We Go On (THE DELL) Read online

  WE GO ON

  BOOK 1 of the DELL Series

  BY

  STEPHEN WOODS

  COPYRIGHT© 2013—Stephen Woods

  All Rights Reserved

  ISBN-13: 978-1494384203

  ISBN-10: 1494384205

  DEDICATION

  This book is dedicated to my wife Michelle, my muse.

  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  DEDICATION

  CHAPTER 1: IN THE BEGINNING

  CHAPTER 2: THE TRIP SOUTH

  CHAPTER 3: HARD LESSONS

  CHAPTER 4: DAYS LIKE TODAY

  CHAPTER 5: IT CAN ALWAYS BE WORSE

  CHAPTER 6: STINKIES TO THE RESCUE

  CHAPTER 7: NEW PIONEERS

  CHAPTER 8: THE DELL

  CHAPTER 9: “INTO THE VALLEY OF THE SHADOW OF…?”

  CHAPTER 10: THE BIG SHOPPING TRIP

  CHAPTER 11: THE SECRET IS OUT

  CHAPTER 12: HAPPENING ELSEWHERE

  CHAPTER 13: THE FUTURE IS OURS … MAYBE

  CHAPTER 14: NEW ARRIVALS

  CHAPTER 15: DEEP UNDERGROUND

  CHAPTER 16: THANKSGIVING, A TIME FOR EVIL

  CHAPTER 17: THE ROAD OF NO RETURN

  CHAPTER 18: MORE INSANITY

  CHAPTER 19: IT'S DARKEST BEFORE THE DAWN

  CHAPTER 20: THE COMING STORM

  CHAPTER 21: MORE OF THE SAME

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Chapter 1

  In the beginning

  Today is April sixth, I think, in the year of our Lord 2019. It’s been four years, eight months, and three days since the world fell apart. I've no idea what day of the week it is. I know if I sat down and tried I could figure it out but it doesn't matter. Calendars haven't been at the top of my priority list lately.

  I know the day it all started, though. I’ll never forget that day. Sunday, September the third. It had been an absolutely beautiful late summer day. Kat and I had worked in the yard. We weren't church goers and our schedules usually meant Sunday was the only full day we had together, just us. Kat, by the way, is my wife, Katherine Renee Williams. I should tell you who the hell I am. Me, I'm Jonathan Scott Williams. Most people call me Scott, Kat calls me Scotty. Unless she's pissed, then it’s J. Scott Williams. She won't call me Jonathan because she knows that will just escalate things. I was named after my paternal grandfather, who was a son of a bitch, by the way. Anyway, back to the story.

  Sunday, September third. We got up late, as usual. Coffee on the back deck, as usual. Neither of us were breakfast eaters. We are now. Eat anytime you have food now. Back then we had all the food we wanted, so if you skipped a meal or two, no big deal. Besides we both thought we could lose a few pounds. At the time, I was forty-three and finding it harder to stay in shape. At five-feet-ten-inches and 200 pounds, okay 207, I wasn't in horrible shape but I didn't have the flat stomach of years past. Kat always complained about her ass being too big. I thought her ass was great, in case she ever finds this and reads it.

  So, we skipped breakfast and discussed our plans over coffee. We both like flowers and spent a lot of time planting, weeding, watering, and cussing over the beds in our yard. For Kat, it's a growing thing. You know, the female mother nurturing instinct. She knows the names of all the plants we had, what they needed. Shade, light, fertilizer, that stuff. Me, I was the grunt. I liked the digging and playing in the dirt. Sunday was the only day I could come into the house with dirty hands and not get the look. I’ve never grown up. Kat's two years younger than I am and sometimes I think she was born an adult.

  After our coffee, we went to work pulling weeds, talking, and just generally having a quiet and relaxing day. Too bad it was our last. If I'd known, well you know. I miss those Sunday's. I had been a police detective back then and Sunday's kept me going. Kat was an assistant prosecutor for the criminal court and her stress level was about like mine. Being together up to our elbows in the dirt kept us sane.

