the ready.

  ‘Yes, I think to myself, what a wonderful world’

  ‘Oh yeah!’

  *

  Rico, still suffering from the ill effects of the alcohol, kept his attacker at bay with one arm against the throat. The creature gnashed and thrashed on top of him, determined to sink its teeth into any parts Rico was dumb enough to place in its path.

  In the few moments he had been on his back, he had come to accept an unbelievable possibility. The vagrants were people, but they were no longer alive. It wasn’t the alcohol playing tricks on his mind either. These creatures were dead—zombies. How they were able to function was beyond his reasoning. God, Satan, or science was responsible. Either way, everyone was fucked.

  Rico mustered up his strength and gave a hefty shove, hoping to dislodge the attacker off him. It wasn’t enough to do the job. The creature’s bony arms pushed back, tugging at his tie while keeping a firm grip. The officer grunted, and for a moment, thought he was going to shit on himself. His muscles throbbed as he waited to build enough strength for another try. A second shove and he felt the sweet relief of the dead thing finally lifting off him. He had managed to use his left knee and both arms to shift his assailant off balance and toss it onto the floor beside him.

  Rico’s body ached, and a slight numbing buzz in his head made it hard to rise to his feet without keeling over. The world steadied after a few seconds, and he saw the front door was still wide open. One look outside told him this fight was just beginning. A mob of reanimated dead slowly ambled toward the bar from the street. He reached up, slammed the door shut, and locked the deadbolt in one fluid motion. It was just in time. Seconds later, the dead lined up next to the windows. Grimy hands banged and clawed against the glass. How long would the glass hold out before shattering into a thousand pieces?

  They wanted in, and if many more showed up, there would be no way to stop them.

  “What’s happening?” someone shouted.

  When Rico looked up, he saw images that would forever be burned in his memory. Things that would still haunt him later at night when he tried to close his eyes. Pop was coming from behind the bar heading toward two men who looked like they were waiting to help. A third man, who looked like he ate steroids for dessert, sat on the floor wi
th his back against the bar. Blood dotted his face and an arm was covered in blood from an injured hand. He was obviously suffering from shock from the frozen expression on his pale face. Most of the crowd kept its distance, keeping backs against the wall. They reminded Rico of cattle. And, unless more of the men grew a set, then all would be heading to the slaughter shortly.

  The zombie that had apparently attacked the man on the floor was on its knees in the middle of the room, chewing away on something in its mouth. It didn’t take much imagination to figure out what it was. The sight of blood on its hand and face brought further chills down Rico’s spine.

  Pop had nutted up and was ready for action. The old man showed no fear on his face as he poised the bat over his shoulder. For a second, Pop reminded Rico of a warrior from medieval times—a soldier on the battlefield where it’s kill or be killed. He wanted to dash over and help his friend, but he was still faced with a problem of his own. The ghoul he had tossed off of himself managed to stagger to its feet. If it were possible, it looked angrier than it did before. It hissed an evil warning of its intentions. Drool dripped like thick slime from its dry, cracking lips.

  The creature made its move, but this time, Rico was ready.

  The officer weaved to the side and grabbed the creature’s outstretched arm. It tumbled to the floor like the drunken vagrant Rico had assumed it was. He wished it was only a drunken vagrant. Hell, Rico would take ten bums on the street with only his bare hands if he could have made a trade. The smell of cheap alcohol and B. O. would be a welcomed relief from the death stench emanating from these things.

  This man… this man is already dead, Rico thought, pulling the pistol from the holster on his hip. I wonder how I’m going to write this up on the report?

  “Freeze!” Rico shouted, the barrel of his pistol leveled at the chest of the assailant.

  The zombie had no reaction to the warning. It had one drive in life and nothing seemed to deter it. Its feet slapped against the floor, and it stepped forward with unexpected quickness.

  “I said stand down, or I will fire!”

  Its two hands were nearly on him before he knew it. Rico jerked the trigger, rather than squeeze, but at this distance, he had little fear that he’d miss. The .40 caliber report of Rico’s Glock reverberated off the walls. The confinements of the bar made the discharge boom more like a small explosion than a handgun.

  The bullet found its mark, striking the attacker directly in the chest.

  The damn thing didn’t stop. Rico’s eyes went wide, and he froze for a brief second.

  He had been a member of the police force for years. In that time, he had done his fair share of hard work. A few car chases. Stopping a robbery. Dodged a few bullets that flew his way. But he never was the one who pulled the trigger in an altercation. In recent years, the academy had upgraded some of the simulation exercises to house lifelike replicas of real people during a shooting scenario. Rico had put a bullet in those dummies countless times, sometimes choosing areas of the body to hit not known for stopping the enemy—just to make it more challenging. Head shots, shots to the gut and shoulder. He even managed to shoot one right in the eye once. An ear, a knee, and even below the belt, right in the twig and berries. Those shots didn’t earn any points, but it was enough to gain his superior’s respect. None of that training had prepared him for what had just happened—shooting into real flesh, even though this flesh wasn’t alive. There was no way it could be, even though the damn thing moved.

