The Dead Series (Book 1): Tell Me When I'm Dead by Steven Ramirez Page B

was self-defense?”

    It was late when I found myself sitting on the curb, mourning Fred. How could I have shot him? But it wasn’t Fred, another voice said. It was a dead thing that looked like Fred. A monstrosity that tried to kill me.
    When my dad was alive, he liked taking me to the shooting range. Though I had a talent for it, I’d never killed anything in my life, not even a deer. I felt sick as I replayed the scene over and over in my head. Grabbing the policeman’s gun, taking aim and blasting a baseball-size hole in Fred’s face. What made it worse was that no one did anything about it. It was self-defense. I was a hero.
    I looked around, imagining I saw Missy lurking in every shadow. Another two ambulances arrived to wipe up the carnage. I didn’t know if those bodies were coming back as the undead, but I guessed we’d know in a few hours. Fred was gone. Stacey, mauled and bled out.
    After the last ambulance left, Detective Van Gundy came over and sat next to me. “How are you holding up?” he said. “The guys told me what you did. It’s okay, you did what you had to.”
    “Whatever this is, I think it’s mutating.”
    “What do you mean?”
    “I found Jim days before Missy killed him. I know, I should have told you. Whatever. He was in this trancelike state for a long time. Days, weeks—I don’t know. He was harmless. I noticed that after Fred cut his hand on the contaminated glass he turned much quicker. In hours, not days.”
    “So if someone gets infected—”
    “Those bodies they took away, they need to make sure the brains are destroyed.”
    The detective nodded. “It’s spreading,” he said. “We’re getting reports that these things—what did you call them, the undead?—have been seen in Mt. Shasta. Maybe even farther north.”
    I felt for my keys and walked away fast.
    “Where are you going?” the policeman said.
    “I have to get to my wife.”
    “You can’t leave town.”
    I stopped and stared at him. “Then shoot me.”
    He looked at me for a few seconds. “It’s not that,” he said. “Security forces are on their way. All the main roads will be blocked soon. They want to contain this thing.”
    “I have to try,” I said.
    “Right. Good luck, Dave.”
    I didn’t wait around to wish him the same.

 

    What would I say to Holly when I saw her? Beg her forgiveness? Convince her I was a changed man and not a coward? Whatever happened, I needed to find her and protect her.
    Though I was anxious to get on the road, it was after midnight when I arrived at the motel. I was exhausted and afraid of falling asleep behind the wheel. So I decided to catch a few hours’ sleep and leave in the morning. Holly would be safe tonight at her mother’s.
    As I lay sleepless in bed, the thought of Fred Lumpkin—or what used to be Fred— made me feel sick, not heroic. My eyes closed, I saw Stacey writhing on the floor, bright blood shooting from her neck, that horrible screeching ripping at me as Missy and Fred ate her. In that moment I vowed to kill Missy but had to settle for Fred. The way things were playing out, there was more killing to come.
    People talk about survival. What they mean is killing the other guy.

    At first light I trudged over to the office. Except for me, the place was deserted. The motel manager was an Indian national named Ram Chakravarthy. He had a Duchenne smile as big as the moon and an accent as thick as honey. Whenever he spoke, he did a head-bobble thing that became unnerving when accompanied by silence.
    “I need to check out,” I said.
    He looked up from his laptop, which he always seemed to be in front of, and smiled. “Twenty-four-hour cancellation policy. I must charge you for tonight.”
    I didn’t have time to argue, so I paid.
    Sitting in my truck, I made several attempts to call Holly. Each time it went to voice mail. I texted her and waited. No response.
    I made my way through the deserted streets of Tres Marias, looking for breakfast. I saw