The Hollow Men (Book 1): Crave by Jonathan Teague
Authors: Jonathan Teague
Tags: Zombie Apocalypse
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a slight jump when she caught sight of Scott. She smiled and shook her head at herself as she disappeared. “Yeah, me too”, he thought. At least he wasn’t the only person so addicted to exercise that it overwhelmed common sense, leaving the house despite the calamities in the world.
Mystery solved, Scott steadied his pace, rolling his shoulders and stretching his neck from side to side to help clear the tension of his paranoia. He took a deep, cleansing breath and let it out in short bursts. His attempt at relaxation didn’t banish the nervousness in his stomach.
The new firehouse that sat on the corner of the old country road and the main street that led to Smithfield. The red-brick building was surrounded by a parking lot with plenty of room to maneuver the three fire engines it housed. From the bright light inside the building, Scott could see the gleaming yellow trucks through the large windows that made up a significant part of the bay doors. He thought of the sleeping firefighters trained to jump into action in an emergency, with glaring lights and blaring sirens that could shatter the stillness of the silent morning. The firehouse stood dark and silent.
He was grateful for that. It meant the riots playing out in cities all over the world had yet to touch his small town.
A strong smell emanated from two ethereal shapes ahead of him. He had come to know the “regulars” who shared the road with him in the pre-dawn hours. The spicy fragrance was a familiar signal that he would soon see the two elderly ladies who hosed themselves in heavy perfume before their early morning walks.
Scott usually picked them up from a distance. They sounded like an aviary of squawking birds as they chattered loudly while trekking the rural roads. From overhearing their energetic trading of news about families, friends, TV shows, and health problems, Scott knew pretty much everything about them, except their names. In his mind, they were “Betty and Wilma”. Betty was the doppelganger of Betty White. Seeing her for the first time, he’d done a double-take. Her walking companion was taller and thinner, and she wore a red wig that she always styled in one sweeping curl across the top of her crown. She could pass for a grandma version of Wilma Flintstone.
When he saw the pair, it didn’t feel right. Part of it was the unsettling silence. Betty and Wilma were mute. No chatter. Not even an audible breath from either of them. They were only a couple of yards from him in the darkness. He made out their forms crawling from a shallow ditch that ran parallel to the road.
Scott wondered what they were doing in the muddy canal. Maybe they had fallen. Maybe they were hurt. He approached them to offer a helping hand.
As the ladies lurched onto the street, they seemed bewitched. Close enough to make out their features, there were no smiles. Their faces jerked bizarrely from blank expressions to their normally sweet smiles then sagged to blank again. They shifted their unblinking eyes in his direction.
Scott’s body clenched in fear and his mouth went dry. He stopped abruptly. They’re just old ladies , he thought, confused by the irrational dread that washed over him.
Betty’s expression continued to morph. She raised her arm, her hand outstretched, her eyes imploring.
“Are you OK?” Scott asked her.
No sound came from her. Wilma took two stuttering yet determined steps closer to him. Her face ceased its strange spasms. Her expression was fixed and menacing. Ravenous.
His voice cracked past his dry throat and tongue. “What’s wrong?” He posed the question to himself as much as her. She didn’t answer. A primordial instinct shouted from deep within Scott’s bowels, rapidly gathering volume and urgency. Run, run, RUN!
Reason bolted and then so did he.
CHAPTER 20
A NTIC S HIFTS
H is lungs ballooned and deflated at a frenetic rate, struggling to keep pace with his hammering heart. Wilma and Betty were almost a mile behind
Mystery solved, Scott steadied his pace, rolling his shoulders and stretching his neck from side to side to help clear the tension of his paranoia. He took a deep, cleansing breath and let it out in short bursts. His attempt at relaxation didn’t banish the nervousness in his stomach.
The new firehouse that sat on the corner of the old country road and the main street that led to Smithfield. The red-brick building was surrounded by a parking lot with plenty of room to maneuver the three fire engines it housed. From the bright light inside the building, Scott could see the gleaming yellow trucks through the large windows that made up a significant part of the bay doors. He thought of the sleeping firefighters trained to jump into action in an emergency, with glaring lights and blaring sirens that could shatter the stillness of the silent morning. The firehouse stood dark and silent.
He was grateful for that. It meant the riots playing out in cities all over the world had yet to touch his small town.
A strong smell emanated from two ethereal shapes ahead of him. He had come to know the “regulars” who shared the road with him in the pre-dawn hours. The spicy fragrance was a familiar signal that he would soon see the two elderly ladies who hosed themselves in heavy perfume before their early morning walks.
Scott usually picked them up from a distance. They sounded like an aviary of squawking birds as they chattered loudly while trekking the rural roads. From overhearing their energetic trading of news about families, friends, TV shows, and health problems, Scott knew pretty much everything about them, except their names. In his mind, they were “Betty and Wilma”. Betty was the doppelganger of Betty White. Seeing her for the first time, he’d done a double-take. Her walking companion was taller and thinner, and she wore a red wig that she always styled in one sweeping curl across the top of her crown. She could pass for a grandma version of Wilma Flintstone.
When he saw the pair, it didn’t feel right. Part of it was the unsettling silence. Betty and Wilma were mute. No chatter. Not even an audible breath from either of them. They were only a couple of yards from him in the darkness. He made out their forms crawling from a shallow ditch that ran parallel to the road.
Scott wondered what they were doing in the muddy canal. Maybe they had fallen. Maybe they were hurt. He approached them to offer a helping hand.
As the ladies lurched onto the street, they seemed bewitched. Close enough to make out their features, there were no smiles. Their faces jerked bizarrely from blank expressions to their normally sweet smiles then sagged to blank again. They shifted their unblinking eyes in his direction.
Scott’s body clenched in fear and his mouth went dry. He stopped abruptly. They’re just old ladies , he thought, confused by the irrational dread that washed over him.
Betty’s expression continued to morph. She raised her arm, her hand outstretched, her eyes imploring.
“Are you OK?” Scott asked her.
No sound came from her. Wilma took two stuttering yet determined steps closer to him. Her face ceased its strange spasms. Her expression was fixed and menacing. Ravenous.
His voice cracked past his dry throat and tongue. “What’s wrong?” He posed the question to himself as much as her. She didn’t answer. A primordial instinct shouted from deep within Scott’s bowels, rapidly gathering volume and urgency. Run, run, RUN!
Reason bolted and then so did he.
CHAPTER 20
A NTIC S HIFTS
H is lungs ballooned and deflated at a frenetic rate, struggling to keep pace with his hammering heart. Wilma and Betty were almost a mile behind
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