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    Zombie Coast
    Zombie Coast
    Zombie Coast
    Ebook305 pages4 hours

    Zombie Coast

    By Ted Stetson

    ()

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    About this ebook

    While Wade is checking out a ship that crashed into the pier, and Hope is escaping from the room the has been her prison, Col. Brune is preparing to abandon Ocala and head east to Daytona where he can set up his kingdom.

    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherTed Stetson
    Release dateJun 30, 2012
    ISBN9781476054414
    Zombie Coast
    Author

    Ted Stetson

    Ted Stetson is a member of SFWA. He was born in Brooklyn and raised on Long Island and went to Seton Hall and Hofstra. He graduated from the University of St. Thomas, Houston, Texas. He was awarded First Place by the Florida Literary Arts Council and First Place in the Lucy B. McIntire contest of the Poetry Society of Georgia. His short fiction has appeared in Twisted Tongue, MysteryAuthors.com, Future Orbits, State Street Review, and the anthologies; One Evening a Year, Mota: Truth, Ruins Extraterrestrial Terra, Ruins Terra and Barren Worlds. His books include: Night Beasts, The Computer Song Book.

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      Book preview

      Zombie Coast - Ted Stetson

      Zombie Coast

      by Ted Stetson

      *****

      Published by Three Door Publishing

      Copyright © 2012 Ted Stetson

      *****

      Smashwords Edition, License Notes

      This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

      *****

      Dedicated to Gail.

      *****

      Whoever fights monsters should see to it that in the process he does not become a monster. Nietzsche

      *****

      Table of Contents

      Chapter 1 - Hurt

      Chapter 2 - Bad Moon

      Chapter 3 - Silence is Golden

      Chapter 4 - Man of Constant Sorrow

      Chapter 5 - Sympathy Number 5ive

      Chapter 6 - Beast in Me

      Chapter 7 - Hope Springs

      Chapter 8 - She Got Out Through

      Chapter 9 - Number 9

      Chapter 10 - Unchained

      Chapter 11 - What's Up, Doc

      Chapter 12 - Help Me, Mama

      Chapter 13 - A Way Out

      Chapter 14 - Can’t Help Falling

      Chapter 15 - Caught in a Trap

      Chapter 16 - Under the Boardwalk

      Chapter 17 - Best Laid Plans

      Chapter 18 - In Transition

      Chapter 19 - Crazy Eddy

      Chapter 20 - Times Are Changing

      Chapter 21 - Hanging Around

      Chapter 22 - Hit the Road

      Chapter 23 - Look like a Devil

      Chapter 24 - On the Road Again

      Chapter 25 - Walk Right In

      Chapter 26 - War

      Chapter 27 - The Party's Over

      Chapter 28 - A Boy Named Sue

      Chapter 29 - On the Run

      Chapter 30 - Bridge Over

      Chapter 31 - It’s Too Late

      Chapter 32 - Satisfaction

      About the Author

      *****

      Chapter 1 – Hurt

      They tell you when you become a field agent you always have to be aware and Wade had been an agent long enough to know that not being aware of your surroundings could be fatal. When Wade was discharged from the Marine Corps he became a cop. After a few weeks of writing speeding tickets he transferred to Homeland Security where he was a field agent working undercover.

      Case in point: he was sitting on his customized Harley motorcycle on the side of A1A just up from Ormond Beach. He was setting his radio stations when he felt something coming and realized he had zoned out. He looked around and saw the chrome front bumper coming at him in the moonlight. An asshole driving a sports car with the headlights off had lost control and was accelerating so fast he'd fly out of Daytona faster than a rocket taking off for the space station.

      He had a split-second to react. A split second that meant the difference between life and death. He put his foot on the seat of his motorcycle and sprang straight upward, much the same as he used to do the high jump in high school, only if had jumped so high in school he would've gotten a four year scholarship to college and not joined the marines. The roof of the car barely touched his heel and like a fly caught in the turbulance of fly swatter, he was spun high and far. Saw a glimpse of the car flying in the air as he was spun around. A glimpse of an explosion. Another spin or two, a ride at the fair without the laughs, and then bone jarring pain. He passed out and maybe he died.

      He felt soft lips on his mouth pushing air into him. Pushing and pushing, then pushing hard on his chest. He gasped, coughed, struggled to breathe and coughed. She, the girl with the soft lips and long black hair, smiled, tears rolling down her round face.

      She said something to him. He couldn't hear. He was still out of it. Then she walked away. He made a mental note that she was fat and wearing a red and blue muumuu. He wanted to call out, tell her not to leave, but when he tried to speak the pain was so bad he passed out.

