Love in the Time of the Dead
Cover
Title Page
Love in the Time of the Dead
...
Tera Shanley
...
Omnific Publishing
Los Angeles
Copyright Information
Love in the Time of the Dead, Copyright © 2013 by Tera Shanley
All Rights Reserved. Except as permitted under the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without prior written permission of the publisher.
...
Omnific Publishing
1901 Avenue of the Stars, 2nd Floor
Los Angeles, California 90067
www.omnificpublishing.com
...
First Omnific eBook edition, October 2013
First Omnific trade paperback edition, October 2013
...
The characters and events in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.
...
Library of Congress Cataloguing-in-Publication Data
...
Shanley, Tera.
Love in the Time of the Dead / Tera Shanley – 1st ed
ISBN: 978-1-623420-59-8
1. Contemporary Romance—Fiction. 2. Zombies—Fiction. 3. Apocalypse—Fiction. 4. Urban Fantasy—Fiction. I. Title
...
Cover Design by Micha Stone and Amy Brokaw
Interior Book Design by Coreen Montagna
Dedication
For Anthony, my Beautiful Boy in English.
Chapter One
THE EARTH HAD BEEN CONQUERED by darkness, and the dead didn’t remain so for long. The streets had been paved with destruction, and the stubborn searched for the light because they had hope. They searched for the light because they must; because giving in to death wouldn’t relieve the gnawing ache of hunger for something more. There were whispers of a place where the Deads gathered at the water’s edge in the mountains of old. A place where peace could still be found in simple acts of valor and happiness, achieved by the lucky and the determined. The world hadn’t come to an end, just an end as man knew it. But there had to be a balance for the chaos. There had to be asylum from the damned.
The words were written on a mirror in an old, abandoned gas station bathroom in what Laney Landry fervently hoped was bright red lipstick. The last sentence was hurried and scribbled, the letters fusing together to snake into one monstrous word, like the writer had run out of time. Run out of life. At least that was what the pile of bones to the right of the sink suggested. They were picked so clean they didn’t even have an odor. She read it again, and loss clenched inside of her. It was the first page of a book, and it had been so desperately long since she had read one. Since she had read anything with an ounce of hope in the spaces between the lines.
A shadow covered the dusty evening light that filtered through the ceiling-length frosted window beside the bathroom stalls. A lone figure shuffled slowly across the span of it. The man looked huge, but maybe it was just the shadow playing tricks on her. Not one of her team.
She cursed softly and grabbed her backpack. Where there was one, there would soon be others, and she’d be damned if she was dying in some Quickie Mart bathroom out in the middle of nowhere. She sprinted for the door but hesitated as she opened it. The words were stark against the dirty mirror and they stirred in her…something. It had been a while.
“Jarren,” she hissed to her older brother. He and the others rifled through the storage room in search of supplies that had long been picked dry, like the bones in the bathroom. “Time to go. We’ve got Deads, at least one, on the west side of the building.”
“Let’s move,” he whispered, and Mitchell and Guist headed for the door without hesitation. She got stuck behind Mitchell on the way out, which wasn’t all bad. His backside was lovely, but she wouldn’t tell him that in a million years. It would inflate his barely-controlled ego to the size of the gas station in two cocks of a pistol. She allowed a private smile. Best to look and not touch with that one.
The east side of the building was clear for the moment, but the Deads would catch their scent fast enough. Jarren led them to the edge of the woods at a full sprint.
Finding the perfect sleeping tree was an art form many had not had the chance, or time, to master. The deeper they hiked into Colorado territory, the more important it became to track down the clusters of pine trees big enough to hold them. Pines weren’t like oaks or Bradford pears. They offered strong, sturdy trunks that grew straight up into the sky. Their branches were thick and plenty and so thinly spaced on the large ones that they acted as a ladder to safety. For a four-man team of tree climbers, finding a sizeable pine was right up there with finding snickerdoodles. The trick was finding one old enough to hold them in pairs, and young enough to grow branches within reaching distance of the ground. There. She pointed silently to the same one Jarren was already eyeing. Mitchell and Guist scurried up a nearby evergreen with the grace and agility of a pair of jungle cats. No doubt she didn’t look like that when she climbed, but they all had a foot of height on her. Valid excuse.
Her fear of heights had ebbed with the appearance of a new, much more debilitating fear, which was waking up to breakfast. Being someone else’s breakfast. She gripped the lowest branch while Jarren kept watch. Her brother didn’t offer her a boost, but that was his way. He’d said it a million times before: coddling her wouldn’t turn her into a survivor. As she strapped her harness around the tree trunk and cinched the straps around her torso, Jarren chose a branch in close proximity to hers. Home sweet home and family dinnertime had changed so terribly much in the past few years.
“Let me see it again,” Jarren ordered as he pulled a roll of semi-sanitary bandages from his rough first aid kit.
“It’s fine,” she said around a bite of Spam.
He arched his eyebrows and waited. There really was no use in arguing with him when he got like this. Stubborn ran in the family. She sighed dramatically and lifted her shirt to reveal the day-old stained bandages that hid an impressive wound.
