The Village of Dead Souls: A Zombie Novel Read online

  Vic ran up to Greg, pulled him off the man and said, "Hey man, we better get out of here. There's going to be more cops here soon, and you're not going to be able to hold them all back with a broom handle."

  Greg took anther bite out of the screaming officer, who pounded the zombie in the shoulder with his free arm. Greg looked up at Vic with blood streaming down both sides of his mouth and said, "I cannot control my actions. This body wants nothing more than to taste his flesh. The feeling it gives is not only being alive again, but also even being better. I feel stronger, with more energy and more awareness of my surroundings."

  Vic pulled him away from the officer. "You're whacked out on goofballs, my friend. Taking bites out of people has this effect on us. It might feel good, but we need to get out of here fast."

  The four zombies hurried out the opposite end of the alley and disappeared into the back streets.

  * * *

  Lieutenant John Colton, one of the youngest officers in the Sheriff's Office, walked in the conference room and stood at attention in front of the long table, filled with his fellow officers and military brass. His short dark hair and muscular build gave an indication of his dedication to the job. He felt his charming looks also helped his rapid promotion. Sheriff Watson said, "Relax John, have a seat. We're going to be here a while."

  Colton pulled out the chair and sat next to his boss. Across the table, General Brown began his slide show presentation. The first photo showed the alley where Prometheus, John and Greg wrote their messages. Instead of readable words, the writing appeared as cryptic scribbles. "Here, in our town the re-animated have begun writing symbols on walls, dumpsters," the slide changed to another message written in chalk on a sidewalk, "windows and trees. Our cryptologists can't decipher the code if there even is a meaning to this scribble. What they have determined, based on the placement of the markings, the number of sightings in those areas, and the fact some of your local men were attacked when they were caught tagging the walls, these are some kind of territorial markings."

  Sheriff Watson, with his gray hair and weathered face, which displayed decades of wisdom, spoke up, "Marking their territory would indicate some intelligence and organization within their structure. We can no longer continue to combat this as if it were a pack of stray dogs getting into trashcans."

  "You got that right, which is why we're asking you to form this new unit. We're rounding up these people or ex-people all over the world and holding them on our bases, out of the public eye. The President doesn't want the military conducting these roundups and captures on our soil. He thinks it will look like the situation is getting out of control. There also happens to be this group of hippies who want us to respect the civil rights of the non-living and they are drawing a lot attention to the problem. If we bring soldiers into the streets, this group is going to bog down the whole operation in the courts. This is why you need to start combating this problem within your ranks. You're the first responders and therefore you get to respond first." Brown opened his brief case on the table. "It shouldn't be too difficult. In most of the areas around the globe, my men treated it like herding cattle. You surround them, move them into trucks, and then haul them away. Only a few areas showed resistance, but it was easily squashed. If they resist, they respond well to tasers or you can set them on fire; tear gas moves them along like any other crowd. You can always smash them under your car. This isn't make-believe, they can't put themselves back together like in the movies. If the body is destroyed, the problem is solved. But, like I said, most of them act like cattle and will walk wherever you point them."

  Sherriff Watson turned to Colton and said, "This is why we brought you in. You grew up here. You played on these streets. You know all the nooks and crannies where theses re-animated people can hide. We want you to head this new unit. Once we have the cure for this disease and the population is immunized, you can go back to regular police work."

  Without hesitation to the new orders, Colton asked, "How many men will I have and what is our objective?"

  "You'll handpick eight other officers and your objective is to round up these poor souls and hand them over to General Brown's men. If the re-animated offer any resistance, you're authorized to put them down, and to neutralize any danger."

  Brown took his flask out of his briefcase and took a sip. Sheriff Watson turned to him with a judgmental eye and said, "Isn't it a bit too early for whiskey, General?"

  "Early for whiskey?" Brown extended his hand, offering the flask to the Sheriff. "I've been up for three days, which makes it really, really late at night for me. If it's too early for anything, it's too early to be talking about having to round up zombies."

  Watson reached across the table and grabbed the flask from the General. He tilted it back and took a long sip. He noticed the astonished expressions on the faces of his men and the military around the table and replied, "This is going to be a long one, gentlemen. It might be awhile before I see the outside of this building again. You bet, I'm having a shot."

  Chapter 5

  Candles placed throughout the warehouse, lit the interior with a soft yellow flicker, as the last of the sunlight faded from the windows. Ravens flew across the rafters several stories above the ground. Prometheus stood near a window and collected water from a broken pipe as it dripped onto his hands. He tried to wash the dried blood, which had been on his face and throat for days. After he scrubbed his pale skin with the palms of his hands, he checked his mouth in a small piece of broken mirror. It still did not set in; this strange person with the odd hairstyle was him. In the reflection, he saw the Viking inside the musicians body walk up behind him. Gunnar spoke up, "An undead that still has a sense of vanity. Perhaps all hope is not lost for us."

  Prometheus turned around and asked, "What gift do the gods pass through you to the descendants?

