ONSLAUGHT: The Zombie War Chronicles - Vol 1 Read online

  ONSLAUGHT

  THE ZOMBIE WAR CHRONICLES

  Book One

  by

  DAMON NOVAK

  ONSLAUGHT

  The Zombie War Chronicles

  IS A WORK OF FICTION BY

  Damon Novak

  All characters contained herein are fictional and all similarities to actual persons, living or dead, are purely coincidental.

  No portion of this text may be copied or duplicated without author or publisher written permission, except for use in professional reviews.

  ©2018 Dolphin Moon Publishing

  Electronic Version

  Edited by Seven Editing

  Cover Art by Jeffrey Kosh Graphics

  PROLOGUE

  The Baxter Family

  I can hear them up there, clomping along on the rotted wood planks just inches above my head. The side of my face is pressed into the swampy mud, stinking from countless mosquito husks, decomposed vegetation, and probably a good amount of alligator shit.

  I’m only slightly grateful this all started for me in Florida, because while I’m filthy and wet, I’m not cold on top of it. It is nighttime, which is good.

  I’m pretty sure one of my legs is sticking out, visible from above, but I’ll be damned if I’ll chance moving a muscle. I might if it was daylight, just to be sure I wasn’t seen. I’m guessing it’s the odor of the water itself protecting me right now.

  I’m resting my head on my arm, so I can turn my wrist and look up to see the time. The old Timex has Indiglo, and just kept on working – just like the old ads.

  Takes a lickin’ and keeps on tickin’. But one bite and I know full well I’ll cease to give a rat’s ass.

  It’s just after 2:00 AM. I’m fighting to stay awake, lying here until something draws them off. Nothing has – so far. I picked a helluva spot to hide.

  Them. I don’t even want to say what they are. I hardly believe it myself.

  Oh, fuck it.

  They are zombies. Sure as shit. Stinkin’, rotten, flesh-crazed zombies.

  My name is Cole Baxter. My friends, when they were alive, called me CB. You can call me whatever you want if you come across me. I’ll figure out if you’re a friend or foe in good time.

  If I live long enough.

  I was born in Everglades City, Florida thirty-one years ago, and never left. Before all this shit happened, my family ran a fleet of airboats out of our own little Everglades marina called Baxter’s Airboat Tours & Gator Park. It’s in a town just outside the Big Cypress National Preserve called Timucua.

  We did all right, too. We drew our business from the south Alligator Alley, with signs that read: SEE THE BIGGEST, BADDEST ALLIGATORS IN THE GLADES! THIRTY MILES AHEAD. Then we put a picture of Ol’ Stanley on there, mouth open wide. We placed billboards every five miles until you got to our place.

  Ol’ Stanley’s a pretty badass looking fourteen-footer who’s been around since before I was born. We’ve never weighed him, but judging from his length and girth, that boy’s gotta be well over 800 pounds.

  We put his age at around forty or so, but we don’t have any idea. American Alligators can live anywhere from thirty to fifty years, so the dude could be as old as my Pa was when he … .

  Never mind. Not now. Maybe not ever.

  Back on track. If you were to tumble off my boat and fall into the water right in front of him, Ol’ Stanley would probably be put out. Maybe he’d feel some obligation to swim over to try and eat you, but not likely even that. Most of his teeth are gone for a few years now.

  Speakin’ of things that’re gone, my Ma died four years ago. Lacy Baxter was the glue that held this family together, me and my older brothers, Clay and Tanner, and my kid sis, Lilly. And my Pa. He was never the same after she died.

  Lilly’s just twenty-six. We’re awful close, and I’m guessin’ she’s probably either pissed as hell at, or worried as shit about me right about now. I’ve been away from the shop goin’ on five hours. My mind’s been on her, too. We’ve stayed alive for three weeks, but in that time, we’ve learned that one day you’re here, and the next, you’re food for them.

  And you know who them are now.

  My Ma was one of the lucky ones, I guess. She got brain cancer some way or another, but that’s not what killed her, at least not directly. Some doctors might argue that.