      He woke when he felt hands moving him. He forced his blood crusted eyes open and saw her moving him onto a sleeping bag. There were long poles in the sleeping bag. He settled into the cavity between the two poles; a travois.

      She had a big black dog that growled in his face, ropes of drool hanging down. She said something and smacked the dog. The dog stopped growling, but looked at him like it still wanted to bite him.

      He passed out and woke when he felt himself being dragged over the sand, the hummocks bumping his back. He expected to see the dog pulling the travois. The big black dog was walking next to her, guarding her; she was pulling the travois, a leather strap from the poles over her round shoulders. Then blackness again.

      He lay on his back in the cool night feeling the salty breeze from the ocean wash over him. In his delirium he felt he was sweating, sweating buckets of flesh, more than his most strenuous workout at Gold's Gym. Sweat was pouring from him like he was a human waterfall. Come one, come all, come see the human waterfall.

      A small hand lifted his head and poured water into his mouth. He tried to drink, even half unconscious he tried to drink, instinctively he knew it would save his life, but there was so much water and he just didn't want any and ... and he started to choke, to gag and coughed. Coughed blood. A hand hammered his back and he stopped coughing.

      Now she poured water over his burning body. He tried to drink it, absorb it, suck it in through his pores, tried as hard as he could. If there was a way to drink it through his skin he would have. Instead the water washed over him and he felt the hot slime that was covering him leaving with the water. It felt good and burned at the same time, like he was being reborn, his bad old rotten skin was pulled, scrapped off, but this time God wasn't doing him any favors.

      He tried to open his eyes and see what was happening, see who was doing what, but he had so much sleep in his eyes he had to rip his eyelids open. He felt himself passing out and was just starting to when he caught a glimpse of the chunky girl with long black hair looking down at him, then his vision faded and he swirled back to no man's land where motorcycles on Ferris wheels crashed over and over.

      Next time he woke, he felt the warmth of the camp fire on his face. She was forcing his mouth open, forcing a foul smelling brew from a tin cup into his mouth. Drink, she told him. It wasn't coffee. Wasn't remotely like coffee, smelled like a witch’s brew of herbs and God knows what.

      What? he tried to say, but couldn't even hear himself. That's when he realized he was handcuffed to a chain and lying on the ground. A small camper and an old truck made an 'L'. On the other side, someone had moved an orange plastic sand fence, like in the dunes to hold sand in place, to the open side of the 'L' and had shoveled a wall of sand to block the encampment from view, blocking the wind too; the army type shovel still in the sand.

      He rattled the chain and managed to croak, Why?

      For your protection, she smiled, and mine.

      That scared him, she was off her rocker, and he struggled to wake, surged upward and knocked the cover off him. The red plaid blanket fell off and he was in his underwear; soiled, torn and dirty, he'd been wearing it for days. But worst of all was the way he looked: pale and wasted. Where was his Florida tan? Where were his weightlifter muscles? He'd seen better-looking corpses.

      Stop it, she shouted and forced his mouth open and poured the mean smelling witch's brew in his mouth. It tasted worse than it smelled, his mouth opened to throw up and she clamped her little hand over his mouth to stop him.

      You have to swallow it, she shouted in his face.

      He shook his head, he wasn’t going to swallow it whatever it was.

      Focus, she said. I’m trying to save your life.

      He didn’t believe her.

      What’s your name? she asked and when he stopped making throw up motions and she removed her hand from his mouth long enough for him to say, Wade.

      Then she clamped her little hand on his mouth again. Who do you work for?

      He opened his mouth and said, Home, and passed out.

      I’ll get you there, as soon as I can, if I can.

      What followed was more slipping in and out of consciousness. Hours passed or maybe days, he wasn't sure. He woke a few times. Once it might have been raining on the awning over him, the rat-a-tat-tat of the rain on the canvas. One time she was sitting by the fire holding a double barrel shotgun and rocking back and forth, tears running down her face and mumbling what could have been a prayer. Another time she was on a hill next to the shovel using binoculars to scan the horizon. It was so quiet, where was he in Florida that it was so quiet? The sun was out, but the makeshift awning shaded him. He fell into a sound sleep.

      He woke suddenly when he heard the explosion. At first he thought it was dynamite, but then recognized it as a shotgun blast. He sat up and his head almost exploded it felt so bad. When the pain subsided, he realized he was alone and felt like shit.

      To the right was the orange plastic fence with the manmade dune. The shotgun blast had come from there, but there was no one on the hill. He listened. No sound. Behind him rested the old tan camper. To his left was the rusted pickup. Straight ahead was his Harley-Davidson motorcycle and behind it the sun setting, clouds streaked with red, biker take warning. He saw no one, heard nothing.

