Dead World (Book 1): Dead Come Home by Nathan Brown, Fox Robert Page A
Authors: Nathan Brown, Fox Robert
Tags: Zombies
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wasn’t the enemy … this was his Ma.
For more than a brief moment, perhaps longer than he would ever realize, Mike O’Connell stood over the reanimated corpse of his mother like a gelatinous statue, in a state of near-catatonic shock.
At some point, Mike realized that he had cocked the lever on the antique Winchester rifle, a late 19 th century piece that had always been the pride and joy of his father’s gun collection. As though in a trance, he pulled back the hammer and drew a bead on his Ma with Dad’s rifle. She had long been the most beloved person in Mike’s life … the only reason he’d ever had to come back home, the only thing that allowed him to still feel human.
“I’m so sorry, Ma,” he bawled, trying so hard to aim through the veil of tears. “I love you. Go be with Dad.”
With a cry of pain that could have shaken the very pillars of heaven itself, Mike pulled the trigger … and all again was silence.
“I’d rather know you’re with him in Heaven, not here in this hell.”
Mike stood there, his mind trying to reconcile the matricidal sin his hands had committed. The rifle fell from his trembling palms. The crash of the stock thudding to the carpet slammed through him like roll of thunder.
He knelt and gingerly scooped up Ma’s lifeless corpse. He worked his arms into a cradle to pick up her destroyed body in one piece. Carefully, lovingly, as though she had simply fallen asleep on the couch, he carried her to the bed in the next room. He retrieved her favorite quilt from the hall closet and covered her with it gently. He stepped out of the room and shut the door, making sure it was shut as firmly as possible … as though he never wanted it to open again.
He turned around and slumped against the door, sliding down to the floor. His head hung between his knees as the metal-armor of his mental world shattered like a stained glass window.
Moments later, something caused Mike to pop up his head, pulling him from his sad trance. What was that? Was some knocking on the front door? He had only been dimly aware of the sound at first. He listened closely. There it was again.
Who could that be? A survivor? Or one of these godforsaken things? I don’t think these undead things bother to knock.
* * *
Joseph drove straight through the small towns of Alvord and Bowie without so much as slowing down. He blew through both towns with tunnel vision. He didn’t give a damn what was happening in the small towns. With the exception of a few northbound truckers, he was still one of the relative few running in that direction. He guessed everyone else felt that just being outside of the Metroplex made them safe. He wasn’t about to take any chances—road rage could easily escalate into another riot if enough people got involved and no cops were around to keep things under control.
Joseph kept his eyes on nothing but the road. He wanted to know exactly what was in front of him … and to hell with everything else. Perhaps if he had paid more attention to his surroundings, he might have noticed the figures shambling with the same off-kilter posture as Ryan or standing absently in front yards or beating against the doors of roadside homes. He might also have noticed the bloody palm prints on windows, blood pooled on front porches and smeared across doors.
Keep your eyes on the road, Joseph. Fuck me, I killed Ryan. Get to Wichita Falls; you can sort things out there, away from all the craziness in the city. Shit, I killed Ryan. Eyes on the road, moron.
His mental mantra was interrupted by the sudden realization that he wasn’t alone on the road anymore. Other cars swarmed around him and flew past him, snapping his mind back into gear. Joseph started watching his escape routes again.
He could almost hear his high school Driver’s Ed. teacher preaching about knowing where your escape routes are. For the second time that day he was actively driving defensively, something he
For more than a brief moment, perhaps longer than he would ever realize, Mike O’Connell stood over the reanimated corpse of his mother like a gelatinous statue, in a state of near-catatonic shock.
At some point, Mike realized that he had cocked the lever on the antique Winchester rifle, a late 19 th century piece that had always been the pride and joy of his father’s gun collection. As though in a trance, he pulled back the hammer and drew a bead on his Ma with Dad’s rifle. She had long been the most beloved person in Mike’s life … the only reason he’d ever had to come back home, the only thing that allowed him to still feel human.
“I’m so sorry, Ma,” he bawled, trying so hard to aim through the veil of tears. “I love you. Go be with Dad.”
With a cry of pain that could have shaken the very pillars of heaven itself, Mike pulled the trigger … and all again was silence.
“I’d rather know you’re with him in Heaven, not here in this hell.”
Mike stood there, his mind trying to reconcile the matricidal sin his hands had committed. The rifle fell from his trembling palms. The crash of the stock thudding to the carpet slammed through him like roll of thunder.
He knelt and gingerly scooped up Ma’s lifeless corpse. He worked his arms into a cradle to pick up her destroyed body in one piece. Carefully, lovingly, as though she had simply fallen asleep on the couch, he carried her to the bed in the next room. He retrieved her favorite quilt from the hall closet and covered her with it gently. He stepped out of the room and shut the door, making sure it was shut as firmly as possible … as though he never wanted it to open again.
He turned around and slumped against the door, sliding down to the floor. His head hung between his knees as the metal-armor of his mental world shattered like a stained glass window.
Moments later, something caused Mike to pop up his head, pulling him from his sad trance. What was that? Was some knocking on the front door? He had only been dimly aware of the sound at first. He listened closely. There it was again.
Who could that be? A survivor? Or one of these godforsaken things? I don’t think these undead things bother to knock.
* * *
Joseph drove straight through the small towns of Alvord and Bowie without so much as slowing down. He blew through both towns with tunnel vision. He didn’t give a damn what was happening in the small towns. With the exception of a few northbound truckers, he was still one of the relative few running in that direction. He guessed everyone else felt that just being outside of the Metroplex made them safe. He wasn’t about to take any chances—road rage could easily escalate into another riot if enough people got involved and no cops were around to keep things under control.
Joseph kept his eyes on nothing but the road. He wanted to know exactly what was in front of him … and to hell with everything else. Perhaps if he had paid more attention to his surroundings, he might have noticed the figures shambling with the same off-kilter posture as Ryan or standing absently in front yards or beating against the doors of roadside homes. He might also have noticed the bloody palm prints on windows, blood pooled on front porches and smeared across doors.
Keep your eyes on the road, Joseph. Fuck me, I killed Ryan. Get to Wichita Falls; you can sort things out there, away from all the craziness in the city. Shit, I killed Ryan. Eyes on the road, moron.
His mental mantra was interrupted by the sudden realization that he wasn’t alone on the road anymore. Other cars swarmed around him and flew past him, snapping his mind back into gear. Joseph started watching his escape routes again.
He could almost hear his high school Driver’s Ed. teacher preaching about knowing where your escape routes are. For the second time that day he was actively driving defensively, something he
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