  It was pretty far advanced by the time they found it, but she still had her faculties for the most part, so her oncologist said that if she just worked the counter and didn’t drive boats anymore, it was okay – and good for her – to keep doing things she was familiar with.

  So, she sold the dried gator heads, key chains, postcards, shot glasses, refrigerator magnets shaped like Florida, and anything else we could print a picture of an alligator on.

  We had a busy day one March, back in 2013. The daytime temperatures were warmin’ up again, and Ma was workin’ the counter like she was told. We had Lilly, Clay, and Tanner all out runnin’ boat tours, and I was over preppin’ another boat for a group of six people waitin’ in the gift shop.

  I was just about done when I heard a big splash. A few seconds after that, it became a whole bunch of splashes, and I was goddamned sure one of our guests had fallen off our little boardwalk.

  I dropped my tools and took off runnin’ toward the gift shop, all the while cursin’ myself for not fixin’ the railing like I’d planned to.

  But when I got there, I saw that had nothin’ to do with it. The railing was intact.

  Ma was in the water, on her back with her head toward the dock. Twenty-dollar bills floated in the water all around her. I’d say Ma was floatin’, too, only the gators weren’t allowin’ her to sink.

  I’ll never forget lookin’ down into that water. Seein’ those three big boys tearing into her body, rippin’ her to pieces, jerkin’ their heads back and forth, jaws snappin’ as they tore at her flesh like … well, like hungry gators.

  We called ‘em Huey, Dewey and Louie. They always hung around for the meat we’d throw at ‘em to entice the tourists who weren’t sure if they wanted the tour.

  Yep. It’s all fun and games until someone loses an abdomen. They sure learned that on their visit to Baxter’s Airboat Tours.

  Mostly what comes back to me when I recall that day was those guests behind me, screamin’ like banshees, while I pulled out my .45 and emptied my magazine into those three prehistoric fuckers. Then I threw that gun onto the deck and jumped in, grabbin’ Ma’s body and heavin’ her up outta the water.

  I swear, those pussies jumped away from that empty gun like it was a live gator. Or worse.

  Anyway, by the time I climbed out and pulled Ma into my arms, the six guests were runnin’ back toward the parkin’ lot.

  I cradled her head while she bled all over me. A second later I got my shit together, rested her back on the dock, and ran inside to call 911. My cell phone had been in my pocket when I went into the drink, but it turns out it didn’t matter; I knew it was too late. I went back out and held Ma’s body in my arms until the paramedics got there.

  They interviewed the guests, who’d stuck around. I think they were too shaken up to drive.

  Larry Spencer told police investigators that Ma was just takin’ his money when she stood, smiled at them, and walked out the door, the bills they had paid her still clutched in her hand. They asked her if something was wrong, but she didn’t answer.

  She went out the door, walked directly toward the railing, and flipped over it, landing on her back in the water. Her fingers released the money and she didn’t even scream as the gators attacked, seconds later – on cue.

  Well, that was a sidetrack. Bac
k to my current situation.

  Let me start by sayin’ that I’ve been drivin’ these airboats since longer than I can remember. I was maybe four years old when I got to drive my first one. It was a small one, with only two short bench seats.

  Today, just a couple hours before dark, I was headin’ over to the Jessup’s gator farm to trade Denny some gator meat for some propane. He’s got a big-ass underground tank that’s pretty full. We’re a few miles from the gas station, the power’s out, and right now, our gen’s almost runnin’ on fumes.

  I picked one of our smaller boats to conserve fuel, and when I got about halfway there, I had to jog left, increase my speed to get over a pretty shallow area, then go straight.

  Fuck if there weren’t six or seven of the dead-eyed bastards standin’ there in ankle deep water, the second I came around that corner. I cranked the wheel hard, but couldn’t avoid hittin’ ‘em.

  The right side of the hull slapped into three of ‘em and flipped up like a skier on a ramp, capsizin’ the boat and trappin’ me under it. I couldn’t flip it off me because the fan unit is so damned heavy. Luckily, with how shallow it was in that one spot, I had plenty of air to breathe beneath it.