      He moved and a small bell rang. She had tied a string from the handcuff to a bell to alert her if he moved. And she had wrapped strips of a white and blue dishtowel around his wrists under the handcuff to protect them. The other end of the handcuff was through a chain that snaked its way under the camper. His own handcuffs. If the captain or the other agents found out, the ribbing would be worse than what he was feeling. That's when he noticed the keys hanging from a piece of string tied to an eyebolt in the camper’s siding.

      He broke off the string tied to the bell and ripped the keys off the bolt and unlocked his handcuff then stood up. And fell on his ass.

      When his head stopped spinning, he leaned against the camper and this time inched himself to his feet. He leaned against the camper his legs shaking, his knees wobbly, gasping for breath. Then opened his eyes. He was standing next to a homemade sign. Someone had drawn a square on the side of the camper with a black Magic Marker. There was blood on the sign. On it was printed:

      1- Sick?

      2- Scratches?

      3- Shoot!!!

      He stared at it for a long moment. Who was it for? What the hell did it mean? He shook his head, but that hurt so he stopped.

      Then he heard a dog whine. The hair rose on his bare arms and naked back, on his uncovered legs too. Don’t make sudden moves with a vicious dog. He looked to his right and left. On a hook, by the camper’s black metal stairs was his gun. He stood and for a moment felt numb and dizzy, so he stopped moving and breathed, trying to clear his head and not to pass out. He glanced over his shoulder and saw the wind blowing the white sand over the dunes. In a smooth painless motion, he tried to walk to his gun. It turned into a staggered stumble, almost gashing his head on a metal pole. He grabbed the gun and spun around, got dizzy, sat down hard on the steps. No one to be seen. No sounds. Nothing.

      That low whine again followed by silence.

      He pulled the 9 mm. Glock from the clip-on belt holster and gasping for breath, hiked barefoot and naked toward the whine. He detoured around the Harley, stopped, his plain looking black motorcycle helmet on the seat. The left side was crushed and the back of it was caved in. How can someone live through that? Answer – they can’t. Someone had used metal cutters and a hacksaw to cut it open, to free the head inside – his head. Gently he touched the left side of his head and discovered a bump. Felt the back of his head and found another. He stared at the broken helmet wondering how he’d lived through that.

      The dog whined again, low and painful.

      He hiked through the soft white sand around a small dune. There was a shovel next to a shallow grave. The dog was lying at the foot on the grave, his head on his paws, whining in a low terrible cry. In the grave was someone in a blue and red muumuu. There was no face, but there was black hair. He looked at the body; it was her, not like he'd be a good witness after all he'd been through. The double barrel shotgun was in the grave next to her, both barrels smoking. On her right forearm was an ugly scratch and black veins radiating out from it.

      The dog looked at him.

      He turned to the dog. Why she'd do it?

      The dog went back to staring at the grave.

      He limped back to the camper. Pointing the gun in front of him in case someone was there, he opened the camper door. Inside was a sheet of white paper taped to a cabinet door. Printed on it with a black Magic Marker:

      Clean up.

      Don't look at mirror.

      Cut strings.

      So of course he immediately spotted the round shaving mirror next to the small propane stove and picked it up and looked at himself in the firelight. And gasped. At first he didn’t think it was his face, then he thought someone had put makeup on him when he was unconscious—he wouldn’t put a prank like that past Sully—then he touched his face. There was no makeup and that was no mask. He recoiled back a step as though he’d been hit, then steeled himself and looked again and almost cried. He'd seen better-looking dead bodies. His skin was grayish and he was all skin and bones. His hair had fallen out or been shaved off and was growing back in wispy thin strands. His face, what had been somewhat handsome, was now grossly ugly. He had large black circles under his eyes like a Halloween mask. And his eyes were so sunken, well; he’d never seen eyes like that on a living person. His teeth seemed to have grown longer and he was filthy. The bruises from the 'accident' made his body look like an old punching bag. Now he remembered; the 'accident'. A hit and run. The car had crashed into him. He looked around. Where was he? Was he was close to where the accident had happened? If he was, why was it so quiet? Where were car sounds, people sounds? Where were other sounds?

      He sat down on the metal steps until he regained some strength. He tried not to look in the mirror, but he couldn’t believe the hideous face he’d seen was his, so he’d lift the mirror and stared and struggled to breathe and lowered the mirror and swore not to look again.