The gauze stuck on each lap, but determined and gentle, he removed it slowly and tucked it into a crevice in the bark. He whistled, long and low.
“Well, it seems to be healing, so there’s that.” Her brother had never been one for flattery.
He shook his head in disbelief for probably the thousandth time in the week since she’d been bitten. This bite from a Dead was the second one she’d received and lived through, and it seemed to be exactly two bites more than any other human soul on the planet had ever survived. Jarren had been right in his childhood taunts. She was a freak.
She winced in pain as he poked and prodded, searching for infection. Deads didn’t just bite. They ripped flesh.
“Well, at least now we know for sure,” he said with a significant look.
Immune. Other than a brutal healing time, she was otherwise unaffected by the bite of a Dead and the rapid infection that tenaciously turned its victims into slobbering, depraved, hunger-crazed zombies.
Her first bite had happened in the year of the outbreak. She and Jarren had been hunting for a small colony and taken by surprise when they ran into a large group of Deads. They got away by the skin of their teeth, but Laney had been bitten on the leg after she lagged behind and fell. The implications of that day would stick with her for as long (or short) as she lived. The Dead had spit out her flesh as if it tasted like hell-fire and then keeled over, convulsing. Jarren had dragged her off to escape, but they both watched in shock as the Dead died his final death.
The bite the week before was only different in that it was on her side instead of her leg. Just as with the last one, the Dead that bit her had perished and she had remained utterly human.
“I keep trying to think of a reason that Dead bit you,” Jarren said. “I mean, no Dead has tried to bite you in two years. They try to kill you, yeah, but they never show any interest in eating or turning you. It’s like you smell bad to them. I swear, it’s like Deads can smell that you’re dangerous or something.”
She scanned the open field in front of them out of habit. The moon wasn’t full, but it offered enough light. A wary fighter was a living fighter. “Well, they smell pretty awful to me, too. It’s like a shrimp in a dirty diaper when they’re close.”
Her brother chuckled. “Thank the powers that be for that oversensitive schnoz of yours. It’s gotten us out of more than a few jams. So I was thinking. I’m pretty sure that Dead couldn’t smell you because his nose had been bitten off.”
Gross. “Makes sense. I can’t see how I could look different to them. Their sight is terrible, so it has to be the way I smell.”
Jarren finished his first aid, and she handed him the other half of the canned meat, the food of champions when they were out in the open and between colonies.
“You know it’s going to be a battle tomorrow, right?” he asked.
The stars above them twinkled through the thick needles of their sleeping tree. A rare, beautiful sight. “I know, but what choice do we have?”
“What’s your average looking like this week?”
“This week? Let me see.” She ticked off bodies on her fingers. “Seven Deads a day.”
“Has to mean we’re getting close. Really close.”
“Hmmm,” she said noncommittally. It was pointless to grow excited about anything when every day was likely to be your last.
Deads seemed to hover around the colonies that housed the remaining humans. They could be kept out with high walls, since Deads were terrible climbers, but they still lingered, walking slowly in circles and waiting for a mistake that would grant them a meal of human flesh on the go. Generally speaking, the denser the Dead population, the closer a colony. And a colony was exactly what the team sought.
Nerves before battles kept her up at night. On regular Dead killing days, she slept like a felled log, but fear crept in the nights before big fights. She drew a long breath to calm the shakes. “Great, now I’ll never get to sleep,” she grumbled, adjusting her position on the tree branch.
“You want me to tell you a story?” Jarren offered.
Laney snorted. “I think twenty-three is getting a little old for bedtime stories, don’t you?”
Jarren leaned forward and lowered his voice. “The boys won’t hear. I’ll be quiet. Come on, Laney. Everyone knows you’re a badass during the day. But I know you. You are allowed to have a hard time at night.”
The offer was tempting. Jarren was an excellent storyteller, ever careful to mention only make-believe things. It had been a hard lesson early on that stories of their unfortunate reality or people they had lost only made them too emotionally charged. With this lifestyle, it was best to leave emotions off the table.
She opened her mouth to tell him to start the story already when the wind shifted and the tell-tale stench of a Dead filled her nostrils. She brought her fingers to her lips and then pointed to her nose. He would get it.
He turned and made quick, jerky motions to the tree behind them, where Mitchell and Guist had already grown still. With her unusual Dead warning system, the boys wisely tended to keep one eye on the woods and one eye on her.
Ten minutes of bone-chilling silence later, a lone Dead shuffled slowly through the woods below them. The sheer mass of him said he was the hunter from the gas station, but he was alone. Odd. The Dead stopped and swiveled his head, scenting the air before he moved in the direction of their trees.
She froze. The last thing she wanted was to attract the thing. The Dead was one big son-of-a-gun, and she eyed the thin branches above for an escape. If she could add another fifteen feet to their distance from the monster, she would.
Jarren smirked and made a calming gesture with his hand. How was he always so unruffled by zombies?