  The motor ran for another ten seconds before sputtering out underwater.

  Right after, I heard those walkin’ dead fuckers scratchin’ on the hull of the boat, sensing I was under there. I was freakin’ myself out good, pretty sure they’d eventually dig underneath, so I beat ‘em to the punch.

  Unable to flip it no matter how hard I tried, I started clawin’ under the edge, diggin’ through the sawgrass and tangles of mangroves, scoopin’ handfuls of the rank, black swamp mud and shoveling it to the other side of the space. It was gettin’ darker and darker, and it kept slidin’ back toward me. Not only that, but the black water kept floodin’ back into the hole, so I finally just made the call and pushed through, hopin’ I’d done enough.

  When I stood up, they were about ten feet away. I slogged through the swamp, tryin’ to find high ground, but knowin’ that everything around me was mangroves – they call ‘em walkin’ trees. They grow straight up from the swamp water. I kept movin’ until I came to this low boardwalk near the road. They’re about four feet wide, and various municipalities and businesses build ‘em throughout the swamps so tourists can walk pretty deep inside and see gators, birds, otters and other wildlife.

  But when I went to climb on it to get out of the water, I saw more of the dead walkers were everywhere.

  And they saw me, too.

  I realized right away what had happened; a tour bus had probably run off the road on Alligator Alley right when this shit started. It hit the guardrail and flipped, rolling a few times, landing in the swamp. I hadn’t seen it from the road, and there’d have been no reason for me to go the way I did in my boat, so I never saw ‘em from the water. I guess the zombies stayed mired in the swamp after the crash, eatin’ whatever they caught.

  I could see a few of them had also been on the menu before they became the hunters. Several had big chunks outta their sides, and I knew a gator bite when I saw one. What I didn’t understand is why the hell those gators didn’t finish ‘em. They’re not all that picky; believe me when I tell you.

  Now all those goddamned, dead-eyed tourists spotted me. I ran parallel to the low causeway-style boardwalk until I was out of their sight, and then I just dove beneath it and burrowed in.

  I’ve been here ever since. There are fewer of them than there were, from the sound of it, but now that it’s fully dark, I’m thinkin’ I’m better off stayin’ put. Earlier, I found a good-sized piece of bamboo, and I’m watchful as hell of the water around me. It won’t do much, but a good poke in the eye could deter ‘em; the dead or the gators. I won’t be near as good as these zombies at livin’ with my waist missin’.

  Ω

  I fell asleep, I guess, because I just woke up sputterin’, with a mouthful of this goddamned swamp water.

  I spat it out, but that was when I realized at least one of the fuckers had found me.

  And now he’s touchin’ my head. I’m not sure he’s aware he’s doin’ it, because his demeanor ain’t any different than it was when I first woke up.

  The moon is out and it’s bright, so if I crane my neck hard enough sideways, I can look up through the slats and see the deadhead’s fingers probin’ down at me between the boards.

  Hurts to do that for long – my neck is stiff as hell – so I turn my head back and rest it on my wrist again, which has long gone numb. Plus, his grimy, dead fingers brushed my nose when I turned my face upward to look. I had to fight the urge to puke when they slid past my nostrils.

  I suppose I could muster some strength and try to slide either forward or backward, to get his fingers away from my head, but I don’t know how many more are just millin’ around in the swamp nearby. If they all figure out my hidin’ spot at once, I can kiss my ass goodbye. My gun fell out of my pants when I capsized the airboat, so that’s not an option.

  The weathered and splintered boards above me are only an inch-and-a-half thick, so with the gap the dead dude above me found, I now have the pleasure of feelin’ those wigglin’ fingers ticklin’ the back of my head as I lay here, tryin’ to keep my mouth out of the nasty water. I swear, it’s beginnin’ to drive me nuts, like Chinese Water Torture or somethin’.

  An idea strikes me. I take a deep breath and reach down for the right pocket of my Levis. With a little slide of my left knee, I’m able to get enough room to reach my hand in deep enough to grab my pocketknife. It’s sharp as fuck, and should do for what I have in mind.

