Dead Tide Read online

  “ Dead Tideis a fast-paced journey full of zombie mayhem, in which ordinary people encounter the most gruesome monsters, both living and dead. Any fan of zombie fiction should enjoy this page-turning romp.”

  —Dr. Kim Paffenroth, Bram Stoker Awardwinning author of Gospel of the Living Dead, Dying to Live and Dying to Live: Life Sentence

  “A militant zombie novel that, like all good zombie novels, bares the predatory nature of mankind. [ Dead Tideis] a wonderfully brutal debut for Library of the Living Dead.”

  —D.L. Snell, author of Roses of Blood on Barbwire Vines

  STEPHEN A. NORTH

  AUTHOR Also by Stephen North:

  Beneath the Mask

  ISBN 978-1425925888

  A novel published by arrangement with the author.

  ©2008, 2009 Stephen A. North. All Rights Reserved. ISBN-10: 144864304X ISBN-13: 9781448643042 LCCN: 2008908234

  Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored, or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise,) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

  This book is a work of fiction. People, places, events, and situations are the product of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or historical events, is purely coincidental.

  HOW LONG IS THIS ZOMBIE THING GOING TO LAST? It has exploded across the board—from movies to fiction to comics to video games and beyond—and the zombie renaissance has shown no signs of waning, even in a market inundated with the undead. Like the world in Romero’s quintessential films, the world of horror is overcome by the walking dead.

  So what gives? Your garden-variety zombie, it would seem, is just a shambling corpse that devours flesh until the inevitable bullet to the brain. A one-trick pony with little potential, right? Wrong. The modern zombie fan and the modern zombie storyteller both know what Romero knew back then—that the zombie is so, so much more. It’s about more than a monster. It’s about a world that the monster lives in, and the grim reflection that Man sees upon looking into its face. Whether set a century after the outbreak, as in my novel Empire, or right at the beginning of the end—there are universal themes that beg to be explored, and there are endless directions in which an undead yarn can go.

  Stephen North’s tale of a Florida peninsula overrun by the undead shows us the best and worst of mankind, both before and after the nightmare catastrophe. It’s not just about the radical behavior that a zombie outbreak precipitates; it’s about people’s ugliness in the world before. And it’s about how dramatically persons on both sides of the moral divide can change in what may be their final hours.

  From its unique setting to its parade of memorable characters, Stephen North’s Dead Tide gives us what the best of zombie lore gives us: a cross-section of humanity from the perspective of the author. And that’s just one reason why neither this novel or the greater zombie phenomenon is going to simply fade away.

  See, this zombie thing will last as long as there are great stories and great storytellers. You hold an example of both in your hands.

  FOR A NUMBER OF REASONS he finds it difficult to see, but chief among them is the protective mask over his face. Fortunately it is the newest model, a fairly sleek piece of rubber with large binocular lenses. Even so, he can feel a film of sweat forming on his forehead and cheeks.

  As the helicopter drops lower, the haze hanging over the small town becomes apparent. The northern side of the town is enveloped in roiling smoke and flame. The chopper banks right and circles clockwise in toward a parking lot that is the landing zone.

  “Get ready Jacobs,” the pilot says over the headset. Jacobs takes off the headset and puts his helmet on quickly. The other men around him are already tense and poised, ready to go. The chopper settles, hovering about a foot off the ground and men begin to jump to the asphalt from the open doors on either side. Jacobs is last and the chopper is pulling up even as he jumps. He lands fine, and quickly takes a knee, with his M-4 carbine held up to his cheek. He activates the laser sight.

  Roughly fifty yards away are a line of storefronts. From left to right they are: a Chinese restaurant, a liquor store, a grocery store, a pawnshop, and a beauty parlour. Some cars off to his left are still parked in orderly rows, but not those near the front of the grocery store. Two cars and a pickup are locked together burning just ten feet from the store’s entrance. Jacobs can smell gasoline. Broken bodies and shattered glass litter the ground. A state trooper’s cruiser is parked on the sidewalk at the entrance to a liquor store. No sign of the trooper.

