Running With The Horde (Book 2): Delusions of Monsters
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Authors: Joseph K. Richard
Tags: #Zombies
Delusions of Monsters
Running with the Horde
Book II
By Joseph K. Richard
Delusions of Monsters
Running with the Horde
Book II
By Joseph K. Richard
ISBN: 978-1-523-90110-4
Delusions of Monsters
Copyright 2016
By Joseph K. Richard
All Rights Reserved
This book is a work of fiction. Characters, events and situations are the product of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons or events is coincidental.
No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted by any means without the permission of the author.
For; Sugar, Corky, Farley, Wrigley, Bud, Steve, Juicy, Clyde, Cloe, Gupta and Carl.
Thank you for being my best friends.
Preface
Before you read on there are some things you should know about this book:
- If you have not read
Running with the Horde,
this book will make very little sense to you. - Running with the Horde
contained an epilogue. If you didn’t read it, please go back and do so. - There is also a prologue and epilogue in this book, just FYI.
- While
Running with the Horde
was written in the first person,
Delusions of Monsters
contains multiple POVs. I apologize in advance if you find this style change troubling. - This book contains characters attempting to survive in a post-apocalyptic scenario. As such it contains graphic language and violence. If you find such things offensive you may want to reconsider reading a book about a zombie apocalypse.
Table of Contents
Chapter 3: Strawberry Margaritas
Chapter 12: Granola Bars & Shit Sandwiches
Chapter 16: Revenge of the Dick
Chapter 18: A Brewing Shit Storm
Chapter 19: Midnight Run at Area 51
Chapter 21: Farewell to the Human Race
Chapter 22: A Real Shitty Friend
Chapter 24: Tyson Mary & Stool Samples
Chapter 26: Pieces on the Chess Board
Chapter 28: The Presidential Suite
Chapter 29: A Hot Cup of Coffee
Chapter 31: Squeezing the Mark
Roswell, New Mexico
1947
The two men and the woman were watching the dig site with a sense of reverence and even a modicum of fear. Decades of investigatory efforts had finally led to this nondescript town in the middle of the desert. Watching something of such legendary import being unearthed before their very eyes was a high honor.
“If the virus is airborne we could be putting the world in a precarious position,” the woman said.
“That’s why we’re up here and they are down there,” said the one called Tom as he gestured to the small army of men working the site in masks and protective clothing.
“At least we’ll get a running start,” the other man said with a chuckle.
“I’m not sure that would matter,” the woman said.
“It’s not something we need concern ourselves with. The archives were clear it only spread through blood and saliva,” Tom said.
“I still can’t believe we found it, that it actually exists,” The woman said.
“After all these years, I can’t believe you had doubts,” Tom chided.
The men in the pit backed away as the crane began lifting the ship from the place it had rested for longer than recorded history.
“They actually achieved flight! It’s one thing to study the archives, it’s another to see the evidence,” she said.
“The thing that hath been, it is that which shall be; and that which is done is that which shall be done: and there is no new thing under the sun,” Tom replied.
“Quoting the Bible now?” the other man said.
“Seemed apropos for the occasion and for our doubting sister,” Tom said.
“This will change everything,” the woman said.
“Indeed it will,” Tom said, “The Syndicate is tired of hiding in the shadows. Our people will expect results from this find.
“Will it take long?” the woman asked.
“With the technology from the ship I would think not but as you know time is relative. It will take as long as it takes. We will learn from the mistakes of the past and get it right this time,” Tom said.
“What about the Syndicate? Won’t they be impatient?”
“I will handle them as I always have. Besides we’ve waited forever what’s a few more years.” Tom said. He turned to the other man, “This is your show now, my friend, take care not to muck it up.”
“Your faith in me is overwhelming,” the other man said.
Tom held his gaze until the other man looked away. “Just get it right. The end game is near.” To the woman he offered his arm. “Well, my dear, we should be on our way. We’ve got our parts to play as well.
The other man watched Tom and the woman leave until their automobile was nothing more than a speck on the dusty horizon. He couldn’t decide which one he hated more. In the end he settled on Tom but it was almost a toss-up. But they were out of his way now, at least for the foreseeable future. In the meantime he had plans to make. He watched with glee as the men struggled to move the ship into a large covered trailer. His time had finally come.
The Distant Past
From the Twin Cities Star Press:
Dateline: Minneapolis, Minnesota
By: Editorial Staff Writer
Is Safety First Really the Best Solution?