Laney took a deep breath as the Dead shuffled closer to their trees. Bad idea. She nearly gagged. The stench of a Dead at that proximity was overwhelming. She needed to settle down. Deads never looked up for danger. She was safe in the tree. Safe, safe, safe.
The monster shuffled ever closer and stopped just at the base of the pine tree they were frozen into. He swiveled his head back and forth, back and forth, snuffling the air noisily. What did it tell him? Could he smell them from down below? He turned his head slowly toward the trunk of the tree and snapped his face upward to look directly at her. She stifled a shriek. His filmy, searching eyes scoured the moonlight-soaked branches, and she dared not even breathe. Her heart hammered like a stampede of horses with the fear that he would see her move and come scurrying up the tree as best he could.
The Dead shifted his weight, and the moon-deprived shadows compensated. His face was cut and bitten, and strips of decaying flesh hung loosely around his neck. His clothes were shredded, and the tatters of camouflage garb that were visible were covered with stains in various stages of drying.
Monroe.
Jarren gave her a wide-eyed glance as recognition lit his face. It quickly dissipated to subdued acceptance. They would have to kill him. It was their promise.
Monroe had fallen the week before, on the same day she was bitten. Undermanned and outnumbered, he hadn’t made it out of the fight.
She strained her eyes in the dark. Something had to be left after humans were turned. Shades of memories, perhaps. Time and time again she had witnessed Deads instinctively stay close to friends, family, old homes, and haunts. Most would argue that when they were turned, they became something entirely different, forsaking anything that had ever made them human. She couldn’t help but question that line of thinking. If there was no human mental capacity left, then why had Monroe been following them for a week? Alone. And how had he known to look for them up in the tree when no other Dead had figured it out?
Not seeing his quarry, Monroe the Dead shuffled off toward Mitchell and Guist’s tree. Jarren motioned for her to stay put. He pulled a machete out of the front strings of his pack, as slowly and quietly as a sigh of wind. A gun would be much easier, but too loud. It would draw other Deads.
Monroe turned as Jarren hit the ground. A loud and inhuman bellow belched forth from his decaying vocal cords as he charged her brother. Laney gripped the tree bark until the pads of her fingers screamed. It would have been easier if they were battling together, as a team. Fighting for her own life left no time to panic over his safety.
The Dead tried to encircle Jarren with his arms, but he easily ducked and hit Monroe hard from behind. Decayed muscle tone made Deads clumsy. They didn’t possess superhuman strength or speed, but what they did have were very few kill zones, making them extremely difficult to put down. They were also completely unaffected by pain. Their nerve endings died with their humanity.
Monroe stumbled from the blow but righted himself and turned just in time to watch Jarren’s machete make its final arc toward his face.
“Sorry, old friend,” he murmured as Monroe crumpled in on himself and fell like a sack of stones to the pine needle blanketed earth.
Laney tossed a rope down to her brother, and he tied it around Monroe’s exposed leg bone. He disappeared into the night, dragging the Dead’s body behind him. The last thing they needed was for her nose to become dese
nsitized by sleeping near a Dead’s carcass all night. He was back in half an hour, though it felt like much longer. Her imagination could be downright cruel sometimes, and it didn’t help that dragging a large Dead’s body through a carpet of leaves and dried grass wasn’t exactly quiet work.
Surely she would never get to sleep with the vision of her old friend’s face on a Dead. It was so fresh and raw, but the weight of being followed had lifted with his death. Slumber finally found her in the wee hours of the night.
Laney woke with a start as a Dead’s guttural moan echoed in her ear. Her body was pressed into the creaking branch under a great weight, and she instinctively pulled a knife from a sheath under the cuff of her pants and screamed a battle cry as she thrust it at her attacker.
Jarren blocked the knife easily right before the point of it pierced the skin over his temple.
“Good,” he said, sounding satisfied.
She panted from the adrenaline jolt. Mitchell and Guist were chuckling below her, and the sound filled her veins with liquid fury.
“Jerk!” she exclaimed, pushing her remorseless brother hard in the chest.
He flipped off of her with a shocked yelp, and his harness tensed as he dangled harmlessly under his sleeping branch. She spared the harness a dirty look and started to unhook her own.
“Don’t be mad,” he said. “You know I have to test you sometimes. It’s for your own good.”
He sure made ignoring a half-assed apology easy. She scrambled down the tree with her pack thrown over her shoulder. She understood the need for his tests. Jarren had to reassure himself that she would be okay if anything ever happened to him. She got it, but she didn’t have to like it, and she sure as hell wasn’t obligated to take the tests graciously.
On the ground, she checked her pack. She refolded the harness and put it in place, re-tied her hiking boots, and made sure her knife was secured at her ankle. The weapons at her waist were checked and tucked safely into a Teflon holster over her thick, forest green cargo pants. A simple black tank top hugged her not-so-womanly curves and served as a barrier between her skin and the short green vest that housed her handguns. How many hundreds of times she had done this exact ritual? By the time she retied her dark brown locks so they were out of her face, Mitchell was headed her way. Great.