  Jacobs glances to his left, and activates his mike. “Headcount!” Each of the five men sound off over the headset. Right now, each is in position in a circle perimeter with roughly ten meters between each man, all facing outwards to cover each other.

  “Listen up. We’re going to leapfrog up to the store’s entrance. Booth, Hicks and Lepski will go first. Shell, Watson and I will follow. Got it?”1

  “Yes sir!”

  “Then move it!”

  Shell and Watson move up on either side of him. A second or two later, the other three men sprint toward a camper with a horse trailer. They cover the twenty or so yards without incident. Booth kneels at the rear of the trailer, Hicks at the middle in between the trailer and camper, and Lepski at the front of the camper.

  “Go,” Jacobs orders, and his men comply, scrambling to follow him as he sprints left of the trailer toward a scorched yellow minivan.

  Somebody with an automatic weapon opens up, firing several bursts that tear up the asphalt all around him. A shot whines past and another tears a gouge across his right thigh. Breath rasping, he makes the final few steps and falls near the rear of the van. Shell and Watson drop beside him a moment later.

  “You hit, Sarge?” Shell asks, leaning over him. He too is breathing hard.

  “Just creased along the thigh. I’m more pissed off than hurt.”

  “Yeah, who the hell is shooting at us?”

  “Not sure, but it sounded like a Thompson.”

  Watson looks up. “You mean that World War Two submachine gun?”

  “Yes. Did either of you see where the shooter was?”

  “I think it came from the liquor store, Sarge,” Watson answers. “You want me to put some stink on him?” He hefts his light machine gun like a toy.

  Jacobs shakes his head and laughs. Putting some stink on someone has been the big joke lately. “Be ready in a moment to do just that.” He then keys his mike. “Booth, you and the others be ready to lay down cover fire for me and Shell. We’re going to rush the storefront. Think we got a shooter over at the liquor store. Copy? Over.”

  “Roger,” Booth replies. “Whenever you are ready, Sergeant, we are too. Out.”

  “Ready Shell? Let’s go!”

  Gunfire erupts and the tinted glass windows and door of the liquor store shatter. Someone leans around the police cruiser. Before Jacobs can fire, several rounds hit the guy and knock him flat on his back. Jacobs keeps running. The crease stings with every step but is manageable.

  2

  Suddenly the fire slacks off, and he and Shell run past the guy near the cruiser. Sure enough there is a Thompson in his hand, and bullets have literally riddled his body.

  Just some crazy fuck trying to stay alive. His boots crunch on the broken glass as he hits the remains of the door at a sprint.

  His boots slip in a big puddle just inside the door, and someone just inside grabs his protective jacket and the suspender for his ammo pouch as he falls backwards. A snarl
ing, snapping nightmare straddles him. The carbine is lost. Where is Shell? Can’t see, but he has one hand on the thing’s throat and the other struggling with its ripping fingers. He can feel his equipment belt coming apart. The thing lunges and his hand on its throat can’t stop it. His mask almost comes loose with the impact of the thing’s face.

  Oh Jesus, it’s chewing on my mask!

  So weak. No energy to fight much longer.

  A shot rings out, deafeningly loud. The weight of the thing falls away.

  “Fuck Sarge, I’m sorry, I just couldn’t draw my pistol quick enough. I couldn’t use the Ronson here, or I’d toasted you both.”

  “No problem Shell, I think I’m all right. But this mask has to go. I can’t see a stinking thing.”

  “That woman was chewing on it. Probably saved your life.”

  The suction is too great for a moment, and the rubber resists, but it comes free bringing almost immediate relief to his sweaty face. Vision returns.

  He looks at the mask in his gloved hand. The eyepieces are smeared with blood that is still dripping.

  “You said woman?”

  Shell nods. “Yeah, it was a woman all right, and if she wasn’t trying to bite your face off, I might’ve been tempted to leave you two alone.”

  Jacobs lifts an eyebrow. “Don’t go there Shell, I’m warning you. Now where is my carbine?”