  Around 6:30 p.m., we went in and after cleaning up and started fixing dinner. I'm not a big sports fan and didn't watch a lot of sports but, on Sunday's at 7 p.m., I always watched my favorite show. Kat thought it was sick but I loved it. The Walking Dead. It’s about a group of survivors around Atlanta after the zombie apocalypse. Ironic, huh? I always thought it was a neat concept. Picture yourself in the survival situation. What would you do, how would you do it? Another of those, “If I'd only known," moments.

  Anyway, we were fixing dinner while I watched The Walking Dead on the TV in the kitchen when the show was interrupted by a news bulletin. A newscaster in Boston reported that several attacks had already occurred. At first I thought it was a publicity stunt for the show. But no, the real zombie apocalypse started in Boston and quickly spread. Spread much faster than anyone could believe. While we watched, reports from up and down the East coast came on telling of attacks and outbreaks. We ate dinner while switching from news channel to news channel. On one station, we watched as a reporter was eaten alive. The cameraman never stopped filming until they came for him and the network didn't cut away. It was great programming for the end of world.

  I didn't sleep at all that night. I got on the phone with my boss to discuss emergency plans, evacuation routes, and deployment rosters. Kat called her boss, then eventually fell asleep on the couch. I spent the night going through the house checking flashlight batteries, filling water jugs, and counting the cans of green beans in the pantry. I also checked my gun cabinet.

  I'm not stupid. As a cop you learn to believe your eyes. The old, if it walks and quacks like a duck; it's a duck theory. My brain kept telling me it can't be zombies. There's no such thing. Zombies come from Hollywierd. This was just gang violence or a terrorist chemical attack. We'd have this squared away in a couple of days, a week at most. But the things I saw on TV, shambling bloody people in groups attacking other groups of people who were screaming and running. It looked an awful lot like my favorite TV series. Then the stations went off the air.

  I guess the government decided to shut down everything. Total news blackout. I tried to call my chief on my cell phone. No service. I'd almost forgotten we had a house phone. Tried that—no service. Checked the radio on the stereo. Same thing—nothing. I finally got through to the dispatcher on my police portable radio. He informed me that the assistant chief was in and had issued a general recall of all off duty officers. The plain clothes guys like me were to report in tactical uniforms and help out wherever needed.

  I woke Kat up and told her to get dressed; she was coming in with me. She tried to argue. She had court in the morning and there wouldn't be anything for her to do except sleep and she could sleep right here in her own house. Besides, she'd have to come back home to get ready for court. Something told me not to give in on this one, so I stood my ground. I explained I was the man and she had to do what I said. I even grunted a time or two. Of course, this did no good so I resorted to what I know always works. I begged. She finally gave in and got dressed. She did demand to drive herself though and followed me in her Tahoe. I'm glad I didn't give up because we never made it back to that house. I hope those cans of green beans I counted do someone some good.

  I did remember to bring the guns and all the spare ammo I had. Although it proved to be inadequate later, we were well armed that morning when we left home. Kat had her 40 caliber Glock and her Ruger mini 14. Wood stock, stainless barrel and receiver. She got it because it was pretty. Girls! I had my 40 caliber Glock, my department issued M-4 with six magazines and my personal Remington 870 pump shotgun with lots and lots of ammo. When I loaded it in the trunk of my unmarked, Kat looked at me. "Paranoid much?"

  “I liked to be prepared,” I said.

  The ammo lasted two days. Waves of refugees flooded west trying to escape what had happene
d back east and they brought the plague with them. In St. Louis, where we lived, we tried to close the bridges over the Mississippi. It didn't work. After the ammo ran out I resorted to a baton but there's not enough reach with that. Next, I tried a baseball bat. Aluminum made a pleasant ring when you connected with a skull just right. I finally settled on a combination of aluminum bat and machete, though I found the blade on the machete dulled fast.

  It took four days for everything to go to shit. Countries closed their borders on day two. The plague went global on day three. I guess the borders weren't completely closed. The plague reached the west coast on day four. The government decided to pull out all stops trying to contain the thing. Homeland Security notified us of the military plan to use nukes on the biggest population centers.