      Inside the camper he found a white five gallon plastic bucket full of water and nearby was soap and a washcloth. He washed; his legs and crotch were hairless and his penis was grayish like the rest of him. There was clean underwear on the counter and he quickly put one on. She'd tried to mend his torn denim shirt. Put on his jeans, black leather jacket and boots. His pants felt baggy and he tightened the belt a few holes he'd lost so much weight. He clipped his gun to the back of his belt, under his jacket and shirt. Found his wallet, his field agent ID still in it. After cleaning up and dressing he was so exhausted he had to sit and catch his breath.

      The dog whined. He had to do something about that. He took out his pistol, made sure it was loaded and walked back to the grave. The dog looked at him, but made no move to attack. The dog turned to the grave and so did he.

      Now that he was close to the grave the stink was terrible and he almost turned away and left. But he couldn't leave her like this. He'd have to show her body to someone. Get an ID, explain what had happened. He moved past the dog carefully, stepped into the grave and searched her. She had no ID. He stayed away from the ugly scratch on her right forearm; above the wound she'd wrapped duct tape so tight it dug into her skin. Below the tape her skin had changed color, green-gray with black veins. Using the shovel he covered her with some sand, enough to keep the birds off. Later he'd come back with forensics and uncover her.

      He hiked back to the camper. Found no ID, $1.29 in change, cabinets filled with small jars of herbs with handwritten labels in a language, maybe Haitian or French Haitian; he couldn't read it. He thought it was cryptic Haitian because of a bust he'd been in on of a phony witch doctor who sold potions.

      He'd do a more thorough search later, when he came back with forensics. He went to his Harley. One mirror broken; a dented fender had been straightened. A dent in the gas tank and exhaust pipe. A light broken. A bunch of little things. It looked like it could start, but where was the road?

      He thought he was facing west and the road to the east, but he wasn’t sure. He walked back to the old pickup and climbed up on it. Climbing was easy; maybe because of all the weight he’d lost. Up on the roof in the dark he could see the road to the east, A1A. No traffic, which was odd. No lights in the distance, even odder. No house lights, no road lights, nothing. Couldn’t see any glow of lights from downtown Ormond or Daytona.

      He was so caught up in his thoughts he jumped down, forgot he'd been sick and held captive, and halfway through the jump he realized what he was doing and feared he was going to hurt himself, but he landed clean and felt fine, even felt strong which was strange.

      He didn't know how he was going to get the Harley out of all this sand. How'd she get it in? Must've had help.

      The Harley started on the first turn of the key and either it was lighter or he was stronger or something in the universe had changed because he found he could put it in gear, walk alongside and push it out without much problem. He'd only gone a few steps when he glanced back and saw that a string tied to the Harley was hidden in the sand.

      He set the bike stand and went to the string and carefully pulled. The string was actually a dozen nylon fishing lines snaking back to the camp. They were buried in the sand. He gently lifted them up enough to see and followed one to the camper. On the front of the camper was a propane tank. A nylon line snaked to a circuit board with a blinking red light duct taped to the outside of the propane tank. He let go of the line and cautiously moved away from it. He traced another string to the underside of the old pickup, got down on his back and looked at the string tied to the pin of a grenade duct taped to the gas tank. He couldn't see what the line that went up into the engine compartment was attached to and didn't want to. Another string went under the wooden pallet where he’d been lying. Judging by the ropes and belts on the ground around what had been his bed, he'd been tied up, restrained, at least some of the time he'd been sick.

      Why didn’t she warn me? Maybe she did. He looked in the open door at the sheet of paper. Saw the printed words: Cut strings. He’d thought it had to do with the string tied to the bell and his handcuffs. And, he’d thought, that maybe in some esoteric way it meant the strings that tie us to humanity, to life, to the world? Obviously it didn’t.

      He studied the other nylon lines snaking across the camp and decided he didn't need to know where they went. He'd let someone who had to fill out reports find out. Carefully he walked back to the Harley watchful for other booby-traps, then bent down and cut the strings. As he straightened up, he saw the black dog sneaking across the dunes heading west. What’s up with that?

      He’d thought it would take a while to reach the road, but he found a path through the dunes and soon was riding on a dirt road to A1A. Only thing was he had worked up quite an appetite. He'd never liked bloody meat—Sully called him Agent Well-done—but now he was almost drooling for bloody raw meat.

      He stopped two yards from A1A and breathed in the refreshing smell of the crisp ocean breeze. With the breeze on his face, blowing his few strands of hair, it almost felt good to be alive. He wanted to get a lawn chair and sit here for a few hours and relax, but he had a job to do and it was time to he did it. He knew where he was and turned on the bike’s radio. The normal looking bike stereo radio was really a government radio. For a moment nothing happened, and then the radio’s digital display lit up. The shoulder mike,

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