  “Have a look yourself, Sarge. Look at her…”

  Jacobs turns fully toward Shell, and before he can stop himself, grabs the man by the throat. The other man’s eyes are wide behind the lenses of his mask. “Get moving, Private! Back outside!” He gives the man a push backwards.

  3

  “Sure thing, Sarge,” Shell says over his shoulder. Once the other man is gone, Jacobs gives in and looks at the body. She is wearing a light green jogging outfit and tennis shoes. Her hair is long, and a light brown with blonde highlights. His rifle is right beside her.

  Wonder what her face looks like? What color are her eyes ? A distant shout snaps him back.

  Why am I looking at a dead woman?

  Because there is no chance they’ll look back. This one isn’t going

  to recoil in fear, hatred, or disgust. No restraining orders. No shouting or screaming.

  No nothing.

  He feels a tear course down his cheek, and a long shudder wracks his body.

  He picks up the rifle, checks it over, then heads for the exit.

  Once outside he finds his men behind nearby cars, spread out once again in a circle perimeter, covering all approaches.

  Shell stands up. “Are we going to clear the buildings, Sarge?”

  Jacobs can see most of the others looking over at him, waiting for an answer.

  “No, we’re not, Shell. You are going to burn them.”

  “But there may be healthy people still trapped in there. What if some people are still alive? I can’t kill innocents.”

  Jacobs lifts his carbine up a bit, and the red dot of the laser sight plays across the asphalt at Shell’s feet. “You heard my order, Shell. I’m getting impatient.”

  It is impossible to read the man’s expression behind the mask, but he nods, then steps forward from behind the cover of the minivan. He aims the nozzle of the flamethrower and slowly squeezes the release and ignition triggers, which requires both hands, one on each pistol grip.

  There is a roar as Shell directs a jet of the burning fuel up and onto the roofs of the stores.

  They’ll thank me later, Jacobs thinks.

  4

  T HE SMELL OF DEATH AND DECAY would always be with him. No amount of scrubbing or sterilizing dulls it, just familiarity. He only notices the smell when he opens a door. It is so familiar now that he barely perceives it.

  He pushes his mop and bucket along a gleaming white tiled corridor and tries to ignore the squealing of the wheels.

  This bucket will be thrown away at the end of this shift, he decides.

  There is a double door just ahead. A sign to the left of the doors reads: Decedent Storage and Investigations. He holds one of the doors open with his body, and pulls the bucket through. His boss, one of the technicians, stands just a few feet away inside.

  “Ah there you are Blank. Table six has a spill… Bastard had a colostomy bag and I didn’t know it. The thing burst all over… Hop to it! Dr. Bastrov will be in soon.”

  “It’s Blake,” he answers, hoping none of his irritation shows, keeping his eyes cast downward. He is a small man after all, and his boss is a hulking behemoth, grossly fat but still strong. Christ, he must go three or four hundred pounds… I’d only be in trouble if he caught me.

  The man grins broadly, and smacks his own forehead in mock reproof. “That’s right, how could I forget, Blank—Blake?” The grin fades. “Better get your ass in there and clean up or…”

  Blake can see a slick of blood, feces and probably urine forming a coagulating stain around a gleaming autopsy table. The corpse is still there, but none of the coroner’s staff is present—just his boss and buddy, good ‘ole Joss ‘the Hoss’ Hawkins. He resumes pushing his bucket toward the table. He’s not my buddy, the bastard hates me.

  “I’m going for a cigarette boy, so when you’re finished here I want you to start on the men’s room on the first floor. Got me?”

  The urge to sketch a salute is strong, but he forces it down. “Sure thing, boss,” he says and dips the mop into the hot soapy water. Hawkins brushes past him and through the door. Blake can’t help but stand there by the puddle a moment, trying to collect himself. He pushes the mop into the putrid mess, smearing it.

  5

  There is a violent thud, and he whirls thinking Hawkins is up to something.

  No one is there. He finds himself looking at the three tiered rows of storage drawers for Decedents, each one a polished metal sliding tray and most of them containing a piece of dead meat.

  What the hell? Is Hawkins playing a joke?