  They'd started using Napalm the day before and all the bridges across the Mississippi were blown. That was the last news we heard. Four days for the greatest nation in the world to take a flaming nose dive into the toilet. We were already in survival mode by then. I'd kept Kat close to me, trying not to get separated. With the information about the nukes, I knew it was only a matter of time before St. Louis became a smoking hole. So Kat and I, along with two other officers, decided to get the hell out of Dodge, or St. Louis. We stopped at a strip mall and loaded up on supplies. We lost one of the guy's there. I can't remember his name. I can see his face and I remember the look in his eyes when he went down but I can't remember his name to save my life.

  I'd given up my unmarked car on the first day because it was needed elsewhere. So we were in Kat's Tahoe. I figured it was good for survival. Big vehicle, lots of metal, lots of room to store survival gear. I pictured us bulldozing our way through hordes of the un-dead as we headed south toward the Missouri-Arkansas border on highway 21. Ever hit a deer in a car? Ever seen a car that's hit a deer? Deer weigh in area of 200 pounds. Guess what else weighs in the area of 200 pounds and walks upright, well mostly upright?

  We made it about twelve miles south of Mehlville with Kat driving. We were running about forty miles an hour when a group of three of the recently departed stepped in front of us. Kat slammed on the breaks and I yelled no, floor it! She's a good girl. She did exactly what I said. She caught the far right zombie dead center of the hood. The grill caved in and the radiator was pushed back into the engine. The hood buckled and, instead of the zombie getting sucked under the truck as I had pictured in my mind, he flew up and over and right into the windshield before going on over the roof and landing in a pile of bones, rags, and goo behind us. This slowed him down somewhat. Him and his two friends—a big fat guy wearing a plaid blazer about two sizes to small and a tie with hula girls on it, and a naked chick that looked like she might have been a stripper before somebody took a great big bite out of one of her breasts—were now making their way toward us. At least bone bag guy was slower than his friends.

  We, on the other hand, had come to a grinding complete stop. I spit a gob of airbag dust out of my mouth and looked at Kat. She picked little pieces of glass off her face and looked at me. She didn't say a word. Have I mentioned she's a good girl? A real trooper. Of course, she didn't have to say anything; the look she gave me was enough. I figured I needed to say something and the best I could come up with was, "Uh, that may have been a tactical error."

  I remember Officer Robert's name. He was the second cop that started south with us. He chose that moment to remind us of his presence in the back seat. "We have two problems," he said calmly.

  "Only two?" I asked.

  "Yeah, that zombie stripper is at the back bumper and I've got a broken leg," he replied.

  Kat summed it up when she said, "Shit."

  "Stay inside the truck," I said as I grabbed my bat and climbed out.

  I closed the door. “Don't get bit,” Kat said. I told her I thought it was sweet that she cared so much. I still tried to be polite because I thought she might think the wreck was my fault. She confirmed this by saying she was only concerned because if I got bit, she'd have to shoot me, then she'd have to carry Officer Robert's by herself.

  "Nice,” I mumbled and then went to do battle with the un-dead lap dancer and the fat guy.

  Thank god those things are slow. It took everything I had to put the two vertical zombies down. After a quick breather, I walked over to Mr. Bag-O-Bones and finished what Kat had started with the Tahoe. A quick look around told me the rest of the area was deserted, which surprised me. I had been expecting to see hundreds of cars on the roads. People trying to escape. We'd passed a few cars sitting in the road and a few wrecks, but nothing like I expected. Guess it was due to the speed the plague traveled. I don't think many people made it out of the cities.

  After checking for any more of those things, I went back to truck. Kat saw me and opened her door. Together we got Officer Robert's out without doing further damage to his leg. It turns out he had been sitting in the middle of the back seat so he could see. When she hit the zombie, he slid forward and his left foot got caught under her seat. There's my public service message for wearing seat belts. His left shin bone was badly broken and needed medical care. Not just the first aid I could administer.

  Looking back, I think Robert's knew that he was done. We talked as I splinted his leg and he told me his first name was Mark. He didn't seem to be in much pain and never got upset about the wreck. I'd have been screaming my bloody head off about the stupid ass that caused me to get hurt but Mark just sat there on the pavement, leaned against the rear tire of the Tahoe. He was to live two more days. Of course, we didn't know that then.

