Darkest Days: A Southern Zombie Tale
Any denizens of Fayette will realize that I have taken a few geographical, architectural, and cultural liberties with my hometown. No offense was intended. These changes were made in the hopes of telling a better story.
This is a work of fiction. The events and characters described herein are imaginary and are not intended to refer to specific places or living persons. The opinions expressed in this manuscript are solely the opinions of the author and do not represent the opinions or thoughts of the publisher. The author has represented and warranted full ownership and/or legal right to publish all the materials in this book.
Darkest Days
A Southern Zombie Tale
All Rights Reserved.
Copyright © 2011 James J. Layton
v4.0
Cover Photo © 2011 JupiterImages Corporation. All rights reserved - used with permission.
This book may not be reproduced, transmitted, or stored in whole or in part by any means, including graphic, electronic, or mechanical without the express written consent of the publisher except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.
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PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA
To my family for the encouragement:
Guadalupe, David, William, and Christopher.
To my wife Alice. I could not have done this without you.
Contents
PROLOGUE
The city’s police cruiser pulled up to the sidewalk at a slow roll and parked with a jerk as the emergency brake engaged. The idling engine and slamming car doors aroused no suspicion since everyone had already left for work and the street stood deserted.
The passenger stood up and stared intently at the quiet neighborhood. No one had ever accused Detective Paulson of being in shape, so it was not surprising that the events of the morning had already winded him. It was only nine A.M. but he felt tired, as the red rims of his eyes reflected. His perpetual five o’ clock shadow and old jacket made him look more like a wino than a member of law enforcement. The round paunch and double chin did nothing to aid his appearance either. His only consolation involved his height; he stood a head taller than the beat cop who had arrived with him.
He reached deep into his pocket, shuffling a few loose coins, and pulled out a little scrap of paper with an address written almost illegibly. The detective double-checked the numbers on the brass mail slot against the one he had copied from the dead man’s driver’s license. The stylish townhouse was only two blocks from the scene of that morning’s shooting, but even that short confrontation pushed the older man’s heart rate into the danger zone. With his current eating habits and lack of exercise from primarily a desk-job, the detective figured it would not be long before he felt a tingling in his left arm and a constriction in his chest - maybe only a matter of weeks. Paulson ran his fingers through thinning hair and knew that with a morning like this was turning out to be, nothing good would happen today. The events of the early morning were so random that the higher-ups wanted some real footwork on the maniac. He just hoped the idiot officer that drove him would keep his mouth shut. As if sensing the detective’s thoughts and wanting to punish him, the officer approached Paulson. “Sir, what happened with this guy?”
Short on patience, the older man told the inquisitive young cop, “Shut your fool mouth. All you have to do is watch my back and make sure we check this guy’s residence by the book.”
He surveyed the front of the home and felt a world-weariness that had grown considerably stronger in the past few years. The flowers in the front, ground floor windows told Paulson that the home had a feminine touch, which suggested a wife or girlfriend. That was not always indicative, but he felt sure of his assumption. In his experience, anyone as crazy as this guy had been, probably would have killed the wife before wandering out the door and going after civilians. It was a shame, because the picturesque white siding and non-functional, natural wood shutters gave the impression that (prior to that particular morning) the family had an enviable lifestyle.
The front door stood wide open as the detective walked up the short concrete path which was bordered on each side by verdant grass. “I was in such a hurry to start my kill crazy rampage that I forgot to shut the door.” The detective gave a tired laugh at his own joke, which most people would find inappropriate. No sound wafted through the open door. As Paulson peered at the dim windows, a sense of dread came over him. The inexperienced younger officer trotted up already drawing his sidearm. The owner was deceased, so Paulson was unsure what frightened him, but he felt a chill just the same. Maybe he feared the potential for grisly discoveries inside. Maybe he feared another assailant swinging some easy-to-find household item converted into a deadly weapon. Maybe he feared his comrade getting anxious and accidentally shooting him. A thought crawled like a worm through his brain. “You know what you are afraid of. You are afraid that you’ll see some messed up sight that would move a civilian to tears and you won’t feel anything.” That assessment rang true; why bother arguing? He peeked around the door-frame to the right. The detective only caught the sight of a clean living room, complete with a bowl filled with ceramic fruit and a muted television with colorful images flickering away at no one. Paulson slowly turned his head to the left, ignoring the family photos in their matching frames, and concentrated on searching for signs of a disturbance. Then he found a “huge fucking sign” as he would later describe it. What he assumed to be the man’s wife was rolled over onto her stomach. Repeated blows from a hammer shattered the back of her skull. “The same hammer in his hands when I shot him down”, Paulson thought.