  "I will give them the ability to see in all light spectrums. I didn't know there was more than one kind of light. As to why one would need to see in these different lights, this is beyond my understanding." Gunnar noticed a new body stagger into the building. He motioned his head toward the stranger. "It looks like we have a new arrival to our merry band of men."

  Prometheus glanced in the direction of the door and saw the body of the police officer he bit at the mall. His eyes opened wide and with a feeling of remorse. He walked across the open space and greeted the undead arrival. "Welcome to our place of sanctuary." He placed his right hand in the center of his chest. "Apologies, as I fear I am the one who caused your new life as an undead. You see, it was I who bit your arm during the city festival and might have caused your demise."

  The man in the police officer's body gave Prometheus a confused expression, pointed to the surrounding building and said, "Augh, moore tam buk."

  "I'm afraid my ears do not always translate the modern version of your speech." He glanced around at some of his fellow zombies in the room and spoke up. "Perhaps, someone more familiar with this day's vernacular could offer assistance."

  Wearing the blue dress he found in the alley, John walked up and scanned the new person. He explained, "You have to remember, this is only the body you bit. It's inhabited by a different person, probably from a different time." He stuck out his hand and said, "Hi, I'm John."

  The officer appeared quizzical at the offer of a handshake. He leaned over and sniffed John's hand then returned to his puzzled state. John pressed his hand into the center of his chest, just above the neckline of the dress and said, "My name is John."

  The officer touched his own chest and said, "Hod." He pointed to different parts of the warehouse and continued speaking. "Baum do gran, do mat gorum storr canuum."

  "We may need additional ears to hear his words in order to understand his intent." Prometheus said.

  "I have a feeling that we hear his words exactly as he intends." John slightly shook his head, as if he had solved a new clue to the puzzle. "Quite possibly, the person inside this body is from the ice age or earlier. He's a caveman
named Hod."

  Hearing his name, he pointed to his chest and said, "Hod."

  John gently took hold of the caveman's hand, brought it to his own shoulder and said, "John."

  Hod replied, "Ohn."

  Placing his hand on the Athenian's shoulder he said, "Prometheus."

  Hod pressed his lips together, moved them around and attempted several times to say the name of the Greek man, but gave up and placed his hand back on John's shoulder and said, "Ohn."

  Titus stood in the center of the room and announced, "The good Gunnar Benwa would like to take a small group out under the cloak of darkness to help us gather supplies. He needs some volunteers to assist him."

  From the position near the windows, Gunnar continued, "For some reason, the messages we wrote on their streets have had the opposite effect of our intentions. The descendants have moved away from the areas with our writing, instead of embracing the message, as though they are afraid of what we had to say. However, we can use this to our advantage and go to those areas and scavenge for supplies with little concern of attack."

  Prometheus stepped away from door and said, "I will accompany you into the city."

  A man wearing a motocross jersey, pants and motorcycle boots with his neck slightly out of alignment with his shoulders, spoke up. "In my land, if we had a formal message to give, we used the language of pictures, instead of the symbols the men from Greece wrote."

  Titus asked, "And good sir, what shall we call you and from where do you hail?"

  The dirt bike racer rolled his head toward his shoulder, which let out a loud crack. "I am called Nemi of Egypt. The upper kingdom is where I have my home and make my trade bringing bails of cotton up the river of life."

  Constance joined the conversation. "I believe, Mr. Nemi might have a point. If the living cannot understand our writing, perhaps a simple language of symbols and pictures could transfer our intentions more efficiently."

  Gunnar appeared to think about what the others suggested and pointed to Jennifer. "History teacher, what do you think?"

  "I think Constance may be onto something. Simple pleasant pictures might show the living we are not here to harm them."

  Princess Rachel spoke up, "I am adept at telling stories through pictures. It might be of some benefit for me to accompany this group out into the streets."

  "There we have it." Titus announced. "Gunnar shall lead this group back out on the streets of this fine city to gather needed supplies and convey our message to the descendants in another form."

  * * *

  General Brown stood in front of the unit of police officers in the alley of a downtown street. "Congratulations, you're now all property of Homeland Security, enjoy the ride. I'm sure you've seen the videos all over the Internet. These round ups go pretty much by the book. No resistance, no trouble, they simply gather to get away from the smoke and like cattle, they'll move into the truck. For some reason, they like to come out at night and scavenge through the abandoned buildings. This makes them an easy target."

  One of the officers raised his hand and asked a question. "Is it true they are taken to an island in the Pacific, where are allowed to live freely."

  Brown gave a smile and shook his head thinking how gullible the public had become. "We've set up close to thirty thousand fake profiles on all kinds of social media sites. We're the ones spreading those rumors of this ideal quarantine to keep the disease from spreading. There's no island, no secret utopia. These re-ans are housed on military bases all over the world. Trust me; they're never going to leave. Most of them can't survive the medical and scientific tests we put them through."

  * * *

  A cough echoed through the wood paneled courtroom. Judge Patterson sat up and leaned forward resting his elbows on the bench. "I'm sorry counselor, what did you call your organization?"