  Three or four thuds come from a number of drawers. The pounding comes quicker, and then there is a metallic clatter from behind him. He spins back around, tensing, mop held before him defensively.

  He lets out a long drawn-out sigh. “Good Lord, you gave me a fright Doctor.”

  The doctor looks at him, and he realizes he’s never seen this sort of expression on her face before: a mix of fear and puzzlement. One elegant eyebrow is arched as she tilts her head toward the noise. Even now, he finds himself captivated by her. Her long, lustrous chestnut hair is up in a ponytail, but the bangs have come free and frame the pale oval of her face.

  “What’s going on?” she asks.

  He shrugs.

  “Call Tech Hawkins right now,” she says. “This better not be some kind of joke.”

  “Right away, ma’am,” he says. “I’ll page him.”

  THE INTERIOR OF THE CAB IS DARK, except for the dash lights from his radio. The windows are down. His fingers beat a light tattoo on his door in time with Barry White’s Can’t get enough of your love baby. His eyes fall on the cellophane wrapped package on the seat beside him. Not yet, he thinks.

  It’s almost closing time for the bars over at Baywalk. He takes a deep breath. I don’t need a cigarette. Trying to quit this time has really been a bitch. Forty-two years old and running out of time to stop bad

  6

  habits. Too bad now that he’s trying, the game is lost. Too bad… Welcome to the world of the divorced. Why did he have to lose everything to realize he needed to change?

  Well, at least now that he’s stopped drinking, the smoking won’t be such a big deal. How clean do I have to be? Of course, giving up distractions is easy when nothing matters anymore.

  He looks up at the photo still clipped to his sun visor: His wife is smiling, (but isn’t that a hint of despair in her eyes?) and their three boys, all rambunctious tow heads. And of course, his own face in the picture: a bloated caricature of the way he remembers himself. There is a jowl under his chin, and his cheeks are puffy. Who is th
at fat man? He hates pictures of himself for this reason. He isn’t the man he wants to be and hasn’t been for years.

  A sudden rap of metal on glass startles him up out of his reverie . Damn! I was almost asleep there… The sound repeats and he looks over. A man is leaning down and looking at him through the glass of the passenger window. There is a ring on the hand he’s pounding the window with.

  “Hey, settle down,” Graham says, raising his voice. “It’s not locked, you idiot!”

  The guy looks loopy and slack-jawed. Was that me before I sobered?

  The guy’s hand hits the glass again. Graham thinks about simply pulling away, but business has been slow tonight—real slow. This guy looks like middle fifties and is wearing a nice tailored suit. If he treats the guy right, maybe he’ll be generous.

  “Hold on a second, sir! Here I come. I’ll open the door for you.” Graham bales out of the car fast. The guy seems a little slow on the uptake. He looks bewildered and a line of drool hangs from his chin.

  It’s hard to judge because of the suit, but the guy probably isn’t muscle big. He’s fat big—probably some hotshot VIP. He snarls something when Graham puts a hand on his shoulder. “I’m just trying to help you sir, so if you’ll…” Good Lord does he smell awful.

  A big meaty paw—the one with the ring—grabs his left hand away from the shoulder. Graham gives up the hold and tries to back away and yank his hand free. The guy holds on and is… gibbering? Is that the word? What the hell have I got myself into? Maybe I should be calling for help…

  In desperation Graham punches a short right jab toward the guy’s solar plexus but it deflects off the guy’s other arm. He feels fingers close around his throat. Graham hears himself sob, then choke as the fingers squeeze.

  7

  Oh shit! Don’t let me die here!

  He’d yell but he can’t breathe. He falls backwards with the guy on top of him. Graham’s skull does a double tap on the concrete sidewalk, and as he fades out he realizes it may be for the best.

  TALASKI LEANS BACK IN HIS CHAIR, aims half-heartedly for a trash barrel. He tosses a small aerosol can and it goes in with a barely noticeable clatter. In the room the voices are loud, some seeking to overpower the others. He lets them wash over him, only half-listening. “What’s up Peppers? You don’t look so good,” or “Say Tanner, where’s that twenty you owe me?”