He wanted to avert his eyes, but fifteen years on the job had hardened him. His escort did not have that luxury. Paulson heard the boy make gagging sounds behind him. Why did he have to get saddled with this guy? For that matter, why did he have to get saddled with this assignment at all? He had hesitantly referred to being at the scene this morning as “luck”. Now that he had to spend the rest of his day cleaning up the mess, he did not feel so lucky. Out of a population of several million, how had he managed to stumble across one of the few guys that would go crazy today? The obese detective crept forward, gun drawn. He hovered over the body, examining the wounds. “Jesus Christ” he muttered. He did not have the best grasp of anatomy but it looked like one of her kidneys had been ripped out through her back. The ragged holes leered at him like unblinking eyes. He reflexively stepped back and noticed another series of wounds. Along the woman’s meaty thigh, large chunks of muscle had been torn off. The dingy white of bone peeked through the red, raw flesh.
He stood up, his knees straining under the weight of his aging body. A grinding and popping sound reminded him of the onset of arthritis. He stepped around the mangled, sickening mess, leaving the tag-a-long beat cop still making disgusting sounds into his hands. Paulson walked to the stairs, looking up at the second floor. No lights were on, but the early morning sun streamed in through the windows dispelling the gloom of the second floor rooms.
Images from earlier that morning flashed before him. The assailant wore a light blue pair of boxers and a blood-stained wife-beater. The man never spoke - only grunted or yelled inarticulately. The color of life covered his face and neck. The hands looked as if they had been dipped in crimson paint all the way up to the wrists. A ball peen hammer loosely dangled in his fingers.
Paulson shook his head as he whispered to himself. “He was a fucked up sight.” He barely registered the tap-tap of the other law enforcement officer trying to keep up with him. The kid probably felt like soiling his pants, scared to death. At the top of the stairs, he glanced around and saw that several doors had been left ajar. The first led to an empty bathroom with a dirty towel draped over the side of the tub. Small puddles of water had gathered on the floor. The detective calculated the time elapsed from the attack, trying to figure out whether his assailant had showered that morning or if some one else had showered since then. He felt confident that his guy had been the one to last use it.
The second room contained a dresser, littered with various items, and an unmade king size bed. He motioned for his sidekick to check that room in more detail. The boy in blue obligingly stepped in and started surveying the items spread across the furniture’s surface. The final room belonged to a child. Paulson could tell without seeing the broken toys on the floor or the race car shaped bed against the far wall. The colorful wallpaper sporting cartoon characters gave it away.
Even though he was not Catholic, the detective performed the Sign of the Cross, “Please God, don’t let me find a dead kid in here.” He stepped across the threshold and looked at the tangled sheets wrapping a young boy like a mummy. Blood pooled around the cold body, the dark fluid contrasting the pale skin. Paulson forced himself to look even though his hands shook as he crept closer. The boy’s forehead and face had caved in under repeated bludgeoning. The one surviving eye hung to one side by the optic nerve, and the other eye resembled a white grape, crushed and leaking a clear, viscous fluid. The pulp that was once the angelic face of a small child made Paulson’s stomach turn. “That God damn monster!” He growled as he swallowed down the rising flood of stinging, stinking puke. Who would do that to his own wife and child? Paulson was glad he had put a bullet in that motherfucker’s head.
DAWN
Somewhere in between Tuscaloosa, Alabama and Marion County, sat a small town called Fayette in the county of the same name. It was named after General LaFayette who was touring Alabama at the time of its founding. The 628 square mile county was officially established on December twentieth of 1824. On the southern side of town were the housing projects, while the northern side housed the more affluent members of society. Highway 171 ran north and south, connecting the town to both Tuscaloosa and Winfield. To the east sat the town of Berry and to the west a small town called Vernon, which was in Lamar County. The population of Fayette numbered approximately five thousand souls who felt the need to declare it a dry county. The legal ban on selling alcohol gave rise to moon shiners, whose profit was only hindered by the expense of bribing police officers.
The town resembled most small towns. Gossip would spread like wild fire. New people were subject to intense scrutiny. Before a new resident introduced him or herself, that person had already received a reputation. Anyone different from the W.A.S.P. majority was harshly shunned.
Basically, it was the exact opposite of where Cara wanted to move. She was only sixteen, but a senior. She had skipped two grades in school, due to her quick grasp of concepts and ability to memorize large amounts of information. She was the youngest of her classmates, something no one ever let her forget. Strike one.
Cara had medium length, light brown hair and wore black, horn-rimmed glasses. Her petite frame disappeared under baggy clothes (never dresses, but cargo pants and T-shirts intended for someone twenty pounds heavier). To top it off, she always wore an olive drab military jacket that had been her father’s over two decades ago. She dressed in clothing that was taboo in the Bible belt. Strike two.