  I splinted his leg with pieces of the hard plastic molding from the Tahoe's bumper and strips from my T-shirt. As soon as Mark was ready, we set out heading south with Kat and I supporting his weight. Houses were plentiful along this stretch of road and I knew we'd be able to find one with no trouble. Finding one unoccupied, or at least unoccupied by the dead, would be more problematic.

  Our survival in those first few days was a matter of luck more than skill. I'm former Army, I was a cook. Not really, I was in Special Operations but I tell people I was a cook so they won't ask me a bunch of silly questions. Anyway, survival training had been a big part of my Army experience and I did well enough, but knowing how to build a snare to catch a rabbit or make a solar still for drinking water doesn't prepare you for the challenges of living in the post zombie apocalypse Midwest.

  A lot of what we learned was through trial and error. Like, once you've found a house, how do you check it to see if there's a flesh crazed zombie waiting behind the door? And, if said flesh crazed zombie is in the house, how do you get it out of the house and hopefully make it permanently dead before you become the appetizer? Questions I never have had to deal with. Sure, I'd gone into a lot of houses after bad guys, some that we knew had weapons but those guys were just trying to kill us. These things wanted to eat you and they preferred their meat fresh and wriggling. Whole lot different feeling going through a door when what’s on the other side might try to turn you into dinner.

  We had weapons. I cleaned out the Tahoe before we abandoned it so I had all of our guns and Mark still had his service weapon. Another 40 caliber Glock, but we didn't have any ammo. I still had the aluminum bat and the machete but trying to swing either one of those in the closed space of an entryway or hall was not my idea of a good time. If I'd been MacGyver, I could have come up with something made from a piece of PVC pipe, a thumb tack, and some peanut butter. Unfortunately, I had to learn it the hard way.

  The first house we came to was about half a mile down the road from where we wrecked. A Toyota van was lying upside down in the front yard. No tire tracks, no skid marks, no ruts in the grass. Funny, the things you notice when you’re under stress. The world had just fallen apart and I’m trying to reconstruct an accident so that what I saw made sense. Like any of the other shit I'd seen in the last few days made sense.

  We sat Mark down beside a tree in the front yard and I gave the bat to Kat. I figured she'd come close
r to using it than the machete. Less mess, you know. Then I went to check the van for anybody or thing that might be in it. Empty. That was a good thing, no nasty surprises. Then I went to check out the house.

  This time it didn't turn out as well. I decided to look in the widows before trying the door. Hey, I said I wasn't stupid but this was an older house and it had those pull down blinds that older people love and all the blinds were down. All the way down. That should have been a clue. I'm a detective and clues are my business but I'd been under a lot of stress and it didn't register. If I'd thought about the blinds, I'd have concluded an old person or persons. This means, they were most likely at home instead of out someplace and I should have approached with more caution. Instead, I marched right up on the porch and opened the door.

  The electricity hadn't gone off yet, that would last about another week. A light in the hall that led away from the entry showed a human standing between me and the light. On my side, it was just a dark outline but I thought it was female from the body shape. So in my best police voice I said, "Excuse me, Ma'am. I'm a police officer and I need some help." The dark shape started shambling toward me and when the arms went up, reaching for me, I freaked.

  Now, when people freak out the reactions are all different. I've always prided myself on being fairly cool under pressure. I've had guns pointed at me, faced down guys a lot bigger than me and always stayed cool, calm, and collected. But when that thing reached for me, the fight or flight response took over and flight won hands down.

  I started back pedaling to get away and forgot all about being four steps up on a porch. The next thing I knew, I was flat on my back with the wind knocked out of me and about a seventy-year-old woman in a purple flower print Mumu, with bits of her last meal stuck between her impressively sharp-for-her-age teeth, falling on top of me. I had just enough presences of mind to reach up for her with my left arm as down she came. My right arm was trapped under me, holding the machete, of course. Thankfully, I didn't slice out my own kidney. I had her by the throat with my arm locked so she couldn't get those teeth into me but our combined weight made it impossible for me to get my right arm out from under me. I still couldn't breathe, so calling for help was out. Besides, granny made enough noise for the both of us.