I know if I had to choose, I would rather be safe than sorry. When considered against such a simple black and white backdrop, it really isn’t a choice at all. Any reasonable person would choose to be safe every time. But when all things are considered, black and white quickly washes out to a dreadful gray mess and the choice is no longer a gimme for the safe column.
But the individuals driving the Safety First legislation don’t want us drones considering all things. Things like the last vestiges of personal freedom turning to ash in the heat of a soon-to-be all-powerful arm of the government. Things like living in a walled city under the watchful eye of our very own military sent to “keep us safe” through occupation.
Nobody likes a terrorist, least of all me, your humble writer. Heaven knows the marked increase in acts of terrorism on our beloved amber waves of grain these last few years have been heart wrenching and awful to live through. I, too, long for the days before those of ill-intent placed their evil focus upon us. I would love to be safe!
But I must confess to carrying a burden of sorrow and shame on behalf of my fellow countrymen. Sorrow because we allowed this legislation to pass. When we did so we sold our collective American soul to the military industrial complex or possibly something even worse. My shame is for our lack of foresight to see just a little further down the road at what these changes will really mean.
Fellow residents of Minneapolis, as one of the S1 pilot cities; I place my soothsaying hat firmly upon my head and offer the following prediction. When we see the promised actions of this lunatic Safety First Act come to fruition we will indeed be free from the threat of terrorism but in its place will be tyranny.
But, hell, what does it matter? Better safe than sorry, right?
Carl Berrairmo, staff writer.
The editorial page of the morning paper slipped out of its fold and fell to the bathroom floor in George’s haste to get to the sports section. He grunted as he glanced at the headline article between his feet. He never cared much for politics and besides, the local nine had won three consecutive games. A true rarity these days.
Had he known the massive impact that piece of legislation would have on his life he may have picked up that opinion section. Not that it would have mattered. He was still a nameless nobody and couldn’t have changed the outcome anyway. Like so many others, he didn’t worry about things like terrorist attacks. Those unfortunate events happened to other people not George. In any case, he trusted the government to eventually take care of the problem.
The Present
Lanskey was pissed as hell. His life, since waking up with a pounding headache in the dark automotive section of the trashed superstore had not been fun. Being saddled with Wilson wasn’t helping anything.
Lanskey eased the dirty lace curtain back to peer into the bleak darkness of the night for the hundredth time. Highway 10 was a graveyard of abandoned vehicles. The heavy cloud cover meant it was also murky as hell. He couldn’t see for shit. The decrepit bar they were hiding in had been abandoned long before the zombie pandemic. It was barely better than being outside.
Wilson whimpered causing Lanskey to end his staring contest with the dirty window pane and glance at him in disgust. He was hiding in a little fort he’d created from grimy tables and plastic chairs.
It had been two confusing days on the run from rogue packs of zombies for Lanskey and his emotionally distraught friend. Whatever had happened to them both after Lanskey had been knocked over the head remained a mystery. When questioned, Wilson would only weep or freeze into a catatonic trance that would last anywhere from fifteen minutes to an hour. Those times were the worst for Lanskey as it meant having to haul Wilson around like a giant baby but he wouldn’t leave him. He couldn’t do that.
This much was clear, he and Wilson were fucked. Captain Morgan and the rest of the company were long gone, dead or otherwise. If the rest of the squad weren’t dead then they must have thought Lanskey and Wilson were.
As far as Lanskey knew, Morgan wasn’t the kind to leave men behind, live men in any case. They’d tried to reach out with the radio until the battery died but no one responded. Lanskey could only assume the worst.
Since then they had been making their way slowly north on Silver Lake Road with the goal of getting back to the old munitions base they’d been squatting in. The going was rough mainly due to the bitterly cold weather and no transportation. Food wasn’t an issue. Lanskey had loaded them down with goods from the store before they lit out of there.
“Quiet, asshole!”
Wilson was crying again, trying what little patience Lanskey had left. He really needed Wilson to keep his trap shut. His attention was currently captured by a group of seven undead that had appeared like magic out of the darkness fifteen feet in front of the restaurant’s windows. He couldn’t see them clearly but knew they were zombies by the distinct way they moved. Aside from that, they could have been a search party or a posse. Alarmingly, they moved as an organized unit like they were looking for something or someone.
Wiping sweat from his eyes in spite of the cold, Lanskey crept over to Wilson’s hovel quiet as a church mouse. For once, Wilson seemed to understand the need for silence as he had taken a break from vocalizing his misery and was trying to stare a hole through the top of an overturned table.
Edging his way into the makeshift fort, Lanskey popped the clip out of his .45 and shucked the bullets out one by one. By the time the third bullet plopped onto his waiting palm he was done. He reloaded his gun and sagged back on his haunches with a deep sigh not even bothering to check Wilson’s gun which he already knew was empty.