  The gun jolted his wrist when he fired. He expected to see a fist sized hole open in its chest when the 180 grain slug of lead slammed into it, followed by a gush of blood. The zombie should have dropped to the floor like a sack of potatoes, but there was no blood. The bastard briefly slowed on the bullet’s impact but kept coming. When the bullet punctured the dry, decaying skin that lay beneath the burial suit, there was only a puff of rancid dust. The stench huffed out an assaulting funk that made Rico gag.

  “Stay back, I said!” Rico aimed again.

  “Shoot it!” Someone shouted.

  That’s what Rico did. He realized no amount of preparation could guarantee how an officer of the law would react in a high-risk situation. Rico reacted the exact way he had always thought he would, but the results were far different than he thought possible.

  Panicked cries resonated off of the walls with the blast of his pistol. The ping of brass casings rang against the hard floor between booms. Rico was determined to keep firing until the thing walked no more.

  Click, click, click…

  At least the barrage of bullets had managed to knock the creature to the ground again, but that was all. It wasn’t alive, it was dead. And in death, it was more dangerous than if alive. It rose to its feet to finish its prey.

  Rico’s hands trembled as he fumbled to find a full clip. He hit the release on the grip, and the spent clip clanged to the floor. Drunk, confused, and in mild shock, it took him three tries before the clip slipped in. He yanked back the slide and chambered the first bullet.

  Chapter 2

  Pop swung the bat, pelting the walking dead man as hard as he could with the business end for a fifth time. The zombie went down, but didn’t stay down. The sixth swing of the bat connected with a shoulder. The crack of bone rang in his ears as the bat came away in his hand. Even still, dislocated arm and several hits to the face, and the thing was still persistent as hell. It was like a living a nightmare.

  The zombie reached out with the one arm that worked—albeit stiff jointed—and scratched at Pop as it staggered to its feet again. The other arm wiggled by its side, unable to pose any threat.

  Screams, mostly from women, continued from all corners of the bar. Some women were so scared they hid their face in their hands, or buried it in a man’s chest. By the expressions on most of the men’s faces, they might as well have been crying for mommy. What had happened with this generation to make them such pussies? Pop remembered back in the day when people pushed into a corner would stand up for themselves. Times were tougher back then. Not every married couple had two cars. Some people had to walk or take a bus into town or to work. There was no air conditioning either. Now people expected someone else to do the fighting for them—even if their own lives were in danger.

  There was blood on the floor. One of his customers was on his butt leaning against the bar. Would he bleed to death from that bite? The creature had taken off a few fingers and maybe part of his hand, too.

  The living corpse responsible was content for the moment, occupied with the hand sandwich. It gnawed away at the bits of bone and flesh that had left the muscular man’s now bloody hand. The stench of decay hovered like a fog throughout the entire bar.

  The last time Pop saw Rico, he was having a hell of a time reloading his gun. A gun emptied into a man that should be dead. A man that had just taken more than a dozen bullets to the chest at close range and was still coming. That doesn’t happen it real life. What was going on and how in the hell were they going to get out of it alive? The swarm of thoughts and the immediacy of the situation made him dizzy. Then, in the chaos, someone shouted what he was thinking.

  “They’re dead! You can’t kill them because they’re already dead.”

  Rico’s gun fired a single shot. Pop didn’t have time to look.

  Pop felt sick. How do you kill a dead person? He wasn’t sure but knew one thing. If he could disable an arm he could do it harm, and a bag of mashed up bones and pulpy mess on the floor wouldn’t be able to hurt anyone. He hit it a few more times and wished he’d had an ax instead of a bat. Ignoring the arthritic pain tearing through his arms, Pop swung the bat again. It struck its target. He couldn’t tell, though, if he’d hit a home run. It was the bottom of the 9th and he was down in the count. Strike three would bring death. Reality shifted. His mind felt like it had taken a ride down a slide at a waterpark. His knees went weak just as blackness threatened to cover him. Rico’s gun fired again.

  Bam!

  A singl
e shot.

  Everything went still. The screams stopped—cut off as if someone threw a switch. The chaos, although still present, blurred into slow motion.

  *

  Rico felt the familiar recoil of his gun’s salvo. This time, he chose a smaller target. It was going to make more of a mess, but that was the least of his worries now. His aim was true. The bullets struck his attacker in the head. The left eye burst in a cloud of dust and blackish gray gunk. The zombie fell to the floor, dead for the second time in its miserable existence.

  He rewarded himself with a deep breath, relieved he’d finally won the battle. The war wasn’t over, though. He couldn’t dally, but he found his mind second guessing if the thing was truly dead. His gaze returned to the rotting corpse, searching for any signs of movement. There were none. Rico looked away to assess the situation. Terror marred the expressions on the once carefree patrons. All dressed up to look their best—to strut their stuff and land a partner in the bedroom. They might as well have been attending a funeral.

  Rico spun around with the pistol at the ready. The sudden motion made his head swoon as if he was on a runaway carousel. His head throbbed with the regret of one too many drinks. He shifted his weight to keep balance and forced the double vision to right itself. When his vision cleared, he saw Pop still battling the monster. Blood and blackish gray grime covered the bat. A man with a tribal tattoo and a geeky looking computer nerd stood as a shield between the zombie Pop battled and the people by the wall. The third zombie was still on its knees, mechanically chewing. The muscular man bleeding by the bar was still alive. Had anyone in the bar called 911? How bad was the injury? Too little time and too many questions. It was up to him to end the madness and take control.