  Chris Schring, the rather tall and slender attorney with wire rim glasses, stepped to the side of the table and replied, "ZOOM, your honor. It stands for Zombies and Others On the Move. We are an egalitarian movement dedicated to the rights of zombies."

  The silver haired judge sat back in his chair and shook his head. "You have stood before me in the past with all kinds of fringe clients and outlandish arguments, but this one is by far, your best. By best, I mean the top of the nutcase list. You really want to represent these disease ridden bodies who don't know they are dead?"

  "Your honor, these people have been automatically cast to the lowest levels of society, based entirely on the fact that they have been given a second chance at life and nothing else." Chris reached in his briefcase, pulled out a document, and held it up. "There are hundreds of thousands of re-animated citizens, currently being held prisoner on military bases all across this country and other parts of the world. They have not been charged with any crime or given the opportunity to speak with an attorney."

  "These things you are trying to defend are biting people and infecting them with a virus, which turns the victim into a zombie. As for speaking with an attorney, I don't know if you've noticed, but they can't speak. They just make moaning sounds and do a lot of pointing." Patterson replied.

  "This is exactly our point." Chris moved around to the front of the table. "These people are in need of medical attention. There's no doubt they will have mental health issues. Keeping them in prison is a violation of their civil rights."

  "The dead don't have civil rights."

  "They are the non-dead, your honor."

  "Dead, non-dead, zombies, re-animated, it doesn't matter. Civil rights are for citizens who still have blood pumping through their veins." The judge picked up his gavel and brought it down on the block. "Your motion is denied."

  As Chris stepped back around the counsel table, he saw Hellion and Pink approach the bar from the gallery side. He placed his documents back in his briefcase. "Sorry guys. I didn't think Judge Patterson would bite on this one, pardon the pun. We still have other options, which we can explore. There's a class action, individual representation-"

  Hellion interrupted, "That's okay." She glanced at Pink. "We didn't think this would work and we have already set our next plan in motion."

  Closing his briefcase, he turned to the two women. "Is this plan going to require me to bail you out of jail again? This isn't going to be another Seattle, is it? I have news for you. I like coffee and I don't care about the donkey that carried it down the mountain, as long as it means my java is hot and waiting for me when I wake up."

  Hellion pushed one of her dreadlocks back behind her ear. "A Beast Of Burden is another term for slavery and you know any day when the sun rises, there's always a chance, you'll have to bail me out of jail."

  * * *

  The streetlights lit up the empty city block. Scattered trash, boarded up windows, doors, and missing tires on the few parked cars, indicated the area had been vacated by the living for some time. Concrete barriers blocked the end of the street, marking the line between the living and the undead. Prometheus walked out of the abandoned store with a sack full of batteries, matches and flashlights. He watched Gunnar use a piece of chalk to draw a boat with a dragonhead bow on the sidewalk. Holding up the bag, he said, "I'm not sure what these items are or for what purpose they serve, but the good Vic of Chicago told me to gather as many as I could carry."

  The Viking stood from drawing his picture and glanced into the bag. "I'm sure they will be of good use once the moderns explain it to us." He scanned the block where several other zombies scavenged the trashcans and any stores they could access. "Where is Hod? I have not seen him since we left the warehouse."

  Prometheus pointed down the street. "He arrives from yonder."

  At the end of the block, Hod walked around the corner, holding a broom handle that he had converted into a spear, complete with a hand chipped flint tip. Over his shoulder, he carried two dead rabbits strung together at their feet. He wore the police officer's utility belt over his other shoulder like a bandoleer, with the nightstick hanging at his waist. Watching
the primitive man approach, Drew, with a handful of newspapers, stepped up to Prometheus. "You can dress them up, but can't take the hunter out of your caveman."

  The ancient Greek offered only a confused expression as a response. Hod noticed the drawing of the boat on the ground. He handed the rabbits and his spear to Gunnar and took the chalk out his hand. Down on one knee, he drew primitive cave drawings of what appeared to be a large buffalo type animal and stick figures of men hunting it. Hod stood from his drawing and told the story of the hunt, but Prometheus and the others could not translate his language. The primitive man in the officer's body, proceeded to act out the story. He pointed to the buffalo drawing and placed his hands at the side of his head, protruding his fingers like horns. Bending over and simulating a charge into Drew's stomach, he then grabbed his own and pretended to die.

  Prometheus made the observation, "It appears our friend Hod met his death while hunting this horned creature.

  Hod knelt down and drew three more stick figures, two large and three small people. He pointed to the tallest person and said, "Hod."

  Drew replied, "He had a family with three kids."

  Loud explosions and bright flashes came from the opposite end of the block. Prometheus turned and saw several police officers climb over the concrete barrier. They had face shields, gas masks, body armor and batons. Teargas canisters landed in the street and sidewalks, streaming smoke into the air. Undead, who had been scavenging the abandon stores, ran away from the advancing enforcement. Two officers tackled a fleeing zombie and beat him over the head with their batons until his skull broke open and his brains spilled onto the asphalt. Gunnar picked up a large rock and said, "Finally, the descendants speak a language I can understand."