Three bullets.
Minus one for Wilson and one for himself.
One bullet.
Something heavy slammed into the window and Wilson screamed. Lanskey almost fired into the darkness but caught himself in time. “You really have to shut the fuck up, Wilson. If they didn’t know for sure we were in here, they do now.”
Wilson screamed again as something else hit the window. Lanskey let out a small yell himself as he fell on his back while yanking on Wilson’s jacket collar. They were going to have to go out the back of the restaurant and make a mad dash into the darkness.
Damn, he didn’t feel like running anymore!
He considered the bullets again and gave serious thought to shooting himself and Wilson for a full three seconds before the front windows shattered and man-shaped shadows started crawling over the sill.
Wilson had gone as stiff as a board, almost impossible to budge.
“We gotta move!” Lanskey bellowed.
His desperate scream finally moved Wilson to action which unfortunately resulted in a rather ridiculous Laurel and Hardy routine as the pair tripped over barstools and practically fell over the bar itself in their flight to find an alternative exit. By some miracle, they located the door to the kitchen, though Lanskey smashed his shin into a stainless-steel food-prep table so hard his leg went momentarily numb. All the while, just behind them, a gang of undead gave chase through the restaurant growling and barking like the Hounds of Hell.
With Wilson’s hands clasped tightly on his shoulders, they dashed through the dark kitchen down a service hall, at the end of which appeared to be an exit door illuminated by the slimmest shred of moonlight piercing a tiny window
Lanskey hit the push bar on the door hard enough to leave a pinch of skin behind. He cussed and shouldered on through the pain as the door burst open and he and Wilson tumbled through it in a tangled heap. For a brief moment he made an involuntary angel shape on the snow covered pavement as he urgently kicked the big door shut behind him. It slammed closed and he threw his weight into it just as the zombies crashed into it from the other side.
Radically outnumbered, he quickly lost leverage and the door began to open, his body sliding backwards on the slick surface. One gnarled hand reached out from the inside and pawed at him, shadow slapping the air a few inches from his face. The arm attached to the hand reached out further and actually made contact with Lanskey’s open mouth causing him to gag. Spitting as he redoubled his efforts to close the door he called for Wilson who did not answer. He really did not want to die this way. “Fuck! Wilson, please help me!” he called again between hoarse breaths.
He was definitely losing the fight with the door as he slid another six inches back. A booted foot had claimed its territory on the snowy pavement and two more arms were reaching for him. Lanskey was putting everything he had into keeping that door from opening further, giving himself time to make peace with God before the abominations in the restaurant tore him apart. He thought of his mother, he wanted her now.
“Give it up, Jim, it’s over. They’ve come for us at last,” Wilson said quietly. It was the first time he had spoken in three days and the calm steadiness of his voice was so unnerving Jim Lanskey forgot what he was doing and turned to look at Wilson in shock. The door flew open, knocking Lanskey on his face. The force of the door and the zombies spilling out after it propelling him a full five feet forward in the snow.
With the wind knocked out of him and a sharp pain in his backside, Lanskey lay on the ground in a coughing heap. When the stars cleared from his eyes and the pain subsided enough for him to stand, he got to his feet to find he was standing next to Wilson. They were completely surrounding by a herd of silent, staring zombies.
Wilson looked at him with a sad smile. He reached over and brushed a small pile of snow from Lanskey’s shoulder as Lanskey stood gaping at the zombies. He offered Lanskey an outstretched hand which Lanskey took after a moment’s hesitation, the response automatic after a lifetime of handshakes. “It’s been good knowing you, Jim,” Erik Wilson said.
Lanskey glanced from their joined hands into Wilson’s face as he realized the man was saying goodbye. He looked again at the silent crowd of undead not sure how to process what was happening. He almost expected lights to come on and a game show host to burst through the crowd shouting, Jim Lanskey, this is your life!
“Um, you too, Erik,” he replied as tears welled up in his eyes. He glanced at the oddly stoic zombies in confusion before grabbing Erik Wilson in a somewhat desperate embrace. If they were going to die a horrific death, at least they wouldn’t be alone. Erik returned his hug just as fiercely and they both shut their eyes as the zombies at last converged on them.
As he stood there listening to the trudging footsteps draw closer, he agonized in anticipation of his flesh tearing from rotting teeth and greedy, clawed fingers. When at last he felt cold dead hands grab his arms and forcibly separate him from Wilson, he let out a quiet yelp and fainted into the waiting embrace of an undead appliance salesman.