The Infected (Book 3): Nightfall Read online

  The Infected: Nightfall

  Book Three

  By Joseph “Zombie” Zuko

  This book is a work of fiction.

  Names and characters are fictitious, and any resemblance to actual persons,

  living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Text copyright © 2015 Joseph Zuko

  All Rights Reserved

  Thank you to Josh McCullough, Fox Emm, Kim Hill, Linda Kim, Katie Zuko and Pam Anderson for helping me edit my book.

  Thank you to my Mom and Dad for always being so supportive.

  Thank you to Sam for the idea to start writing this book.

  Thank you to my wife Katie Zuko. She cheers me on like I am her local sports team and thank you for not letting me give up on my dreams.

  Dedicated to all three of my zombie loving children.

  Thank you to the fans of Jim’s First Day and Karen’s First Day.

  Without your support I wouldn’t have had the guts to attempt to finish any of The Infected series. You have all changed my life for the better. Your positive reviews and comments kept me motivated to finish these books. Thank you again.

  Cover art by Paul Copeland

  [email protected]

  How this whole damn thing started.

  A short story about Joe Zuko.

  In 1997 I was a freshman in college, had a full time job and just turned nineteen. I still lived at home with my folks and they told me that if I wanted to start building credit I should go to Sears and get a credit card. I was a man now so I needed to have credit in order to buy things in the future, right? No one wants to marry a man that isn't up to his eyeballs in soul crushing debt. At least that's what I thought back then. I ran down to Sears, applied for a card and got approved for about three hundred dollars. I didn’t need a Kenmore washer and dryer. I didn’t need Craftsman tools. I owned a TV already and computers cost too much. I did the manliest thing I could do and bought a Playstation and the game Resident Evil 2. The game scared the poopoo out of me. I played late at night in my dark room and jumped at every scare. After that I was hooked. Zombies terrified me and I loved it. The idea that anyone can get infected and be turned into a lethal killing machine thrilled me to the bone. Grandma gets bit on the hand and now she can’t be trusted. She wants to eat your face. That’s really, really scary. I don’t care who you are. If Grandma wants to tear out your guts and chew on them, that’s scarier than sharks, chainsaws, dying in your dreams or camping with a maniac. I hope you enjoy reading my nightmare.

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  TABLE OF 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 1

  An empty can of Tecate shook in Jim’s weary hand. Every inch of his body ached. The stitches in his forehead and leg pulled tight and burned every time he moved. The searing pain was a constant reminder of how close he had come to dying that day. His busted nose made it difficult to take in full breaths, and when he did breathe deep he could smell the stench of the day on him. Dehydration and exhaustion was taking its toll and the light beer had begun its magical journey into his starving stomach. Being void of real food helped the booze travel like a bolt of lightning through his veins. He watched as his neighbor, Tina, worked to stop the bleeding gunshot wound in Devon’s leg.

  Tina’s mind raced. She had read the textbooks, seen videos and visited the hospital as a student many times, but this was the real deal. This young man’s life was resting in her untested hands. Her love of research and studying new subjects served her well at nursing school. She had aced most of her tests in the last year, but this was not a test she could fail. There was no asking the teacher for help. Surprisingly, even with all of the stress and fear of this horrible situation, she was easily recalling all of the knowledge needed to help save him.

  “He’s going to need a blood transfusion and antibiotics. If we can keep enough pressure on it we might be able to keep him from going into shock. We have aspirin for the pain, but I don’t know how to administer anesthetics,” Tina said as she applied a fresh pad of gauze to the open wound on top of Devon’s thigh.

  Cliff moved to her side, “We don’t have that kind of equipment here and whose blood would we give him?” He helped his wife place the last strip of tape to the bandage.

  Sara knelt on the floor next to Devon and clutched his hand as she looked to Jim, “There has to be something we can do?”

  “I’m O negative. I can give him my blood,” Jim said as he placed his empty can on the kitchen counter and moved over to the dining table where Frank had set up shop refilling his empty magazines. “What kind of place would have what we need?” Jim asked as he pulled his backpack off his shoulders.

  “There’s a facility called RS Medical a few blocks from here. If any store would have a transfusion kit, it’d be them.” Tina pulled off her blood soaked rubber gloves with a snap. She moved quickly across the apartment over to Jim. Tina pulled him by the arm and spun him around. Without asking, she pulled at the bandages on his forehead. Jim winced and closed his eyes as she investigated the wound. The stitches were caked with dried blood. “What did you use to clean this?” Tina asked softly.

  “Alcohol.” Sara spoke for Jim. “I did the stiches.” She said with a half-smile.

  “Good job,” Tina said over her shoulder to Sara. Then she turned back to Jim. “You’ll need antibiotics too. Alcohol and peroxide won’t be enough for a cut this bad.”

  “You’re going back out there?” Frank grunted at Jim, as he forced another round into the banana mag of his SKS rifle. It had only been a few hours since he first met Jim, but Frank already knew the answer to his question. He stepped up the pace and loaded the shells faster.