  Got it! It’s a good-sized blade – four-inch with a spring-assist – so with a one-thumb swipe, the blade opens.

  The goddamned fingers probe my head again, and this time, I twist my body left and get my right arm clear, and now I’m able to just barely reach the underside of the boardwalk. My hand is literally an inch from my face, so I can’t focus on what I’m doin’, but manage to get it done by feel.

  The fingers touched my goddamned nose again when I turned to try and get a look at where I needed to start cuttin’.

  Grittin’ my teeth, I clutched that knife hard and dragged it along the board, feelin’ resistance as the newly-sharpened blade cut into the dead flesh of the rotter’s reaching fingers.

  I feel the blade hit bone, but my pressure has the hand pinned now, and I push though harder, and feel it pop as I cut through.

  The finger hits me in the face, and I can smell it’s rank blood as it drips down. But I’ve got three more fingers to go, so I push with all I’ve got, the heels of my boots instinctively pushing into the mud beneath me for leverage.

  Another finger, then another dropped. I was down to the pinky. Squinting my eyes closed as I pushed that blade with all my might, I finally felt it cut through, and the last dead appendage bounced off my cheek and into the water.

  I hoped the thing above me didn’t have a second hand. It had only been reaching with one. Relieved, I don’t have the energy to put the knife away, or the faculties to close it.

  I’m wiped out. I can still hear the deadheads slogging through the water all around me. There may be two or three more of ‘em on the boardwalk, but as a reward for my carving skills, Six-Fingers Malloy is done fuckin’ with me.

  I hear something in the distance, and I want to laugh out loud. I force myself to stay calm, and not to move until I know she’s closer.

  My sister, Lilly. The last, best thing in my life, except maybe for Georgina. I’ll tell you about her later. Right now, I hear the 5 horsepower Evinrude outboard buzzin’ along on the back of our little skiff, and any second … .

  “Cole! Cole, where are you?”

  I don’t wanna yell, and I’m tryin’ to figure out a way to raise my arm up so she can maybe catch sight of my Timex’s Indiglo, but that might just get me bit.

  I have an idea. I wriggle around, pushin’ myself deeper into the muck. I have a newfound surge of energy, and I push a
gainst my frozen muscles until I’m able to roll onto my back – to hell with worryin’ about noise.

  It’s what I need right now. Water fillin’ my ear canals, I start bangin’ on the underside of that boardwalk.

  And as my reward, I hear more clompin’ on the boardwalk above me. It’s workin’! I bang harder, my muscles beginnin’ to unfreeze, and before long, I hear what might be dozens of them splashin’ toward my location from all points of the compass.

  No worries – Lilly’s in the skiff, and she’s armed to the teeth.

  As if on cue, the gunfire begins. I hear two or three thuds above me, and I’m thinkin’ Six-Fingers Malloy is down and out for the last time. This tour is over – time to exit the bus once and for all.

  The familiar burst of her 30.06 Remington, upon which she mounted a nice, bright light and scope, cracks the air like a whip. She fires again and again, the comforting, mechanical sound of the bolt-action clear between each report, tellin’ me she’s real close to me.

  The rifle’s loud as fuck in the stillness of the Everglades. She’s gonna have to kill every goddamned one of ‘em, and then kill some more, because the more she fires, the more are gonna come – at least those within earshot.

  “You under there?” she screams, and I return.

  “Yeah, Lilly! Goddamned took you long enough!”

  “I got a couple more to go, so crawl on outta there!” she calls.

  Damn, I’m glad she’s here. I follow her instructions, reaching over to curl my fingers around the edge of the splintered wood. My arms are so tired and numb, I can barely pull myself out – but I manage.

  Once I see the sky above me, I feel a surge of energy, and I get on my knees and start to push up on the boardwalk to stand.

  A hand reaches up from the water and catches hold of my left bicep. I scream involuntarily, and it’s such an alien sound to my ears that I almost don’t realize it’s me. The knife still clutched in my right hand, I instinctively swing the blade around and jab it into the eye socket of the thing’s face, just above the surface of the rank, black water.