  He’ll need my help to get back here in one piece. Frank thought.

  Click, click, Frank worked the full mag into the bottom of the rifle. He loved the sound of a magazine sliding into a gun. He found it comforting. The formed metal fitting perfectly together. The two parts becoming one to make a functioning machine that could be used to save someone or destroy them. He fell in love with the sound of a gun as a young child when his father first showed him how to shoot a .22 caliber rifle. He was seven-years-old and they lived on twenty-five acres in the out skirts of Washougal Washington. Their home was surrounded by trees and wildlife. His dad, who he was named after, was the local Boy Scout leader. Frank spent years with his father camping, hunting, wood carving, and learning everything about being a good scout, but shooting rifles was always his favorite. Frank was the youngest boy to ever become an Eagle Scout in the State of Washington and it was a record that still stood. Frank pinched the last round from a box of nine millimeter ammo, worked it into the mag and slid it into the butt of his Beretta. His ears waited for the sound.

  Click, clack.

  There it is.

  One of the greatest lessons he ever learned from his old man was, “enjoy the little things in life.”

  Down the hall, the toilet flushed and a moment later Morgan yelled, “Clifford, I need you.”

  Cliff got to his feet and headed back to the restroo
m.

  Will this day ever end?

  The hands of the clock that hung in the hallway said it was only four-forty in the afternoon. Cliff’s muscles ached as he stepped down the short hall. All of the running and slicing infected creeps to death had put knots in his thighs and shoulders. No way in hell was he stepping back out that door. Ten minutes ago he thought the day was finally winding down. Cliff was inches from making sweet dirty love to his wife, and then this crew of blood soaked strangers cock blocked him.

  Before opening the bathroom door he checked in on his kids. He had asked them to play in their bedroom until he knew it was safe out in the living room. The three little girls didn’t notice him at the bedroom doorway. The oldest, Eve, was pretending to give her two younger sisters a makeover. She used an old brush her mother had given her to apply pretend blush on Alex, the middle daughter. The youngest, Brea, held a mirror in her little hands and watched as Eve worked her magic on Alex.

  “Now you look beautiful,” Eve said as she helped Brea hold up the mirror to Alex’s face. There was not an ounce of makeup on her little mug, but they acted like she had been completely transformed into a beautiful princess. They ooohed and aahed. Apparently Eve had worked one hell of a miracle with that brush. Cliff loved to watch his children at play. If given the opportunity he would watch them all day every day.

  Cliff stepped away from their doorway and opened the restroom door. Out of habit his eyelids dropped to slits. The room became a fuzzy haze. Morgan sat like a queen on the throne. She needed help getting her pants up and transferred back into her wheelchair. With Cliff’s eyes almost shut, Morgan looked more like an out of focus Muppet than his mother. The idea of Jim Henson’s hand up her backside running the show made him have to stifle a smile. The two of them had done this dance many times and without saying a word he lifted her by her torso. She wiggled back into her black jeans. He could feel when she was done fastening the top button and he set her slowly onto her chariot.

  “Thank-you-Clifford.” Morgan smooshed the three words into one. At the retirement community that she lived in other residents and nurses would have a difficult time understanding what she was saying from time to time, but Cliff had a PHD in Morgan linguistics. He took his position behind the wheelchair and navigated her out of the small bathroom and back towards the living room.

  “No problem.” Cliff patted her on the shoulder. He had almost gotten himself killed trying to get her to his apartment. He didn’t know how long they could keep her going without a real doctor or a pharmacy, but it was nice to know that he would be with her until the end.

  “Can I have another beer?” She asked it with a little extra sugar on top, hoping that her sweetness would win him over.

  “Maybe in a little while.”

  Morgan knew her son well enough to know that he meant “No.” It was okay. She would just wait for him to be out of the room then she would ask Tina for the beer.

  Jim unzipped his backpack, grabbed the plush Bert and Ernie and laid them gently on the table. So many times Jim had done puppet shows with those two dolls. He grew up on Sesame Street and could do a spot on impression of both Bert and Ernie. Valerie would ask him to do some of their famous bits over and over again. “Here fishy, fishy, fishy!” A fish jumps up into their boat. “One fish,” followed by a second fish. “Two fish. See Bert it’s easy.” Jim would say as Ernie. “How did you do that?” Bert’s voice would ask. “You have to call them really loudly.” Ernie’s voice would answer and the girls would laugh and interact with the dolls as if they were really alive and talking to them. The memory of them playing together filled Jim’s aching heart with a sliver of joy.

  Then he pulled the extra knives and machete from his bag. He laid the blades out on the table next to Bert and Ernie.

  “Jim?” Devon’s weak voice called across the room. Jim rushed to his side and took a seat on the floor next to Sara.

  “Hey buddy, I’m here.”

  Devon’s face was pale and black circles had formed around his eyes. He had a fever and was soaked with sweat. His breathing had become shallow and he struggled to take in full breaths, “Don’t risk it for me. You gotta like, find your family.”

  Jim’s belt was still slung tight around Devon’s upper thigh. He was going to need to borrow one off of Cliff’s to hold his blades.

  “I will find them, but first I need to get you taken care of,” Jim patted the young man on his shoulder. He gave Devon a nod and a firm squeeze to the shoulder to reaffirm that he was going to be okay. “Can you make me a list of what we’ll need?” Jim asked Tina as his tired legs got him up off the floor.

  She was already scribbling the list on a piece of paper along with the building’s address, “I’m almost done.” Jim’s legs ached as he headed over to his two backpacks.

  Cliff pushed Morgan’s wheelchair back into the living room, “We have company? I thought I heard voices.” She noticed Devon on the floor. His white bandage had already turned bright red. “Oh no. Is he okay?”

  “He’s going to be just fine,” Tina said as she ripped the piece of paper from the pad.

  Frank stood up from the table, slung his bag over his shoulder and stuck his hand out for the slip of paper. A few empty ammo boxes remained on the table after he finished reloading his two Beretta’s and their spare magazines, both banana mags for the SKS rifle and his two revolvers. Frank was loaded and ready to rock. He took the paper from Tina, gave her a nod of gratitude and tucked it into his front shirt pocket.

  Jim stood at the dining table. He dug through the bag he had just packed downstairs in his apartment. He found what he was looking for, his father’s leather motorcycle riding jacket. The thick worn leather smelled wonderful and it reminded Jim of the endless summers he spent as a child riding on the back of his father’s Harley Davidson. They had taken trips together all over the northwest. One of the best rides Jim could remember taking was a two week vacation all the way to South Dakota for the Sturgis Motorcycle Rally. Jim was fourteen and every time they stopped for dinner his Dad would let him get a chocolate peanut butter milkshake. Jim sampled some of the best shakes that region had to offer. He slung his father’s old jacket onto the back of a chair.

  Sara gave Devon’s hand another squeeze. His unfocused eyes shifted off the action in the living room and over to her. She was by far the prettiest girl he had ever talked to. All day long she had given him a nervous lump in his stomach. The dried blood clumped her red hair into long chunks of rope. The crud and grime that skirted her hairline only made her soft alabaster skin shine brighter. Her full lips held a perfect smile as she looked him in the eyes. Devon swore she was peering into his soul. The blood loss had made him delirious. He couldn’t control the tears that rained down his temples. The thought that he might never even get a chance to kiss this girl filled his slow beating heart with dread.

  Devon was an over talker and never picked up on the fact that young girls don’t like to hear about foreign horror movies from the seventies. Even though he was a good looking guy, he talked the girl’s ear off until they found an excuse to leave him in the dust. Devon had only kissed four females, romantically. He kissed a classmate named Sasha when he was in the eighth grade at a birthday party on a dare. Brenda, when he was a sophomore at a high school Sadie Hawkins dance. His nerves got to him and he kissed her too hard and his braces nicked her bottom lip bad enough to make it bleed. At a senior party Devon had his first six pack of beer and later that night he landed a smooch on a girl, but never caught her name. The last young lady was Isabelle, and it happened four months ago after a long courtship on the internet. He finally worked up the nerve to ask her out on a proper face to face date. The date ended shortly after he described a horror film’s gruesome beheading in detail. It didn’t help matters that over a spaghetti dinner at the Olive Garden. He walked Isabelle back to her car, talking non-stop about his favorite horror trilogy she got into her vehicle and drove away forever. She reached out to shake Devon’s hand and s
ay thank you for the meal. He moved in for an unwanted, uninvited French kiss. His tongue crashed into her face. His mouth, still salty from the bread sticks, made contact with Isabelle’s lips and her mouth became tight and unresponsive. It was one of the most embarrassing moments of his life. She wiped her mouth off with the back of her hand and said, “Thanks for dinner.” She couldn’t get into her car and start it fast enough. Her tires screeched as she pulled away leaving Devon broken-hearted and confused.

  Today was different. He didn’t have a chance to yammer Sara’s ear off. He had been strong and fought bravely. This was a new world and a new day. Devon squeezed her hand back and tried to hold eye contact with her. He did his best to man up. He let the discomfort wash over him. His father always told him he needed to be a man, grow up and get some character.

  Devon thought to himself.

  Gunshot to the leg.

  Near death experience.

  This was character building for sure.

  Sara recognized the look in Devon’s eyes. She was no stranger to boys falling for her. At the age of thirteen she discovered just how much power she had when she won the position of Student Body President, in a landslide, with very little campaigning. She batted her brown eyes at her male classmates and they bent over backwards to make sure she won. Sara grew up watching Tobey Maguire play Spiderman on the big screen and it was ingrained in her at a young age that “With great power comes great responsibility.” Sara made sure that she never misled any of the young men. She never promised them something she couldn’t or wouldn’t follow through on.

  Human hearts are fragile and not worth the bad karma if you break one.